Chapter Text
Thin gouges rested patiently against the delicate skin of Izzy’s thigh, which was already riddled with scars. His body was, in fact, painted with many streaks of damaged skin in many different shapes, and his efforts to hide them had earned him a reputation of prudery at the station. How wrong they all were…
A foot on his wooden stool, each extremities of the chain cilice held tightly in one hand, Izzy inhaled profoundly. He took some time to drink up all the sensations, shivering with anticipation. Cold metal against his flesh. A slight pressure from the spikes, waiting to bite. Peter Steele’s voice calling him from behind the door, purring out of the sound system.
“Don’t spill a drop dear
Let me kiss the curse away
Yourself in my mouth
Will you leave me with your taste ?“
He slowly exhaled, focused. Ready.
In a focused movement, he joined the two sides of the cilice and locked them in place, on the second notch.
“Oh, FUCK.”
Some of the prongs had broken the skin, adding a certain itch to the overall burning sensation of irritated flesh. The initial pain subsided quickly to settle down as a delightful discomfort. It would only stay on for the morning, before it could threaten to actually draw blood -as well as unwanted attention to him. Besides, the longer he wore the cilice, the stronger the risks of infections. He was twisted, sure, but not unreasonable.
Excerpts of his first session of therapy with Hannibal Lecter still plagued his mind; although the hopefulness had worn out. He was left with his usual existential crisis, only even stronger. He did admire the man’s charisma, having convinced Izzy for a short moment that there was room for improvement in his life. Now, however, Izzy could not remember for the life of him how he could have bought that shit in the first place.
“Fuck off you condescending prick. I know how to cope.”
As a treat, he allowed himself a squeeze through his black worn-out jeans before opening the front door, groaning of satisfaction. Not that wearing this to work wasn’t a treat in itself, but fuck, his mood was especially foul this morning. Something was brewing, he had quite an intense gut feeling about this day. And if he had learned any lesson in his life, it was to listen to his gut.
His mind settled on the pain, letting it spread all over him like a soothing ointment. Right. Good to go, now. As he locked his door, a familiar music rose from his pocket. Grumbling, struggling with his motorcycle helmet in one hand and keys in the other, he finally managed to fish out the phone and stared at the name on the screen, evaluating how much trouble he would be in if he ignored that call. He’d be in the police station in no more than twenty minutes anyway, Ivan could wait until then. Yet, with a sigh, he picked up.
“Izzy ?”
Weird. His former subordinates rarely called him by another name than a mocking “Officer Hands”.
“Yeah.”
“There’s… Uh. Something’s happened.”
“What thing ?”
“It’s delicate.”
“Yeah ?” What now…
“Yeah. It’s… Oh, fuck this. I don’t wanna talk about it on the phone. There’s a hangar between the natural history museum and the old church, d’y see the one ?”
“I suppose so.”
“Alright, meet me there. I’ll explain.”
“Explain what ?”
“Oh for fuck’s… Just come.”
“Sure.” Twat.
“Oh and, Izzy ?”
“What ?”
“Have you… have you eaten this morning ?”
“… I have, why ?”
“Fuck. Nevermind, see you at the hangar.”
A blip concluded the call before Izzy could answer and he stood on the doormat, staring at the void.
“Yeah, ‘cause that fucking makes sense.”
Although, upon his arrival, it did. He expected Ivan but not a whole dispatch of policemen and the forensics team. His stomach understood before his brain did, and in the blink of an eye, the whole world seemed proceed in slow motion.
Other colleagues had come to help Ivan tell the delicate tale, monitoring Izzy’s reaction. They had warned him. They knew, as well, that any word, any touch, could either send him on a murderous fury or see him crumble down into a pile of despair. So they let him be, let him see. And fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. A bad moon rising, that’s what he had foreseen. But this, this, isn’t a bad moon. It’s a fucking apocalypse. What the fuck…
Calm down. Calm down. Quiet the cavalcade of your heart. Your blood is ready to burst out of every pore. Don’t listen to it. The ringing in your ear, it doesn’t matter either. Focus. Focus. One foot in front of the other. You can’t feel your legs, can’t feel yourself, but it doesn’t matter. Keep walking.
So he keeps walking through the scene all the way to the pièce de résistance. There are a few yellow numbers scattered around, marking the possible forensic evidence. Flashes lighten the building, the photographer immortalizes what’s already dead. And he walks towards it, keeps walking, descending, plunging into the magma. At least that’s what it feels like. He couldn’t tell for sure there is no actual magma.
It is awfully quiet now, isn’t it ? It doesn’t matter. It is hot, though, hot and freezing. You wish you could brush away the sensations, but you can’t even move. You can just walk, keep walking. Yes, there you are.
There he is, but he does not dare to look.
Now, look. Do it. But try not to see.
It’s grotesque, really. There’s a naked body, one he knows by heart, but it is so strange to see it now. His gaze gallops along the tattoo lines, rides the snake on the arm and sails the ship on the chest, before it can rest on the only one he’s never seen. It’s a fresh one, he can tell. A lighthouse. Gorgeous, really, as the shading provides an impression of radiating light with the warmth of a sun setting down into the sea. The skin does not glow as much as it used to, though.
He notices the same tattoo, on the other leg. No, not his other leg but on the one sewn next to it, slightly angled up. How does it hold ?, he wonders. He can see the thick thread on the thighs but there must be something else, right ? For this third leg and the fourth one, for the two additional arms as well. There is a single trail of blood runnng across the body, splitting the flesh as if the bust was, also, a mashup of two corpses. He is grateful that Ed was at least spared this degradation, and was still able to proudly present his decorated body as the witness of his life, of his mind. Grateful... A singular heat rises through his throat. Or is it his tongue ? He feels like he swallowed his tongue. Actually, he feels a thousand of things. But at the same time, he doesn’t feel anything. It’s weird. It’s weird itsweirditweirdidontlikeit. A sense of impending doom overwhelms him but he is unable to act.
Strangely, he’s above himself now, and he sees his body dropping to its knees, hands on the ground. The body arches and a flow of dark filth spews from the mouth. One, two, three times. There’s a hand on his shoulder, maybe ? He spits and looks up.
One torso, Ed’s. Four arms, four legs. Ed and Stede’s. Two sets of genitals ? Interesting detail. The thread binding Stede’s body parts to Ed is a vibrant red, and from afar it almost looks like a silk lace. Another thought creeps up in his mind: the skin tones of the two different sets of limbs and organs, the matching tattoos, they make quite a beautiful palette. Beautiful. Beautiful.
His head plunges down again to liberate yet another tide of puke. He doesn’t look at the top of the body (bodies ?). He can’t, even though he has to. Instead, he grips his thigh, sensing the curls of metal and presses down as much as he can. Focus on the pain, on this one.
There’s something hauling him up and his legs dangle stupidly for a second before they fall back to the ground. There’s no need to look at the head, really. He knows these profiles, he knows that beard. Some of the hair is missing though, where the other head is attached. Both skulls are merged together, and it’s a shame to ruin the lovely scenery of Ed’s salt and pepper curls with that of Stede Goldilocks Bonnet. He realizes that he is looking at the heads now, properly.
One neck, two heads. What a sight, it truly is.
He stumbles back, splashing in his own barf, to take a better look at the blood and flesh painting displayed in front of his eyes. The Vitruvian Man, in all of his glory. Ed’s body, garnished with samples of Stede’s, was mounted on a wooden circular frame intertwining with a square metal frame.
Slowly, Izzy remember he has a body, too, and there is a weight pressing on his head, crushing his skull. The tonnage travels in his bust, to his belly, and the world takes on a yellow taint.
He wants to run away, but he can’t, there’s no way he can leave him, them. Not like this… Although, at least they have each other. They left him, too. Now, he was truly alone. Forever.
He wants to fall but doesn’t - Ah, there are hands holding him up. He wants to fall though, really, he never felt so heavy. A last splash of vomit concludes the show, dribbling down on his chin and chest along with the tears he now realizes have been ravaging his face hen, in a pop, the weight flies off and he’s never felt so light… Is he dying ? I am dying.
I am dying, yes I am dying, let me die, Ed is dead, let me die, let me dieletmedieletmedie…