This should have been posted ages back.
Apr. 15th, 2008 06:40 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
actionreactionThis story has no real title. It was written as a narrative for a character of mine, about the nightmares he has. It does however explain why Xavier is the way he is.
Varėna, Lithuania. 1991.
The voters left their booths, the fight for democracy begun. A sense of pride, determination, and nationality flowed through every single man and woman who had just voted for an independent Lithuania. They walked out of their booths, into the halls only to find the building seized. Soviets lined the halls, blocking every available entrance, guns brandished. Warning shots fired, loud, insistent, ringing. They covered the sounds of the people screaming: the adults sent into terrified panic, the children too young to have been left alone, tears on their faces, only heightened when Soviets roared for silence.
A ten-not-yet-eleven-year old boy clung to his five-year-old brother; across the room stood their parents, mother and father clinging together with the same frail hope the children shared. Or that the eldest shared. Young Jonas was too young to understand why everyone was scared, why he couldn't go across the room to Mommy and Daddy, why his brother Xavier clung to him and tugged him back with such fierce protection.
He didn't understand when the Soviets tugged two people out of the crowd to be examples. Not just any two, two activists, two leading the fight for democracy. Two who'd been under Soviet surveillance without their knowledge. Austeja and Rasa Taurinskas. He'd been quiet during the ordeal, but the moment his parents were pulled off the line, Xavier screamed for them, and the fear in his voice set Jonas to screams of his own. The elder boy bit back his sounds when confronted with the butt of a gun, but Jonas did not. Could not. And though it filled Xavier with hatred and anger when they hit his brother, hard enough to draw blood and knock him unconscious just to shut him up, he would later look on it as a blessing.
Because Jonas didn't have to watch his parents die, murdered in front of him, shot cleanly through the head in full view of every aspiring democratic in that building in Varėna, Lithuania. In full view of their eldest son. Jonas wouldn't have to remember.
Key West, Florida. 2007.
The doctor turns in bed, black sheets rustling from the agitated toss of limbs. Face drawn tight with the emotions he never feels awake, Xavier dreams, and when he dreams, he feels it all. A sleepy hand passes over a pale face, dark hair over black pillow. The doctor always remembers, waking or sleeping, but only in dreams can he remember to feel.
Kelmė, Lithuania. 1994.
Xavier was biding his time. Russian troops had pulled out of Lithuania over a ago, but at fourteen he was too young to take Jonas and live anywhere but at this orphanage, where every day was a struggle to live. Xavier was supposed to be a lucky one. He was the favorite. Pale skin, dark hair, piercing blue eyes, full lips, and slim figure - yes he was the favorite. Of the owner and of the other boys. It was how he got extra food, extravagances no one else received, extravagances he gave to Jonas. His brother was not as strong. He was only nine. And he was the whipping boy.
Xavier would ask - sometimes reduce himself to begging - for help for the boy, and every time he paid for it with his body. But it got Jonas food. Protection. Help. For as long as their master deemed fit. And then Xavier would make his pleas again. But Xavier was the lucky one. He wasn't sold. He wasn't left to die for being too weak. He wasn't 'accidentally' killed, his body buried behind the orphanage's school building, with countless nameless others. He was lucky.
But Jonas was not.
The man who attacked him was left for dead. A prospective buyer, who didn't like how Jonas fought back, fought off advances. He was only nine. The fight was brutal, nasty, and won only because Xavier had stolen a kitchen knife. He himself would bear a scar forever, cheek torn open by a nail the man had managed to rip out of the floorboards. Tears mingled with blood when Xavier found Jonas wasn't breathing. That was the last time he ever cried. That was the last he saw of the orphanage.
Key West, Florida. 2007.
The doctor makes a sound he doesn't ever make awake, a stifled half-sob that catches in his throat. It's muffled, but it's repeated, and will be again until he wakes. It's not quite crying, but it's the closest he ever gets.
Baltimore, Maryland. 2000.
People thought there was something slightly off about the youngest student in the medical program. Maybe it was his brilliance. Maybe it was his accent. Maybe it was the pucker in his cheek that wasn't a dimple, but could have been a scar. But likely it was the shadows in ice-blue eyes that left many a shiver down a spine. Though that could have been a good shiver. It made more than one student want to chase those shadows away, be the one to fight away the aspiring doctor's demons. He had charm. He had diplomacy, and he certainly knew what he was doing. But there was still something missing.
Xavier knew what it was. Compassion. For adults, at least. He couldn't understand it, couldn't feign it. He only felt for the children who had been hurt. He knew their pain. He wanted to help them, the way he helped Jonas, even if for his brother it was too late. It was why he was becoming a pediatrician after all.
He'd help them. He had killed for a child before. He would do it again.
Key West, Florida. 2007.
The doctor finally wakes. Blue eyes are dilated, breath is coming fast. He remembers every detail he dreamt, remembers it all, remembers when it all happened. He doesn't bother to question why his subconscious continues to tell him what he already knows. Instead he climbs out of bed, in the wee hours of the morning. The pedophile in the basement is likely done being bled now. He was already dying when Xavier left him to drain. He takes his time getting downstairs, getting his tools.
Come sunrise there will be no evidence anyone was there. And the doctor will spend another day remembering, and not feeling.
Varėna, Lithuania. 1991.
The voters left their booths, the fight for democracy begun. A sense of pride, determination, and nationality flowed through every single man and woman who had just voted for an independent Lithuania. They walked out of their booths, into the halls only to find the building seized. Soviets lined the halls, blocking every available entrance, guns brandished. Warning shots fired, loud, insistent, ringing. They covered the sounds of the people screaming: the adults sent into terrified panic, the children too young to have been left alone, tears on their faces, only heightened when Soviets roared for silence.
A ten-not-yet-eleven-year old boy clung to his five-year-old brother; across the room stood their parents, mother and father clinging together with the same frail hope the children shared. Or that the eldest shared. Young Jonas was too young to understand why everyone was scared, why he couldn't go across the room to Mommy and Daddy, why his brother Xavier clung to him and tugged him back with such fierce protection.
He didn't understand when the Soviets tugged two people out of the crowd to be examples. Not just any two, two activists, two leading the fight for democracy. Two who'd been under Soviet surveillance without their knowledge. Austeja and Rasa Taurinskas. He'd been quiet during the ordeal, but the moment his parents were pulled off the line, Xavier screamed for them, and the fear in his voice set Jonas to screams of his own. The elder boy bit back his sounds when confronted with the butt of a gun, but Jonas did not. Could not. And though it filled Xavier with hatred and anger when they hit his brother, hard enough to draw blood and knock him unconscious just to shut him up, he would later look on it as a blessing.
Because Jonas didn't have to watch his parents die, murdered in front of him, shot cleanly through the head in full view of every aspiring democratic in that building in Varėna, Lithuania. In full view of their eldest son. Jonas wouldn't have to remember.
Key West, Florida. 2007.
The doctor turns in bed, black sheets rustling from the agitated toss of limbs. Face drawn tight with the emotions he never feels awake, Xavier dreams, and when he dreams, he feels it all. A sleepy hand passes over a pale face, dark hair over black pillow. The doctor always remembers, waking or sleeping, but only in dreams can he remember to feel.
Kelmė, Lithuania. 1994.
Xavier was biding his time. Russian troops had pulled out of Lithuania over a ago, but at fourteen he was too young to take Jonas and live anywhere but at this orphanage, where every day was a struggle to live. Xavier was supposed to be a lucky one. He was the favorite. Pale skin, dark hair, piercing blue eyes, full lips, and slim figure - yes he was the favorite. Of the owner and of the other boys. It was how he got extra food, extravagances no one else received, extravagances he gave to Jonas. His brother was not as strong. He was only nine. And he was the whipping boy.
Xavier would ask - sometimes reduce himself to begging - for help for the boy, and every time he paid for it with his body. But it got Jonas food. Protection. Help. For as long as their master deemed fit. And then Xavier would make his pleas again. But Xavier was the lucky one. He wasn't sold. He wasn't left to die for being too weak. He wasn't 'accidentally' killed, his body buried behind the orphanage's school building, with countless nameless others. He was lucky.
But Jonas was not.
The man who attacked him was left for dead. A prospective buyer, who didn't like how Jonas fought back, fought off advances. He was only nine. The fight was brutal, nasty, and won only because Xavier had stolen a kitchen knife. He himself would bear a scar forever, cheek torn open by a nail the man had managed to rip out of the floorboards. Tears mingled with blood when Xavier found Jonas wasn't breathing. That was the last time he ever cried. That was the last he saw of the orphanage.
Key West, Florida. 2007.
The doctor makes a sound he doesn't ever make awake, a stifled half-sob that catches in his throat. It's muffled, but it's repeated, and will be again until he wakes. It's not quite crying, but it's the closest he ever gets.
Baltimore, Maryland. 2000.
People thought there was something slightly off about the youngest student in the medical program. Maybe it was his brilliance. Maybe it was his accent. Maybe it was the pucker in his cheek that wasn't a dimple, but could have been a scar. But likely it was the shadows in ice-blue eyes that left many a shiver down a spine. Though that could have been a good shiver. It made more than one student want to chase those shadows away, be the one to fight away the aspiring doctor's demons. He had charm. He had diplomacy, and he certainly knew what he was doing. But there was still something missing.
Xavier knew what it was. Compassion. For adults, at least. He couldn't understand it, couldn't feign it. He only felt for the children who had been hurt. He knew their pain. He wanted to help them, the way he helped Jonas, even if for his brother it was too late. It was why he was becoming a pediatrician after all.
He'd help them. He had killed for a child before. He would do it again.
Key West, Florida. 2007.
The doctor finally wakes. Blue eyes are dilated, breath is coming fast. He remembers every detail he dreamt, remembers it all, remembers when it all happened. He doesn't bother to question why his subconscious continues to tell him what he already knows. Instead he climbs out of bed, in the wee hours of the morning. The pedophile in the basement is likely done being bled now. He was already dying when Xavier left him to drain. He takes his time getting downstairs, getting his tools.
Come sunrise there will be no evidence anyone was there. And the doctor will spend another day remembering, and not feeling.