[Orig] Blood and Snow
Jun. 19th, 2009 12:01 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kittydesadeTitle: Blood and Snow
Word Count: 619
A/N: This was... First there was Nameless. Then there was his werewolfwife friend, Guy. Then there was Guy's psychotic brother. Then there was Irina, whose pack was murdered by Guy's psychotic brother. Other than that I got nothing. This is Irina's memory of the slaughter of her pack.
Whatever she had been doing was forgotten when the door slammed to the outside of the farm and the scent of blood rang sharply on the snow.
It was her home. Her family, her big brother and her bigger father, her mother gone on the hunt. Cousins and nephews and niece all playing in the courtyard of the old structure, it was a rare day clear of duties and tasks when it was just warm enough to go outside and romp in the snow. Ice down the back of the coat, scarves and shawls flying every which way with snow and chips of dirt if they could reach the ground. Borya claimed to have seen the top of her head peeking over the snow when he tackled her, so cute that he couldn't resist, but she didn't believe him. She had spent the morning romping and was changing in her room when she heard.
Her fingers froze around the coat she had been doign something with, she couldn't remember now. So much blood; it smelled like butchering time, like the stories her father had told. It smelled like she imagined horror movies would smell like if they were real but this was no movie. This was real. She didn't know what to do. Had there been an accident? Did the pack need help?
Later, when she remembered, she didn't hear the screaming. There must have been some, there were too many wounds that would not have been instantly fatal for there not to have been. Too few attackers. Too many bodies spread out over too wide an area, the smaller ones, the faster ones would have been hunted down and killed. There must have been some screaming, but she would never remember it as long as she lived. She remembered clutching the parka in her coat and what had been an afternoon of delight turning into an afternoon of mind-rending panic. Her fingers, frozen, clutching the collar of the coat.
She turned, moved towards the door, meaning to go out through she didn't know if she would help or simply run. She didn't remember, later, if she went out after it was obvious that everyone was dying around her, or if she still thought there was a chance. Something. Irina never knew, never got a chance to get over the threshold. The door banged open and knocked her back a pace and then he was on her.
She remembers smiling teeth. She remembers blood on them, and wild hair, and dark cold eyes, beady, like glass. She remembers the weight of him on top of her, not for that, but to savage her body with claws and knives and a long line of pain and slickness running the length of her torso. She remembers words but not what they are, she doesn't understand what he's saying, either because of the language barrier or because she can no longer even understand her own thoughts as they chase each other in terror, the acrid smell of urine and the nutty smell of her bowels being emptied over the floor. She is dying. She knows this, understands it, remembers the feeling of understanding that her own death will be to have her body emptied out of organs over the floor of her mother's weaving room. She only came in here for another scarf.
Dizzy, some time later, she remembers being carried out. She knows the feeling of her organs laying against her skin where they should not be. She hears, very clearly, someone saying that she is lucky the knife moved over her ribs. She remembers being carried into a land of white, and she thinks it is snow, without blood.
Word Count: 619
A/N: This was... First there was Nameless. Then there was his werewolf
Whatever she had been doing was forgotten when the door slammed to the outside of the farm and the scent of blood rang sharply on the snow.
It was her home. Her family, her big brother and her bigger father, her mother gone on the hunt. Cousins and nephews and niece all playing in the courtyard of the old structure, it was a rare day clear of duties and tasks when it was just warm enough to go outside and romp in the snow. Ice down the back of the coat, scarves and shawls flying every which way with snow and chips of dirt if they could reach the ground. Borya claimed to have seen the top of her head peeking over the snow when he tackled her, so cute that he couldn't resist, but she didn't believe him. She had spent the morning romping and was changing in her room when she heard.
Her fingers froze around the coat she had been doign something with, she couldn't remember now. So much blood; it smelled like butchering time, like the stories her father had told. It smelled like she imagined horror movies would smell like if they were real but this was no movie. This was real. She didn't know what to do. Had there been an accident? Did the pack need help?
Later, when she remembered, she didn't hear the screaming. There must have been some, there were too many wounds that would not have been instantly fatal for there not to have been. Too few attackers. Too many bodies spread out over too wide an area, the smaller ones, the faster ones would have been hunted down and killed. There must have been some screaming, but she would never remember it as long as she lived. She remembered clutching the parka in her coat and what had been an afternoon of delight turning into an afternoon of mind-rending panic. Her fingers, frozen, clutching the collar of the coat.
She turned, moved towards the door, meaning to go out through she didn't know if she would help or simply run. She didn't remember, later, if she went out after it was obvious that everyone was dying around her, or if she still thought there was a chance. Something. Irina never knew, never got a chance to get over the threshold. The door banged open and knocked her back a pace and then he was on her.
She remembers smiling teeth. She remembers blood on them, and wild hair, and dark cold eyes, beady, like glass. She remembers the weight of him on top of her, not for that, but to savage her body with claws and knives and a long line of pain and slickness running the length of her torso. She remembers words but not what they are, she doesn't understand what he's saying, either because of the language barrier or because she can no longer even understand her own thoughts as they chase each other in terror, the acrid smell of urine and the nutty smell of her bowels being emptied over the floor. She is dying. She knows this, understands it, remembers the feeling of understanding that her own death will be to have her body emptied out of organs over the floor of her mother's weaving room. She only came in here for another scarf.
Dizzy, some time later, she remembers being carried out. She knows the feeling of her organs laying against her skin where they should not be. She hears, very clearly, someone saying that she is lucky the knife moved over her ribs. She remembers being carried into a land of white, and she thinks it is snow, without blood.