Entry tags:

! original fiction, kinked

[Original] Paladin In White
Title: Paladin In White
Author: Kjata (makrothumia)
Characters & Pairings: Unnamed female
Fandom: none (Original)
Rating & Warnings: PG-13, mentions of narcotics, pedeophilia, and a person going insane in a perfectly fine kitchen
Theme & Community: 6. Paladin, Kinked
Disclaimer: Characters, Setting, and Original Content that this fic is based upon belongs to those who own them - Namely, anyone but me.

Note: The drug mentioned in this.. thing is called White Paladin, one of those home-made drugs that circulated Southern California in the mid to late 90's. It was popular among the elementary, middle, and high school crowd, and pretty much died out when the sole creator of the drug died in an alleyway from some artful knifework. Which is just as well, because the guy was an ass, and thought it was funny when little kids hero-worshipped him.

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Stands in the kitchen, and wants to keen and scream and bring down the walls with her own agony. Tear at the hard tile counter with bitten to the nub fingernails while uttering rushed obscenities that make no sense at all because it is too far for them to get through. Being chocked back with sobbing and crying and wails that rise up right in the middle of any voluntary sound she makes and effectively ruins it.

She. Thinks. About. Pills.

The pills that make it go away are in the bathroom, under the sink in the clear plastic box tinted purple because that is what her mother likes. They have a nasty side effect of causing death when you take as many as she wants right now, but if she could make it, oh if she could make it.

The pills that repress that feeling of hopelessness and helplessness and sheer panic at the thought of her secrets being discovered are in a better location, bottle conveniently placed next to the family computer, on the desk in plain sight. It is on the way to the bathroom, so its closer and quicker and sitting right there so there is no excuse to actually take them instead of the others.

But the others are so much nicer with their floating feeling that comes only when a fistful is consumed, but shhh do not tell her mother or else she will be upset. Do not tell mother that there is a butcher knife in her room under her headboard where no one can find it except her. Do not tell mother that yes, was in a gang, but no, that did not save her from the knives and the guns and the drugs and the drunken bastard who happened to be the head of the highest tier in the area groping and fondling nine-year old breasts.

The kitchen swells and expands, everything looking ready to burst now. She lifts her arms to spread away from her, a trick learnt when under the influence of a needle and some crystal powder, and hums low to get her bearings. The bottle is thataway, a few steps out of the too small kitchen and into the too small dining room, next to the computer that hums and steals and plays rock music from an Asian land.

She takes one step, sees the area she wants get closer, and lowers her arms just.. a.. little. Takes one more, sees the progress, and lunges forward.

Jams her hip into the corner of the stack of cat carriers for the new strays, but does not care and keeps going. Fingers graze the bottle; she pulls it to her, and shoves two pills in her mouth.

Sits. On. The. Floor. And. Breathes.

In out in out in out in out and in again until it starts to work and the voices stop and she stops feeling insecure for no reason at all. It isn't yet, so she hears the voices and sees the people and wonders what a Lakota Sioux Indian is doing in the living room, what could a Lakota Sioux Indian possibly do in the living room, and why that adolescent girl is holding a gun.

A girl who looks like her back in the day, even as she fades, with brown hair in waves and a stone face that comes after saying "No, Daddy, No" too many times. She wears an Alice in Wonderland dress, homemade by the looks of it, and her finger is solid on the trigger.

Gun is aimed at her, almost gone now, and the child whispers "Bang" as she fades out of existence.

Voices and Indians and little girls with guns are gone now, the walls are not shaking anymore now, and the kitchen does not look like it has been cooked in the microwave for too long. She shakily stands up, wobbles to the kitchen, and resumes her original position.

Stands in the kitchen, and wonders what to make the family for lunch tomorrow.