"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
Tsk. Tsk. Now look what you've done. You're all alone in a very unfriendly place. But don't you look adorable covered in the blood of your fellow?
Unfortunately, four of you must go. Rules and all that. Brynmor, Sidra, Eona and Kult. I don't like your faces anymore.
Say something nice as you leave.
(and see below for more information)
As for the rest for you. I have something I really must show you. I have some lovely new guests who have taken up residence in the mansion and I know they're just dying to meet you. You see, they feed off angst, something you ponies seem to know quite a bit about. If you're lucky, they may even introduce themselves personally although they generally prefer to let their handiwork speak for them.
And such delights they are!
I've been told they can haunt you with the sins of your past and take on the images of your loved ones to torture you. Splendid! You are eager to say hello, aren't you?
Ah ha, look into the light again, please.
Missy
Smother, Malis, Eldrian, Pyxis, Shahrizai, Shaytan, Xiah & Lokii,
The only way out of the mansion of terrors is through a small opening in the basement. Have fun! You may end the scenario in one of two ways. Either you find the exit and you scramble out into a room of pure light or you collapse into an emotional puddle, lost somewhere in the mansion. There is no credit or deductions given for whichever you choose. You can still win if you don't make it out of the mansion.
Things You Might Want To Know
1. To begin, the following horses have been eliminated from the quest. All of you will be returned to the meadow a bit knackered. And you might have nightmares. No promises. (Thank you so much, ladies. Your words were bril and I hate to see any of you go! You have all been so wonderful that I am having to nit pick when eliminating contestants!) Brynmor, because of grammar and sentence structure. (I know english is your second language so I felt awful about this one, but there were others that were just written cleaner. I will send you a critique as requested!) You wrote a book! And it was so creative! Sidra, your obstacles were good but not as creative as some of the others and transitions between scenes were a bit rough. Really like the interaction between Sidra and her victim. Kult, because of some awkward sentence structure and tense changes. Love the bloody lack of remorse! Eona, the flow of your paragraphs was choppy and there were several spelling errors. I really liked the foreshadowing and I was quite upset when the dog died! Well written.
2. In this round your horses are transported (in whatever way your heart desires) back to the mansion. This house is not an ordinary home, however. It's possessed. By demons, if you like. I find that's easiest for frail human minds to comprehend. The house, the walls, the floors, the rooms themselves, feed off your emotions, your fear and past sins (if you don't have any sins, think back to the last round, you wicked children). I think it's best said with “Here there be Monsters”. Your own personal monsters.
If you've read House by Frank Peretti & Tim Dekker, this mansion is like the cabin.
3. You can no longer access your mutated DNA. Water works wonders.
4. You have until Tuesday at 5:00 p.m. est to reply in character to this post. Temporary and amusing defects will be handed out to those who fail to show up.
5. No deductions will be given for editing a post unless it occurs after the stated deadline.
5. As always, any questions, requests, complaints or other mouth things you deem necessary should be PM'd at your convenience. The Mistress will answer at hers.
10-24-2015, 11:59 PM (This post was last modified: 10-25-2015, 12:00 AM by Xiah.)
The chalice slips from her trembling hands, clattering against the tile floor. That isn’t right… The grass… Blinking rapidly, she struggles to adapt to the terribly bright room, lowering her head weakly. Teetering atop two useless legs, Xiah watches the chalice spin round and round, its scraping sound echoing all through the room, all through her ears, round and round and round.
Where the hell am I.
The pristine white-black tiling glimmers, even as dust particles float through the painfully strong light. Falteringly, a single hand brushes against her stomach, ribs, throat, before running across her mouth. She barely notices the trail of blood left behind, though the taste lingers on her tongue. She can barely see at all in the harsh light.
Her breath comes out in a cough, and enters like three sharp stabs. (In, in, in, out, in, out, in, in, out).
Face contorting as the rolling of the chalice mounts to a metallic screeching, Xiah raises her silver eyes. Immediately she stumbles backwards (feet slipping, arms flying to her ears, body losing balance) only to be caught by an excruciatingly plain white wall; for the sight before her may not be withstood.
Kida (Jude) stands in the centre of the unfurnished room, silver eyes piercing Xiah’s. The screeching of the chalice comes from the depths of her mouth, depths which are black, putrid, oozing. Spine-like teeth protrude from tearing lips, lips too small to accommodate the nightmare’s fangs. Dislocated arms taught behind her, body tilted awkwardly forward, Kida advances, each step a snap.
Sobbing, Xiah scratches the ordinary wall, the blank canvas begging for red paint. The fingertips of her right hand brush against the corner of an arched doorway (the corner of what may be her last escape). The young girl latches on to the corner and flips herself around to the other side of the wall, narrowly avoiding Kida’s villainous fangs as she lunges to the where Xiah used to be.
“GET BACK HERE, YOU LITTLE WRETCH!”
Xiah does not comply. Especially since her sister’s light-monster cannot enter this… Place.
The new room crawls in ink, thick, impenetrable ink. (In, out, out, in, out). Silver eyes burning as they strain to see, Xiah slips her left hand back towards the white room, forgetting the immediate danger found therein. Fingers slipping around the cool corner, a horrifying shlunk precedes her dolor. Instantly her hand returns from the white room, twitching sickly before her night-blind eyes. As Kida cackles into a silent oblivion, Xiah’s screams mimic her sister’s demonic wailing; for though she may not see, before her eyes quakes her left hand, complete save for the second knuckles of her pinky and ring finger.
Dancing pitifully through the pain, Xiah pulls vainly at her shift before managing to tear off a dirty strip. Shaking uselessly, her sobs are the only sound as she fumbles to make a poor, improper tourniquet. (Twist, twist, twist, dear me, that’s quite slippery to touch). Her good fingers slide against her wounds, struggling to tighten and tie off the tourniquet. Finally she manages to halt the bleeding, though at this point, to give in to the darkness seems her most friendly option.
“Xiah?” Calls a far-away voice, one of bone-chilling familiarity. Hope breaks the girl’s heart. “Xiah!” And yet she finds herself responding, legs moving towards the motherly noises, heart responding to her father’s call. Sobbing now through a bloody smile, she runs blindly towards the voices, arms outstretched towards them.
The air of her lungs explodes through her ribs when she hits them, the cold, unforgiving figures. Instantly her fear returns. Hands (mangled and bloody) scramble against the stone-like beings; their invisible arms suddenly envelope her, trapping her in their embrace, pinning her into the nightmare.
“Oh darling, we’ve missed you quite terribly.” (I missed you too mommy, but I have to go, I have to leave). “Now, now, don’t squirm, it’s been ages since our last meeting.” (Oh please daddy let me go, this isn’t you, stop, you’re hurting me!) “Well now, about that. Why haven’t you been to see us?”
Their voices begin to darken, distorting from those of her mother and father’s. Squirming beneath their iron grasps, Xiah’s tears corrode their metal, her cries echoing their wrath.
“You little ungrateful brat, running away from mummy and daddy dearest.” (I never ran, you just left, I couldn’t stop you, oh god please let me go!) “She never even said goodbye, the bitch.”
Her fists beat against the stonework, summoning blood to her shorn phalanges. Her own screaming seems terribly distant, the sound of her desperate explanations and pitiful arguments the background music to their hit-single.
“She should fucking pay, ought to come see what it’s like in hell.” (Please, please, please, daddy, I didn’t do anything I swear!) “After what she did to our Kida, hell wouldn’t be punishment enough.” (I didn’t mean to kill her! I couldn’t help it, that wasn’t me, you KNOW that wasn’t me!) “Maybe we should have some fun ourselves, my love.”
Weakened beyond measure by the loathing of her parents, Xiah goes limp in their grasp. Her body collapses, responding to the fear of both ultimate pain and incurable rejection. Her mind recalls play-dates on winter mornings and flight-lessons above the mountain tops, and she wonders what has changed their minds; her eyes see now only darkness, the blackness of her inevitable death, and the hateful faces of her parents, faces which exist only in this reality.
Lifting their daughter into their arms, the monsters bend their graphite knees, leaping mightily into the inky air before crashing through the wood flooring. Xiah expects to slam into their arms and to break some ribs; instead she meets the second-floor red carpet, though it does little to cushion her fall.
Moaning dreadfully, the frail black girl struggles to her elbows and knees, battling with her lungs for air. As the motions of breathing become semi-natural and the bleeding in her fingers cease, her silver eyes chance an upward glance.
About her, expensive gold couches stand pressed against red hand-painted walls. Fringed lamps sit here and there, exposing the setting in a putrid yellow light. The carpet smells of mildew and rot, as though the sitting room has not been sat in for a very long time. Around the room foreign oddities are strewn, “decorations” one might say. Daring to extend her lungs fully, Xiah absorbs the silence, both traumatized and entranced by what it may hold. Unwounded fingers digging into the red fabric, Xiah lurches to her knees, head spinning.
“You look so pretty on your knees.”
Scrambling messily to a crouch, Xiah presses her body upwards, only to fall dizzily into a tall porcelain vase. It shatters upon meeting the carpet.
“Now look what she’s done, gone and ruined our sitting room.”
Clutching her ears, Xiah pierces the disgusting tranquility with her shrieks. She drowns the voices with her own agonized one, staggering in circles until finally her unreactive eyes meet a doorway. Lunging towards it, the intricately designed door slams shut, sending Xiah reeling backwards. An electrical cord lays conveniently at her feet, and in another step, shards of porcelain embed themselves in the heel of her palms and the back of her exposed neck. Eyes clenching, a gut-wrenching cry splits her lips once more, though her parent’s cackling overwhelm the sound of her terror.
Frenzied now, Xiah plants an elbow in the shattered porcelain, pushing herself up to her feet. She begins running before she knows exactly where-to. Her apparent target? A hanging tapestry. Bracing herself for impact, Xiah’s shoulders hunch.
Whoosh.
Squealing angrily, the voices of her demonic parent’s fade into the distance, trapped in the red-carpet room. Barely conscious of herself, Xiah takes no note of the stone passageway she flees through, nor the echoing drips of condensing moisture. No, she simply delves into her remaining adrenaline, pumping her legs and arms despite her blood loss. She bends and twists with the curves of the secret passageway, following the small lanterns which spot the sides like a trail of candy; down, down, down.
Killer… She stumbles at the nearly inaudible word, heart pulsating irregularly. Murderer... The wall catches her when her feet begin sloshing through an accumulation of water. Slaughterer… Recognizing the tones of her very own voice, Xiah moans sadly to herself, too spent to scream.
The whispers multiply as she struggles through the inexplicably mounting waters, and they spin cruel tales of her vampiric misfortunes. Denying them through a feeble voice, Xiah begins shivering, for the waters are cold. And one might say the Tundraling ought to be used to the chill; but in this form she wears no fur, and her state of shock and horror only worsens her ability to adapt.
Swinging her arms in an attempt to maneuver her legs through the now hip-deep pool, Xiah strains her eyes for the next lantern. With each step the passageway grows lower and lower, bringing the waters higher and higher upon her skin. The whispers take on a metallic note, burning into her skull, searing her memories until they no longer exist.
At last she comes to the end of her rope, tip toes barely scraping the bottom of the pool. The cool liquid burns against her many wounds, festering in her finger tips, clawing at the porcelain. She begs the whispering to stop, and yet has not the strength to raise her hands to her ears.
She has not passed a lantern in minutes, and with darkness so does the whispering deepen. Spluttering inhaled water, Xiah sobs, knowing that to turn back is death. Pushing uselessly off of the passageway bottom, Xiah swims weakly forwards, coughing continuously as the black waters claim her lungs.
The whispers become snarls and her soul loosens its grip on her body. Xiah’s forehead gently bumps into the roof of the passageway, for she goes slowly. Tears streaming from her unseeing silver eyes, she succumbs to the growling voices, naming herself killer, murderer, and slaughterer, for naught else remains for her to do. Breathing a final quaking breath (in, in, in, in, in, out), Xiah releases herself to the seething embrace of the black waters.
“Fuck!” The distorted word comes out in a heap of bubbles, bringing fire to her lungs. With a heartbreaking show of final courage, her broken hands scramble against the wooden door she has met with. Her fingertips slip slowly over its edges in desperate search for a handle, clutching at something she begins to doubt is there. Lips parting in a final cry, Xiah has no choice but to inhale.
Click.
At the final moment she unlatches the door, and like a destroyed dam, the passage-way lake floods the basement. Xiah floats along with it, no longer conscious, though her coughs pierce the rushing water now and then as she resurfaces. Unaware of the furious shrieking of all Kida, Lea, Errant and theb Whisperers, Xiah rides upon the waves until, with one final surge, she is pushed through a small exit.
Would she have seen it, she may have smiled; for, as unlikely as it may seem, it resembles a mouse-hole.
as your love starts to surround you all of their words are trying to drown you
The room was glowing, but she did not notice it. Not at first. It began gentle, the light strobing, and then expanding—more and more persistent with each passing moment. Her sobs broke, and her bloodied hands fell to her side, exhaustion beginning to crawl through her. She lifted her tear-stained face, hair matted and framing the delicate bones, and stared at what used to be the chalice—but was now gone. Almost in a trance, she stood and took one step forward. The light was no longer gentle. It was harsh, blinding, constant in its strength. She raised one hand to shield her eyes as it became even more intense.
And then it swallowed her.
***
When she was spit out, the light was gone. Instead, Pyxis was greeted by pure darkness—but that wasn’t the worst part. The smell was. Damp, rotting, decaying…something. It was so overpowering that Pyxis immediately gagged, her hand clenching and her teeth digging into her fist to stop herself from emptying her stomach yet again. Closing her eyes, she forced three, steadying breaths, hoping that with time she would become acquainted enough with the stench to endure it. By the second breath, she was spinning to the wall and vomiting, blood and water spewing out onto the walls. The sight was horrifying.
Shaking, Pyxis stood up and wiped her mouth.
She would not miss this part of being a human.
Thankfully, the passing minutes had allowed Pyxis’ weak eyes to adjust to the dim lighting, and she saw that what had once been perceived as pure darkness was not quite accurate. The room was dark, to be sure, but there was a thin, watery light filtering beneath a door on the opposite side. She was able to make out water-stained wallpaper, the edges peeling as if to escape, and velvet-covered furniture, although she was sure that it had seen better days. It was rubbed thin in places and the wood was faded.
She navigated slowly through the room, keeping her hands carefully in her pockets, and reached the door. The handle was cold, but she grabbed it steadily. She could do this. She had survived shape-shifting monsters and she had killed and she could do this. She could continue to survive. If not for her, then for her family. For wild-hearted Malis and soft-dreamer Ilka who had to still be alive and out there.
She had to be, and Pyxis had to survive this for her. It was her responsibility.
Fortified by this reminder, Pyxis grabbed the handle with more force and wrenched it open. She stepped into a hallway that was empty—covered in dust and cobwebs and time. It was a false relief. It was only when she was walking through it that she even noticed that walls were…moving. Although that wasn’t quite accurate. They were shifting, twitching, such a small motion that it wasn’t barely perceivable. It was like they were breathing. She stopped, eyes widening as she watched the room expand and contract.
Her hand went to her chest, and she winced. With each breath, of both hers and the rooms, she felt it constricting painfully. More than that, she felt things pulling to the surface—things she’d rather not think about. Things that she had carefully buried a long time ago. Her thoughts ran wild. She saw her mother’s face (shattered, empty, and then blank). She saw her father running away through the jungle. She saw Malis standing alone in the meadow, lost in her sorrow. She saw Ilka surrounded by it all, drowning in it.
She saw her family before her: cursed.
Groaning, she continued to stagger forward, hand pressing against her chest as if she could stop the pain, the room continuing to sigh steadily, the sounds of its breath becoming more pronounced, the steady beat of some distant heart beginning to thump. She was halfway down the hall when one of the doors opened, and Ilka staggered out, throat torn, stomach spilling out of her ragged, white shirt. Her pale hand was crusted with her own blood and was clenching her neck. She ran to Pyxis and then fell at her feet.
“You killed me,” she said, although the words were hoarse. Blood bubbled at her lips as Ilka clawed at Pyxis’ simple clothing. “No, I didn’t,” Pyxis whimpered, falling down to her sister, hands desperately trying to staunch the bleeding. “You did. I saw it,” Ilka’s golden eyes were accusatory, and she coughed, gore splattering on Pyxis’ hoodie. “This is your fault. It is always your fault. You killed me and liked it.”
Pyxis felt the denial tripping on her tongue, but she couldn’t deny that. She had killed, and she had liked it. The thrill of the hunt echoed in her head; she shivered with suppressed delight and then started. “No!” she cried, but it was weak, and she knew it. She had killed—it just hadn’t been Ilka. But the truth was that she was no better than her father and all those who came before her. Murdering was her family legacy. “Yes,” she admitted, her features washed with the shame. “I did. But not you. Never you.”
Ilka just smiled, teeth crimson. “It was me. I’ll never forgive you.”
And then she disintegrated, leaving behind nothing but blood on Pyxis’ hands.
She was not sure how long she would have sat there, how long she would have stared at the stains, had she not heard the scream. Down the hall, impossibly far, a young woman was running. She was thin with impossibly red hair and bright green eyes, her dress sheer and white and torn. Behind her, a door crashed open and a man ran out. He was tall, rugged, scarred: his hair a mess of black, his eyes almost as dark.
Mom. Dad.
The knowledge of it struck her in the heart, and like a child, Pyxis ran to them. But they didn’t notice her. Oksana was running, yelling, and Makai was chasing her, the knife in his hand glinting. “NO!” The sound ripped from Pyxis’ throat, and she ran even faster, sneakers pounding—but the faster she ran, the slower she went, and the longer the hallway became. Like always, she was powerless to save anyone.
It happened in slow motion. Oksana stopped running, falling against the wall with her breast heaving. “I love you, Makai,” was all she said as he came upon her. “I know,” was all he replied. Then he was using the knife to carve into her chest, and he was sobbing uncontrollably. Oksana slid down the wall, leaving behind a giant smeared stain. Makai stood there, shaking, holding her once beating heart in his hand. Pyxis reached him in time for him to touch her cheek. “You’re just like me.” And then they were gone.
This time, there was no reprieve. The door to the left opened slowly and Daemron stepped out. Unlike Ilka, he was unaffected. His silver eyes were bright and his clothes were whole. He walked up to Pyxis and grabbed her as if she hadn’t killed him, as if she wasn’t covered in gore. His hands were on the small of her back and then running through her tangled hair. His mouth fell on hers, and she moaned against him, too weak to fight back, too weak to deny herself. The kiss was urgent, and she felt her pulse racing.
It was everything she wanted. Everything she couldn’t have.
She felt something slip from his tongue to hers, and she stiffened, but he didn’t break the kiss. Poison, she thought dimly, but she found that she couldn't push against him. Locked in the embrace, she felt it rushing through her veins, her cells recoiling, the poison turning her blood into sludge. Daemron pulled back from the kiss just slightly, still holding her tight, and she looked into his eyes, felt her resolve weaken.
With the last vestige of strength, she tilted her head back to reveal the ivory column of her throat. “Do it,” she croaked, chapped lips parting on a shuddering breath. For a second, there was hesitation on his part, and he just leaned down to kiss the hollow at the base of her neck. When he lifted his head, she saw his lips pull back and fangs extending. “I think I love you,” she confessed, and he just nodded before sinking his teeth into her throat. “I love you, Daemron,” she sobbed against him, and he ignored her completely.
An eye for an eye.
He lowered her to the floor and stood up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I know you do,” he said, silver eyes soft with regret, “but your love kills.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a gun, the cold metal gleaming in the dim light. Pyxis felt terror wash through her. “So I have to kill you first.” There was a loud click. “You understand, right?” And she did. How could she not?
Daemron pulled the trigger twice, but he only needed to once. The first bullet found its way to her heart, and she reared up before slumping back to the ground. Life began to pool out of her, and he kneeled down to the ground, kissing her on the forehead. “It’s time for you to die, Pyxis.” So she did.
***
She wasn’t sure how long she was dead, but when she woke up, he was gone. Her hands went to her chest and felt the holes in her clothes. Underneath, her flesh was scarred but whole. Her head fell back down to the ground and she stared at the ceiling, unsure of what was real and what was not. Finally, she pushed herself to sit and then stand, the ground covered in what she had to assume was her own blood.
In a strange way, Pyxis was glad for the emptiness, the numbness.
What else could this house possibly do to her?
To her right, she saw stairs descending into darkness. Like the obedient girl she now was, she followed. She was not surprised to find the basement. In the corner, there was one bright spot. She moved toward (had almost reached it) when she heard another scream. Ilka was running down the stairs, this time whole, and Pyxis saw the wolves chasing her. Daemron’s wolves. Perhaps there was more still to fear.
“Ilka!” Pyxis grabbed her sister’s wrist and half-dragged her to the window, the duo limping toward the escape as fast as they could. Letting go for a second, Pyxis began to pry open the window. “Pyxis!” her sister screamed, but when she looked back, the wolves were already on her. “Go! You can make it.” Tears fell down Pyxis’ cheeks as she reached for her sister, but before she knew it, the world was tipping and she was falling through the window back into a room of pure light. The last thing she saw was her sister falling beneath the pack. The last thing she saw was Daemron’s wolf Red staring at her before feasting.
and you break, it's too late for you to fall apart and the blame that you claim is all your own fault
His bruised eyes blink (it’s a slow blink, just as heavy as the weight of blood in his stomach) and when they open, he is at the beginning. The room is startling familiar (and what an amusing word ‘familiar’ is, for so far nothing aside from this room has been familiar). His gaze take in the high ceiling with cobwebs cramping the corners, plaster walls slathered with a bare color of ash gray, and a floor coated in the dust of years of lack of care. The shuffling footprints of his own feet (had it been days or weeks or months or years since he’d stepped through the inky door?) are the only indication that anything had stepped across the floor in years (aside from perhaps a rat or two and the peaceful steps of spiders).
Her voice again reaches into the corners of his mind. He smirks at the thought of the creatures feeding off of angst. Angst is such a raw, caring emotion that he rarely allows it to affect him. Angst might be a sense a caring soul might ache after killing someone like he just did. But rather, he revels in the memory of his teeth sinking into her ivory and mud patched neck (in the thickness of her life saturating his throat, in the way her mouth opened in a last gasp for life, in those golden orbs fading into nothing, in the way her skin yielded to his mouth like a knife to butter). He feels hope, sure – but there is no fear.
Not yet, anyway.
The two doors that once stood before him have disappeared. In their stead, the trickster only sees a gray wall (ashy and pale and indecisive and simple). However, before the two doors (one bright red and leaking something liquid and dripping between its frame, the other deep black and holding the mysteriousness of a thousand thoughts) had been the only way in or out of the empty room. Now, with a closer look around, the trickster notices a double door. It is immensely better kept than anything else in the room, with intricate curves and circles and swirls carved into its creamy face. The faint sound of lilting music (sultry and dangerous and dark and calling) comes from the other side.
The music sends a chill down the trickster’s spine. So he places one long-fingered hand on the right door’s gold handle and pulls it toward him. Compared to the chilling temperature and creeping shadows of the previous room, this one is a desert to a tundra (there is warmth from a crackling fire, dimly lit chandeliers, and glowing candles). The music grows louder as he steps fully into the room and hears the door softly click shut behind him. He doesn’t risk a glance behind him (at this point, he knows that the double doors will either still be there or have disappeared by some magic), but his bruised eyes take in the sight before him.
Thirteen (yes, he counted them all) women fill the room with their sultry frames. He doesn’t know them all by their names, but they are familiar to him. Each woman he’d spent a night with are found in this room (although their bodies are just as his are – human and two-legged rather than four), each with their own personalities and looks and clothing choices. His eyes latch onto each category (the shy ones, hugging their knees and pretending they don’t exist; the bold ones, dancing in the middle of the room with vibrant passion; the angry ones, moving with stiff paces; the gentle ones, comforting the shy ones and sipping delicately from golden chalices). It isn’t until he clears his throat that every single pair of eyes turns to find him.
Almost as if they are all made up of one creature (of one monster, of one mind, of one body) they surge toward him. Curvy bodies, slender bodies, skinny bodies, muscular bodies – they press against him on all sides and he nearly purrs from physical delight. They crawl around him, each one vying for his attention, each one singing his name like it is their poison.
All except one of them.
She lingers near the fire, fierce golden eyes staring him down. Twelve half-naked bodies tug on anything they can reach to pull him to bed with them. But the golden-eyed warrior (he knew she would be here, as soon as he recognized each woman) doesn’t approach him – only glares at him. It jabs at his heart in a way he knows shouldn’t. Her black hair trails down her back (falling in wavy, tangled tresses that complement the pale of her cheeks), something that startles him. He should’ve been expecting her brutal yet beautiful appearance in this world, but he couldn’t have prepared himself for this.
“Myrina,” he says, and the sound of his voice causes every single woman in the room to shut her mouth. He shoves one girl away (one of her arms is creepily shorter than all the other and the hair atop her head is patchy and uncomfortably shedding) in order to wade through the ocean of women to reach the only one he might have ever cared about. “Myrina,” he says again and he can see her fierce eyes flash with intensity. She always tried (she always tries, he corrects himself) to resist him, but it has rarely ever truly worked.
He reaches her relatively quickly (all the other women stand in a confusing bunch, each head tipped to the side and each mouth quirked in a thoughtful expression) but stops himself before he touches her. He knows she isn’t truly here (he knows she is only one of those monsters, that she isn’t truly staring him down), but his mind wants to make it so. The trickster’s mouth opens to say her name once more, but she suddenly silences him. “I’ve been waiting for you.” Her voice is so true to his reality that he almost says something. “You look…” her eyes travel across his face, his body, then back to his bruised eyes “…actually good, for once. Except for the stain of blood on your mouth.” He doesn’t move to wipe it away.
Her gold eyes (and suddenly, he notices the fact that her eyes are an exact replica of the blonde’s gold eyes) blink once and then they are all upon him like hungry scavengers. Although the hoard had been on the other side of the room, they are suddenly shoving him to the ground. He bites his lip in the process of his head hitting the floor (a floor covered by a rug the color of a blue sky) and blood gushes into his mouth. It tastes salty and bitter, but still threaded with that gentle call for more. The women’s hands are grasping at anything they can (his clothes, which are soon ripped from him save his pants; his arms, his legs, his neck, his bare chest) and they make intense noises of mingled pleasure and danger.
Scratches begin to appear on his skin, stinging with the sensation of the women’s fingers. Even the shy ones have eyes like fire (eyes he doesn’t know if he will be able to get out of his nightmares) and his throat suddenly ceases with terror. He is at the bottom of a dogpile and he cannot find a way out. They are suddenly playing the game of “Queen of the Mountain” except he is the mountain and they are more than queens. They are raging, fiery, intense, dangerous, bloody beasts. And he is the quivering prize they all desire.
The one who wins, however, is the one he least expected. It is the one with the short arm and the shedding hair. Her eyes burn the color of dried mud, but there is something different about them (something almost comforting). She grabs his arm and drags him away from the mass of crawling monsters. He sees a flicker (like a hologram, like a prerecorded video, like a mirage of his nightmares) and suddenly their glamour falls into the true sight. They are wispy and the color orange of a bleeding sun. He can see through their shapeless bodies, but something tells him if he were to hit them they would be very much a solid form.
Although they wriggle across each other, he knows it is only moments before they notice his disappearance. Bruised eyes turn toward his savior and she looks steadily the same. “Follow me,” she whispers, tugging him behind a forest green tapestry that shields a foggy window and half a stone wall. Watching her, the trickster notices her full lips press against a singular stone. With a shimmer and soft groaning noise, the wall behind the tapestry opens to reveal a dark corridor. “This way.”
He trusts her, because he doesn’t have much choice left.
As soon as they are within the corridor, the wall imprisons them in darkness. It is short-lived, though, as the woman suddenly brings forth light from her palms (and it is the same bleeding-sun orange as the monster-woman) and then scurries down the corridor. They pass doors (although he supposes they open into the middle of a wall) and each plays some sort of noise behind it. The screech of metal on metal, the harsh caw of a crow, the low bellow of something his human mind cannot even identify.
Finally, they come to a door with only silence behind it. The woman turns to face the trickster and he searches her muddy brown eyes for any reason behind her kindness. As if she could hear his thoughts, she says, “I don’t want to be like them, Lokii. Remember me.” She presses a cool kiss to his cheek and then watches as she scampers back the way she came. Turning back to the door, he grabs the handle and boldly pushes himself through.
The hallway he steps into is empty, but the trickster gets the feeling it won’t be that way for very long. The kiss from the woman burns into his cheek until, suddenly, he realized it actually was. Although there is no fire, his skin feels as if there is. The ivory of his cheek is beginning to eat away, starting with the spot where her kiss touched. His lip sneers. The vile little temptress saved him, but for a cost. He senses that if he wants the burn to stop (especially before it disintegrates his entire body) he must escape from the mansion swiftly.
So he begins to run down the hallway, steps taken in jaunty, ragged steps. The burn persists and he almost sheds a tear from the fierceness of the pain. His lungs gasp for air (an incredibly loud sound among the eerie silence of the hallway) and it is almost like the noise awakes the dead. A gasp identical to his own echoes down the hallway, causing the trickster to stop in his tracks. The kiss that eats at his skin has crawled up to the corner of his right eye (his good eye, the one swirled with blue and black) and into the flesh of his mouth until his tongue and teeth and gums are exposed to the chilly air of the hallway. Through the hole in his mouth, he can feel the breeze of something moving and his head turns to the right.
It’s a replica of himself (only the picture of perfection, the sight of him before he opened the door, the image of him when he stood in the ash-gray room). The mirror image halts and looks at his counterpart. “Only one can survive,” he says. His voice would have caused the trickster to laugh if he didn’t have a painful hole in his mouth and his eye screaming as it is devoured. It is rocky and patchwork and flickering (it is the sound of his voice when he first practiced putting his voice into other’s minds). And he knows. He knows as clearly as he knows it is day when the sun rises.
This mirror image – it is only an illusion. It is an illusion of his creation.
So he turns. He begins loping back down the hallway, feeling the chase the illusion gives as it trails after him, screaming about survival. The trickster knows that he will not survive if his good eye is eaten away by the kiss. He spots a door (the outline of the frame is emblazed with white hot light) and his memory recounts the beginning of his quest in the mansion, of the room with the bright light in the basement. So he bolts for it, just as his mirror image’s hand snakes across his bare back.
His vision blurs and then fades (replaced by the startling darkness of sightlessness) as his hand fumbles over the door handle. His illusion speaks again, but he cannot see him any longer. Its voice is different now, darker and harsher and growling. “You cannot leave me.”
Then the trickster shoves his body through the doorway and slams the door behind him, but he can barely see the hot, pure light of the room.
10-26-2015, 11:04 PM (This post was last modified: 10-27-2015, 07:48 AM by Malis.
Edit Reason: :(
)
When the last of the shadow clinging like disease to the pale of her freckled skin finally bleeds away, her gaze lifts. But when it does, the maze is gone. The green hedge, the stone walls, the basin and the grass beneath her. They’re all gone. Still crumpled on the floor, she scuttles backwards, gasping when her back collides with something hard. As if she had been struck, she turns, scrambling to her feet with her hands raised in trembling fists out in front of her. But it is only a wall, white and sterile but dingy with age. Her hands drop like stones to her sides and she turns in a circle to take in the tiny room. Four walls, oh how she hated walls, a door and a plain ceiling. No windows, and she hated that too. Against one wall was a dusted oval mirror, a white ceramic sink with a scratchy hand-towel tossed over one side. For a long moment she did nothing but stare at that mirror, relieved that she seemed to be standing in a place in the tiny bathroom that made it impossible for her to see her own reflection. But then curiosity got the best of her, as it so often does, and her sneakered feet were scuffling across the white tile floor.
Her hands gripped the edges of the sink leaving smudges of red and brown along the smooth ceramic as she lifted her green eyes reluctantly to the oval piece of glass. The face that stared back was at once so achingly familiar, like a face she’d seen before in a dream or a nightmare, and yet so violently unfamiliar, so wholly wrong she thought she might throw-up again. “That isn’t me.” She said quietly, a mangled whisper, watching the mouth of the reflection move to shape the same words. “Not me.” They said again together.
Her bright indigo hair was tied back in a ponytail, messy and unkempt but at least it stayed out of her face. As if possessed, her fingers flew to the ponytail, to the band holding it together, and pulled it free. When her hair fell around her face it hid the blood around her mouth, the blood on her chin and down the front of her shirt. It even hid the gash across her throat, the wound not-Erebor had left with the edge on an entirely real knife. Abandoning her hair, she grabbed the towel. With her other hand she turned on the hot water, soaked the cloth, and then brought it to her face. For the next several minutes, those green eyes locked on the reflection, she scrubbed the blood from herself until her skin was pink and raw and new. The frantic scrubbing had opened up the cut on her throat, but she left it alone, ignored the tear drops of red as they puckered and gathered near the edges of the cut open flesh. “Not me.” She said again, turning off the water and dropping the muddy red towel into the sink basin.
But then her reflection smiled back at her, a malicious smile with blood glimmering in the cracks of her ghostly white teeth. “Of course I’m you.” The reflection said arrogantly, flipping a hand impatiently at the nothingness in the mirror. “All of this is you. The blood is definitely you.” She smiled wide again, those glittering green eyes flashing dangerously as the overhead light flickered uncertainly. Malis swore the shadows grew in her peripheral. She didn’t, couldn’t, look away from her reflection, though. “No, I didn’t ask for any of this. I don’t want any of this.” Malis argued quickly, dismay flashing like fear across her face. But her reflection seemed unperturbed, unconvinced, as she cocked an eyebrow pointedly at Malis. “Okay, yeah, so we both know that’s a lie. I was there when you hesitated at drinking the water, I felt how badly you wanted to resist your humanity. You can’t lie to me, I am you.” The reflection leaned forward abruptly, stopped only by the glass separating them, her eyes flat and black and her smile stony. “We love the darkness, we live for the blood on our hands.”
Malis turned then, so abruptly she tripped over her own feet, and slammed open the narrow wooden door. Even as she slipped through and closed it behind her, she could hear the laughter of the reflection rattling the pane of glass. Worse was the weight of her truths as they settled like stones on Malis’ shoulders.
She had loved the darkness.
It had suited her like nothing else could.
The laughter faded completely as soon as the door had closed, and only then did Malis stop to look at the space around her. She stood in a hall, it was long and narrow and poorly lit, and there were a few doors on either side. The one she had come through was a plain wood door, and when she touched the handle she found it had already locked. Behind her, peeking through the darkness, were a red door and a black door, and she turned from both instead heading further down the hall. Each door she passed she reached out a cautious hand to the handle, checking to see if it was locked or accessible. Nearly every door was locked. But at the end of the hall there was only a wall with one single door. She felt reluctant to check it because if this, too, was locked then she would have to go back to the red and black doors, and the idea of going back through, of starting all over, it tied knots in her stomach. But as her hand reached for the door, those fingers wrapping around cool metal, she felt it give with a click as the door swung open to greet her like a gaping, hungry mouth.
She went inside.
But as soon as her foot crossed the threshold, she was falling, falling, landing with a splash in what appeared to be a room filled with blood. It was impossible to tell how deep it really was, but her feet couldn’t find a bottom and it was far too thick to swim through. Like quicksand it pulled her under, holding her ankles and her waist, pulling her deeper even as a flicker of overhead light revealed a platform just a yard away. She struggled for it, but the hot blood splashed against her face, it filled her eyes and her mouth and she could hardly breathe for the way she gagged around it. But then a hand was reaching for her, an arm, a body, an entire person with Lena’s uncertain face. “Malis, grab my hand!” Lena said, and the blood still poured from a wound in her neck. “Hurry!” Malis lunged forward and her fingers tangled with Lena’s, the grip solidifying as she pulled herself closer. “Lena I shouldn’t have done that, I-” but her voice trailed off and the apology that had been forming there turned to dust on her tongue. She wasn’t sorry. She felt regret, revulsion, but not remorse. Lena pulled her closer and finally Malis could almost touch the platform. She reached for it, curling her fingers around the wood to pull herself out. But before she had a chance to do so, Lena let go. Malis felt her eyes jump to the girls pale face, and as her gaze lifted she saw the glint of the blade as Lena plunged the knife into Malis’ forehead. Her fingers lost their grip just as darkness appeared at the edge of her vision, pooling and filling until there was nothing else. Like a stone, she sank unconscious to the bottom of the blood-pool.
When she awoke with a gasp it was impossible to know how much time had passed. But as her eyes opened and her gaze lifted to the white tile floor and dingy white walls, she knew exactly where she was. The sink and mirror were in the same place, the scratchy hand-towel untouched at the edge of the sink. There was no blood, no filth, no sign that Malis had been here before. But she knew. Her reflection appeared suddenly in the mirror even though Malis hadn’t moved from where she woke crumpled in the corner. “You couldn’t even tell her you were sorry.” Her reflection said in a triumphant sing-song voice. “That’s why we’re here Malis, because we deserve this.” The reflection inched closer, pressed her hands against the other side of the mirror, her smile widening even as blood seeped over her lips. “Welcome to Hell, you’ve earned it.”
Like a knife had been plunged into her head again, she sank uselessly to the floor, her face pressed flush against the cool tile. She rolled away from the mirror, offering only her back, and let her eyes fixate on the veins between the tiles on the floor. Her knees tucked to her chest, her arms around them, and then she closed her eyes as she gave into the nothingness, the darkness that had waited for her earlier in her peripheral. “You win.” She said, she whispered, the sound like wind through brittle leaves. “I belong here.”
10-27-2015, 12:48 AM (This post was last modified: 10-27-2015, 12:51 AM by Smother.
Edit Reason: stupid sentence issue.
)
Smother
My eyes open, hazy and heavy. I am placed in a front entrance that is missing the only purpose of a front entrance: the door. My stomach flips as my hands trace the bottom seam of the wall, chips of paint and stains tainting the perfection of the home.
Ahead of me is a long dark hallway. Crooked frames hang at eye level, a flickering light dangles midway down the hall, and at the end of the corridor sits a mirrored door slightly opening and closing from an unexplainable breeze.
I rise to my feet attempting to ignore the flips and rolls my stomach performs, and begin my hesitant walk.
With every step comes a creak or moan from the well-worn hardwood floor beneath me. The hallway seems so tight that only someone of my size and proportion would be able to fit through comfortably. Even now, I find my arms wrapping around myself in a hugging fashion; it feels better to have the support of yourself.
I cannot help but be nosy at what sort of pictures hang on the wall. The frames were at one point, a rich chocolate tone with subtle accents of gold. Now, with old age and malnourishment, they are a faded tan with chips poked out.
The first image—I know this image. I squint as if it’ll make the photo clearer, attempting to analyze why my throat is becoming incredibly dry. An onyx horse, a distinctive flowing infinity symbol embroidered upon his chest, and two very prominent horns rising from his head and making a large circular motion as if to make an unconnected O. I know him.
I know him well.
I don’t know what overcomes me—anger, frustration, sadness—something attacks my heart like Hamlet stabbing Polonius. I place my left hand ever so gently onto the wooden frame, holding it steady in a calm demeanor. My right arm lifts and my elbow forms a contracted V. Like a snake, coiling itself up for more power and range.
And mimicking a Cobra, my right arm extends with powerful force. My fist connects to the picture, shards of glass bursting upon impact and the loud crackling as if I had dropped a glass cup echoing in the hall.
The picture is gone.
Disappeared like melted snow.
But my hand still burns and bleeds from the hit.
I hear a distant laughter, an adult laugh, deep and throaty and beyond entertained. I grit my teeth.
The next image—someone I would know more from emotional connection than by a picture hanging on the wall—is what hits me like a train. Her glossy blue eyes, her young charcoal grey coat—her. Her who left me to die in the rain and the fog. Her, who viewed running away more desirable than raising her kin.
And Smother, I, the result of poor judgment.
I growl. Both hands wrapping around either side of the frame before ripping it off the wall. I am shaking, now. My hands and arms tense and my eyes wet from what I can only explain as aggravated emotions. These two, these two irresponsible, selfish, ungrateful creatures made me. And once they made me, they decided they didn’t want me.
No one wants me.
The frame is catapulting to the wall, whipped from my fingers in rage. If you’ve ever watched a slow demo before, most likely in science class, and you see the cool effects of a balloon popping in slow motion or a gun firing, that is what this was like. I watched as the frame’s corner was the first to be impacted, and after that the wood just split like a wine cork splitting from the neck of the bottle. Wood flies and explodes in every which way, the glass making an earsplitting noise as it follows suit.
My throat waters.
It just feels so good to be reckless.
I walk over, glass crunching beneath my weight, shards splitting up into my skin like a fork into cheese. The surface is soft enough to be broken, but firm enough to stop the motion. Leaning down, my hands trace the beautiful face of her, her dark grey muzzle and perfectly sculpted ears. The image covered in tiny pieces of glass, comparable to snowflakes.
She would be so much prettier if I didn’t wish her dead.
As I lower myself, knees cringing from the ache of earlier running, the photo slowly dissolves into the floor like mercury. My eyes water—possibly because of the anger still boiling my blood, but also possibly because until now I had never truly seen what she looked like. I had made assumptions, taken a guess, but never had proof of her appearance.
And there she was, real, looking at me with matching crystal blue eyes.
The hall light flickers, as if bringing me back to the realm of reality. Up I rise from a crouched position, wandering forward like some distant ghost. I feel out of body, moving across the dark hallway like a spirit haunting a familiar graveyard. Though I am real, everything I feel is real.
The broken pieces of my heart, that is real.
At the end of the hall, the darkest part of the corridor, the mirrored door greets me with my own reflection. I look haggard, broken. My hands are bloody, my feet leaving a trail of human paint along the floor, my lips a deep violent red, eyes vibrantly blue. My skin is pale, my nose accented with dried blood from a point that I must have hit my face, my hair a matted mess at my shoulders with a clear jagged cut from Quick’s knife.
I reach up to rub at the dirt staining my cheek.
To my left, suddenly, is another human.
He has dark black hair. I know his scent instantly. I know that tattoo on his chest.
He is here.
I reach out hastily, desperately, to open the door. I am shivering—cold? No, petrified. My body is reacting in a way I am not used to, I am panicking. I cannot pull the door open fast enough. My stomach feels as though it has dropped to my ankles, my throat so dry I almost feel myself suffocating.
It doesn’t take me more than a second to lunge through the open door and slam it behind myself.
What I see in front of me is something that makes me almost wish I had toughed out my awkward love.
I am in a room, each and every wall covered with floor to ceiling mirrors. It is a box like room, perfect proportions and low ceilings. The mirrors stretch out long enough to cover corner to corner, one mirror per wall.
In each mirror, a mare elegantly looks at me with a simplistic expression. Her eyes are a cold blue, matching to mine. Her coat is a glittering charcoal grey, her mane and tail a mix of pearl and onyx... She stares at me a long time, I almost feel like a deer in front of a hunter’s trigger.
She speaks, but I cannot hear her. I cannot hear her talk. Her mouth is moving, and I am desperate to listen. To hear a tone.
But I cannot.
I move closer, entranced, curious. My hand reaches out, but the woman is gone. The beautiful woman is gone. In her place is my very own reflection, dark and twisted, bloody and venomous.
Silly child, this is why they rid of you.
I feel tears filling my eyes and I pound at the mirror in frustration. I want to hear her. But she doesn’t want me to hear, she dumped me in the freezing rain for a reason. I was useless, a monster.
Suddenly an image appears at my shoulder, him and her. They are together now. I see him, nuzzle her cheek. I see her, cuddle her head. They both look so young, so happy.
I didn’t know we could cry from happiness.
A wind changes the scenery and they are fighting, angry and distant. I see her, she has a round belly. I see him, he has scars tainting his face. So imperfect, broken and shattered.
They were happy till I came along, I now know that.
Another scenery change and she is on the floor, a wet baby shivering beneath her shadow. The rain and hail scolds the woman like golf balls denting a Cadillac. She is resting against the snow and wet grass, a transition from fall to winter. I can see the baby—closed eyes, no idea of the future.
I cringe.
I know who that is.
“No,” I am sputtering, backing up. “No.”
I know what happens next. Mommy leaves her baby to die, and then daddy regretfully takes over the burden.
I had imagined it over and over again in my head. What could have happened, what must of happened. Why it happened. When it happened. I picture it all, I dreamt about if for years.
Over and over again.
And now here it is, like a really bad movie my parents were desperate to show me. Though this is no Clint Eastwood western, no this is real life.
My life.
My hands reach up and grasp my head, I pull myself into a standing fetal position and let out an enraged cry. I hear the rattle of mirrors around me threatening to fall off their hangers.
You know the feeling of being useless, regardless of the situation you are in? That feeling when you know something is unfair, you see something unjust, but you can’t do anything. Like watching a father yell at his child in an unacceptable way. You can’t say anything, you can’t do anything, you can just watch.
And all I can do right now is watch as my life is played out for me like some cinema special.
I stand, my face red and my body tense, to realize every mirror in the room is gone. There is only a trail of lights leading to a very old, antique door. My bottom lip is quivering, my eyes drenched with salty tears.
Just breath.
The hallway I enter as I walk through the door is pitch black. I see nothing, I can only feel the narrow walls on either side of my body as I outstretch my arms. There isn’t even a hint of sunlight that can help guide my way.
And then, a deep familiar masculine tone echoes in my ears.
“Thank God father kicked you out.”
I spin on my heels as if to expect my half brother glaring me in the face. I see nothing. My fists ball and my expression tightens. There is nothing, not even a presence I can feel.
“You were a disappointment to his kin.”
“No,” I shout madly, lashing out with a blow to the wall from my fist. “He didn’t give me a chance.”
“You should have been left to freeze.”
A tap on my shoulder sends me spiraling into madness. I swing out with my shoulder, hitting nothing but the other side of the wall. I let out a choking cry, attempting with everything I can to withhold weakness.
A puff of air blows at my face, like someone went to slap my cheek but fell an inch short. I lunge forward, full force, my body extending to find the source of my mockery.
A cord (I think) latches the tip of my foot and I fall crumbling down to my knees. I wince, a painful cramp lurching my legs to my pelvis.
“Worthless. Taking up air for something of use to breath.”
Something, feels almost like a boot, stabs at my back like boot kicking a soccer ball and I fly forward onto my face. My nose begins running uncontrollably, I can only bet it must be blood. My cheeks sting and my lip begins to puff.
Randomly, the lights flicker on, still yet hesitantly fading in and out with the power, giving me the opportunity to see three doors ahead and choose one. I am crawling, exhausted and sore, my left hand supporting my nose and my right hand pulling my aching body along.
I choose the door to my right, the closest and easiest to navigate to. Rising from the floor feels almost as painful as transitioning to a monster, each and every bone and muscle begging me to stop. I tip my head back to regain some liquid, feeling the pungent iron taste run back down my throat.
I am in a bedroom now. I sit on the floor, closing the door behind me quietly. To my left is a window that is sealed shut by prison like bars.
I feel something, like hands almost though nothing is visible, latch around my ankles. The same sort of feeling I had in the forest, when a presence looped itself around me and pulled me around like a ragdoll.
I go sliding against my will to the bed, and then get tossed onto it like a teddy bear onto a child’s pillow. I quickly try to scramble off but the feeling of something pinning me to the blanket keeps me from rising.
I feel something lace up my leg like a string toying with the surface of skin. I am whimpering now, my stomach tensing with every touch. I feel the texture of a hand wipe at my cheek, the presence wandering up my thigh.
“Do you know what it is like to be tortured?.”
Quick.
Her voice is dripping with eagerness.
“Let me show you, my friend Smother, what it feels like to be murdered.”
I bite my lip and swallow. I will not show weakness.
I feel what it is like to be stabbed by a knife in my liver. I know the feeling of metal entering skin, the blade cutting fat. The coldness that overwhelms your body.
I feel what it is like to be suffocated by a cloth. The rush of panic. The jolt of air desperate to escape.
I feel what it is like to be choked, tortured, touched, taunted, teased, mutilated, bruised, battered.
I wish I could narrate everything I experienced.
I wish I could tell you what it feels like to be murdered.
I wish I had been murdered just to end the thought.
….
I am left, cold and sweaty and shivering, on the floor. The bed has disappeared, like so many other things. Along with it went all of my dignity, courage, and boldness. It took what I needed to survive the terrors. Now… now I am an easy target.
The room is cold, empty. There are no mirrors, windows, furniture.
There is a light, a small one hardly enough to reach the floor.
I am curled up in a ball, stroking my legs and pretending to mend my ripped clothes. The air is so chilled that even a parka wouldn’t be enough for me.
“Waste of skin.”
The voice, him, booming around me.
No I am not, I think but I am too weak to speak.
“I thought my daughter would be better.”
She, so judgmental, so cruel.
“Worthless.”
My brother, half brother.
I cover my ears.
“No!” I am screaming over and over again, “No. Fuck off. No!”
A CD with a scratch that continuously repeats.
“Shut up. Shut up.” I am screeching like a bat, rising from the floor like an elephant waking from a long nap. My legs are so incredibly weak that I hobble from my own weight. My arms are so mutilated that they shake at their own discretion. My face is so swollen that I can feel the blood molding around as I maneauver myself. I can hardly breath, my nose is destroyed.
All three of them keep talking like they are right against my ear. I hear them so clearly that I feel I can slap them by just spinning with my hand out. But yet I know as soon as I go to do something, they won’t be there. Their voices will be, but not their bodies.
“Goodbye, Smother.”
“What?” I question.
And then the floor disappears.
I land in a heap, a level down. I am in a room with ten doors surrounding me. Some wiggle and move from the monster it hides, some are silent with a questionable glow around the rim.
Three shadows stand before me. No faces, no true body, just shadows.
“You thought you were so strong and capable, didn’t you Smother-dear?” She says, I can hear the smirk.
“She thought she didn’t need anyone, foolish girl.” He speaks with disdain.
“Come on dad. I always said she was a piece of shit anyways, we don’t need her.” Arrogance rings from the third shadow, I practically feel the slap of his words.
I sit there, staring at them with wildness curling at my smile.
“Fuck. You.” I spit at their direction, blood trickling down my face.
“Tsk. Tsk. Didn’t mommy teach you manners?”
My jaw tenses.
“Haha, oh right. You never had a mommy.”
I lunge forward, as if strangling a shadow is a possibility. I fall forward and scramble to rise but my feet are latched onto and I am dragged back. I am pounding on the floor and screaming in absolute aggravation. If I am to die, which surely I am, I will die fighting.
I feel my arms get pinned to the floor, the cold concrete biting at my skin. I kick out violently, the laughter surrounding me. I am a toy, I am playing hard to get, I am nothing.
Someone is pulling at my right leg as if to detach my limb. I am shrieking as my muscles stretch in a way that shouldn’t be possible.
I don’t know how I suddenly get released. They got bored of hearing my distinctive cry or they decided to let the mouse think she has a chance to run, but either way I utilize the moment.
I am crawling on all fours like a mutt, I don’t look back I just feel myself gliding across the cement like a squirrel. My fingers latch onto the door handle almost too high for me to reach, and I am spinning it open frantically. I cannot open it fast enough.
Something jerks me back and I let out a wince.
Every bit of me holds onto the door handle for dear life as someone, something tugs at my ankles. The door swings open and my hands latch onto the doorframe. I hear more laughter and giggling.
“Silly Smother.”
“Foolish girl.”
“Stupid Smolly thinks she got away.”
A bright light shines as the door swings open and I feel my predators loosen their grip. I am pulling myself as if to do a pull up into the frame.
Leaning against the wall I slam the door shut. Engulfed by the bright light.
You can assault me, call me names, taunt me, tease me, but you can’t break me.
I exhale, closing my eyes and muting the complaining aches of my body.
All things are possible, even the worst of things.
The crystalline liquid cools the fire in his throat and soothes the raging hunger inside his belly far better than he had ever hoped it might. It does not soothe his guilt so well. No, with the hunger gone and his mind clear, the only thing left to him is the terrible guilt that has settled like lead inside his chest, causing his eyes to sting and his stomach to clench.
But he is not left to ponder it for long, for she is not done with him. As he raises his head from the basin, black curls plastered to his forehead and sins washed from his mouth, she is there. Missy – with that mischievous smile and those garishly bright garments that look too much like the blood he had so recently spilled. She is speaking, making it plain that he is not yet done. His face etches into dread as the light flashes before his eyes.
And then he is not in the maze anymore, but back in the mansion. It is not the same room, but rather a corridor. One that seems to stretch interminably before him, with no doors to break the blank expanse of the wall. Those very walls are papered elegantly in a soft floral pattern, with sconces that light the way, causing the polished wooden floor beneath his feet to gleam. He worries for a moment that he might ruin the finish, what with all the various fluids dripping from him.
What a foolish notion. Why is he even remotely worried about this awful house?
Of course, if he’d had a medical background, he might recognize that he is in shock. But unfortunately he does not. He is only a horse after all. A horse in a human’s body.
Glancing quickly behind him, he sees another wall. It seems he has been placed at a dead end. How odd that there should be a hall that leads to nowhere in this house. But he has seen too many strange things today to linger on such an insignificant peculiarity. So, with no other options available to him, he moves forward.
As he walks, stumbling occasionally, he realizes how tired he is. He feels rather… drained. All that great and terrible strength from only minutes ago (was it really only minutes? It now seems an eternity) has abandoned him, leaving him fatigued and shaking with cold. A cold so deeply pervasive he wonders if he will ever be warm again. Wet clothes, unfortunately, are not ideal for conserving heat.
After what feels like hours (though in reality it has only been a matter of minutes), he reaches the end of the hall. He exits the long corridor into a wide open space with sunshine streaming down and grass swaying languidly at the toes of his shoes. Only feet away, quietly snatching up long tufts of grass, stands his mother. She is there, in all her hairless, tattooed glory, with her fiery eyes and authoritative demeanor. He stares, dumbfounded. For a long moment, he is entirely unable to comprehend the scene that has unfolded before him.
It must be a dream, he thinks. His mother cannot be here. She is dead. Could Missy truly have been so kind?
Ma?
The word is expelled on a shaky breath, disbelieving and hopeful at the same time. She raises her large head as she turns her gaze upon him, eyes turning deathly cold as she does so. He had begun to stumble forward, wanting only to enfold her in a crushing embrace, but the look in her eyes stops him dead in his tracks. He blinks, staring at her in bewilderment.
“Shahrizai.” Her tones are clipped as she speaks to him, as icy as her eyes. But no, that cannot be right. She has always been fire, not just her tattooed skin but her temper as well. He has been on the receiving end of it too many times not to know (though lord knows he had probably deserved it). “Leave. Now.”
He gapes at her open-mouthed for a moment before he snaps his jaw shut, realizing how idiotic he must look with it hanging open (never once does it occur to him to wonder how she recognizes him, given his current form).
Ma?
This time the word is filled with confusion, with silent questions. In response, she bares razor teeth at him, ears pinning against her skull. That is more like the woman he remembers.
“You have failed me,” she spits at him as her eyes begin to glow with fury. “You are no son of mine.”
What? The word rushes out on a stunned exhale. I… I ha… what do you mean?
He stutters over the question, his eyes widening as his hand reaches towards her with human fingers. She is having none of this, instead offering only a wicked snap of her sharp teeth. Teeth that come close enough to graze his skin and draw a slight trickle of blood. He jerks his hand back to him, cradling the appendage against his chest in shocked hurt.
And then his father is there, behind his mother. Ever her most staunch supporter and ally. His eyes are wintry and distant, staring at Shahrizai with icy disapproval.
Pa?
The question is only a faint whisper, though a million doubts rest in that single syllable. It could not possibly be his father too – not the red titan who had guided him and protected him throughout his youth. Who had been known for his patience, his calming influence on Scorch. He could not possibly think so ill of him.
“You have failed.” Those three simple words spoken by his father are his undoing. And he knows them to be true. His siblings, scattered all across Beqanna. Siblings whose welfare he had been tasked with. Siblings who he has not sought out, so caught up in his own grief that he has not spared the time. He falls slowly to his knees, brown eyes staring blindly at the pair.
No. I…
But he has no words. No rebuttal. There is little he wants more in the world than his parent’s love, than their approval. And he can only blame himself that it is no longer his.
He doesn’t even notice at first that the vast, grassy expanse has faded, that he is left back in that never ending hallway. He isn’t sure how long he remains kneeling there, lost in despair, even as the mixture of red and yellow blood dries on his clothes. When finally he comes back to reality, blinking rapidly to moisten dry eyes, it feels as though hours have passed (although he cannot be certain, there is no way to tell time in this place).
Lurching forward, he rises jerkily from aching knees, mind still whirling with terrible thoughts. But, as much as he does not wish to, he knows he must face this terrible house, if only to find a way out.
He has not made it far before her nearly stumbles into her. His eyes widen as he comes to a jolting halt. Valkerine. His heart wrenches inside his chest, his lungs constricting at the sight of her. He has been searching for her for ages it seems. And here she is, standing right before him. As achingly lovely and familiar as ever.
Val.
He croaks the word, throat thick with tears. But she only stares at him, brown gaze accusing.
Oh god…
A single sob escapes, carrying the words with it. Because suddenly he knows. It is his parents all over again. But Val. Bold and disarmingly candid Val. How could it be?
“I’m lost, Zai,” she says finally. The words are as damning as her gaze. “Why haven’t you found me yet? You’ve had years.”
She is the same as ever. He can almost see her sticking out her tongue at him in that childish way she used to. His heart stills, shatters. And as she too fades away, leaving him with the pall of guilt and anguish hanging over his head, he feels himself growing numb. Terribly, hollowly numb.
It is almost a relief, to have reached such a state of emotional overload that he simply cannot feel it anymore. To be able to stumble down that hall with his head blessedly empty. He barely notes that he has reached a staircase, that he has begun to descend it. He doesn’t know where he is going. He only knows that he must go forward. Always forward. Backwards is not an option for him. Not anymore.
When he reaches the bottom of the stairs, he pauses, glancing around him. For the first time he takes in his surroundings. Truly takes them in. He is in a dank basement with cold stone surrounding him and a high, nearly invisible ceiling. The stairs curve away behind him and a vast space stands before him. He sees three arched openings, leading down several different paths. He vacillates, wondering which direction he should choose.
Starting forward, he shuffles towards the first arch to his left. His footsteps echo as he walks. He hasn’t quite reached the arch when he sees a familiar figure standing beneath it. He nearly sighs in relief as he recognizes her. Camrynn. If there is anyone who could help him, it would be she.
A small smile is playing at her lips, and before he can come fully before her, she begins to speak. “I’m afraid, Shahrizai, that I will have to ask you to leave the Deserts.”
He jerks backwards, stumbling several steps before he catches himself, utterly flabbergasted by her statement. He stares at her, rendered mute by shock.
“You’re just not worthy, you see.” She pauses, eyeing him somewhat disdainfully. “Only those who are worthy may stay.”
He opens and closes his mouth several times, still unable to come up with any words with which to respond. No. Impossible. First his mother and father, then Val. He cannot have the Deserts taken from him too.
“I’m sorry, Shah. I do hope you understand.” That small smile edges into a full grin before she simply vanishes, disappearing without a trace. He is too stunned to move, staring at the space where she had just been.
Finally, after several long minutes, he turns woodenly, starting towards the opposite arch. He has made it several feet down the tunnel before he notices it. The body.
No. No no no no no no.
But yes. It is him, Killian. He is just as he had left him: pale as a sheet with wide, staring eyes that have begun to turn a milky white. Those pale eyes shift, turning to stare damningly at him just as Killian's chapped white lips curve into a slight smile as he snorts in sudden amusement. “I always knew Mick would get me killed. Always picking up strays, he was.”
Suddenly a scream rips from Shahrizai’s throat. It is not a scream of fear, but rather one of terrible anguish. One that has been long in coming. He falls into the cold stone of the wall as he roars, throat going raw, though he pays it little mind. His strong fingers ball into a fist and he lets it fly into the stone near his head. He continues, punching the unforgiving masonry repeatedly. Slamming fist into rock over and over, until his knuckles are shredded and raw, until the wall is coated in blood spatter. His blood for once. Not the blood of others.
He finally stops when he is too tired to continue, when the pain is too great. He collapses to the floor, drained and exhausted. He does not even have the energy to cry, though his eyes burn and his chest aches fiercely with a hard knot of failure.
And he does not see it, that small opening in the wall only a few feet away from him. Even if he did, he would not recognize it as salvation.
10-27-2015, 10:56 AM (This post was last modified: 10-27-2015, 10:57 AM by Shaytan.
Edit Reason: ooc note
)
I was looking for a breath of life another taste of divine rush
Food always makes her sleepy; whether it’s a bellyful of grass or a mouthful of hot, tangy blood, her digestive system takes precedence after a full meal. And Mary was.... quite the meal. Mostly naked Shay burps again and then sits on the ground, running her fingers (the ones that still have their nails) through the wet grass. Ooooh… so soft. So green. She smiles the smile of a foggy brain and then lays down, thinking - just a quick little nap.
That quick little nap slips into a deep sleep. A werewolf’s howl couldn’t wake her from her from this sleep. What the hell was in that liquid? When Shay wakes again, she is in a four poster, feather bed, surrounded by puffy pillows, candelabras all around the bed, and a heavy, blood-red satin comforter. Straight out of some gothic movie - her hair is undone and loose and when she picks up the sheets and comforter to peer beneath, she is wearing only a long, white, cotton nightgown. She is officially dressed like a damsel in distress and it’s a little weird, considering that oh yeah, she was just a WEREWOLF. Talk about doing a one-eighty. In fact, now that Shay looks around, the whole setup looks vaguely like an old fashioned wake. It must be all the candles. Oh! It also reminds her of the Chamber tree, and her mind drifts back to pony-Shay and the Chamber and the fire tree. She smiles a little whimsical smile and spaces out for a moment.
When she comes back to reality, she notices a single gold candlestick and a candle on a nightstand to the right of the bed. Shay slips out from underneath the covers and grabs the candlestick, lighting it on one of the candelabras. Beyond the ethereal circle of light, she can see that the rest of the room is ordinary - a tall, wooden bureau, heavy velvet drapes across a pair of french doors, and an abnormally cold floor. She goes over to doors and tries to open them, but they seem to be locked, holding even when she throws her weight against them. When she pulls the drapes aside, there is nothing but a brick wall on the other side. How… odd. Her toes curl under to try and warm themselves, reminding her that it could just be easier to go back to bed and see what happens later… but at that very moment, the single door (was that there originally?) leading out to what can only be presumed is the hallway, creaks open. Something shoves her from behind. Shay goes stumbling forward, almost dropping the candlestick, but she manages to catch herself in time. That could have been disastrous.
Whatever happens to be in the room with her clearly doesn’t want her to stay in that room. So Shay cautiously tiptoes to the door and peeks out, looking first left and then right, finding nothing outside the door but a very long and empty hallway. Both ends are visible, but she can’t tell if there’s a staircase anywhere - and there has to be a staircase somewhere. Not that it really matters, as she also can’t tell where she is, let alone what floor of the house she’s on. Custom decrees that she’s probably on the 2nd, or even 3rd floor, because who has bedrooms in the basement? And the room is far too sumptuous to be part of the servant’s quarters.
Her current room is a little left of center, so Shay heads left first. She holds the candle high and can see that the hallway is gloomy… and everything here seems to a rich, blood red color. A faint light comes from wall sconces, but it isn’t until Shay steps towards the wall that she can see their true shape: bunnies. She inhales sharply and just stares. Of all the things that have recently happened to her, this is by far the creepiest. Who would know that bunnies are her thing? It’s drawn straight from her subconscious. WHO HAS BUNNY SCONCES ON THEIR WALLS?! She glances furtively left and right, but nary a soul nor sound is around to witness her growing unease. Shay, however, is nothing if not bull-headed, and she is determined not to let it affect her.
The pale, red-headed, nightgown-clad woman returns to the center of the hallway with her eyes focused firmly ahead. Maybe if she ignores them, they’ll go away. Just put one foot in front of the other one. It isn’t long before she finds herself at the end of the hall, facing a window, with a marble staircase leading down to the first floor. When she glances out, she can tell that she’s on the second floor, which gives her a decent view of the surrounding land. The window looks out onto a fog-covered highland, with a vast expanse of open field before her, and what seems to be a dark (leafless) forest much further back. There are no other buildings in sight, no carriages or pathways on this side of the house. No garden or statues (which might be a good thing) or anything customary of a well run, inhabited manor. Just a devastating sense of loneliness. As Shay looks out over the desolate wilderness, it feels as if a massive weight has all of a sudden been placed on her shoulders.
She’s never really been the type to care about being alone; Belgarath was a piss poor excuse of a father, and Xyster was practically a verifiable sociopath. Shaytan was doomed from the start. Sure, her childhood was odd and she never had any friends - but she also never minded the solitude. So she never really thought about how Sayaa must feel, or whether or not her daughter needed more than Shay could give her. The whole birth thing seemed like such an out of body experience that half the time she forgot she had a child (even now, she forgets there were two, a dead boy). All of a sudden, she has a great longing for her Raven Queen, so intense it seems that there must be something physically wrong with her heart. It hurts; it aches and throbs and pulses so fervently that surely her lungs will be squished and her ribs crack into smithereens. It takes her breath away and she closes her eyes to manage feelings that are ten times more than she’s ever felt before.
When Shay opens her eyes again, there’s a black mare with orange eyes staring up at Shay. She knows those eyes, but they’ve never looked at her like this before. A bay and white tobiano mare kneels in front of her, and oh, she would recognize that pattern anywhere. A stifled gasp escapes her lips and she hits glass pane with her free hand, perhaps in an attempt to draw Straia’s attention, or just in feeble protest. It doesn’t do any good, she can’t do anything from up there. Shay’s feet seem to be glued to the floor, because she can’t move to sprint down the stairs and try to find a way out to the yard. The manor isn’t ready to let her go. Sayaa’s lips part into a cruel sneer, revealing razor sharp teeth that she then sinks into the top of Straia’s neck, just behind her ears. Somehow, those teeth clamp down and she pulls, skinning Straia alive. Shay can hear Straia’s tortured screams through the glass, and oh GOD, how does she make it stop? She can’t look away; those orange eyes don’t blink, they just stare up at Shay, commanding her to watch. Watch. Watch while the daughter she’s neglected and abused tears her idol’s beautiful, beautiful skin from her muscles.WATCH. It could have prevented if only Shay ever tried to give a fuck.
It seems to last forever, and by the time Straia’s gorgeous, silky tail is savagely torn out, Shay’s voice is hoarse from her hysterical screams and sobs, her palms bruised and her knuckles bloody from trying to break the window. In the last moment of her agonizing end (who can survive such pain, such blood loss?), Straia looks up at her, crying, and then her head sinks lifelessly to the ground. She sinks to her knees, leaning her forehead against the unbreakable glass and just… gives up. She’s numb. It’s easier to shut down than to feel all the feelings. Her eyes close again and she dives inward, trying to conveniently erase everything that she just saw.
Unfortunately, this world doesn’t operate like the real world; when coping mechanisms kick in, the mansion steps it up a notch and beats its victims when they’re down. Shay’s back is to the crimson tide, the flood that starts as a trickle, as if a bathtub is overflowing in a nearby room. She should notice the red liquid as it stains her nightgown and warms her lower legs, but she is barely functional at the moment. Her daughter killed her Queen. Her daughter took away the only one she’s ever loved (in her obsessive, twisted way). Her daughter. Her love. Her blood. Her blood. Her blood. Slowly, her eyes focus on the liquid that is starting to stream past her, and then she notices a dull roar coming from behind. Shay glances over her shoulder and spies a tsunami wave of blood barrelling down the hallway faster that she can count to five. There’s a moment for her to grab a deep breath, and then she is caught up in the liquid as it turns the corner and sweeps her down the stairs.
She tumbles head over heels, hitting corners and steps and choking on the lukewarm (hey, at least it isn’t freezing cold!), metallic tasting bodily fluid. At least her ride isn’t long, as the wave dumps her in front of another room and then disappears into the recesses of the house. She lays there, coughing up the rest of the blood in her lungs until she can muster the energy to examine her new surroundings. This hallway looks almost identical to the one ‘above’ it, except that there are a couple of gilded mirrors on the walls, and she is now without any extra light. Shay turns her attention back to the door in front of her and hauls herself up to her hands and knees, reaching for the knob for a little extra assistance. After using it for leverage, the door easily opens, and what she finds inside makes her jaw drop.
A room full of bunnies.
These are no ordinary bunnies; they are child-sized and humanoid, and if it weren’t for the ear holes in their black cloaks, she probably wouldn’t even realize that they were giant rodents. The ears are always a dead giveaway. They are gathered in a half circle and seem to be chanting something in a singular, childish, sing-songy voice: Tick tock goes the clock, revenge could not be sweeter. Tick tock goes the clock, the bunnies kill the monster. They turn as one towards the open door, red eyes glowing from beneath their hoods. Shay slams the door shut and runs to the next one, wrenching it open in hopes that it has some place to hide. But that door also holds a room full of killer bunnies, singing the same song and wearing the same cultish cloaks. Shay slams that door shut too, running to the next one. When she opens the next door, the bunnies are still there, but they are no longer in a semi circle. They are advancing, chanting, filling Shay’s ears with her own certain death. That door too, is quickly shut, and Shay leans against it - though what a relatively skinny woman who lacks any real combat skills can do against a horde of bunnies already half her size is probably slim.
The previous two doors begin to open, and she can feel the one she’s leaning against start to press outwards. Down the hall, the other doors begin to open too, and the chanting echoes through the hall. Shay comes to the conclusion that there’s nothing left to do but run. The only good thing is that she is faster than the giant rabbits, who seem to be stuck in a slow, methodical march. Shay darts back to where the staircase was, but that is gone, replaced by smooth wall. She frantically beats at the wall, scratching at the wood with the remaining nails on her right hand, but of course, it doesn’t give. She quickly gives up and runs the other way - maybe there’s an exit or a hidden door or something that she’s missed.
Narrowly avoiding their outstretched paws by just inches, Shay makes it to the other side of the hallway and finds an unopened, white door. Yes! It must be the way out! She yanks it open and darts inside, and then finds herself thrust upward, caught in a net. She thrashes about, tangling herself and pleading, frantically promising to never kill bunnies again, but it is to no avail. The horde files slowly through the door and assembles beneath the net. Then the net is lowered, and when a paw finally touches her, she is transformed again, but this time, it is into the crimson rabbit that was left on her chest from the last nightmare.
All of a sudden her heart is pounding, and her vision is split, and everything is telling her to RUN RUN RUN! So she does - somehow flipping and twisting and writhing in their grasp until they drop her to the floor, and she weaves quickly in and out of their feet. Finally, she spots a hole in the wall, just big enough for a rabbit to squeeze through. Scared out of her mind and running on pure animal instinct, Shay surges for the whole and makes it through, entering into an equally terrifying room of bright, bright light.
There she freezes, beady little eyes squeezed tightly shut, cowering from whatever monster must be coming to devour her. What a fitting - and utterly ironic - way to die.
Shaytan
so many lives so many pairs of eyes
[if Shay gets eliminated, can she have a fun defect too? ^_^ ]
His tears blind him to the changing world around him.
The maze-scene kaleidoscopes around his hunched body, shifts from a wash of red-soaked greenery to black. Lost in his grief, the weeping boy doesn’t notice at first. The sound changes, though, and this he does notice, even with his weaker human hearing. He lifts his head, hearing nothing. The silence stretches long and thin across a room that is much the same. It is such a complete blackness that he can’t tell, however. Eldrian rises to his feet, his green eyes wide and effectively blind. He wouldn’t mind if this is the end. He wouldn’t protest if Hell has finally claimed his soul, acquired him for all of eternity to pay for his sins. And though the darkness unnerves him, at first he makes no move to find an escape from it. I deserve it, he tells himself over and over until he vehemently believes it. He anchors himself to his spot, determined to make it his final resting site, trying to embrace the darkness that forces itself around him regardless of his comfort.
It doesn’t work.
His stomach is uncomfortably full (full of Nellie’s life-force, full of death and regret and horror) but the rest of him is achingly empty. He’s weary to his very bones, but still, the instinct to survive soon starts his feet. Something else does, too. Some slow-creep sound from one corner of the room starts up. With all of his other senses dulled by the blackened room, his hearing becomes heightened. He should be able to tell which direction the movement is coming from, but it seems to change every time he pinpoints it. Panic rises within him until he’s practically spinning in place, his ears straining to catch the movement. To die here of his own remorse is one thing, but to be consumed by an unknown entity is an entirely different matter.
At the hissing, slithering creature’s loudest announcement, the once-horse picks a direction and runs. He is sure-footed, despite his many environmental handicaps and the exhaustion weighing in his soul, but it seems to take forever to reach any sort of edge to the place. When he finally does, Eldrian smashes head-first into a wall. Instantly, a lightning shot of pain shoots through his nose. Blood wells up inside of it and falls down and across his mouth. Broken, he thinks, tasting his own coppery life-force. But the creature makes a triumphant sound just behind him, and the boy dives to the side just in time to avoid it crashing down on him. When he moves, his hand brushes across a warm doorknob, and he grabs for it like a drowning man desperate for a life-preserver. He tries to yank the door open, but it is heavier than he’d realized. It opens painfully slow, and with each inch, the doorknob grows warmer. The creature stirs and prepares for another attack behind him. Eldrian isn’t sure he’ll escape, because the knob becomes hot – almost too hot to handle. By the time he thinks he can squeeze through the opening, his hand burns with the effort, but he makes it through.
The boy emerges into a hallway, nursing his burnt hand and blinking against the sudden light. His nose pulses with pain. He tries to gingerly touch it with his good hand, but it only increases the flow of blood down his face. Giving up the venture entirely, he drops his hands to his sides and studies the new place he has found himself in. A building? It’s utterly foreign to his horse-self, but his human-self is almost comforted by the surroundings. To human eyes, it’s a lavish, ornate dwelling that speaks of some amount of wealth. Plush, patterned carpet lines the floor, stone statues (one of a gargoyle and one of an angel) occupy the corners of the hall. A part of him (the young, curious part that had been an innocent child back in Beqanna) wants to study it all. But the same hands he’d use to run over the objects in study had held down a girl, had murdered her in cold blood. The same head he’d tilt in unbridled curiosity had grown fangs, just before, and had sunk them into Nellie’s pliant flesh.
He doesn’t want to continue on, not really, but he knows he must. He knows that if he stands here long enough, some other horror will come for him – he has no choice in the matter. But as Eldrian starts down the length of the hall, as he thinks about his life pre-London (the soft meadows, the bowing willows – his mothers, his father) he realizes he wants to get back there more than anything. It’s all just a misunderstanding, this part of his life. Just a nightmare he’ll wake from if he tries hard enough to escape it. A warmth far different than the handle of the door floods him, floods the entire building, it seems. Movement to his left catches his eye – had the stone angel been stretching its arms out before? But he pays it no mind after that, because the golden warmth beckons him onward. It fills him with happiness, with nostalgia, and finally he understands why.
“Mom?” They appear at the end of hall, his two mothers. Emmerly, his adopted mother with her splotched brown and white hair and pale blue eyes, leans against the wall. Talulah stands just before the descending stairs, her skin cold and metallic but her eyes like lit kindling. They simmer with unknown love as they regard him, drawing him in. The young man moves towards both of them, a smile cracking the blood that has dried on his face. They’ll know what to do. They’ll hold him and forgive him and tell him everything is all right.
“You killed her.” Emmerly’s face becomes soft and sad, she leans over as if he’s broken her. And in some other part of the mansion, he can hear a cry. It sounds just like Nellie as he inflicted the first bite of many. It’s high and piercing, tinged with the same surprise he’d heard in the maze. This time, though, it gives him pause. This time, he’s not a monster but a young boy filled with the realization of what he’s done. It hits him like a physical blow, that scream, and he knows he’ll remember it for the rest of his days.
“You were a naughty, naughty boy.” Talulah grips the banister, her face aglow with its rising heat – now an untamed fire that rages across her features. “It’s no wonder I didn’t want you. No wonder I left you to die alone in the Gates.” The warmth suddenly becomes stifling. His throat is dry and he struggles to swallow, but still, he moves towards them. His family, his mothers - they’ll forgive him. The metal-woman sneers, her gaze darting between the blood on his shirt and his own eyes. “You are a stain on our family. I never loved you and never will.”
“Mom, please. I – I – “ Eldrian reaches out, so close that he can hear the heartbeats of the two women. But as he listens closer, he realizes they’re erratic, unnatural. It doesn’t occur to him that they’ve been conjured, his two dams, and his heart wins out over his brain. He pleads, knowing he’ll throw himself at their feet in penance if they ask it. “I didn’t – I wouldn’t –“ but he’s cut off when they begin to change. The two women lose their shape, becoming two-dimensional and flat. Emmerly sinks into the wall, crying out as her body becomes flush against it. Her skin disintegrates so that only her organs appear, shining and gruesome as the mansion’s latest mural. Talulah eyes him quickly, terror replacing the fire her gaze once held. “Please, don’t let it get meeeeee…” She falls like a streamer down the stairs, her body reduced to a line of pale grey skin.
The boy rushes down the stairs, taking them two at a time in his haste. His mother is sprawled down a dozen of the steps, stretched thin. He can see the veins and arteries that once supplied her body with blood, and he feels his stomach roil with regret at the thought. Talulah’s eyes linger at the last step for a moment, revulsion and fear in their depths when they see him, before they melt away. Only the grey accordion of her skin remains, painting the steps with the flat remains of the dead.
Eldrian tears away from the scene, hurt and confusion fueling his steps. What the hell is this place, anyway? And how do you get out? There’s a grand-looking door in the foyer at the bottom of the staircase. The front door, it has to be. He pulls at it for a long time, unable to find a deadbolt to free it from its locked position. After pounding on it for several long minutes with both his good and hurt hand (angry minutes which only add to the growing ache of failure in his chest) he turns away. Now, both of his hands throb painfully. He finds he doesn’t care a bit, finds that he rather likes the pain because it replaces the emptiness his mothers had scooped in his insides. He stands for a long time, flinching at all the aches and twinges of his injured body, unable to make a move. He feels stupid for ever yearning for adventure in the first place. All it has gotten him is a guilty conscious and a pair of dead mothers.
The young man clenches and unclenches his hands and his jaw. The taste of blood still lingers in the back of his throat, despite the water that had brought him back to human. There’s nothing about Nellie’s death that he secretly enjoyed, no part of himself that wants a repeat of the unfortunate encounter. He’ll always hate himself for killing her. And when that same cry of her's sounds into the near distance, Eldrian runs for it like his own life is at stake. Maybe it is.
Maybe this time he’ll save her instead.
She’s there at the top of another staircase, this one leading down into a darker, danker part of the house. The basement, his human brain once again supplies the information his horse-self didn’t have. Her eyes are the same, cerulean blue; her smile is vibrant and splitting her face nearly in two. It doesn’t make sense, because she’d just been screaming. The dark-haired boy walks towards her without hesitation, though, his bruised hands reaching for her. If only he could feel her, touch her, make sure she’s alive and her heart still bleeding (the blood at home in her veins where it belongs, not collecting and squelching in his stomach). But she’s coy. She winks at him mischievously, turning sharply on her heel and running down the stairs. “Come along,” she says, her voice sing-song. “Tha’s right. Follow your pretty English sparrow.” She giggles and disappears around the bend at the bottom. The words make him sick because they’d been his, but he follows anyway. He’d go anywhere she wanted him to from the guilt alone.
The stairs creak menacingly as he makes his way down them. At one point, the board cracks beneath his feet but doesn’t break. This part of the mansion is unfinished, cold and dark and damp. Eldrian shivers when he doesn’t see Nellie right away. “Nellie?” His voice is as strained as his vision as he peers into the darkness. “I’m here. Nellie?” It’s deathly silent for a moment. His heart races in his chest. She cries out for the third time, but this time, there’s no surprise in her voice. Eldrian stumbles blindly further into the basement. There’s a small room around the corner, hidden from his initial place by the stairs. A single bulb illuminates the room, casting harsh shadows on the scene. It doesn’t soften the sight of Nellie’s re-broken body, doesn’t hide the tears along the length of her skin. And though Eldrian doesn’t remember the extent of his work, the wounds that cover her are two parallel pricks – the bite of the vampire. She bleeds from all of them, her legs, her arms, her face. It pours out of her, spreading quickly around her prone body in a crimson lake. She doesn’t move at all except her eyes. “You did this.” And he collapses, the blood soaking into his trousers and feeling hot and sticky against his legs. “You killed me.” He doesn’t see the small hole in the corner of the wall, glowing bright just beyond. His tears blur the scene, blur Nellie’s face, but he can hear her all the same. “You killed me, Eldrian.”
I will send you a critique as requested!) You wrote a book! And it was so creative!
