Helter Skelter Romance

When Brian came to he had trouble remembering where he was; he thought it was different than the last place his eyes had rested upon. He couldn’t recall what he had been doing; he thought he remembered fear and screaming but that wasn’t unusual. He didn’t know why he had been asleep now or really anything in general. He felt for a long while as if he was falling back into his body and slowly he began to take note of various things. He was in a warm though unfamiliar bed and above him an overhead fan blow soft cool air into his face, rustling the crisp fresh detergent scented sheets. He was in Dexter’s house, in Dexter’s clinically white bed.

He recognized now that he was drooling, that now cold saliva had trickled down his lips in his slumber and it burnt the little cuts here and there on his mouth. He might have bit his lips further than the bashing that the lower one had taken though he rarely tore his own skin anymore these days. He brought his arm up; it felt heavy as though it weighed a hundred pounds and it was even painful to do so, but he brought it up anyhow to wipe away the spittle. He stared for minutes on end, trying to understand what he was seeing before his daze was broken for long enough to allow his eyes to accept and send the information to his brain. His hand, no, his hands were gone. His skilled fingers were gone, above the wrists he could have sworn he had felt the fingers there instead was a blood stained set of gauze wrapped stumps.

Brian pulled himself upwards to the headboard, dragged himself upwards towards the wood using his aching forearms and his elbows, though the slow tortured motions felt as though they would explode fire out of his arms. He finally screamed a wordless cry of agony when he looked down; he was missing his right leg also, cut cleanly off above where his knee once had been. The pain came full at him and he could no longer feel he was dreaming, he was living a dream which would have left him in damp sheets during puberty. His memories were rushing forward, struggling to be recalled one before the other at the same moment that the scream left his lips.

Dexter had strapped him to the...beautiful...table and he had been going to kill him, hadn’t he? They had talked, he had romanced him with past memories and painful wishes for the future. His brother, his sweet little brother had cried. He didn’t want to kill him and Brian could remember finally shedding tears of his own and how foreign they had felt against his face. He thought that he had forced his Azrael’s hand. But no, he could remember ungodly pangs of pain in his leg and then only darkness. Dexter had meant to do this instead; he had declawed the only killer whose actions would ever match his own efforts.

The deep tomblike shade cast off by the blinds was cut with painful white light when the door in front of the bed opened, quickly and precisely though entirely without sound. It was Dexter, a creamy white mug in one hand and a small cheery Robin’s egg blue Pyrex bowl in the other. “Good, you’re up.” He said with a joyous tone in his voice as if he had missed the man while he had been unconscious; he seemed honestly pleased, in those normally blank eyes there was a sparkle. Through his blinding tears, Brian could still tell the pleasure wasn’t sadistic but still he cried harder. Dexter put the tableware down on the bedside table, yanking several thin white tissues out of the floral box that sat there.

Before Brian could even breathe steadily enough to form a single question, it was answered for him. They were similar enough that it was no wonder what he would ask. “I had to keep Debra safe.” Was the response and it was a low and threatening warning, even with those precious fingertips wiping away hot tears in tender motions. The flow of the tears didn’t waver at the motions, instead they increased with the next set of words. “But I couldn’t just ‘let you go’ to do it. Like you said, you’re the only one who understands me, Biney.” A wipe of the next dry tissue at worn, painful lips followed that and then down sweetly wiping away the forgotten saliva on his chin. “Now I can keep you both.” Dexter explained with what appeared to be mild satisfaction with his own work, resting his hand on what remained of his friend’s right leg.

And so that was that, in his baby brother’s mind. Brian had become what he had so often recreated, what he had so revered and loved. The one true, full, eternal memory of the only person who would ever hold him just so in slender arms, the one who had nursed wounds with long nailed hands and carried him with the strength of her long legs. He had remade his mother; he had remade the woman who had betrayed him in his trust and love. He adored, maybe even loved, the alterations to others but he didn’t love it on himself. He didn’t want to be remade in her image, in her final act and he stopped crying. If he had let another tear slip, it wouldn’t have been for him anymore and he didn’t cry for Mommy these days.

Dexter didn’t seem to notice, or if he did, he didn’t take note of the disgust that was in Brian’s deliciously dark eyes; empathy wasn’t his strong point. He only saw the tears slow and so he moved the warm hot china to his brother’s lips and tipped it slightly, letting warm sweet liquid tempt him. Obediently, Brian sipped the mixture; it was cocoa, too much sugar for his tastes but probably made that way with the intent of altering his blood sugar enough to speed healing. There was slime that might have been the remnants of marshmallows in it and the feeling made him want to gag, nearly triggering his nausea.

He swallowed past it however and then leaned away, looking at his brother. Dexter lay the mug down on the small table and his hand came forward slowly in the manner one might use to try to pet a Pitbull. He knew the other could still find ways to bite and he didn’t mean to back him into a corner. Brian closed his eyes when he saw his sibling’s intentions and tried hard to swallow past the pain. He was wearing gloves that Brian had noticed at first, latex ones from work, and he was fingering the wounds. It was no more sadistic than could be helped, he was feeling for heat and inflammation, though The Ice Truck Killer couldn’t help but suspect he was enjoying this work.

Just as soon as the search for necrosis had ended the hand moved away, though the pounding feeling of rushing blood did not. He could feel his own heartbeat within the ends of his limbs and the throbbing sound was moving to his head now. He opened his eyes and suddenly a warm spoon was pressed against his worn lips. “Applesauce.” Dexter offered with a well taught sound of sympathy, sliding the spoon in his brother’s mouth when Brian parted his aching lips. He fed him the warm spiced fruit like a baby, wiping the bits that spilled away with a tissue and feeding him the sickeningly sweet cocoa around it.

The scene was silent and somber in the darkened room; neither of them spoke of the gravidity of the circumstances. So for now the one person he had promised to care for was caring for him, but Brian knew this couldn’t stay the situation forever.

To be continued...