[He lets out a sound somewhere between a sigh and a mirthless huff of a laugh, slouching. His heart may be the biggest target on him, but he knows who he is, what he is, and even love can never defang and declaw him. He'll always have his edges, cutting Ed on them too easily, accidentally and willingly.]
No; he won't. Kill me. Because Ed, of all people, should know by now that I don't go down easily. I am not the milquetoast, pathetic shell of a man I was after suffering weeks of Hugo Strange's therapy. [The word twists his lips into a snarl, nearly spat out like a hot piece of food.] A man who even Ed turned away out of sheer embarrassment when he could still count his murders on one hand and have fingers to spare.
[Oswald remembers everything he wishes he couldn't. The leathers straps pulling tight around his neck and wrists and the wired headset sliding over his head, his eyes. Lying there, shaking, his breath coming short and fast through the gag clamped between his teeth, until someone teased the dial of the machine up a notch or five and pain ripped through him for hours or minutes until he broke, his face wet with drool and snot and tears.
He wonders if Ed has been in that chair. If they had tortured him so badly, sometimes, that he pissed himself, too.
He looks up after a minute, solemn and determined. His eye shimmers with emotion.]
...I do know my way around a knife. [His Adam's apple bobs.] And should it ever come to that, I promise him, without a shadow of a doubt, that I will put it through his heart first.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2019-12-11 06:32 am (UTC)No; he won't. Kill me. Because Ed, of all people, should know by now that I don't go down easily. I am not the milquetoast, pathetic shell of a man I was after suffering weeks of Hugo Strange's therapy. [The word twists his lips into a snarl, nearly spat out like a hot piece of food.] A man who even Ed turned away out of sheer embarrassment when he could still count his murders on one hand and have fingers to spare.
[Oswald remembers everything he wishes he couldn't. The leathers straps pulling tight around his neck and wrists and the wired headset sliding over his head, his eyes. Lying there, shaking, his breath coming short and fast through the gag clamped between his teeth, until someone teased the dial of the machine up a notch or five and pain ripped through him for hours or minutes until he broke, his face wet with drool and snot and tears.
He wonders if Ed has been in that chair. If they had tortured him so badly, sometimes, that he pissed himself, too.
He looks up after a minute, solemn and determined. His eye shimmers with emotion.]
...I do know my way around a knife. [His Adam's apple bobs.] And should it ever come to that, I promise him, without a shadow of a doubt, that I will put it through his heart first.