Incubus

Incubus

She washed and washed, yet could not get his smell off of her.

The water dripped down her body, holding to its crevices. The steam held her in its grasp.

She washed again.

Finally she sat in the shower, letting the steaming water boil her skin red.

He would not come off of her.

She could wash forever, even until her skin came off. She'd still smell him on her. His smell all over her forever and she didn't have a say in it. It was his cologne, his sweat, and his heat.

Almost like he'd marked her as his property. She was his to leave his smell on, his to touch.

She hated him. With an infinite passion she wished him dead. He'd go on, pretending like nothing happened. Like one night he'd never entered the room she was in, dark and alone.

He'd pretend he hadn't frightened her and enjoyed the power he had over her. He'd pretend he hadn't crawled onto her bed, slowly, like a jungle cat.

He'd tell his parents the scratch on his cheek was from falling over. He'd tell his friends he'd scored with another chick. That she'd been a little reluctant at first. That she'd given like a cow. Spread like butter.

Begged him to do it.

Then he'd look at her across the room and he'd know by the way she looked at him, that she hated him. Hated him for putting his hands where they shouldn't have gone, and touching what wasn't his to touch.

She'd hate him for holding her down as she struggled and at one point, pleaded. Begged him to stop and to let her go. She wasn't the type to beg.

But he didn't. His damn smell was still on her.

He'd broken too many things that night and crossed too many lines. Beyond being forceful or pushy.

She'd scratched him up good, she thought as she smiled to herself. The scars she left on him would fade in a few weeks. Her own would never fade, never heal, never mend.

The smirk left her face as bitter sobs resurfaced.

She thought of telling someone. She could have him arrested.

No one would believe it. No one could prove it.

She couldn't wait to leave Hogwarts and to go back home and leave it all behind her. She'd forget about it soon enough.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

She was home again. She felt like she was somewhere she belonged. She felt like she was somewhere safe. The feeling didn't stay for long.

She leant over the bowl, warmth traveled along her throat and out of her mouth. Her eyes watered and she cried every time.

Two months gone, and she thought about him everyday. His shadowy figure in the dark, approaching, cold, powerful. The thought of him wanted to make her vomit again and sent tingles of seething rage racking through her entire body.

If she saw him again, she'd kill him, she knew it. Didn't matter how many people were there. She'd just kill him. Kill him for not doing her the courtesy of protecting himself. She'd tear his manhood away and tear at his skin. She'd cut him up in ways they could never fix him and he'd never be the same again. Children would cry to look at him and hug their mother's skirts. People would avert him on the street. She so passionately hated him that she could do it all with her bare hands.

"Who's the father?" they'd asked. "Is he going to do the honorable thing?"

It wasn't their fault, she told herself. She'd never explained everything to them.

She'd wanted to kill it in secret, no one would ever know. She hadn't been able to fathom the thought of carrying something that half belonged to him.

It half belonged to her now too, and she could never bring herself to do it. She loved it. She pitied it. What kind of a child would it be, considering the circumstances of its conception?

Would it be violent, vicious, cruel and malicious like its father?

Or would all the hate she felt for the man, transfer into the child, and would the child hate him as much as she did?

There would be the perfect reminder of everything. The whole circumstance captured in a small life. Every time she would look at it, she'd cringe. Cringe and think of how it had come to be.

Her body shook again and she leant further over the bowl.

"How do you expect to raise this child? You're only sixteen! What were you thinking?" he raged. Fathers are like that though.

They were coming to grips with it now. Her mother was outside the door, saying soothing words of comfort. Like waves crashing into rocks, it did not move her, or comfort her at all.

She was beyond comforting. She had felt a slap of malice and was forever untouchable.

Nothing would ever hurt her again as that single night had.

Or so she thought.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

She screamed. That's all she seemed able to do. People called out 'push' and begged her to try. Her parents were there, looking more scared than ever before. This wasn't right, this wasn't going to happen. The damn thing would just have to stay in there because she wouldn't give another push.

All she could do was scream.

Her body throbbed.

It felt like she was being torn from her legs up. It was the most excruciating pain. Regular intervals of instinct forced her to push. Her body worked, her mind could do no more then make her scream.

The baby must have had a huge head, like its father no doubt.

She hated him more now than ever. He'd done this to her. He'd done it and caused it and she was pushing it all out. He was probably off on a beach somewhere, drinking tropical punches, getting fanned and having virgins feed him peeled grapes. She felt fat and unattractive.

She cursed him. She screamed how it was all his fault. Told the doctors and staff how much she hated him. Her parents tried to divulge his identity. She could only scream the terrible curses she'd inflict on him the moment she could stand.

She thought she was going to die from the pain.

Twelve hours had already gone by. They never told her it'd take this long.

She screamed. Sweat dripped. Her hair clung to her face and neck. There was no energy left. Nobody seemed to care.

"Final push now, it's almost over!" the doctor cried.

Shut up and get this thing out of me!

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

No, she didn't want to touch it.

No, she didn't want to choose a name.

No, she would not practice feeding it!

Nobody could understand why. Her mother had tears in her eyes. "Why won't you at least hold it, darling?" she asked. "What's wrong?"

Too much was wrong, and she wouldn't touch it.

All it did was cry. Cry for her, and she wouldn't let it near her. For a moment she fancied she hated it. She was so very wrong.

They wore her down eventually, told her it needed affection from her. Such a lonely soul it must have been for those days.

As soon as it was in her arms, she couldn't let it go. It was so tiny and so beautiful. It had come from her and she had made it. She had given it life.

It needed her.

The most beautiful little boy she'd ever seen. White-blond hair and pale eyes. Most newborn babies had pale eyes. His seemed so very special. She knew she'd never be able to let him go.

Jack was his name from that day on.

His life was in her hands; he needed her and she'd always protect him, always be there for him.

She felt like she'd never loved before this day, never cared for a single soul as much as she cared for his pinky toe alone. The depths of her compassion and soul suddenly turned from a well to an ocean.

Her son meant the world to her.

His very existence was a conflict to her. If he had not destroyed her life, Jack never would have put it back together.

Everything racked her brain and she knew that she loved Jack more than anything. If she could go back in time, she believed she couldn't possibly do anything different for fear that her heart would break from losing her baby boy.

She still vowed that Jack would never know his father.