black & blue }} cat-tastic cato

The nauseating feeling did not relent; instead it stayed, digging its heels in and twisting your stomach into knots. A small whimper escaped while you closed your eyes, taking a few deep breaths to steady yourself. The dealer would come and you’d get your fix, all in due time. Your stomach lurched again and you cringed, praying to Ripred that you would neither vomit not dry heave again. The back of your throat still burned and a wretched taste lingered in your mouth, and that alone was almost enough to cause another happening.

Footsteps captured your attention and you opened your eyes, blinking a few times. The blurry image of a rather large guy came into your field of vision. Finally, the dealer was there. Your hand was in the process of taking the pouch of money out from your pocket when the guy spoke rather angrily, causing you to freeze on the spot (and not from the snow or ice all around you). It appeared as though you had displeased him as you were staggering along to the alley; you hadn’t seen him, of course, otherwise you would’ve surely avoided him. Confusion began to build and you opened your mouth to apologize when a large fist slammed into your jaw, knocking you entirely off the crate and into the snowy ground. Pain exploded throughout your face and you yelped, eyes growing wide at the sudden attack. His fist flew again and nailed nearly the same spot, throwing you back down against the ground.

While you did have Career training, you had never taken it very seriously. You never planned to be in the games or in fights. All you wanted was to hide away, shooting up and drinking up; all you wanted was to tap out rhythms on cans, not throw barrages of attacks. You never wanted to hurt anyone. When your mother had nailed you to the ground you did not want to harm her, and even when she murdered your father you never felt the urge to lay a hand upon her. Career training was absolutely pointless unless one strove to fight and kill, which you did not. Dazed, you looked up, fear evident all over your face.

”You’re a worthless piece of shit, you know that?”

It was nothing new. Your mother had spoken the same words as she beat you down into submission, starting then to preach about how badly you had disappointed her. (Was that all you were? A disappointment?) Instead of this man’s long face you saw the rounded one of your mother, eyes blazing and tongue forked like a snake’s, poisoned words assaulting you.

”W-whatever I did, I’m sor—“ A foot raised above your head came crashing down, drilling against your nose and making a sickening crack. More pain exploded and you cried out, head snapping around with the momentum of the attack. Bits of gravel and snow that had been stuck to his shoe also scratched against your face and barely missed your only eye, but the blow had been forceful enough that you knew sooner or later a black eye may come out of it. Your hands shot up and cradled your throbbing nose that now felt so terribly out of place, sticky and hot blood already pouring through your fingers. ”I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

Pain ripped through your face like fire in your veins, incinerating everything in its path. Despite having endured much worse, the agony of a broken nose and bruises forming underneath sickly pale skin was still enough to make you want to curl up in a corner and hide away. (You were so very thankful though that he was not your mother and did not possess her wicked tactics.) He wielded no hammer or nails, the blood of your father did not stain his hands; society’s view on his so-called “pristine” image did not rest upon your shoulders. There was a malice flicker behind his eyes, however, and whenever you dared to open your eye you saw the flame kindling eagerly.

You set your hands to your nose and very quickly jerked it back over into place, yelping at the loud crack. A rush of warm, sticky blood poured forth, soaking your hands and droplets bounced off onto the snow surrounding you. Your vision quickly became blurry with the tears that resulted from popping the nose back into place, and you thought for sure that the man was going to deliver some kind of death blow by the way he was hovering above you. (But why wasn’t he ending it all then and there?) You blinked again and found it getting harder and harder to hold the eye open as pressure started to build up. A finger lightly probed at the area and found it extremely tender to the touch and you quickly jerked the hand away, glancing fearfully back up at the man.

He had a hand extended down toward you and quickly hauled you to your unsteady legs. ”You okay? I think you’ve learned your lesson huh?” You pulled yourself away from him only a step or two, shrinking immediately before his hulking frame. He certainly had the upper hand and you regretted to inform yourself that it was already a lost battle; he had taken you down so incredibly quick and you were already weak and shaking from withdrawal and the cold, so you were nothing but a sitting duck. (The perfect target for someone like him.) Another whimper sounded and you refused to look up at him again. ”I-I did, I’m s-s-sorry.” Your voice remained quiet and audibly displayed your fright while you shuffled away from the man, frequently glancing behind you to make sure you wouldn’t trip over anything as you ventured further into the alley.