I.
"Honey, wake up."
Carmine rasped, pulling me from unconsciousness by a shaky hand on my shoulder. As he trailed it down my arm, I heard a deep, wheezy breath.
"Bashk— Barrikada, please."
Calling me by my full name was a habit rather unlike him, reserved only for the times I refused to listen. Its use, so soon after I'd done all he'd asked for, set a match to the kindling inside me.
No more than a few hours prior, I'd fallen asleep at his side, with my lower half variably covered in diluted blood and semen. Despite my exhaustion, I'd been unable to sleep — barely able to imagine how I'd ever manage to slough off a bleakness that stained far deeper than the fluid it produced.
For what felt like hours, I stared at the ceiling, wishing for some form of confirmation that I'd ever move on from what he'd done to me. Predictably, none presented.
"Barrikada…"
I groaned and turned away, hoping he'd realize that I was desperately trying to return to sleep faster than it would take to acknowledge the hell I was trapped in. My head pounded and every muscle ached from exhaustion. Opening my eyes had revealed a burning sensation, to go with the patches of irritation on my cheeks.
I squeezed my eyes shut until I saw lights. I would have done anything to stay numb, but when he grabbed my arm just a moment later, I knew I could no longer wait in silence and hope he would resign himself to sleep.
"Fuck off. Can you just leave me alone?" I snarled.
"Baby, something's wrong." He spoke with a fearful lilt in his voice, softer than I'd heard it since the last time he thought he had to lie to me. "I need, need you to help…"
"No."
"I really—" He coughed. "I love you."
Memories of the night previous flooded back. The pills, the pain, an erection covered in blood and attached to his motionless body. He told me he loved me then, too.
They were memories that took up space, ones that overflowed until the room turned small and suffocating. Under their weight, his voice was miles away.
"I don't care." I paused to take in a deep breath. "You know I fucking hate you after last night."
Even for how much I'd come to tolerate, Carmine's depravity had sunken too low. I could only hope that acknowledging it wouldn't make things worse for me.
"I know, but please, Barrikada! Just—" He trailed off into a forced exhale.
"Just what?"
Anger flashed heat through my body. I sat up in one fast jerk, head turning before my body could follow.
I wouldn't bother to deny that I hoped it was truly life or death. If anything, just so it might be worth disturbing what felt like the last few moments of peace I'd ever be granted.
Despite the dimness of the room, the blood demanded my attention. It dripped from the corners of his mouth and down his chin, forming viscous pink froth when he breathed. My breath caught in my throat.
"What— why are you bleeding?" I exclaimed, my still-groggy state keeping me on the edge of certainty that what I'd seen was truly before me. My vision blurred.
I rubbed slimy, congealed tears from my eyes, only to be met with more pain. I cursed, closing my eyes — I'd forgotten the dried blood and flaky remnants of fluid that clung to my fingers.
"Bashka." He whispered, commanding my attention to confront a scene that just barely registered as reality. The largest bead of coagulating blood had traveled just a bit further down the side of his face.
"I— I don't… It's coming out of your mouth." I spoke in a tone of trembling panic, taking in a shaky breath once I'd forced the words out.
Without waiting for a reply, I leaned down. Placing my head to his chest, I heard his heart race and air rattle in his lungs. Coaxing his mouth open, I looked inside and found nothing but red, bubbly saliva. His breath smelled like copper and commissary-rebranded cigarettes — a combination of what was expected and what was abhorrent.
"You have to help me." He demanded. "I love you. Don't worry about last…" He wheezed. "Last night, I'll never do it again."
Manipulative, empty pleas — like breathing to a man like him. He panicked and told me he could feel bloody bile rising in his throat when he gagged, yet I couldn't help but be transfixed by the way his teeth looked outlined in crimson.
"Sure you won't." I shook my head. "You don't even know what you did to me."
His brows furrowed when I looked up, for just a second before his expression changed. Eyes wide, expression blank — on the verge of a scowl, if I looked close enough.
"Did you—" He paused.
"Did you do something when you were — when I wasn't up?" It was an accusation more brazen than I'd have expected — one that cut through my stupor like a knife.
"What?" I sat up in near-disbelief.
"I know last night was a lot, but you better tell me if you—"
"If I did something? Did something to you, you're asking?" I spat. "Maybe a side effect of your stupid medication. I did what you fucking asked for."
I grasped at my last semblance of restraint, just as it was torn away.
III.
"Not anything else… please tell me you didn't." He whispered.
Even in his state, he still felt the need to interrogate me. All he'd done, and he dared ask whether I had been the one to hurt him. Another sick game to pull me down even deeper.
"Didn't what? What could I have even done?" I snarled. "Didn't what? Answer me, Carmine!" I dug my nails into his shoulders.
"Honey, get— get your claws off me, please." He softened his weakened voice, but I could hear him growl underneath the artificial, saccharine rot. "Come on, it hurts…"
"Didn't what?" My wide eyes met his.
"Stop."
"What? What do you think I did? Answer me!"
"I'm not well, honey. You're hurting me."
"If I hurt you, you'd know about it." I tightened my grip, moving my hands closer to his neck without thinking. "You almost killed me. Maybe I fucking should?" I spat.
His breath hitched in his throat and he thought he could hide it. "Honey. You don't, you don't mean—" He coughed, and red spatter formed constellations on my face. I wiped the blood from my eyes, paying no mind to how it burned. Red streaks stained my hand — blood that didn't yet flake. I didn't mean it, he said?
"You always, always hurt me! You always do, you know it."
"Barrikada. You have to get help… then we can fix this, please."
Feeling myself slip past the point of no return, I drenched my impulses in deep crimson hatred and released them without thought.
"What if I just let you die?"
"Stop. Barrikada. I said I was sorry." He raised his voice, adrenaline flowing through his veins. I could still hear the tremor in his voice as his eyelids twitched. The dim beams of light that reached his face were just bright enough to reveal the fear in his eyes.
"No. No, you didn't. You lied." Tears ran down my cheeks as I was overtaken by heartbroken rage, almost panting, trying to take in air.
He retched, spitting up blood that flowed down his chin and onto his shirt. The shocked gasp he let out pulled some back into his lungs, sending him into a coughing fit.
"What if I just sit here until you drown in your own blood, Carmine? What then?" My voice broke. "Tell me why I shouldn't."
What else could I do? I could cry — I already was. I could listen to him scold me like it hadn't been him who's kept me trapped. I could let him blame me, and taunt me, and own me until I broke. Until I saw nothing but red. Perhaps I wished it had been me who made him bleed until he saw death over his shoulder. I licked my lips, tasting the blood that his cough splattered onto my face.
It was almost instinct in a way, how my tongue emerged as soon as I realized the spatter was within its range. Perhaps a product of my own Daevite blood, I feared, trying and failing to hold back the part of myself that wanted more. Without a conscious thought, I ducked my head, licking the drops that cascaded from the corners of his mouth.
"Bashka, you're really scaring me, honey…"
I ignored him, licking more of it from my fingers, then going for the darker blood that coated his chin. I was well aware of how depraved, how disgusting it was, but I couldn't bring myself to care. It made me feel powerful, made me feel alive in a way I had learned to forget — in a way he'd stolen from me. Like my former self could be resurrected by means of an elixir, one that tasted like forged iron and painted my tongue red.
I still feared becoming what the Foundation saw of my species, what they sought to contain, but the apparition of what he'd done overshadowed my worry. I was not an inhuman savage, born of ancient blood, I was no danger to modern, polite society, I was the animal he made to fit the cage he'd locked me in.
"Don't do this." He warned, voice weakening.
The beginnings of a reply — 'why not?' — died in my throat when I realized there was no answer he could give that would satisfy me.
Because I loved him? Not anymore.
Because I'd miss him? Doubt it.
Because he deserved to live? Laughable.
"Stop. Just— just talk to me!" He asserted, as his hand shot up and wrapped itself around my wrist. He gripped me as tightly as he could muster — still pitifully weak.
The shard fell from my grasp, willing me to look down. When I did, he stared up at me — eyes like saucers, their centers black and glassy. Tears dripped from their corners with an authenticity I couldn't determine.
"I love you…" He said, stern voice already weakening. His hand slipped from my wrist, limp on the bed.
"Please, I'm… I—" He coughed, breathing growing shaky and stuttered. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, please be okay. I really need your help, and you know that. I love you, so please."
It was as if I couldn't open my mouth, couldn't perform the movements necessary to do anything but stare in silence, wondering if I was still in my own body.
"Please, Barrikada, I love you, tell me you—"
"Stop, stop!" I held a hand to his face, just a few inches away. "I'm alive, right? This is real. Just, I… I'm not sure — I don't, don't know if we're dead. Are we dead?" My ability to speak returned in a flood, while everything around me blurred and slowed. He might have responded, but I couldn't be sure.
IV.
I spent a few more moments floating in ether until I moved to brace myself against the mattress so I could reach for him — the chain of the handcuffs that connected us jingled, grounding me so fast I thought I'd splatter. I went still, eyes wide.
"Why? Why do I deserve this?" I said in a shaky whisper. The rabid anger was gone in an instant, the sorrow of my vision of death washed away, only to be transposed to reality. My breathing came in short, ragged gasps.
The clink was a harbinger of disaster before me, reminding me that all I'd said was little more than an empty threat. It seemed as though the chain was never there until I needed to escape. My chest tightened as the air was sucked out of the room.
Beginning to panic, I bit down on the side of my other hand. The poorly muffled screech I let out startled him — nobody else could hear, so I didn't hold back. A futile release of tension wound too tight in bondage. I fruitlessly pulled at the cuff, then froze, staring at it as the rest of the world went blank.
"I… I don't think that—" He spoke softly, as if afraid to upset me.
"Where's the key?" I turned to him and screamed.
"I don't… key?" Either he was growing delirious, or he was truly unable to resist the urge to cover his ass.
"Key. To the handcuffs you put on me! That key, the key." I pulled on the chain so hard it made him hiss in pain. "Where the fuck is the key!?"
"Fuck, Bashka…" He groaned.
"What? Where is it? Now!"
"Kitchen, kitchen, I'm— probably—"
"Are you fucking kidding me?" I raised my voice, covering my face with my hands. "What's wrong with you!?"
"I shouldn't have…"
I scoffed at his regret. After years holding me hostage, I was the one on whom his life depended, and it scared him.
My eyes darted around the room, looking for something — anything that could free me so I could finally breathe, so I could think straight without knowing our fates were bound in chain. My mind raced through the list of anything with even a minute chance at success: bolt cutters, hammer, maybe a saw? Nothing any sane person kept in a bedroom — even him. There had to be another way.
"Oh my God, the phones…" I whispered under my breath, freezing in place.
The landline was gone — Carmine's desk phone had broken a few days prior, so he'd put it in the office. And our cell phones? Both of his were charging in the kitchen. As for mine, I remembered it near-photographically, sitting on the edge of his desk.
The room suddenly felt hot.
Four goddamn phones — none in sight, nor in reach. Shouting wouldn't work either, in a sub-basement room with thick concrete walls and a fireproof door — a prison.
I was forced to accept that something kinetic would have to happen. Either he'd get up, or I'd have to find a way to break free. No longer able to delude myself, I rattled the cuffs in a futile attempt to drown out the fear with noise.
Getting him to move seemed like the easier of the two.
He tried to weakly brace his elbow against the bed as I made my first attempt to force him to a sitting position, thus pulling my hand away from his shoulders. I couldn't maneuver him enough to push him up, not unless he held his arm at an angle that I wasn't sure was physically possible.
I held no doubts that getting him to the kitchen would be a Herculean task, but even coaxing him off his back quickly revealed itself to be a Sisyphean task.
If he wasn't able to brace himself, I'd only have my own strength at my disposal. Running out of options, I resorted to holding him by the wrists and pulling.
Simple force was beyond reach, I learned — even with the adrenaline coursing through my system. How limp he was felt abnormal, almost paralytic, and I was far too weak to move 240 pounds of dead weight.
In my lack of reason, I tried anyways, holding him around the chest and attempting to pull him to the edge of the bed. It was hard to get leverage, but I somehow got him to budge — not far, though. It only took a few inches for me to accept its futility. I let out a chuckle as my eyes began to water.
"I can't do this, I can't. It's impossible. You— you have to get up." My voice was frantic.
"I feel so weak…" His eyes were half-lidded, his normal tan complexion had begun to turn a pale white — a stark contrast against the blood coating his lips and teeth, against the droplets of spatter that made their way back to his face when he coughed.
"I don't give a shit! If you don't, you're dead, we're all dead." Voice cracking, I pulled him by the hand, nails digging into his bruised wrist under the cuff. The pain got his attention.
"I, I'm bleeding?"
"What?"
"…am I bleeding?" Carmine's voice had started to slur. Badly.
My heart dropped to my stomach.
"No." I deadpanned, barely holding myself back from hysterics.
He had seen the blood hit my face when he coughed, he had acknowledged it more than once, but he was fading — fast.
I could either find a way to get out of the cuffs… or not, and despite all that had happened, and all the anger and sorrow and trauma he'd inflicted upon me for what seemed like a lifetime, or not was death.
V.
The cuffs weren't too tight, I bargained. Maybe if I squeezed my thumb to my pinkie and forced it, I could slip free?
I tried. I pulled until my hand turned red, with no avail. My denial was a lifeline — perhaps the only thing that kept me sane, and it was slipping through my fingers faster than I could cling to it. Trying only left me with friction burns that would never heal.
Once the side of my thumb was rubbed raw by the metal, my lifeline was gone.
Escape was hopeless, survival was hopeless. I couldn't handle it — couldn't handle the mortal dread, the feeling of failure, the weakness in my body. I pressed my face into my pillow and screamed, tears and blood soaking the fabric.
What gutted me was how it seemed that the universe had chosen his fate for him. He had chosen for both of us the moment he'd secured that cuff around my wrist. All the ramifications that came with his death, and I'd have no say in the matter.
It was, in one word, unfair. Just as it had been since the first day we met.
If his body gave out and he left me for dead, why should I be the one trapped, forced to endure the results of his control? It was a sick joke. Even in death, he'd still have the last laugh. The final act of his forty-seven years on Earth would be proving that he owned me.
A nagging voice in my head whispered to me — I could still choose his fate, it said. I ignored it, but it repeated. Over and over as I stared at the sharp piece of glass, still on the bed beside us. It almost shimmered in the dim light of the room.
I could hold it in my fist as I had before. It would sting and bleed as my grip tightened, but the consequence would be one born of my choice to hold it — my choice alone. I could use it too, if I wanted. I could bring it down upon his throat, staring into his eyes until he begged for his life.
His fate would be mine to own.
Once again I pictured his death, now even more blood-drenched. I saw the glimmering shard cutting lines in my hand as its sharp end tore into flesh. The superficial lacerations would mean nothing to me as I watched one much larger open across Carmine's throat, revealing the fat and tissue for just a moment before blood obscured all in its path.
What flowed from his neck would soon marry what beaded on the surface of my palms. Blood to blood, skin to skin. I pictured him begging for forgiveness as his eyes went dull — him growing pale, then silent. I imagined he would haunt me after death. Something about that comforted me — I wouldn't be alone, so long as he could forgive me.
The way the glass stung when I held it felt right, somehow. I could almost forget that he couldn't be the only one in its sights. Even if I truly had it in me to slit his throat and take pleasure in it, would I take the same pleasure in drawing the shard across my own neck?
Perhaps once he was dead, I'd realize that all I did was allow him to drag us both to the gallows. Regret. Thinking about it brought about a choking feeling in my throat.
It was the cornered, irrational logic of an animal facing slaughter that had me dropping the shard of glass and lunging for the nightstand. I nearly ripped the drawer off its tracks, clawing my way through all it held.
A tissue box, some pens, a porno mag dated 1998… nothing of consequence. Continuing my search only led me to a bottle of nail polish and a paperweight that shattered when I pitched it at the wall.
I knew that nothing I could find would help, but I tried anyways. That's what you do when the stakes are life and death.
By then, he'd stopped speaking, drenching the room in deadly silence, save for my sobs and his rattly breaths. I couldn't take it, so I talked to myself.
"You know, Carmine, I wish you jerked off more. If you did, maybe you'd have lube, or lotion, or— or something in this fucking nightstand to help me here. Then, maybe this would work."
I laughed.
"Now we're both dead, so thanks for that."
More pens, a to-do list, a sheet of commissary orders. Nothing, nothing, nothing.
"I think it's funny how you never needed it, because you trained me. Like a dog. Now I can't go an hour without thinking about fucking, I have to carry around a spare pair of panties, and oh! I need it to live, now, they said."
He was a barely conscious brick wall, and I had given up restraint long ago.
"They know you did it to me, they just won't say it — that you raped me for so many years that I became physically dependent on it. I mean, who would tell their boss that?"
His brows furrowed as he let out a mumbling attempt to form words.
"I know you don't like that word, but I do. Why won't you just accept it? You know I'll still be here."
Cough drops, spare deodorant, empty. I climbed over him to reach the other side of the bed. At least he was still breathing, not that I cared.
"You got everything you ever wanted at my expense. Too high, Icarus, don't you think? It took you a week to fuck it up." I let out a cackle. "Not just for me, for you too!"
I found paperwork I would have looked through should the situation have been less urgent — even if the urgency in question was all but meaningless. It was only fair for someone who hadn't had a modicum of privacy for as long as I had.
"Wonder how much of this is mine… you ever notice how I don't say shit about how you look through all my stuff? I just let you do it, because fuck it."
Punctuated by 'fuck it', I tossed the stack of papers in the air and watched them flutter to the ground. Something about the way some floated, while others fell like rocks made me cry harder.
At the bottom of the nightstand, I found a duplicate copy of my Foundation keycard.
"See! Right here! You knew I wouldn't do anything if I found it. You're— you're so shameless, just keeping this right here. I guess I'm so pathetic, you can bank on it."
My stomach twisted, my voice broke.
"Too bad you won't live long enough to miss me."
I tossed the keycard aside and leaned over him — almost close enough for our noses to touch. My long, matted hair shrouded us in darkness. Tears fell from my eyes, a few drops landing in his.
"Should I wait until you die before I kill myself, or should I do it now? I already gave you everything else."
Trembling, I dipped my head down and licked his lips clean of fresh blood, almost as a comfort.
"I heard that dying of blood loss can feel like being in love." I whispered.
He moved his hand weakly, just enough to rub the inside of my wrist with his thumb. In my altered mental state, I almost saw it as permission.
My shaky fingers crept back to the glass shard. I lifted myself up on my hands and knees, then brought it to one side of my neck, just above the carotid artery. Death standing so very proximate made me gag.
"Should I do it over you, like this? Maybe if we drink enough of each other's blood, we'll end up in Hell together?"
I cried harder, tipping his head up and licking the blood from the inside of his mouth with the shard still pressed to my neck. His lips and tongue moved just enough to turn my depravity into a horrid perversion of a kiss. He stared up at me with tired eyes.
Something about it sickened me. I sat up with a start, retracting myself like the touch of his skin burned.
For just a moment, I stared ahead, receding into myself as I slowly lowered the sharp edge from my neck.
Something about how he never tried to force me to stop had made it hard to breathe. He was woozy from blood loss, but in my heart, it felt like he wanted it. Like if he was going to die, me following him would be his most coveted consolation prize.
It was true.
I took a deep, shaky breath.
I steadied myself on my knees.
I closed my eyes, just for a second — just to think.
I cursed, throwing the shard across the room. It broke when it hit the cement block wall.
It would hurt to die regardless of when it happened. Perhaps it would hurt to live too?
VI.
"Nevermind, nevermind, nevermind…" I repeated, mindlessly.
It was difficult, but I managed to roll him on his side before climbing over to his side of the bed. The weight of hopelessness lifted just enough to breathe.
I stepped into the remnants of the shattered cup without thinking, with half of one foot meeting the cold, wet spot on the carpet. I grimaced, but the pain of glass cutting into my feet barely registered.
The plug of the room's only light source, a heavy brass lamp, was swiftly removed. Aside from a crack through the door that let in dim light from the kitchen, the room was plunged into darkness. I worked quickly, unscrewing the lightbulb and tossing it in a drawer, nearly tearing the shade from the lamp.
With his limp arm still supported by the bed, my cuffed hand just barely made it to the nightstand. Not close enough, but I managed to pull it just a few more inches. My breaths came fast and ragged. What I was about to do would surely work at some point — my concern was a question of how far I'd have to go.
"If you pull my fucking arm, I'm killing you." I hissed at him, wondering in the back of my mind if he still saw it as an empty threat.
"Honey?" Carmine whispered, barely loud enough to be audible.
"I'm saving your ass, so you better stay still."
I placed my shaky left hand flat on the nightstand. Perhaps it was better that I was barely able to see it? This was no game of precision — it was one of survival, one of brute force.
I had endured agony to preserve my life the previous night, and I could — no, had to do it again.
Pathetically, the fantasy that mortality would finally force Carmine to change was the last thing to cross my mind before I swung the heavy lamp base like a hammer.
I brought it down hard on the widest part of my hand without another thought. Adrenaline blocked most of the pain, but the first blow nearly made me faint from shock. I thought I'd scream more than I did.
Carmine flinched, instinctively pulling his arm to his body. "Stop it!" I shouted. "I fucking told you…"
I brandished the lamp like a weapon, as if I were placing a target on the side of his skull. Slowly processing the ramifications, he inched back to his prior position.
I took a deep breath and swung for my hand again. The second shock registered less than the first. On the third blow, I heard a sickening crunch that sent shivers down my spine. I didn't notice the pain as much as I did the nausea it brought.
Two more hits, just to be certain, I reasoned. I learned to anticipate the horrid sound of breaking bone.
"Goddamnit!" I exclaimed, catching my breath and dropping the lamp to the floor.
I reached to my hand without pause, anticipating the pain as I manually squeezed my hand until my thumb and pinkie sat parallel. The pain was orders of magnitude more intense than before, radiating up to my shoulder and bringing tears to my eyes.
The most nausea-inducing part of it was without question the unnatural flexibility of my broken hand. The way its flaccid nature coincided with the horrid friction of bone-on-bone was unbearable. I retched, barely able to look at my limp, compressible fingers as I got into position to pull.
Properly grasping the cuff with one hand was awkward, but I managed to get what I hoped was a somewhat solid grip. I took a deep breath and cleared my mind. Once the tremors stopped, I forged ahead.
I held my breath, anticipated the agony, then pulled hard. Escape evaded me, but I knew it was within reach. Perhaps the way I'd held the cuff had obstructed its motion?
Determined not to lose hope, I worked slower. Even then, the metal still caught on my swollen skin, about a half inch further than my first attempt. Nerve pain shot up my arm like lightning, but all I felt was dejected, hopeless anger.
I flattened my hand on the cool surface of the nightstand and reached down for the lamp and felt its weight in my hand.
Like insects skittering over my skin, I felt blood, or semen, or god forbid what else drip down my leg.
On any other day, it was a natural state for me, to live carrying the slippery remnants of concupiscence inside my body, almost as if it belonged. It was normal for it to emerge carrying a pinkish-red tint.
I found it so paradoxical that a fluid so corrupting could be what kept me alive.
The thought consumed me, for I knew that given the context, it should burn me instead. Just as how my only chance at survival shouldn't be the compounding of pain and wretched self injury.
Both cases were no matter of what 'should be', only what was.
As I made the connections in my mind, the urge to recoil at their conclusion was overwhelming. Regardless, I heard the lamp hit the floor with a thunk.
Smearing every slimy, congealed drop of the cloudy, red-tinted amalgamation over my wrist and down my hand was utterly wretched. The viscous atrocity burned where it seeped into the cuts on my hands. It smelled like sour metal and visceral shame. It made me gag and turn my head when my mind forced me to imagine how it tasted.
No matter how I tried, I couldn't escape the thought of it coating my tongue and throat until my stomach revolted. At least the thick saliva brought forth by my attempts not to vomit didn't go to waste.
Wanting nothing more than for the nightmare to end, I practiced exerting force with one hand and keeping the one in the cuff limp, just to ensure I didn't sabotage myself. The thought of bringing the lamp upon my hand hard enough to break bone, as liquid indiscretion formed spatter from the force, was a potent motivator.
Carmine looked up at me with glassy eyes, as another weak cough poured blood over his chin.
My hands shook as I changed my position, facing the bed with a foot braced against his wrist and my free hand on the side of the cuffs opposite the chain. It felt as though my life flashed before my eyes in the moments before I started to pull.
I took a deep breath, searching my mind for any conceivable method to sequester myself from the fear and the agony. At the time, all I could think of was to talk.
"You, uh, you remember how you were supposed to meet with Director Riker tomorrow? I think you'll have to reschedule, yeah." I let out a shaky, pained laugh. "Obviously, shit. I don't know, but I heard that they might be adding a new cafeteria to A-Block, if that's what its about, the meeting. That— that would be cool, right now everyone has to walk all the way down to B, I mean C, to eat. They always— they always talk about how much it s-sucks. Do you know about that? You probably do. I heard about it yesterday. So, how do you feel? Not— not great right now, of course, but I'm fine. I'm really fine, actually, except—"
DEPARTMENT OF PARASEXOLOGY
CONFIDENTIAL INCIDENT REPORT
BACKGROUND: On 07-15-2002, the Department of Emergency Medicine Response Team was called to the on-site quarters of Deputy Director Carmine Violanti and his wife, Level-03 Researcher Barrikada Violanti.
Upon arriving at the scene, C. Violanti (the patient) was found in a semi-conscious state, laying on his back with a pair of handcuffs attached to his right wrist. Observing the scene, blood was found on the carpet, bed, and on the patient's clothing. He was observed actively bleeding from the mouth, and it was reported that he had previously vomited blood. Medical attention in situ was not performed, as the patient was able to be rapidly transported to the A-Block Infirmary for emergency care. He was found to be in a state of mild hypovolemic shock. Following surgical intervention and multiple blood transfusions, he is expected to make a full recovery.
B. Violanti, who had called for help, was also found with blood on her face, abdomen, legs, and hands, some appearing to have dried. She was also in a state of injury — most notably, her left hand was bruised, swollen, and the skin inflamed. It was not known at the time, but it had been subject to multiple self-inflicted fractures. B. Violanti appeared to be in a state of shock/depersonalization and was urged to seek immediate medical care. She was not responsive, stating that she would not leave until she had a chance to bathe. Responders suggested that B. Violanti should remain with the patient, given their status as husband and wife. She allegedly stated that he would not want others to see her in the state she was in. Approximately 75 minutes later, she was admitted to the A-Block infirmary, after which surgical intervention was necessary to preserve the functionality of her left hand.
NOTE: Responders were initially reprimanded for their decision to permit B. Violanti to remain in the housing unit alone. All demerits were later overridden by C. Violanti.
RESPONSE: B. Violanti was questioned later that day, and stated that herself and the patient had been engaging in unconventional sexual conduct the previous night. Allegedly, they had both fallen asleep without removing the pair of handcuffs that had been used within these acts. B. Violanti was awoken several hours later, near the initial onset of the emergent situation. C. Violanti has since confirmed the validity of her statements.
ADDT'L INFORMATION: Approximately 48 hours after C. Violanti's admittance to the infirmary, additional information was provided regarding his wife's conduct during the incident. Following an analysis of his story conducted by the Department of Parapsychology, B. Violanti was summoned for a compulsory mental health evaluation.
Pursuant to multiple interviews conducted throughout the following week, alongside further information provided by her husband, B. Violanti was diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder. In accordance with Foundation policy, she was placed on leave at that time. While a period of inpatient mental healthcare would be required under normal circumstances, B. Violanti was issued a waiver, so long as she attends all scheduled counseling sessions.
ADDENDUM
WRITTEN BY: Dr. Care Landon, Level-03 Researcher
NOTE: This addendum was completed in conjunction with the Department of History, Sub-Department of Daevic Anomalies.
BACKGROUND: On 07-15-2002, C. Violanti received emergency medical care for a Class IV internal hemorrhage after engaging in sadomasochistic sexual acts with his wife, B. Violanti, a member of Species of Interest #140 (Homo sapiens daeva). It is the opinion of the Sub-Department of Daevic Anomalies that the hemorrhage suffered by C. Violanti was the result of his wife's elevated aptitude at performing acts of blood thaumaturgy.
ANALYSIS: The reported acts that occurred on the night of the incident stood out to researchers as being notably similar to an old, seldom-performed power transfer ritual, referred to as "Transfer of Seed, Transfer of Life" in historical texts. The following is a summary of the research conducted pursuant to this incident.
DISCORDANT ASPECTS
➢ Historically, the ritual required two other priestesses to complete, but this requirement may have been overcome by Site-19's inherently elevated Hume and Akiva radiation.
➢ A rune representing the process of exsanguination would have been carved into the chest of the sacrifice, from which their blood would flow into a ceremonial bowl. As this did not occur, the majority of C. Violanti's hemorrhaging was internal in nature.
➢ At the conclusion of the ritual, the blood of the deceased sacrifice is to be ingested by those performing it. Should C. Violanti have expired, and his blood have been consumed post-death, the associated power transfer would have potentially occurred.
COINCIDING ASPECTS
➢ At the time of the act, as well as during her escape, B. Violanti reported experiencing strong emotions, including desires to harm C. Violanti physically, in conjunction with the urge to ingest his blood. This urge was allegedly so strong, that she had no choice but to relent.
➢ When questioned, she did admit to consuming C. Violanti's blood during the period before medical intervention took place, though she did not cause further injury to obtain it. After doing so, she reported a decreased pain response.
➢ Historically, the priestess performing the sacrifice needed to be menstruating. While B. Violanti does not menstruate, she had begun to bleed vaginally at some point earlier that evening.
➢ Upon being asked multiple times, B. Violanti admitted to reaching orgasm during the event in question, directly mirroring a necessary element of the rite's successful performance.
➢
-
For a chosen sacrifice to allow for the successful completion of the ritual, they must be an individual who has caused significant, immutable harm to a member of SoI-140.
ADDT'L INFORMATION:
-
Further context found on pages 900, 912, and 924-26 of 'A Chronicle of the Daevas' has raised concerns among researchers that C. Violanti may be irreparably marked as an incomplete human sacrifice. This information suggests that should B. Violanti expire for any reason, C. Violanti would as well, regardless of his condition at the time. Confidential research is currently being conducted.
