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Witness of My Crime	By : CardDragonBall Category: Weiß Kreuz > General Views: 2298 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Weiß Kreuz, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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So this was not written by Me, Card, it was written by the ever so very fucking unbelievably wonderful Casey. She did this as Omi's reaction to what happened in "Fun to Watch" and I figured it was so very relevant and thus would post it with the timeline. Yay! So read it and love it.

Title: Don't You Think I Feel It (Card has all her fics associated with GnR songs. Laila and I are keeping the trend)

Fandom: Weiss Kreuz

Characters: Omi and the unfortunate Kritiker doctor who has to deal with him.

Rating: R for references to violence and rape, and of course gratuitous swearing.

Warnings: If you've taken a moment to read the other fic it should be glaringly obvious... post-rape trauma. This is really not my usual fare. Did my best to keep it realistic. And hey, I wrote something!

Supporting Lyrics:

Why do you look at me when you hate me

Why should I look at you when you

make me hate you too

I sense a smell of retribution in the air

I don't even understand why the fuck

you even care

And I don't need your jealousy yeah

Why drag me down in your misery

And when you stare don't you think I feel it

But I'm gonna deal it back to you in spades

Cold.

It was the first thought that had worked it's way through Omi's head in a while, might have been an hour by then, might have been a year. Cold. He lifted his head up from where it had been resting on his knees and blinked in the darkness, focusing on the pool of lamplight cut off at the mouth of the alley. The image doubled and stung his eyes, forcing them closed again.

How did I get here? What am I doing?

Resting. Felt like total and utter shit, a deep throb in his head starting to pound at the backs of his eyes. Hands hurt, knees hurt, felt like he'd thrown himself at a brick wall. Or been thrown. Stomach in knots, something sticky on his shirt and face...

Can't stop me, can you? Hate it. Hate every fucking second of it. But you don't want me to stop.

Fucker. Going to kill him. Going to fucking rip him to---

Omi tripped midway in surging to his feet and dropped back to his knees, vertigo hitting him like a fist in his stomach, which promptly emptied itself on the asphalt. He stayed there shaking with one hand on the brick wall for a few minutes, waiting for the spasms to pass, waiting for his head to clear. That one tiny fragment of himself that might still be pure and innocent hoping that the last two hours might disappear, little more than a waking dream. Nightmare. Whatever. There was a tragic millisecond where he wished he had a mother to cry for, and after that his higher instincts kicked in. The ones designed to keep himself from breaking down even this far.

Dizziness. Nausea. Blurred vision, impaired memory. Splitting fucking headache. Wasn't a real concussion, but you wouldn't know from the feel of it. Doctor. No hospitals, they'd ask too many questions, about the blood and the bruises and the stains on his shirt---the clinic at Kritiker. Long drive there... no, can't take the moped. Not in this condition. But there was a jacket in the trunk he could wear, strip off this nasty shirt and leave it behind. Less evidence, less questions.

Shuriken.

Omi leaned heavily on the wall and gradually pulled himself up, pausing when his head spun until he could take a few steps, using the wall as a crutch, mind readily supplying him with the precise location of his spent weapons, recorded earlier and played back with staggering detail. One at the mouth of the alley where bastard must've dodged, I don't fucking miss he'd thrown it, one dropped on the ground further in where that motherfucker took it he'd lost it.

It took a while, just to walk that far, took a while to bend down slowly and pick up the little knife, then stand back up, walk back towards the street and the stinging lights. Didn't want to go out there, have to look down at himself in the fluorescent glare. Saw it first when he was kneeling for the second shuriken, saw his hand reaching out, skin ripped off the knuckles and bleeding.

"Good instincts," Schuldig snapped. Crouched next to Omi, leaning against his back, curled his hands in his hair--still sweaty--and wrenched his head back again. "Fucking's a lot easier this way. Remember that if you're ever to drug your idol into your bed."

He stared at the torn flesh in fascination, watched it stretch and contract as his fingers wrapped around the knife. Kept watching during the slow process of standing up, felt the sting as he pushed the weapon back into the sheath against his hipbone. Lot of blood there, on his other hand, on his palms, too going into shock, start fucking walking NOW and elbows. Might not have, if he'd worn long sleeves tonight.

He started walking. Had to move slow, wrap his arms around his chest to hide the stains and his injured hands, keep his head down and walk close to the buildings on the inside of the sidewalk and no one would look twice. No one would notice. Ken might notice, if he were here.

Ken.

Ken in his room with a migraine for two days. Ken covering as much of his skin as humanly possible with fabric. Ken refusing to talk to him, never looking him in the eye... Should have known. Should have seen it sooner---too wrapped up in himself.

And now, Omi thought, mentally tittering in an unhealthy manner, that will be my life, too.

Moped. Train. Doctor. Don't think so much, won't do you any good.

His bike was parked at an angle near the club's overfilled motorcycle parking, leaning haphazardly against a cement post. He had to stare at the jumble of colors for a few minutes before the image cleared enough that he could pick it out from everything else. The streetlights were too bright, the flash of neon from every window and over every door disorienting, the few people passing him causing his attention to waver and his arms to tighten around himself.

Huddled while he fumbled with the keys, didn't need anyone spotting his hands, now, and with the lights like this they were sure to notice the bruise on his face. Another one on his collarbone, he noted now. Tightening skin over the scratches on his lower back, down to his ass. Gonna kill that bastard. Yanked the denim jacket out of the trunk and slammed it shut.

This wasn't exactly the best part of town to leave his bike in overnight, but he wasn't going to risk riding it. If it was gone in the morning, then... it was gone.

Just like everything else, apparently.

Omi's concentration faded in and out. He thought he was walking in the cold one minute, then came around out of his thoughts to find his cheek pressed against a subway window. Standing. Sitting. Walking some more. Never sure just where, entirely, and had to trust that disciplined part of his mind, the part that was Bombay, to keep him moving and make sure he got to the right destination.

He decided he didn't like lights anymore. Didn't like the glare of reflections or the sound of cell phones ringing. Didn't like hearing or watching so many people going about their lives with their normal worries and their normal problems and their normal complaints and their normal happiness. They didn't know what it sounded like when you slit someone's throat open, and how it differed depending on the weapon used. Didn't know how to wash dried brain matter off a t-shirt. Would never experience the moment when you watched as someone's eyes went dead.

There'd been some hope, he'd thought at one time. Maybe a tiny, sparkling glimmer of it. Not for his soul or his future but maybe for a few moments, here and there. A date cut short or a kiss from a pretty girl or a brotherly moment around a game console or maybe just purple eyes looking at him with something other than hate or apathy.

Because Aya isn't ever going to want you. Wouldn't have wanted you before... Will want you less when I'm done.

He'd never go out to a club again. Never let a stranger touch him again, maybe not anyone. Never look Aya in the eyes again.

And he'd never forget. Hated that the most, probably; ten years of childhood still forgotten aside from a few small fragments, and *this* is what he had to remember.

Omi blinked at the reflection of himself in the mirror, green tinted in the light of the subway bathroom, water dripping off his chin and the remains of Schuldig's blood and spittle and the come he spat in your face white residue swirling down the drain. Saw himself framed in silver with a backdrop of yellow and graffiti and accented by a purpling bruise on his temple. Wondered why his eyes looked like Ouka's in that heart-bleeding instant her life had flown away from her.

Stop looking. Stop now, you need to walk. Just a little further.

The side entrance to Kritiker, the one that dipped down below street level and boasted a small, nondescript door with a frosted glass window, was always open. There were heavy, barricaded double doors further in that prevented access to the rest of the building, fortified concrete surrounding the accessible area to preserve the integrity of the building's foundation in the event of a bomb or enemy intrusion. Kritiker offered their agents that much, even if it put the few people who staffed that area in subsequent, and often immediate, danger.

Stairs were still difficult for Omi to manage, even as his head grew progressively clearer; he had to haul himself down along the railing, nearly tripping over the bottom step and all but stumbling through the door. White tile and walls, harsh fluorescent lights and that buzz of electricity. Like a hammer to his head.

He very nearly fell on his knees again and coughed up bile, seems how there was nothing else left in his stomach to vomit out.

"You didn't have a mission tonight."

The voice was gratifyingly soft. Omi didn't look up to see which of the doctors was manning the clinic on this particular night, just accepted the blanket that appeared in his hands and pulled it over his head. "Dim the lights." His own voice sounded hoarse and the echo in his throat made his ears ring. "And get me some clean clothes."

He stripped off the shirt first. Nice shirt, dark and clingy and perfect for the clubs. Completely ruined now; even washed he'd never so much as touch it again. Kicked his shoes off next and yanked off his pants, underwear. Wadded up the whole mess and stuffed it into the clinic's biohazard bin. Almost threw the jacket in, too, but figured that was salvageable. Tugged the blanket tight around himself and sat on the exam table wishing he could take a shower. Maybe bleach his skin.

The doctor in question was young, fresh out of med school and working late hours because it was better than taking hospital shifts. Omi couldn't quite remember his name, and Kritiker wasn't exactly a nametag-wearing sort of institution. He dimmed the lights per Omi's request but left the fresh clothes hanging over the back of a desk chair.

"Concussion?"

"Yes." Omi winced at the look the man was giving him, all spectacles and concern. "Some abrasions and bruising. Nothing internal."

Pen light in his eyes, pain shooting through his head but he was expecting that. Not the first time. The doctor handed him an ice pack, still with that look. "What happened?"

"Need to know." Omi held the pack to the side of his head with one hand, watched the man examine the other with a sharp look.

The doctor wisely remained focused on his saline rinse, carefully cleaning the scrapes. "If you expect me to treat you accurately, then I do."

"It's none of your fucking business, sensei." Omi was getting uncharacteristically snappish. Using that 'I outrank you so shut the hell up' tone. Hadn't done that in years, since training. Long before this guy started working here. "This visit is under file. Talk about it and I have all rights to kill you for violating confidentiality."

The doctor was blessedly silent for a while, bandaging Omi's hands before examining the bruises on his face and chest. He grit his teeth at the thought of having to have those scratches on his ass tended to as well, which he probably should as they were starting to sting. Although to be fair the doctor already seemed to have a good idea of just what had happened to him; it was fairly obvious, by now. Purple fingerprints on his wrists. That dead look he'd seen in the subway bathroom.

Still wasn't going to go soft on him, though. No one could know. Not Manx or Persia, especially. The rest of Weiss would notice, sooner or later, but they would probably have the good sense to keep their mouths shut. This damn doctor just had it in his head, somehow, to fix Omi.

No chance of that.

Yohji would be angry, he thought. The righteous indignation of a brother whose younger sibling was picked on by the school bully. He'd pace, back and forth in the basement with his palms itching, fisting, waiting to box someone's ears. Might want to go out and try it but if he knew who the perpetrator was he'd be smart enough to punch the walls instead.

Ken... Ken would hurt, like it had happened to him (and if his behavior was any indication, it already had). Ken would agonize for days, drowning himself in guilt for not knowing, not being there to stop it. He'd lock himself in the kitchen and make all of Omi's favorite food, still spitting at himself inside for such a pathetic attempt to make up for his absence in the one moment his teammate needed him most. Ken would never forgive himself.

Aya--

"You need to tell someone." The doctor cut through his thoughts neatly, jerking Omi's attention to him. "That you're concussed. You know the drill, if the symptoms persist or worsen go straight to the hospital, etc. In the meantime take it easy." He lifted Omi's hand, the one holding the icepack he'd forgotten about, and pressed it back against his face. "I think you should tell someone about the other part, too, but apparently you don't want to listen to anything I have to say on that subject."

"No."

"Kritiker employs therapists, too."

"No."

The doctor finally backed off, decidedly unhappy but Omi was determined not to cooperate on this topic. He didn't even want to discuss it in the abstract. Would rather never think about it again but you shouldn't forget, or you won't be mad enough to go back and kill that motherfucker...

"Is there anything else?"

Omi's stomach turned over; he repressed the bile in his throat, yet again, turned himself face down on the exam table and tugged the blanket up just enough. Stared at the white tiled floor in fixation. And now... maybe it was the shame and embarrassment. Maybe the shock was wearing off. He felt something like tears prickling at the backs of his eyes and bit his lip to hold them off.

He ruined me. I'm going to kill him.

[End... maybe.]
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Witness of My Crime