[open] a cat's a cat for all that
Iris Fortner is in distress. Of course, this isn't unusual, what with the metric fuckton of fail that living with the Fuchizakis drops on her on a near-daily basis. But this isn't that kind of distress, nor is it the kind that comes with snowstorms and blackouts and other strange manifestations of the Rift. No, this is almost entirely mundane; at
( Read more... )
Reply
The flicker of memory-- it hadn't been certain. She hadn't really been prepared for what she was going to face. All she'd known is that the voice sounded familiar, that it tugged on something from her recent past.
When her eyes meet his, the vulgarity of his words, the tone, the situation-- it all clicks into horrible, heartwrenching place. "You," she hisses back at him, with just as much venom.
She's going to die now, she's sure of it. Her heart's trembling. Her stomach gnaws at empty air, trying futilely to reject contents that don't exist. This is the end. Her end, in some dark and wonderless place in the middle of abandoned nowhere. This is how she's going to die.
She hates it. But she may as well face it. A flicker of sadness alights in her heart: do I really not get to ( ... )
Reply
There's smoke in the air. It's hard to see Ivan. He's busy pulling up memories, memories of the wings-that-were-never-meant-to-be. Trying to find out what else can slake his need for her fear before he finishes it.
That feeling -- her wings are gone now -- of them pressing, not quite out like they should be. Memories of people telling her how she couldn't ever be an angel. How she can't be accepted.
Reply
It doesn't stop her from screaming. There's no other reaction to that sort of assault. It can't be real, but there's nothing else to focus on, nothing else to see. It can't be real, but it is her world. And so, like someone trapped by dream-spectres, who knows it's an illusion yet can see no way out, she howls.
It's a long, continuous, bitter howling, that resonates in the metal of the old warehouse and sets its substance to ringing. Or maybe that's just her ears, protesting the deafening and constant noise.
Reply
"How could you like, totally want something like that from me?" she asks, old blood crusted on her too-pale face. "That's like, totally sick, perv. Besides, you like, really thought you could ever be an angel?"
The figure laughs.
"You're like, nothing but a pale imitation. I only like, put up with you because you're pathetic and like, make me feel a bit better about my life. I mean, I totally have a bit of crazy, but you're out there."
Reply
It's all coming to a boil in her brain, crushing out any sliver of rational thought. If she'd had a little more time, maybe she could have faced this; maybe she could have been strong again. But Chicago has dealt her too many blows, and her mind is collapsing under this weight, like an effigy of straw.
Straw, burning straw on a funeral pyre. Did you know the etymology of cunt? They say it has to do with cunning-women, witches, but then people aren't sure if that's true. Have you ever burnt herbs or traded in occult materials? Have you ever been-- I wish to be burnt. Have you ever been burnt? Have you ever--? Did you know--?
Did you know? her mind raves on and on, like some demented public service announcement. The part of her that could make sense of that knowing is burning away, like ( ... )
Reply
DeadMolly laughs, then fades in the smoke, falling back down, like dead things ought.
She's already too broken, Ivan muses, stepping closer, dragging the flat blade of his knife along the side of his face. He can't get any more of a high from her.
"Pathetic," he says, reaching out and dragging the knife down her face. One slash, two, three, four.
"See how red it is?" he whispers in her ear, mocking the intimacy of the moment as he presses closer. "Let me fix that for you." The knife digs into the pressure at her back, but really, it's digging into bone, into wing. The knife isn't good enough, he realizes eventually.
So he embraces her, bringing his arms around her and snaps it. "Little birdie with a broken wing," he whispers.
The pain, he assumes, will be too much for her. She's been enough fun. The real part though will be later. When he can feel the entirety of Chicago's pain and torment.
Reply
She doesn't feel the knife on her face. She's already numb to it, and the blood dripping down her cheeks, well, it may as well be water. Everything's in black and white. Her back hurts. Her everything hurts. Her everything is curled up in her back, sleeping, safe, broken, alive, wanting, inside, falling, falling.
Broke my wing. She's aware of that. She doesn't cry at it, or protest; or she doesn't try to, at least, unaware that she's still screaming. There isn't a her to protest. It went away. Or maybe it is her wings, broken, dead, nothing. She needs to retreat into the nothing. Better to be nothing there than something here.
Or something.
It's pitch dark.
Reply
Leave a comment