some kind of 2.14 AU where it’s Ava, not Sam. idk. references to violence and blood, and vessel consent issues.
Ava’s hands are shot through with red, drying to brown, and none of it’s her own. She’s screaming, in her head; too bad the only thing that can hear it is whatever’s stuffed up her skull, stopping the world from hearing it.
Oh, stop your crying, she says, more eye-rolling than anything else, and Ava hears the smirk as she watches her own fingers curl around a knife, and the tip plunge into skin. Oh God, the guy’s just wearing this tan polo - not so tan any more, anyway - and there were pictures of a little girl in pigtails, with a big toothy grin, lining the staircase in his house.
I was just like you, once, the thing tells her, and it’s all calm and conversational, none of the rasping taunt she used while she picked the lock, way too practiced, and kicked the door down. All squeamish.
Ava used to hate yoga. She’d go, sure, but she’d come back sore through her back and legs and toss and turn in bed, trying to get comfortable again. Brady’d only grunt when she set the soles of her feet against his calves and pushed.
But eventually - she came to relish it, really. She’d come home and her hair’d be a mess from the ponytail and the gross sweating, sure, but she’d also be all bright-eyed. “Look at this!” she told Brady, once, lunging forward as far as she could. If she kicked him at night now, he’d probably mind it, cuz it wasn’t normal any more.
Found a pretty great little club, though. A pause. Maybe not so little, these days!
The knife pushes deeper, and hits something that’s way squishier than anything else has been. If Ava could, now, she’d just turn her head away from it, and swallow down her bile. But she’s not screaming any more, she’s not trying to grab control of her hands to claw it all from her - the black smoke stinking like sulfur that crowded into her mouth, the copper reek of blood like a smack to her cheek.
Ava only turns away more. But she can’t shut her eyes, or stop her hands from moving.