Shattered: A Pre-Post Mortem Faerytale
folder
Original - Misc › -Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
9
Views:
1,189
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Original - Misc › -Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
9
Views:
1,189
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
01 Part 1
PART 1
In the flickering, static night that skulked in his house, wary of street lamps and night lights, 15-year-old Brandon Peters sucked his thumb hard, chewing on the abused digit until it bled, crimson sour sweetness like gummy worms, ketchup, and nightmares scraping the insides of his mouth. He tasted jagged glass tears and blood on his tongue as he sobbed into a black Led Zeppelin shirt that lay like a bleeding shadow cradled in one hand against his face. He wept, hiccupping and choking on his grief.
Where was his angel? Where was Justin?
Sara, his girlfriend, had been in an auto accident, a horrible accident. Brandon had seen her, seen her beautiful, mangled body, because it had been right in front of his house, right at the foot of his driveway, and his brother Justin's brutal scream of insane anguish had ripped him from in front of his innocent Game Boy to the front yard and he'd seen Sara laying splayed in Justin's arms on the driveway, the wreckage of the car smoking behind her like a tiny piece of hell, the other bodies of the guard and band girls draped across the car's razor edges and around about on the blood wet pavement like slashed and shattered porcelain dolls, brilliant and neon in their beautiful princess-like dressed, covered in glaring red paint like poppies.
Sara had looked fine in the front, her face serene, as if she were sleeping, dreaming sweet dreems. But her neck was twisted at a sick angle so that Brandon could see her tilted face; her foot also lay at a sharp right angle, one arm was shorn off at the shoulder and lay a few feet away, impaled on a piece of sharp metal; and a jagged piece of glass stuck out of her side. She didn't move. She didn't breathe.
"SARA!"
Justin's howl of utter, mad grief was nearly drowned out by Brandon's own rising and increasingly shrill hysteric scream, a scream that ripped at the brain and beckoned blood to pour from the ears, the eyes, the mouth and nose, called life to pour out on the ground in sympathy and horror, as one of the only two people he had ever loved bled out, already cold and dead and rotting, on the ground.
oo8oo8oo8oo
Muffled sobs, like rogue whispering butterflies trying to escape the wicked sharp and fatal stinging kiss of the collection pin, roused Justin from broken, torturous sleep, and he slipped out of bed, stark naked and uncaring who saw, since it was only him and Brandon for once, all weekend, and crept downstairs. He knew it was his little brother. He knew it, knew the voice behind the grief, and he knew why. He shuddered violently with remembered horror at that knowledge, that hideous knowledge, because he would never ever forget the feel of Sara's blood drenching his clothes as he cradled her corpse to his chest and prayed to God to stop his crushed heart from continuing to beat in his chest.
He stepped into the living room and saw the huddled figure on the sofa in the pale un-light of the television, chewing his thumb, cradling a soft swathe of darkness to his cheek, and shaking with quieting sobs that were slowly tearing both of them apart.
"Brandon?"
oo8oo8oo8oo
Brandon jerked up at the sound of that soft, tender voice, turned his head ever so slightly, and saw his big brother standing there in the doorway to the living room, naked and shivering in the midnight cold, looking heart broken, exhausted, and worried. The younger boy wiped his cheeks with his fist and sniffled, took that shuddering hitching breath that came when you tried to push crying down and knew you couldn’t for very long.
"Brandon-boy... here, kid, move over," Justin murmured, and padded over on bare feet to sit beside Brandon and pull his limp, shivering lump of little brother against him. He gently stroked his little brother’s hair, and the kid suddenly whimpered, gave a soft, keening cry that shredded Justin’s heart, and broke down sobbing again, great whooping sobs that tore at his throat and chest so that he gasped, choked, and cried all at once. Justin grabbed the tissue box and held his brother tight, felt hot tears scalding his bare skin. His brother’s tears made him remember… remember her, remember them, remember everything… and his own tears trailed down his cheeks and splashed onto his skin to mingle with Brandon’s.
Brandon eventually, after what seemed like centuries in the dark, grew calm and quiet, and merely sniffed and scrubbed at his chubby cheeks as tears rolled down them, silent and unstoppable.
"Shhh... shhhh... there, there," Justin whispered, kissing the top of Brandon's head and rubbing his back, rocking him gently back and forth... much as he had his lover's corpse only the day before. He tried to murder that thought, stab it to death with his mind, and almost succeeded.
"I... I (hic) miss h-h-her, J-Justin (hic). I m-miss her so b-b-bad (hic)." Brandon's voice quivered, and his lower lip trembled as he struggled not to start crying again like a wild, hysterical thing.
"I know,” he whispered back. “I know.”
“Justin, I can’t (hic) g-go to h-h-her f-funeral (hic), I c-can’t. Please duh-hon’t m-make (hic) me, Justin, I can’t.”
The older boy winced, and tried to bite back a whimper by sinking his teeth into his tongue. Sara’s funeral was the day after tomorrow, wasn’t it? Oh, hell. Oh, fucking hell. Justin felt his entire body tighten in a silent scream of denial, and Brandon moaned softly. He couldn’t think about himself now, he had to think about his baby brother, so young and fragile and broken….
“It'll be all right," Justin whispered, and held Brandon tighter against his warm body, trying to stop his shivers. The icy flesh warmed under his touch. “It’ll be all right, Brandon-boy.”
"N-no," the trumpet player murmured softly, shaking his head. "No it w-w-won't. It can’t."
I want to die, Brandon thought, and Justin unknowingly echoed his sentiment. Brandon turned up his face to look into Justin's, and Justin saw his eyes, wet and shining with tears still screaming to be shed, his sweet, plush lips wet and trembling and smeared with blood, glistening in the television screen light with it, his cheeks stained with salt water and dark smears that had to be more blood. His throat worked convulsively as he struggled to swallow his sobs.
"It's okay," Justin whispered, resting his forehead against his brother's. "It'll be okay, Brandon-boy." It had to be okay. Justin couldn’t stand for it not to be okay.
"Promise?" Brandon whispered, nudging Justin with the tip of his nose. In answer, Justin gently pressed his warm, silken lips to Brandon's, tasting those still wet smears of salty sweet crimson blood, and breathed against his baby brother’s beautiful mouth, "I promise," and took those delicious rose bud lips in a hungry kiss.
In the flickering, static night that skulked in his house, wary of street lamps and night lights, 15-year-old Brandon Peters sucked his thumb hard, chewing on the abused digit until it bled, crimson sour sweetness like gummy worms, ketchup, and nightmares scraping the insides of his mouth. He tasted jagged glass tears and blood on his tongue as he sobbed into a black Led Zeppelin shirt that lay like a bleeding shadow cradled in one hand against his face. He wept, hiccupping and choking on his grief.
Where was his angel? Where was Justin?
Sara, his girlfriend, had been in an auto accident, a horrible accident. Brandon had seen her, seen her beautiful, mangled body, because it had been right in front of his house, right at the foot of his driveway, and his brother Justin's brutal scream of insane anguish had ripped him from in front of his innocent Game Boy to the front yard and he'd seen Sara laying splayed in Justin's arms on the driveway, the wreckage of the car smoking behind her like a tiny piece of hell, the other bodies of the guard and band girls draped across the car's razor edges and around about on the blood wet pavement like slashed and shattered porcelain dolls, brilliant and neon in their beautiful princess-like dressed, covered in glaring red paint like poppies.
Sara had looked fine in the front, her face serene, as if she were sleeping, dreaming sweet dreems. But her neck was twisted at a sick angle so that Brandon could see her tilted face; her foot also lay at a sharp right angle, one arm was shorn off at the shoulder and lay a few feet away, impaled on a piece of sharp metal; and a jagged piece of glass stuck out of her side. She didn't move. She didn't breathe.
"SARA!"
Justin's howl of utter, mad grief was nearly drowned out by Brandon's own rising and increasingly shrill hysteric scream, a scream that ripped at the brain and beckoned blood to pour from the ears, the eyes, the mouth and nose, called life to pour out on the ground in sympathy and horror, as one of the only two people he had ever loved bled out, already cold and dead and rotting, on the ground.
oo8oo8oo8oo
Muffled sobs, like rogue whispering butterflies trying to escape the wicked sharp and fatal stinging kiss of the collection pin, roused Justin from broken, torturous sleep, and he slipped out of bed, stark naked and uncaring who saw, since it was only him and Brandon for once, all weekend, and crept downstairs. He knew it was his little brother. He knew it, knew the voice behind the grief, and he knew why. He shuddered violently with remembered horror at that knowledge, that hideous knowledge, because he would never ever forget the feel of Sara's blood drenching his clothes as he cradled her corpse to his chest and prayed to God to stop his crushed heart from continuing to beat in his chest.
He stepped into the living room and saw the huddled figure on the sofa in the pale un-light of the television, chewing his thumb, cradling a soft swathe of darkness to his cheek, and shaking with quieting sobs that were slowly tearing both of them apart.
"Brandon?"
oo8oo8oo8oo
Brandon jerked up at the sound of that soft, tender voice, turned his head ever so slightly, and saw his big brother standing there in the doorway to the living room, naked and shivering in the midnight cold, looking heart broken, exhausted, and worried. The younger boy wiped his cheeks with his fist and sniffled, took that shuddering hitching breath that came when you tried to push crying down and knew you couldn’t for very long.
"Brandon-boy... here, kid, move over," Justin murmured, and padded over on bare feet to sit beside Brandon and pull his limp, shivering lump of little brother against him. He gently stroked his little brother’s hair, and the kid suddenly whimpered, gave a soft, keening cry that shredded Justin’s heart, and broke down sobbing again, great whooping sobs that tore at his throat and chest so that he gasped, choked, and cried all at once. Justin grabbed the tissue box and held his brother tight, felt hot tears scalding his bare skin. His brother’s tears made him remember… remember her, remember them, remember everything… and his own tears trailed down his cheeks and splashed onto his skin to mingle with Brandon’s.
Brandon eventually, after what seemed like centuries in the dark, grew calm and quiet, and merely sniffed and scrubbed at his chubby cheeks as tears rolled down them, silent and unstoppable.
"Shhh... shhhh... there, there," Justin whispered, kissing the top of Brandon's head and rubbing his back, rocking him gently back and forth... much as he had his lover's corpse only the day before. He tried to murder that thought, stab it to death with his mind, and almost succeeded.
"I... I (hic) miss h-h-her, J-Justin (hic). I m-miss her so b-b-bad (hic)." Brandon's voice quivered, and his lower lip trembled as he struggled not to start crying again like a wild, hysterical thing.
"I know,” he whispered back. “I know.”
“Justin, I can’t (hic) g-go to h-h-her f-funeral (hic), I c-can’t. Please duh-hon’t m-make (hic) me, Justin, I can’t.”
The older boy winced, and tried to bite back a whimper by sinking his teeth into his tongue. Sara’s funeral was the day after tomorrow, wasn’t it? Oh, hell. Oh, fucking hell. Justin felt his entire body tighten in a silent scream of denial, and Brandon moaned softly. He couldn’t think about himself now, he had to think about his baby brother, so young and fragile and broken….
“It'll be all right," Justin whispered, and held Brandon tighter against his warm body, trying to stop his shivers. The icy flesh warmed under his touch. “It’ll be all right, Brandon-boy.”
"N-no," the trumpet player murmured softly, shaking his head. "No it w-w-won't. It can’t."
I want to die, Brandon thought, and Justin unknowingly echoed his sentiment. Brandon turned up his face to look into Justin's, and Justin saw his eyes, wet and shining with tears still screaming to be shed, his sweet, plush lips wet and trembling and smeared with blood, glistening in the television screen light with it, his cheeks stained with salt water and dark smears that had to be more blood. His throat worked convulsively as he struggled to swallow his sobs.
"It's okay," Justin whispered, resting his forehead against his brother's. "It'll be okay, Brandon-boy." It had to be okay. Justin couldn’t stand for it not to be okay.
"Promise?" Brandon whispered, nudging Justin with the tip of his nose. In answer, Justin gently pressed his warm, silken lips to Brandon's, tasting those still wet smears of salty sweet crimson blood, and breathed against his baby brother’s beautiful mouth, "I promise," and took those delicious rose bud lips in a hungry kiss.