There was an urgency to her stumbling, as she tripped down the alley. Her heart beat in her ribcage, pounding against her lungs, and her breath came in short gasps.
He was the picture of calm. Inside he was just as worked up as she, but you would never know it to look at him. His steps echoed succinctly off the brick walls surrounding them on all sides as he followed her panicked fumbling.
She screamed out for help, and in the same moment knew it was futile. There was nobody around. He had cornered her in an abandoned section of the town. She was going to die.
Her eyes were wild as she turned around, back against a wall. Her fear and anxiety permeated the air and it sent a thrill up his spine. He was close. He would have her.
He closed in and her body acted before her mind had a chance to. She threw herself at him, tackling him around the waist and went down with him, kicking and scratching.
He'd never had anyone FIGHT BACK before. It was so surprising and off putting that he found himself on the dirty gravely ground with a small pile of spitting and hitting GIRL in his lap. He threw his arms over his face and curled into a ball, protecting his underbelly and lay still as he listened to her clopping feet grow quieter with distance.
She had gotten away. She could not stop running. She lost her shoes somewhere along they way. They were no good for the speed, anyway. She ran until her lungs burned with the effort, and still she ran.
He lay on the ground, staring up at the dimming sky, a thing only barely visible between the tops of the buildings. His breathing was no longer calm, his fists held tight to control the shaking. He really thought he'd had her. He was wrong. He got up jerkily, knowing he had to continue the fight. There was an urgency to his steps, as he pointed himself home.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Monday, October 17, 2011
prompt: tache; buckled; galactico; reserved
They had sex once.
She had been yelling at him, about something he couldn't even remember. She was angry with him for ignoring her for so long. She wanted him to listen to her and pay attention to her. She was there to help him, and all he cared about was getting his fix. He lived and struggled to breath through every waking minute just to get that one moment of true satisfaction, and the more he didn't get it the less in this world he seemed.
She had been stomping her foot, and had tears frustration oozing out of her pores when suddenly he put his hand to her throat and shoved her hard against the wall. Her shrill complaints came to an immediate end and she stared at him with wide eyes, wary and reserved. The pressure squeezed at her pulse point and she was still; she knew she was in a dangerous situation.
And she liked it.
He leaned in closer to her, smelling the fear on her skin, and shivered. This little tache of his may be the end of their relationship. The promise of what he could do to her body exhilarated him, and once again he was so close to getting what he wanted. He stared into her eyes and she could see the raw hunger in them. Their desires were so minimally incompatible, but finally she had what she wanted-- All of his attention was on her. He rested his face in the crook of her shoulder, never once loosening his grip on her throat. He breathed in deeply and her knees buckled, forcing more pressure on her neck. She trembled in his grasp and she WANTED.
He wanted to rip her skin apart, wanted to dig his fingers into her flesh and pull her apart. To have this willing body at the end of his fingertips made his blood sing and he pressed his body against hers. His grip tightened and she gasped, hands flying up to hold limply to his wrists. She did not push away, but she struggled for breath against his body. It was impossible to hold back the soft whimpers that rushed out under his treatment of her body. It was beyond terrifying to be at the mercy of this glactico; she knew he would never hesitate to kill her and the danger excited her.
As had happened many times before, He was unable to bring himself to do more than loom threateningly above her. He wanted to rip her apart and play in her blood, but once again it felt wrong. Not her, not this body. He growled in frustration and shook in fury and slammed her against the wall once. He WANTED and he NEEDED and he HATED and he wanted to hurt her. He kicked her legs apart, and she was held up by his fingers around her throat alone. She trembled and shook as his nails dug into her flesh and he bit into her shoulder as his free hand undid the tie of her soft pajama bottoms. He bit her hard as he ripped away her clothing and she could feel herself crying but it was more of frustration and need than sadness. Her senses were heightened by the danger, her stomach quivered as she tried to breath while dealing with the onslaught of sensation. Her leg was lifted and he shoved into her and he squeezed her throat and he drove into her over and over again.
She never reached completion. Her head swam from the lack of oxygen reaching her brain, and her nerves tingled with every touch. He finally removed his hand from her throat, and the air came rushing back in, overwhelming her and threatening to maker her pass out. Pulling her up by her thighs for better access, he replaced his fingers with his mouth tearing at the column of flesh. He wanted to rip her throat out but he couldn't. Eventually his motions stuttered and stilled and he pulled out of her quaking body.
He dropped her; she hit her head on the wall and slumped down to crouch half-naked on the floor. They stared at each other for a few moments, his gaze blank and hers full of emotion. She felt dirty and used and her nerves still thrummed, heart still beat fast. She could still feel him inside of her and the physical evidence of his presence was quickly cooling and sliding down her thigh. He turned, straightening his clothes, and walked away from her and out of the house. The door slamming shut felt like it closed over her lungs in a very physical way, and she was left alone to deal with the aftermath of his impulse and spontaneity.
She had been yelling at him, about something he couldn't even remember. She was angry with him for ignoring her for so long. She wanted him to listen to her and pay attention to her. She was there to help him, and all he cared about was getting his fix. He lived and struggled to breath through every waking minute just to get that one moment of true satisfaction, and the more he didn't get it the less in this world he seemed.
She had been stomping her foot, and had tears frustration oozing out of her pores when suddenly he put his hand to her throat and shoved her hard against the wall. Her shrill complaints came to an immediate end and she stared at him with wide eyes, wary and reserved. The pressure squeezed at her pulse point and she was still; she knew she was in a dangerous situation.
And she liked it.
He leaned in closer to her, smelling the fear on her skin, and shivered. This little tache of his may be the end of their relationship. The promise of what he could do to her body exhilarated him, and once again he was so close to getting what he wanted. He stared into her eyes and she could see the raw hunger in them. Their desires were so minimally incompatible, but finally she had what she wanted-- All of his attention was on her. He rested his face in the crook of her shoulder, never once loosening his grip on her throat. He breathed in deeply and her knees buckled, forcing more pressure on her neck. She trembled in his grasp and she WANTED.
He wanted to rip her skin apart, wanted to dig his fingers into her flesh and pull her apart. To have this willing body at the end of his fingertips made his blood sing and he pressed his body against hers. His grip tightened and she gasped, hands flying up to hold limply to his wrists. She did not push away, but she struggled for breath against his body. It was impossible to hold back the soft whimpers that rushed out under his treatment of her body. It was beyond terrifying to be at the mercy of this glactico; she knew he would never hesitate to kill her and the danger excited her.
As had happened many times before, He was unable to bring himself to do more than loom threateningly above her. He wanted to rip her apart and play in her blood, but once again it felt wrong. Not her, not this body. He growled in frustration and shook in fury and slammed her against the wall once. He WANTED and he NEEDED and he HATED and he wanted to hurt her. He kicked her legs apart, and she was held up by his fingers around her throat alone. She trembled and shook as his nails dug into her flesh and he bit into her shoulder as his free hand undid the tie of her soft pajama bottoms. He bit her hard as he ripped away her clothing and she could feel herself crying but it was more of frustration and need than sadness. Her senses were heightened by the danger, her stomach quivered as she tried to breath while dealing with the onslaught of sensation. Her leg was lifted and he shoved into her and he squeezed her throat and he drove into her over and over again.
She never reached completion. Her head swam from the lack of oxygen reaching her brain, and her nerves tingled with every touch. He finally removed his hand from her throat, and the air came rushing back in, overwhelming her and threatening to maker her pass out. Pulling her up by her thighs for better access, he replaced his fingers with his mouth tearing at the column of flesh. He wanted to rip her throat out but he couldn't. Eventually his motions stuttered and stilled and he pulled out of her quaking body.
He dropped her; she hit her head on the wall and slumped down to crouch half-naked on the floor. They stared at each other for a few moments, his gaze blank and hers full of emotion. She felt dirty and used and her nerves still thrummed, heart still beat fast. She could still feel him inside of her and the physical evidence of his presence was quickly cooling and sliding down her thigh. He turned, straightening his clothes, and walked away from her and out of the house. The door slamming shut felt like it closed over her lungs in a very physical way, and she was left alone to deal with the aftermath of his impulse and spontaneity.
Friday, October 14, 2011
Satisfaction
Sometimes I get these feelings. No, 'feelings' isn't the right word... urge? That's not too strong, is it?
Sometimes I get these urges. I get the feeling nobody else really feels this way; I'm kind of alone in that respect... I mean, I like to think that I'm not some angsty little teenager, but I'm realizing more and more that nobody else hears these voices. These whispering little needles twisting themselves into my skin. There are never words, just pictures; a flash of a new scene overlaying on the one in front of me.
I'll be with my friends, I'll hug someone around their neck, my hand will travel across their throat from behind and suddenly BAM there's a knife in my hand, and there's blood running down their front. My muscles twitch with want, my fingers curl reflexively into claws, wanting to burrow into their flesh. I have to hold myself very still but the images burn themselves into my mind and I WANT. A few deep breaths let the impulse pass, but the desire is still there, thrumming through my veins.
Once I got hard think about these things. I was pressed up against a girl I hang out with at school... She thought it was for her. She was sort of right. It ended in an awkward fumbling and groping at her house after classes that day. It was my first time. I'll never understand all of that talk about sex being "precious" and it being special to give it away to someone; it was nothing but uncomfortable. The feelings would never compare to the ones I'd get just thinking about pushing my fingers through that crimson liquid as it flowed from the source. THAT was satisfaction.
Sometimes I get these urges. I get the feeling nobody else really feels this way; I'm kind of alone in that respect... I mean, I like to think that I'm not some angsty little teenager, but I'm realizing more and more that nobody else hears these voices. These whispering little needles twisting themselves into my skin. There are never words, just pictures; a flash of a new scene overlaying on the one in front of me.
I'll be with my friends, I'll hug someone around their neck, my hand will travel across their throat from behind and suddenly BAM there's a knife in my hand, and there's blood running down their front. My muscles twitch with want, my fingers curl reflexively into claws, wanting to burrow into their flesh. I have to hold myself very still but the images burn themselves into my mind and I WANT. A few deep breaths let the impulse pass, but the desire is still there, thrumming through my veins.
Once I got hard think about these things. I was pressed up against a girl I hang out with at school... She thought it was for her. She was sort of right. It ended in an awkward fumbling and groping at her house after classes that day. It was my first time. I'll never understand all of that talk about sex being "precious" and it being special to give it away to someone; it was nothing but uncomfortable. The feelings would never compare to the ones I'd get just thinking about pushing my fingers through that crimson liquid as it flowed from the source. THAT was satisfaction.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
prompt: oscillation
Too many people crowded together in the small room. They bumped into each other, clamouring to reach the front, oblivious to the elbows jabbing into their ribs. Everyone jostled people out of their way only to have a new body appear in front of them. Each person was blind to the identity of their neighbours, set intently on their goal of reaching the small door on the far wall. The only relief from the sweat and tacky heat of a stranger's skin was a small oscillating fan sitting in the corner. Nobody took notice, only pushed hard to get to their goal. The small fan's whirring and clacking echoed off the ceiling and bare walls, overpowered only by the shuffling of feet and the small sound of skin on skin.
Sunday, September 25, 2011
prompt: intemperate
She raked her nails down his sides, laughing wildly and tossing her hair back over her shoulders. She sat back on her heels, surveying her prey; drinking in the sight of him. His wide and frightened eyes begged her silently, pleading for her mercy, but there was no having it. She was insatiable. Her intemperate spirit was pulling the life out of him, one poke at a time, one pinch at a time, one agonizing drag of steel at a time. He struggled against his bonds for as long as he could, but eventually he would succumb to her ministrations and his eyes would close. Her fiery thirst would then be quenched, if only for a moment.
Friday, September 23, 2011
prompt: juxtaposition
It wasn't her personality, though it should have been. It wasn't the mean way her sharp little mouth turned up into a sneer as she made some comment dripping in sarcasm to her so-called friends. She was a nasty little girl. What drew me to her was not all of the things she exuded that I hated. It would have made more sense if I had a concrete and justifiable reason for following her that night as she left the bar she clearly was too young to enter. If I could tell the world that I was making it a better place by taking her out of it, maybe Cara wouldn't look at me under her lashes like I know she will when I tell her about this incident. She would try not to let on that I was beginning to scare her, but I know her well enough by now. She wants there to be meaning behind what I do, and she I both know that that will simply never be the case.
This is why I know that I will disappoint her when I come home tonight, splashed in my cologne-of-the-week, dripping red and finally able to breath again. She will ask me what made me choose this one -- she always asks. I will look her in the eye and I will tell her.
It wasn't her foul temper or the disgusting way she sashayed down that alley, on display for all. It wasn't at all complex or difficult to understand. I looked at her, sitting in that bar-stool, holding court and lording over the other patrons, and knew instantly that she would be next. It all came down to her dress...It was the red satin strap clinging to her shoulder; the juxtaposition of colour against her alabaster skin.
This is why I know that I will disappoint her when I come home tonight, splashed in my cologne-of-the-week, dripping red and finally able to breath again. She will ask me what made me choose this one -- she always asks. I will look her in the eye and I will tell her.
It wasn't her foul temper or the disgusting way she sashayed down that alley, on display for all. It wasn't at all complex or difficult to understand. I looked at her, sitting in that bar-stool, holding court and lording over the other patrons, and knew instantly that she would be next. It all came down to her dress...It was the red satin strap clinging to her shoulder; the juxtaposition of colour against her alabaster skin.
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Look
He looked at me the way he looks at her.
His eyes soft and downcast, a certain sadness tinging the corners; he was a man taking in the last glass of water he knew he'd never get.
my head tilted . tines untangling the coils of pink and green . neck bent . an attractively unnatural angle
My eyes locked with his, I don't think he saw me. All others in the room were forgotten in the background.
He wore the same expression as when he followed her with his gaze across a room, instead following my fingers guiding the brush through my hair.
I pretended not to notice, gave him what little dignity he had left.
closed my eyes . kept talking . kept brushing . a mockery of decorum
I know he saw me. He knows I saw him. But still he looked.
I looked up once more, testing my memory. Perhaps the conjuring of a vain imagination?
His eyes still there. Did he not care if I noticed?
His stare was too focused, too aware. He was not lost in though, he was conscious of every detail he took in.
pause in my strokes . sudden blush . babbling random conversation . attempt at distraction
The smalls hairs on the back of my neck prickled with the invading caresses his eyes raked over my form.
My hair now in order, I straighten and drop my brush. I pick up the conversation, forcing him to participate.
The moment is broken. He returns to himself, joking and deflecting. He does not acknowledge and neither do I.
His actions seem forced and overly-secure. I know his pain. He is alone and wanting and it hurts.
I know this because I look at him the way he looks at her.
His eyes soft and downcast, a certain sadness tinging the corners; he was a man taking in the last glass of water he knew he'd never get.
my head tilted . tines untangling the coils of pink and green . neck bent . an attractively unnatural angle
My eyes locked with his, I don't think he saw me. All others in the room were forgotten in the background.
He wore the same expression as when he followed her with his gaze across a room, instead following my fingers guiding the brush through my hair.
I pretended not to notice, gave him what little dignity he had left.
closed my eyes . kept talking . kept brushing . a mockery of decorum
I know he saw me. He knows I saw him. But still he looked.
I looked up once more, testing my memory. Perhaps the conjuring of a vain imagination?
His eyes still there. Did he not care if I noticed?
His stare was too focused, too aware. He was not lost in though, he was conscious of every detail he took in.
pause in my strokes . sudden blush . babbling random conversation . attempt at distraction
The smalls hairs on the back of my neck prickled with the invading caresses his eyes raked over my form.
My hair now in order, I straighten and drop my brush. I pick up the conversation, forcing him to participate.
The moment is broken. He returns to himself, joking and deflecting. He does not acknowledge and neither do I.
His actions seem forced and overly-secure. I know his pain. He is alone and wanting and it hurts.
I know this because I look at him the way he looks at her.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
An apology
I'm sorry...
I'm sorry that I'm so selfish when it comes to you.
I'm sorry that I push you so far.
I'm sorry that I want so much from you.
I'm sorry that I feel like it's not a lot.
I'm sorry that I want you to recognize how well I behave and reward me for it.
I'm sorry I get angry when you don't.
I'm sorry that when I think of what you gave her, I hate you both.
I'm sorry that when you tell me you're thinking of leaving him that I secretly wish you would.
I'm sorry I can't be as noble and accommodating as I pretend to be.
I'm sorry I can't be a better friend.
I'm sorry that I taunt you and tease you and make you want to give me more.
I'm sorry that I almost take from you.
I'm sorry that I want you so. damn. much.
I'm sorry
I'm sorry that I'm so selfish when it comes to you.
I'm sorry that I push you so far.
I'm sorry that I want so much from you.
I'm sorry that I feel like it's not a lot.
I'm sorry that I want you to recognize how well I behave and reward me for it.
I'm sorry I get angry when you don't.
I'm sorry that when I think of what you gave her, I hate you both.
I'm sorry that when you tell me you're thinking of leaving him that I secretly wish you would.
I'm sorry I can't be as noble and accommodating as I pretend to be.
I'm sorry I can't be a better friend.
I'm sorry that I taunt you and tease you and make you want to give me more.
I'm sorry that I almost take from you.
I'm sorry that I want you so. damn. much.
I'm sorry
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Insomnia
Sleepless nights were the worst.
Lying awake staring at the ceiling, thoughts creeping in over the walls of his mind unbidden and entirely against his will.
It was these quiet and dark times when his inner monologue scared him.
During waking hours, within the safety of sunlight and society's eye, the voices were kept at bay. They never even scratched at the walls asking to be let in. It was easy to forget their seeking and snarling, their begging and grumbling. Life was too full, to loud... They were simply too quiet to be heard over the din of everyday living.
But at times like these, when the world was asleep and he was not... It was as if the voices knew that it was their turn to play, their turn to be heard.
They would whisper and scratch, knock insistently and repeatedly, waiting to be acknowledged. The more he ignored them the more desperate they became.
Maybe that was why they were so loud right now... He'd spent years trying to shut them out, over time the effort growing more and more deliberate. He couldn't remember a time they weren't there, but he could certainly remember a time he didn't notice them. He missed his youth and naivite...
Now it was all he could do not to crack under the pressure... The voices painted vivid pictures, crimson stained and coloured by animal abandon... They would get clearer and more defined, and he would find it hard to breath for the pure need they would elicit in his gut. He would be convinced that he could just give in, do what they asked of him, and that the incessant hum, the needling high-pitched whine, would just STOP and he'd be able to breath again.
...
He would eventually fall asleep, nails digging into his palm to distract from the physical pain of resisting, and he would be blessed with a thick dream-free slumber. He would wake up to face a new day and the sunshine would keep the ravenous voices at bay for another twelve hours or so, and he would pretend to be just another normal boy with normal problems and normal feelings, and he would do such a good job pretending that he'd even convince himself,
Until the next sleepless night, when the voices would rouse from their restless waiting, hackles raised and ready to fight the good fight once again...
Lying awake staring at the ceiling, thoughts creeping in over the walls of his mind unbidden and entirely against his will.
It was these quiet and dark times when his inner monologue scared him.
During waking hours, within the safety of sunlight and society's eye, the voices were kept at bay. They never even scratched at the walls asking to be let in. It was easy to forget their seeking and snarling, their begging and grumbling. Life was too full, to loud... They were simply too quiet to be heard over the din of everyday living.
But at times like these, when the world was asleep and he was not... It was as if the voices knew that it was their turn to play, their turn to be heard.
They would whisper and scratch, knock insistently and repeatedly, waiting to be acknowledged. The more he ignored them the more desperate they became.
Maybe that was why they were so loud right now... He'd spent years trying to shut them out, over time the effort growing more and more deliberate. He couldn't remember a time they weren't there, but he could certainly remember a time he didn't notice them. He missed his youth and naivite...
Now it was all he could do not to crack under the pressure... The voices painted vivid pictures, crimson stained and coloured by animal abandon... They would get clearer and more defined, and he would find it hard to breath for the pure need they would elicit in his gut. He would be convinced that he could just give in, do what they asked of him, and that the incessant hum, the needling high-pitched whine, would just STOP and he'd be able to breath again.
...
He would eventually fall asleep, nails digging into his palm to distract from the physical pain of resisting, and he would be blessed with a thick dream-free slumber. He would wake up to face a new day and the sunshine would keep the ravenous voices at bay for another twelve hours or so, and he would pretend to be just another normal boy with normal problems and normal feelings, and he would do such a good job pretending that he'd even convince himself,
Until the next sleepless night, when the voices would rouse from their restless waiting, hackles raised and ready to fight the good fight once again...
Friday, March 18, 2011
New Friends
She ran her hands over his shoulders, and down his biceps, resting her fingertips on his elbow. She normally refrained from touching him as much as possible, he tended to get jumpy at human contact, but he seemed so far away. She wanted to make it better. She always wanted to make it better. The fingers continued down until just a ghost of a touch flitted over a wrist and then over the back of a hand. She needed some kind of reaction from him. He'd been sitting in the same position for over an hour, and she needed to make it better...
He slowly broke from his trance as a more rational part of his brain recognized the pressure of another hand folding around his own. His eyes flicked up and to the left, taking in the open face staring imploringly at him. Tiny fingers entwined around his own and squeezed; he couldn't remember the last time anyone had tried to hold his hand. His daze slowly fell away and he became more aware of his surroundings. The muted activity of the coffee shop buzzed around them, oblivious to the little world they were creating for themselves. It was late, well past midnight, and anyone left inside was either too involved with their personal projects to notice them, or were trying not to be noticed themselves, sleeping off whatever ailed them in a corner booth. The staff were asleep on their feet; nobody needed coffee at this time of night.
She felt the intensity of his stare on her, and suddenly became nervous. She tried to pull her hand back, but his digits clamped down and would not release her. She cast about for any help she may require, but the booths around them were empty, and nobody was paying attention. The look in his eye scared her.
He recognized her. He didn't know where he knew her, but he knew he'd seen her before. The short blonde hair was new, but the expression was the same: mournful, hollow, filled with longing. And directed at him.
She saw the light don in his eyes as he dragged his gaze over her body. She felt violated. Like his eyes left a trail of used flesh in their wake as they continued on their path of discovery. It shouldn't be possible to feel this dirty from a LOOK.
She watched him. He realized why he couldn't place where he knew her. She was always in the background, following him. Watching him everywhere he went... What sort of person followed an abomination like him around? He wondered if he should be worried... Could this tiny girl ever be a threat to him? He decided he didn't care either way.
"My name is Cara..."
He stared at her. He hadn't asked, but it was nice to know.
"I wasn't trying to-"
He decided that was enough talking.
The force of his motion was enough to spin her around and knock her off her feet. She tumbled backwards into his lap and he held her tight to his torso. She was embarrassed by the shriek she had let out at the sudden movement. She found herself thankful that nobody noticed, or cared to do anything about it.
She trembled in his grasp and he liked it. He needed this fear. He leaned in and breathed in the scent on her neck. The tips of her hair tickled at his nose and he even enjoyed that. It was good to finally hold a body in his arms, in utter control of everything. She couldn't get away if she'd tried. He noticed though, that she wasn't trying.
She couldn't explain it, but she had no will to move, to try and get away. It's not that the large man's arms felt like home, or any such tripe as that. And she truly was afraid of what he could do to her. She had seen the way he'd looked at people before. When he wasn't trapped in his own world, or forced to interact with the real one, the light in his eyes as he stalked strangers on the street was a dark one.
"What do you think you're doing?"
The deep voice rumbled in the chest she rest against, and the words reverberated throughout her body. She trembled, unable to respond.
He accepted her lack of answer. He could feel her. He didn't care what she wanted from him. At the moment, his recent failure so fresh in his mind, he needed to hold onto a warm body. What he really needed was to feel the warmth seep away from said body, but he wasn't desperate enough to do anything in a public space. Not yet anyway. He reached one hand up and snaked his fingers around the girl's, Cara's, throat. On reflex, his fingers squeezed down. He could feel her try to swallow through the pressure and it set his teeth on edge.
A small part of her knew she was safe, but that might have just been logic and wishful thinking. The coffee shop may be mostly empty, but there were still people inside. Surely he wouldn't do anything drastic with witnesses, distracted though they may be...
He relished in the feel of her quivering flesh beneath his fingertips. He could feel her breath coming in short, shallow gasps. He dug his fingernails into her skin, wanting to rip and drag and tear and destroy. She flinched at the new sensation, but still she remained unmoved. He wanted to push his limits. He wanted to see how much she would let him do. He pulled and stretched at the pliant body in his hands and buried his face in the juncture of her neck.
She could feel his teeth on her; not biting, just resting there. As if testing the waters before jumping in. She braced herself for it... She expected nothing less from him. She could feel the frustration coursing through his veins. She knew he needed to do it, but when it never happened she opened the eyes she hadn't realized were closed, and tried to crane her neck around to look into his face once more...
He pulled back and picked her up, placing her on her feet on the floor in front of him. She whipped around, shock and surprised staining her features. The question was on her lips but he simply rose to his feet and walked out of the shop. He could hear the door clanging behind him as he stepped out into the crisp air. He was almost amused by her antics. Feet pounded on the pavement behind him, trying to catch up to him.
"Dante!"
He stopped. He let her catch up to him. He had wanted to hurt her. He had wanted to rip her flesh apart and play in her blood and taste the sinew of her muscles. He had wanted to rip her head away from her body and drop in on the floor at his feet. He wanted to sink his hands into her cooling cavity and let the red wash away everything else. But it didn't feel right. Not with her. He let her catch up and stand beside him, bent over catching her breath.
"May I come with you?"
He gave her a brief once over. There was no reason to say no. She knew what he was. He could tell by the way she couldn't quite look at him, even though she tried. He didn't know what made him do it, but a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips and he continued walking down the sidewalk. He kept his pace slow and her footsteps echoed off the brick walls around them as she pushed to keep up with him.
He slowly broke from his trance as a more rational part of his brain recognized the pressure of another hand folding around his own. His eyes flicked up and to the left, taking in the open face staring imploringly at him. Tiny fingers entwined around his own and squeezed; he couldn't remember the last time anyone had tried to hold his hand. His daze slowly fell away and he became more aware of his surroundings. The muted activity of the coffee shop buzzed around them, oblivious to the little world they were creating for themselves. It was late, well past midnight, and anyone left inside was either too involved with their personal projects to notice them, or were trying not to be noticed themselves, sleeping off whatever ailed them in a corner booth. The staff were asleep on their feet; nobody needed coffee at this time of night.
She felt the intensity of his stare on her, and suddenly became nervous. She tried to pull her hand back, but his digits clamped down and would not release her. She cast about for any help she may require, but the booths around them were empty, and nobody was paying attention. The look in his eye scared her.
He recognized her. He didn't know where he knew her, but he knew he'd seen her before. The short blonde hair was new, but the expression was the same: mournful, hollow, filled with longing. And directed at him.
She saw the light don in his eyes as he dragged his gaze over her body. She felt violated. Like his eyes left a trail of used flesh in their wake as they continued on their path of discovery. It shouldn't be possible to feel this dirty from a LOOK.
She watched him. He realized why he couldn't place where he knew her. She was always in the background, following him. Watching him everywhere he went... What sort of person followed an abomination like him around? He wondered if he should be worried... Could this tiny girl ever be a threat to him? He decided he didn't care either way.
"My name is Cara..."
He stared at her. He hadn't asked, but it was nice to know.
"I wasn't trying to-"
He decided that was enough talking.
The force of his motion was enough to spin her around and knock her off her feet. She tumbled backwards into his lap and he held her tight to his torso. She was embarrassed by the shriek she had let out at the sudden movement. She found herself thankful that nobody noticed, or cared to do anything about it.
She trembled in his grasp and he liked it. He needed this fear. He leaned in and breathed in the scent on her neck. The tips of her hair tickled at his nose and he even enjoyed that. It was good to finally hold a body in his arms, in utter control of everything. She couldn't get away if she'd tried. He noticed though, that she wasn't trying.
She couldn't explain it, but she had no will to move, to try and get away. It's not that the large man's arms felt like home, or any such tripe as that. And she truly was afraid of what he could do to her. She had seen the way he'd looked at people before. When he wasn't trapped in his own world, or forced to interact with the real one, the light in his eyes as he stalked strangers on the street was a dark one.
"What do you think you're doing?"
The deep voice rumbled in the chest she rest against, and the words reverberated throughout her body. She trembled, unable to respond.
He accepted her lack of answer. He could feel her. He didn't care what she wanted from him. At the moment, his recent failure so fresh in his mind, he needed to hold onto a warm body. What he really needed was to feel the warmth seep away from said body, but he wasn't desperate enough to do anything in a public space. Not yet anyway. He reached one hand up and snaked his fingers around the girl's, Cara's, throat. On reflex, his fingers squeezed down. He could feel her try to swallow through the pressure and it set his teeth on edge.
A small part of her knew she was safe, but that might have just been logic and wishful thinking. The coffee shop may be mostly empty, but there were still people inside. Surely he wouldn't do anything drastic with witnesses, distracted though they may be...
He relished in the feel of her quivering flesh beneath his fingertips. He could feel her breath coming in short, shallow gasps. He dug his fingernails into her skin, wanting to rip and drag and tear and destroy. She flinched at the new sensation, but still she remained unmoved. He wanted to push his limits. He wanted to see how much she would let him do. He pulled and stretched at the pliant body in his hands and buried his face in the juncture of her neck.
She could feel his teeth on her; not biting, just resting there. As if testing the waters before jumping in. She braced herself for it... She expected nothing less from him. She could feel the frustration coursing through his veins. She knew he needed to do it, but when it never happened she opened the eyes she hadn't realized were closed, and tried to crane her neck around to look into his face once more...
He pulled back and picked her up, placing her on her feet on the floor in front of him. She whipped around, shock and surprised staining her features. The question was on her lips but he simply rose to his feet and walked out of the shop. He could hear the door clanging behind him as he stepped out into the crisp air. He was almost amused by her antics. Feet pounded on the pavement behind him, trying to catch up to him.
"Dante!"
He stopped. He let her catch up to him. He had wanted to hurt her. He had wanted to rip her flesh apart and play in her blood and taste the sinew of her muscles. He had wanted to rip her head away from her body and drop in on the floor at his feet. He wanted to sink his hands into her cooling cavity and let the red wash away everything else. But it didn't feel right. Not with her. He let her catch up and stand beside him, bent over catching her breath.
"May I come with you?"
He gave her a brief once over. There was no reason to say no. She knew what he was. He could tell by the way she couldn't quite look at him, even though she tried. He didn't know what made him do it, but a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips and he continued walking down the sidewalk. He kept his pace slow and her footsteps echoed off the brick walls around them as she pushed to keep up with him.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Desire
How many times do I have to do this?
My muscles twitch and my heart pounds...
It's hard to breathe and I can't stop thinking...
My nerves sing and my skin is consumed by a cold fire...
I just want one... One good one and everything will be okay again.
How long has it been since I got the last one? A few days? It feels like it's been years...
Just remembering how it felt makes my fingers curl into claws and bite into my palms. I was so close and I failed and now it is all I can taste. Will I ever get another chance?
The idea that I won't get it again makes me sick enough to scream...
I just wish I could shut the world off and breathe in the silence.
I just want the silence...
My muscles twitch and my heart pounds...
It's hard to breathe and I can't stop thinking...
My nerves sing and my skin is consumed by a cold fire...
I just want one... One good one and everything will be okay again.
How long has it been since I got the last one? A few days? It feels like it's been years...
Just remembering how it felt makes my fingers curl into claws and bite into my palms. I was so close and I failed and now it is all I can taste. Will I ever get another chance?
The idea that I won't get it again makes me sick enough to scream...
I just wish I could shut the world off and breathe in the silence.
I just want the silence...
Monday, February 28, 2011
Dante's Kill
In his hair, the wind played. The gusts came from the southeast, carrying with them the smell of the plum orchards too far in the distance to be seen. Dante held his hands out to his sides, letting the air move through his fingers. He closed his eyes against the breeze and breathed in deeply, letting everything wash over his senses.
At his feet the pool grew larger, redder, stickier. The high angle of the sun, obscured by clouds though it was, let the light reflect off the crimson liquid; it shone like viscous rubies scattered on the concrete. The toes of his boots bore cherry red droplets; the aftermath of a hot summer day on the last popsicle savoured before playtime was over.
Dante opened his eyes against the softening zephyr and stooped down to the draining pile of flesh. He wrapped his hand around the shiny black handle of the knife and relished in the pulse of life seeping away before tugging the blade free from the corpse with a vicious yank. The soft cloth of the shirt the boy had worn tore and lay in tattered strips across his torso. Cold glassy eyes stared into the distance.
Dante straightened, now ignoring the lifeless body and gave all of his attention to the sharp instrument in his hands. He could not tear his eyes from the serrated edge; it was magnetic, had a gravity of its own, and he wanted to be one with it. He let his fingers dance over the warm blade, still sticky from the flesh and fluid of the boy who lay in a heap at his toes. He ran the teeth across the pad of his thumb, and his nerve endings danced at the contact. The knife wanted more. It needed more... it was thirsty.
He closed his palm around the gleaming stained metal, and by reflex his fingers tightened. The knife bit into his hand and the corpse's blood mingled with his own, flowing into his veins and pumping through his heart, getting sent to his limbs and his brain... He was becoming the corpse and it invigorated him, sent a jolt of electricity across his skin.
He and his first kill would be one.
At his feet the pool grew larger, redder, stickier. The high angle of the sun, obscured by clouds though it was, let the light reflect off the crimson liquid; it shone like viscous rubies scattered on the concrete. The toes of his boots bore cherry red droplets; the aftermath of a hot summer day on the last popsicle savoured before playtime was over.
Dante opened his eyes against the softening zephyr and stooped down to the draining pile of flesh. He wrapped his hand around the shiny black handle of the knife and relished in the pulse of life seeping away before tugging the blade free from the corpse with a vicious yank. The soft cloth of the shirt the boy had worn tore and lay in tattered strips across his torso. Cold glassy eyes stared into the distance.
Dante straightened, now ignoring the lifeless body and gave all of his attention to the sharp instrument in his hands. He could not tear his eyes from the serrated edge; it was magnetic, had a gravity of its own, and he wanted to be one with it. He let his fingers dance over the warm blade, still sticky from the flesh and fluid of the boy who lay in a heap at his toes. He ran the teeth across the pad of his thumb, and his nerve endings danced at the contact. The knife wanted more. It needed more... it was thirsty.
He closed his palm around the gleaming stained metal, and by reflex his fingers tightened. The knife bit into his hand and the corpse's blood mingled with his own, flowing into his veins and pumping through his heart, getting sent to his limbs and his brain... He was becoming the corpse and it invigorated him, sent a jolt of electricity across his skin.
He and his first kill would be one.
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