Somewhat Clear

deerna
somewhatclear

Rating: mature
Fandom: the under garden (maf)
Relationship: ashton rose/dahlia
Tags: Body Horror, Stillbirth, Suicidal Thoughts, Chronic Pain, Drug Use, Forced Abortion, Corpse Desecration, Dysfunctional Relationships, Neglect, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction
Wordcount: 522
Notes: the under garden is a work by velnna | MAF. you can read it on gumroad. find out more about ashton in the under garden comic tag on velnna | MAF's tumblr

Summary:

Excerpt:

Lucky thing spared from a pitiful life.

{ read on AO3 | read here }

When all is said and done, the thing isn't even alive.

He feels numb, the last powder still burning in his lungs, still sending aftershocks down his damaged nerves. Dahlia's wailing feels grating on them.

“What the fuck are you crying for?” he mutters, scrubbing at his face. “Look at this thing. Are you crying for this?”

The thing looks more like a crushed bug than a baby. Dried out exoskeleton where fat should be. A little blue face. Four arms. A smattering of empty eyelids down the side of its face. Blood and slime. Toxic waste.

It had cried out, once—and then it was gone. A choked out performance. Not worth coming out on stage for it at all, really. Spare yourself the humiliation, or die trying.

Dahlia’s wailing keeps grating on his nerves.

“I'm taking care of it.” In all truth, he just wants to leave.

“Wait,” she sobs. “Wait, I want us to bury him together.”

A laughter breaks out of his throat, loud and raucous. He lights up a smoke with shaking hands, as he rips away one of the bloodied sheets from under Dahlia's body and starts wrapping the thing in it.

She kneels up on the bed, gorgeous and bloody and pleading. “He's our son, Ashton, he'd deserve—”

“There's nothing to bury here, sweetheart.”

The smoke hits his lungs. The numbness turns sweeter. The aches recede a little. His arms feel a little less likely to fall off, when he picks the disgusting bundle up.

Dahlia's hands cling to his shoulder. “Ashton,” she begs. “Ashton, stop—”

Her words blur together in a cacophony of screaming, a ringing in his ears. It's easy enough to block it out and focus on the unsung texture of his limbs moving his body as he’s leaving the room.

Outside, the noises of dawn merge together in the street. He can see the cold air hitting his skin, wetting his wings. The thing under his arm becomes heavier with every step. His smoke burns out quickly, leaving a touch of ashes on his tongue.

The river seems the obvious choice. The water flows sweet and dirty under his eyes for an eternity, before he finally sits down on the bank. Another smoke.

A pang of pity crawls its way through the numbness, makes him grit his teeth. Lucky thing spared from a pitiful life.

He doesn't regret it.

He doesn't regret any of it. The sneaking, the stealing, the killing. The drugs, the music, the love. The sex, the pain, the aches. The smoke, the poison, the life.

He's burning out too quickly to afford the luxury of regret.

Dahlia is still sobbing when he comes back to her. He's painfully sober and so bone-tired he wishes there was a less wasteful way to make it stop, short of killing himself.

He cradles her in his arms, nonsense whispered against her skin as she cries. He wraps around her – gorgeous and bloodied and cursing up a storm – pushes his face in her hair, smelling her sweat and her poison.

She's not what he needs, but it's ever so close enough.