Title: A Perfect Phantasm
Author: AbbyCadabra
Posted: 10-31-2003
Email: YankeesnAbercrombiechick@hotmail.com
Rating: R for some sex and violence.
Category:
Content: Connor-centric, angst, fic spoiler --> character death
Summary: There is no Connor. But Connor doesn't know that.
Spoilers: Through Home.
Disclaimer: The characters in the Angelverse were created by Joss Whedon & David Greenwalt. No infringement is intended, no profit is made.
Distribution: I'll always say yes, but it's polite to ask.
Notes: Ally, I know this isn't directly what you wanted, but I decided to focus more on the mental aspect of having more than one person in your skin rather than the physical feeling of it. I tried my hardest, and I hope you aren't too disappointed. And Happy Halloween!
Feedback: My first time trying any Connor fic, so any would be greatly appreciated.
Thanks/Dedication: To Queen Mab by being my beautiful beta.
Halloween Fic: For Ally. Ally's theme: The fear of being trapped in one's skin.
We believed that we could change ourselves
The past could be undone
But we carry on our backs the burden
Time always reveals
In the lonely light of morning
In the wound that would not heal
"Fallen," Sarah McLachlan
*
(He will want the noose to be perfect.)
- -
She said her name was Cordelia, and that meant something to him, but he didn’t know what.
So he took her home with him to find out.
He snuck her into his parent’s house, laid her down on his bed, and tried to understand why her name made his heart ache and his body tighten.
He didn’t like the sounds she made. She was too loud and too coarse, breathing in quick rasps and coming in loud grunts, and she left as soon as they were done. A part of him wanted her to stay, but another part of him watched her go with a grin on his face.
The part of him that wanted her to stay was the part that gasped her name when he came, and cried when she left, and thought it would be a good idea to find a rope.
- -
He has this dream almost every night:
The air is hot and still around him, and there are ashes drifting down from a sky that’s lit up like a constant sunset, burning red and always on the brink of dying. There is a blade in his hand, and the metal is clean and shining in the perpetual red twilight, but the hilt is wet and sticky. His knuckles are white around the handle, and his hand his numb. There is heavy breathing coming from his left, deep and rhythmic in sleep, and it’s comforting.
There is an odd tingling of anticipation at the base of his spine that winds its way around his bones to his heart and makes it beat faster. Sweat collects at his throat, but he feels cold. Ashes are in his mouth, and he doesn’t really mind the taste of it.
The body to his left suddenly jerks awake and cries out-
“Ang—”
And this is when he wakes up.
- -
(He will think his skin wasn’t really made for him.
It will be too tight. Too crowded and too unyielding, too imperfect, and his life will have always been perfect.)
- -
“Connor, I think we need to have a talk.”
“Ah, Dad, I already know all about the birds and the bees.”
“Not that sort of talk.”
His father wasn’t smiling, but all he could see were the smile lines at the corners of his father’s mouth.
“Than what…?”
“A talk about you.”
There are tiny contours around his father’s eyes, too, shallow and short and reminding him of deep fingernail marks in smooth skin.
“Me?”
“You’ve been acting… off, Connor... Your grades are dropping, you’re never around any more, and when you are you’re alone in your room, shut up in the dark—”
“I’m just… busy, Dad.”
“We’re worried about you. Are you and Tracy having problems?”
And there are bags under his father’s eyes, a sign of tiredness or age, but probably both.
“Tracy? We’re not—I mean no. No, we’re fine.”
“Are you…?”
They’ve always been there, he knows, the wrinkles and lines and bags. But they’ve never seemed so out of place before. Never seemed so foreign.
“I’m sure. I’m fine, good, excellent. Are we done now?”
- -
(His family, his life, his future. So perfect. So good. So right.
…So wrong.)
- -
He was walking home in the dark one night, but ended up at an old hotel instead.
There was rust on the brass, graffiti on the walls, and the windows broke easily when he put his fist through them. It smelled like old alcohol and dirt on the inside, and his steps left footprints in the carpet of dust. The crimson wallpaper was stained green and black with years upon years of rain damage, the edges curling up and begging to be peeled away from the decaying walls. The stairway banister crumbled when he touched it.
Familiarity tugged at him painfully, but he couldn’t place the feeling in any of his memories. He wanted to find something, but didn’t know what to look for. He wanted to go somewhere, but didn’t know the way. He wanted to call out for someone, but didn’t know the name to say.
He felt misplaced, and it tore at him until he felt as if he could never be put back together again. When he left, he went through the front doors, and left them open behind him. As he passed an alley, he noticed a girl with dirty blonde hair hunched against a dumpster.
She said her name was Cordelia.
- -
(His skin will be wrong, and he’ll wonder if maybe this life will be wrong, too. There will be a sadness that comes from somewhere deep inside of him, that will eat at the perfection, that will pull at his skin, make it tighter until he can barely breathe, until he will no longer fight for the air, until he will feel trapped, and beg to be let out.)
- -
He has this dream every now and again:
The night is cold, and he doesn’t have a jacket.
“Connor, never forget that I’m your father and that I love you.”
The man in the metal coffin is death-white, and his skin stands out savagely against his black hair and clothes. There are steel cables binding his ankles, thighs, chest, and wrists, and he wonders if they’ll be able to hold.
“Connor? Con—”
The man is cut off as he and another—a girl, pale, with hair like fire—slide the lid of the coffin into place. There’s a great sadness inside him, some vast hole in a heart that’s already like swiss cheese, and he feels it grow as he kicks the coffin into the water and watches it descend in the black water.
His mind is a whirlwind of anger and misery and hate, and he feels himself sinking along with the man in the coffin, plummeting to a place he can never return from.
And then the dream fades to black slowly, evenly, completely.
- -
“Trace, do you ever feel… wrong?”
“What do you mean?”
“Like you’re in the wrong place, or the wrong time… Or the wrong person.”
“Do you?”
“All of the time.”
- -
(He’ll wonder if it’s all an illusion, and if his real life will be on the other side of this rope.)
- -
Once, a man dressed in a black leather jacket pulled him into an alley at night, and the man held a knife to his throat and demanded his wallet, and his chest exploded with rage, and his body reacted.
The first time he hit the man was in the stomach, and it felt like coming home. The second time was in the face, and he lost himself and the count after that. Lost himself in the feel of flesh splitting and yielding under his fists. Lost himself in the sound of heavy breathing and fast pounding and bones cracking. Lost himself in the sight of slick, sticky stains on black clothes.
He knew it was wrong, but it felt so right.
The man went limp against the wall, but he kept hitting him, because he wanted the man to fight back, to hit him back, because something told him that that was the way it always went. He stopped, finally, when his lips refused to catch any breath, but the man still didn’t move. He spoke, but the man still didn’t move. He touched his shoulder. The man still didn’t move.
He stepped back too quickly, his feet tangling together, and his back crashed against the far wall of the alley. There was a puddle of blood around the man’s face, and the blood looked black in the dark. Bruises and cuts in the shape of his knuckles marked the skin on the man’s face and neck. The man’s eyes were open, staring, shining like a mirror, and he didn’t want to give a name to what was reflected there.
The puddle of blood kept expanding, and it was beginning to brush against the man’s leather jacket.
He vomited all over the brick wall.
And then he ran home in the dark, but ended up at an old hotel instead.
- -
He had this dream last night:
There’s a slight pain in his leg, but it’s nothing compared to the pain clenching his chest. He feels like his blood has turned to ice water, and the freeze is spreading over his heart with every beat, and he wants to die.
He wants to die.
“I really do love you, Connor,” says a man with black eyes, hovering above him with a knife in his hand.
He wants the knife on him, in him, through him. Wants to see the blade slice him open and paint the world red with his life.
“So what are you gonna do about it?”
The words feel colder than ice on his tongue, his lips, his teeth, and it’s just one more pain he wants to leave behind.
“Prove it.”
And the blood tastes sweet in his mouth.
- -
(His head will tell him this is wrong, and his heart will tell him it’s right, but for all the wrong reasons. But he will look down at the rope in his hands and he will see divinity in the knots.
This skin will never fit on his soul, but the rope will feel just right around his neck, and he will leave this perfect phantasm in a rush of air and tears.)
End.
