Blood Wounds: A History

AFTER LUCY WAINGER

## Author's Note

This oneshot is part of The Living Dead Universe , created by Winterwhisper . The character of Goldenleaf, and the name Violetshade, belong to Winterwhisper. The Warriors Universe belongs to Erin Hunter. WARNINGS FOR ABUSIVE FRIENDSHIPS, BODY HORROR AND DEATH. I DO NOT SUPPORT OR CONDONE ANY ACTIONS IN THE FIC.

Thanks for checking out the fic, and reviews are appreciated :) Enjoy!

## Blood Wounds: A History

Let's call it feminine hysteria.  Let's call it herbal insanity.  Let's call it the way we were always vomiting and bleeding.  When we were kits, my sister drowned.  I cried behind the nursery, and Violetshade, you licked the tears off my face like a flea-ridden dog.  Your pink tongue looked like shredded flesh.  We'd be seeing a lot of that as we grew up.

As apprentices, we shed the baby fat.  Our bodies were thin and rippling, stuck in a state of half pretty.  Your eyes were too big for your skull.  It rained a lot that first greenleaf.  The droplets ran down my spine like fever chills.  You realized you had never hit someone.  I realized I had never been hit.  Each of us held a shaky challenge in our eyes.

I told you to do it.

You hit me, and I hit back much harder.  We reeled, and I asked if you wanted to eat something.  And, like you always did with me, you said yes.

I carved flowers into your chest with my claws.  You had me eat nettles.  We strangled the snake, woke the bear, ran with the wolves.  We had lions in our bloodstream, and nothing could tame them.

Remember when we kept daring each other to go one branch higher, higher, higher on that never ending sycamore?  The ground was beneath us but not beneath us, like it was submerged under water.  The branches became twigs became lines that we balanced on, one misstep between life and death.  Our heads throbbed, but we remained poised, waiting for the breeze to blow us off course.  You were my best friend, Violetshade, and I would have died right then for you.

We hated growing up, so the day before our warrior assessments, you tore open the beehive.  The insects ricocheted across our teeth, and my smile sounded like buzzing.  When the medicine cat asked about the stings, we told him it was an accident.

He shook his head and grumbled about our generation, as if he would know a single thing about being young.  He stormed out of the den and we shared his entire honey supply.  I smeared lavender and rosemary onto you like a sacrifice.  We threw up the honey into the lake that night, and started to laugh.

Our warrior vigil was shuddering breaths and cold crescent moons.  You pressed up against me, fur making needles.  We had nothing but our own body heat.  That's all we were, really.  Just restless bodies, with all of the bruises and snot that came with them.  I didn't fall asleep, but I unsheathed my claws and I made you feel raw.

In the morning, before the dawn patrol, we broke our vows with graciousness.  You thanked me for your stinging blisters and infected lakes of pus.  I thanked you for letting me pull out one of your teeth, for letting me have the control I craved.

Greencough killed half the clan, but we still spent our time chewing on too much catmint and talking to the hallucinations it gave us.  You liked this one tom from WindClan, so we snuck over there at night.  He eyed us both, but we could tell he liked me more, so we left.  It wasn't a surprise.  I had always been the prettier one.

We stumbled upon a field of lilacs, which reminded me of my sister, or maybe that was just the catmint.  Either way, I broke down and dug my claws into your shoulder.  You hauled what remained of me onto your back, and you dragged me home.

Rumor had it we were viciously in love. That was a lie. You longed for perfect romances, all heady and drugged.  Me, I wanted what I have wanted since the day I was born into the nursery, covered in gore, screaming.  I wanted flesh, and I didn't care whose it was.  You, Violetshade, at the time, were everything.  My parents, my siblings, my mate, my friend, my mentor, my apprentice, my leader, my follower, you took on every role I could imagine. I both loved you and hated you, respected you and feared you.

On the last day, you arrived by the river with a kit in your jaws.  To impress me, you said.  You gently lowered its head under the water.  For the first half of this sequence, I was smiling.  You said you wanted Rivers to be the gender of this kit.  Rivers were such calming things.  The kit thrashed and I started to laugh.  It occurred to me that I made you like this.  I did this to you.  In that first greenleaf, you never wanted to hit me, but I always wanted hit you back.

The kit wailed and I thought about how my sister must have died just like this, firm paws forcing her under the water.  You dropped the sopping kit and its bloated body rose to the surface.  A sudden rage bursted through me, and all I saw is my sister my sister my sister.

I screeched and hit you.

You do not hit back.

I hit you again, harder that time.

Blood dripped out of your nose like the honey we devoured.  You could barely stand.  You do not hit back.

I hit you again and again and again, yelling and shrieking, me on top of you, a pummel of paws.

You do not breathe.  You do not get up.  You do not hit back.

You do not live.

A few days later, Violetshade, I died too, and I went to the Dark Forest.  They said you never made it to StarClan, and I spent every night tearing apart those blackened woods to find you again.  Sometimes, I would turn the corner and hear a fragment of your laugh or a flutter of your lashes.  The she-cat I hate succeeded the tom I loved.  I succeeded no one.  We all wanted to be someone before we wasted our lives.

Whenever I looked into the river, I see you.  You, minus the scars and imperfections. Our dead souls were unmarked, and if you looked at us, there would be no wounds. No evidence, no hard proof, that you had hit me and I hit back.