Red.

It was everywhere. It was all he could see. No matter where he looked, no matter what day it was, what time it was, what place it was. It was always there.

Red. Red. Red.

He hates It.

It used to be his favorite. He supposes that he used to love it, back before Twitch.

Back before he had become almost used to “waking up,” to opening his eyes in an unfamiliar place, not knowing how he had gotten there, or why he was there, and seeing it everywhere. Looking around and seeing the red on the walls, floor, his clothing, hands, body, hair, everything and everywhere. It was all red.

Before Twitch had made him open his eyes and taste the blood on his lips, he thinks that he used to love the color red.

Every time; it did not matter how many times, or how long it had been. Every time he opened his eyes, he saw, felt, tasted blood.

He was assaulted by the color red.

The red that he had once loved, once worn with pride and loved it, absolutely everything about it.

It was now a symbol of what he had become.

Even in the years before Twitch, it had been a horrible, grotesque thing. For everyone else, that is. Never him.

And then Twitch had killed his--their--family, had made Elle wake up seeing, tasting, feeling nothing but the red red red of his family’s blood.

Oh, how he hates the color red.

-- End Four --

They were boys who were not quite boys, and men who were not quite men. Children who had never been children, and adults who could never be adults.

They were one, they were two. They could count whether they were upside down or everything was backwards. They did not remember what their “true” name was, did not remember being taught much more than the blood and violence and ways to kill, hurt, maim, “make them suffer.”

They were “odd,” people said. “Odd” because there was not just one of them, they were two. Two minds, two names, to personalities, two… everything.

But only one body.

That was the kicker, the thing that made them the most “Odd.” They were completely different, but they looked exactly the same. The same body, the same voice, the same clothes.

When he was “Elle,” he was scared and quiet and curious and trying to hide from them all, and not cry. He tried not to speak; when he did, he stammered and stuttered and said all the wrong things and people laughed at him. When he looked at somebody, even though he was the higher rank out of them all, he quickly averted his eyes. Wherever violence was, he was sure to be there, on the scene, shaking and crying and screaming and knowing not how he had gotten there, nor what had happened, but covered in blood and not having a single scratch on him.

When he was “Twitch,” he was cocky and loud and boasting and insane, violent, threatening, annoying--everything. But they were all afraid of his violence, of his genius, of his insanity, so they dared not approach. His smile was wide and sharp and his eyes were bright, glittering with the feverish look that was in the eyes of those who are insane, in the way that you know, on an instinctive level, that this boy-man-boy wanted nothing more than to rip you apart, bask in the red red red of your blood against his tan but gradually paling skin. The red red blood that would be in his blond hair and the bloodlust that would shine in his green, two-toned eyes, with only a small dot for a pupil, with barely any white visible, taken up mostly by the dark green iris with the bright green center.

When he was called “Twitch,” he wanted nothing more than violence. He wanted the blood, the pain, the screams and cries and--oh, god,--he wanted the fear. The devouring, all-consuming fear that would shine in his victim’s eyes.

But, oh, how different he was. That “Elle.” This child that could still be called a child, though his innocence was gone--ripped apart by the long, sharp claws and teeth that Twitch uses to keep a hold of him.

He is still a child in the way that he cries out when he opens his eyes. Eyes that are softer, kinder, and more afraid than those that “belong” to the one called “Twitch.” When he opens his eyes and the first thing he sees is blood, so he screams and screams and cries and wants to make it all go away, and all Twitch does is laugh and laugh and laugh.

Perhaps “odd” is not a strong enough word to cover these two.

-- End Five --

Twitch had favorites. A favorite victim, a favorite style, speed, look. He had many.

But, oh, what he wouldn’t give to be able to see the look on Elle’s face, to see the pain, the fear, the “oh-god-what-have-I-done” look that would be plastered on Elle’s face, before he would even realize it was there, it was so natural, these days.

Elle was, by far, Twitch’s favorite victim.

Twitch loved the screams that Elle let escape when he was in pain. He loved the tears that dried on Elle’s cheeks and clung to his lashes.

He especially loved the way that Elle begged him, dropped to the floor on his knees and fisted his blond hair, screaming and crying and begging to <I>“Make it stop, please, make it stop!”</I>

He loved the choked sobs and the hoarse voice and the pain and--oh, god,--he loved the promises that Elle would make him.

Perhaps his favorite part was when Elle needed to be shut up, when he started screaming for Twitch to make it stop, to stop killing people, to--. When Elle lost his head and started giving information that others did not need; information about the nightmares and the scars and the promises and the <I>everything</I>.

It would be then that Twitch would hug Elle close to him, pressing tighter when Elle started screaming and crying and flailing in a frantic attempt to escape.

His favorite part was comforting Elle, making him calm down and trust him again, only to break him the next day.

“P-please…” he was having a nightmare, again.

But this time, he was awake.

Small, much smaller than the boys who he saw playing outside the gate that kept him here, he knew that he was easy “prey.”

That’s why he hid, why he listened to “Him” every time “He” told him to do something.

“He” was Elle’s protector.

They weren’t sure, the two of them, if “Elle” was his real name or not, but “He” liked it.

“Your name is Elle,” that’s what “He” had said upon their first meeting, when he was finally conscious and half aware.

He didn’t mind that he was unable to see “Him,” he didn’t mind that it was a statement, and not a question at all.

“Yes Master. My name is Elle.”

Because it drove away the noises, drove away the loud and the mean, and the scary.

It drove away the slithering, slimy, creepy-crawlies that he felt running over his arms, legs, back, face, everywhere, and all he wanted to do was scratch and make them go away.

The voice made them go away. It made the voices and the darkness and sometimes it even made the crazy fade.

But why was he “Master”?

Didn’t he have a different person he called “Master”?

“He” laughed. Loud and long and there was no happiness in it at all.

“Dearest Elle, do you not remember?”

No, Elle could not remember. A hand rested on his head, long, slim fingers toying with the damp hairs, and the voice was in his ear.

Dark and still laughing and quiet and, “You killed them.”

The world was silent, even the screaming, crying, laughing was gone, then it came back full force, louder than usual and Elle was on his knees, prying the fingers from his hair before he could think, shaking and crying and hurting and--

“Hush, Elle… shh… shh…”

Elle didn’t scream, couldn’t hear himself scream over all the noise even if he had, so he couldn’t be sure that he didn’t, but his mouth was open and he couldn’t stop thrashing. He couldn’t stop trying to pull away, couldn’t stop crying, couldn’t breathe, and his eyes were crazed.

The voice, “His” voice, was in his ears, in his head, in his mind. The words wrote themselves out before his eyes, made themselves so they echoed and filled him, so he couldn’t breathe and he was choking on them.

“You killed them all, every last one of them. Your master, the women, the children, every last one of them. Dead and slaughtered by your hand.

“I could show you, if you’d like.”

And Elle stopped thrashing, stopped breathing because the words bound him and the fear was his lover, his cruel lover, embracing him and tearing him to shreds all at once.

“Would you like me to show you, dearest Elle?”

And there was joy in that voice.

Elle made a noise, low in his throat. It was a whine of sorts, base and primal. “No… please. Please, please no…”

And “He” laughed.

“Shh… shh… okay, okay. I won’t show you just yet.”

Yet. It meant he would be shown the entire scene later on, anyway. He shuddered and whined again, curling in on himself farther.

“Master…”

“Shush, Elle. Call me Twitch, if you’d like.”

And Elle huddled his small, childlike body underneath Twitch-Master-Twitch-Master-Twitch’s long arms, pressing his face into the hard shoulder that he couldn’t see, feeling the fabric against his face and the brush of hair against his forehead when he pressed his face upward, pressing his nose into Twitch’s throat.

Twitch laughed as Elle cried, the feeling vibrating through his throat and Elle could feel it in his own body, but pressed closer.

-- End Seven --

A crash. Something slammed into the wall, making it shake. Yelling and screaming accompanied the other loud noises.

The boy in the bed shook. His colored blanket--red, just like everything else in his room, in his world, and he didn’t think that it was so pretty, anymore--was drawn up over his head, his face pressed into the pillow, tears leaving stains on his pillowcase.

Soft sounds left his lips, whimpers and haggard breaths as his lips mouthed words and his body shook and trembled and jumped in reaction to every sound.

“P-please…” he whispered, his cracked voice so quiet that it could not be for sure that he had spoken it was unable to be heard over the sounds that were frightening him. “P-please…” his lips begged, “P-please… make it s-stop…”

His door opened, and the pure blackness of the room receded a little, but he shook even more.

The voices that had been screaming and yelling and loud and frightening him were muffled, trying to rise against the invisible sound barrier that kept them out, as the door opened and the floor creaked and the small boy shook even more as the steps paused at the side of his bed.

“Elle,” the voice was warm and hinted at the light he was unable to see. The boy called “Elle” whimpered and curled in on himself as far as he was able. “Elle, I’m here.”

The boy shook and attempted to curl more into himself, trying to become as small as possible, so that this person, these sounds, everything in the world, could not reach him.

“Elle, don’t you want me to make it all stop?”

And the voices that had once been muffled, straining against the barrier and increasing their volumes in order to reach, came back to him full force, no longer a dull roar. Words swirling and tumbling and jumbling together and mixing together, fast and slow and he pressed his face into the pillow even further, biting his lips and clenching his eyes shut, pressing his hands against his ears in an effort to stop the words from entering.

If he made a noise, if he screamed or whimpered or said a word, he was not sure, but there was a pressure on the bed that was not his, and when he felt that brush of fingers against his body, he curled in on himself, trying to reach the place that would make him untouchable by these things.

And then he was being pulled into the embrace he had become used to, the one he loved and hated completely at the same time.

Love and hate and comfort and pain, and safety and danger. That is what the touch meant to him.

But it was warm, and Twitch preferred to be the only one to hurt Elle, so the small boy was forced to stay in that embrace, by the pressure on his mind and the arms that were far stronger than his own that were wrapped around him. He had to fight against immediately relaxing into the other’s embrace, fight against the urge to scream and cry out and beg for him to make it stop, to make it all go away.

It lasted less than a moment, only until Twitch pressed Elle closer to him and whispered, in that warm way that he had, in the voice that promised everything to Elle, “shh… I’ll make it all stop.”

Elle clung tightly to Twitch’s body, crying into his shoulder, letting the promises of “better” and “I’ll make it all stop” wash over him, begging for Twitch to act on his promises, to make it all better, to make it stop, “please.”

The voices were loud and the screaming and growling and whispers and threats did not fade.

Twitch straightened, pulling away from Elle, slipping his foot off the bed in order to stand. When he moved, Elle’s breath caught in his throat and he whimpered, saying “don’t leave” and making promises to Twitch, begging, pleading, swearing and promising everything and nothing that he could, in order to make him stay.

Twitch stood anyway and Elle scrambled to follow him, not letting go of the striped sweater that Twitch wore, not wanting to be too far away.

They reached the door and Elle shook terribly, clutching his head with the hand that wasn’t holding onto witch as the voices got louder and scarier and the threats and whispers could be understood.

Whimpering, Elle stepped as close to Twitch as he dared, waiting for those arms to encircle him and waiting for the voice to promise him that everything would be alright.

Twitch snapped the door shut and the pressure on Elle’s mind was muffled; he could no longer make out the words that had been roared and screamed at him moments before.

Abandoning his fear of being pushed away or hurt, as great as it was, Elle clung to Twitch, his body shaking and trembling as he pressed it against the harder body of Twitch, whispering “thank you” to him, stumbling over the sounds and burying his face into the soft skin of Twitch’s neck. “Th-thank you…” he sobbed.

And Twitch did not say a word.

-- End Eight --