[Fic] unbothered
Title: unbothered
Fandom: Original
Characters: Unnamed someone, policeman
Word Count: ~1,000+
Rating: High T
Warning/s: implied graphic stuff such as violence, murder and cannibalism
Summary: Worrying don't agree, things that bother you, never bother me! Things that bother you, never bother me! You and a stain remover.
Disclaimer: Since the fiction is original, the character and situations contained herein are my brain children.
Notes: Written for Prompt #11 - Abandonment of I:U’s Writing Challenge. This is the trippy sh!t I come up with after listening to this for more than 30 minutes. The unitalicized part of the summary is the lyric to Tiny Tim’s “Living in the Sunlight, Loving in the Moonlight.”
The first time you receive a rose on your front step is just as you are cutting the oranges to season your food. You are humming a song whose lyrics you do not know, and when the bell rings, your hand slips and the knife cuts a gash into your index finger.
Your blood is red.
You take a towel from one of the drawers and wipe your injured finger as you make your way to the door. You do not bother to check the peephole, because there is rarely anyone who visits and even having the mailman ring your bell sends a trill up your spine at the thought of someone of your front step. The solitude and silence you once thought would be a balm to your frayed nerves have swallowed you completely until the only noise you are accustomed to is the television set droning on and on about products you intend to buy but do not get around to doing so. Sometimes, you wonder if you should venture out now; but you pack your coat and hang it up on the rack even before your feet hit the ‘Welcome Home’ mat.
It isn’t as if you are scared of the outside world. It’s just that the outside world does not want you anymore.
Your blood is red.
When you open the door, it is empty save for a rose on your front porch.
You bend down to pick it up, and its petals match the red, red stain down your finger.
The rose goes to a vase on top of your mantle, just beside a picture of you during your high school days.
There are no other frames.
You have stopped knowing anybody else, since.
The liver tastes delicious with the red wine, and you savor each bite with careful, thoughtful chewing. After eating one piece, you set your fork down and push your chair back. It needs more seasoning -- salt, preferably. You rummage through your cabinets, humming a song you last heard when you last made your way to the city for groceries. It goes, “I just go my way, living everyday! I don't worry!” You think they are making more and more beautiful songs this time around. You sway your hips as you mouth the words, waving the salt shaker in the air.
You bump against one of the chairs as you make your way back to the table, and your lips quirk into a smile as the pain blooms across your flesh.
It is exquisite.
Just like the liver with a few more pinches of salt.
Like fresh meat.
It is exquisite.
Just like the liver with a few more pinches of salt.
You take out a mop and run the wet head against the parquet floors of your study. It makes a squish, squish noise that goes very well with the thundering pitter-patter of the light spring rain against your windows and the reverberating thud, thuds on your cellar door. But you do not hear this, because you are too busy singing, “I’m just as free as any daughter; I do what I like, just what I like, and how I love it!” as you squeeze more water out of your mop and onto the floor to clear the stains away.
You think the dinner tonight will be especially appetizing.
The noises against the cellar door have ceased, and you swipe your mop to remove the last traces.
You think dinner tonight will be especially appetizing.
The stain remover you bought two days ago is worth every dollar, you think. It’s been nothing short of effective, and you make a mental note to buy another one as your one liter bottle is almost empty.
You think dinner tonight will be especially appetizing.
Your bell rings again, and you skip a bit as you make your way to the door. But your smile morphs into a frown when a serious-faced policeman greets you, looking stuffy in his sharply-pressed suit. He flashes a police badge before taking a notebook and flipping it to a page lined with hasty scribbles.
“Good morning,” He says, and your face morphs back to a pleasant smile.
“There has been a series of missing people...” He licks his thumb and uses it to push two pages to one side. You notice he leaves one empty, unwritten page every time he uses the notebook. Idly, you wonder if you can somehow get your hands on it, or--
His hands.
They are brown and tanned, with a scar just by the joint of the thumb.
Yes, his hands are busy folding, unfolding and refolding the corner of a page.
They are brown and tanned, with a scar just by--
His hands--
He stops fiddling with the pages of the notebook.
“...so be careful and report to us if you see any weird goings-on.” He tips his police cap to you, before leaving.
His hands swing by his sides, and they are brown and tanned, and the scar by the joint of his thumb is stark against the brown and tanned skin of his hands they are brown and tanned, with a scar just by the joint--
“Living in the sunlight, loving in the moonlight, having a wonderful time!”
Your voice breaks in the middle but you plod through the lyrics, happy and joyful and gleeful and happy and joyful and gleeful, even though your voice breaks in the middle but you plod through the lyrics--
There is a loud thud and a crack, and you think you should buy more of that stain remover because there is a stain on your parquet floor again.
His thumb is brown and tanned, and there is a scar just by the joint.
You hum as you drag the body of your dinner and bury it beneath the rose bushes just beneath the rose bushes is buried the body of your dinner and bury it beneath the rose bushes--
It will be good fertilizer.
You know, because for the past five years, the petals of your flowers have been a vibrant, blood red.
This entry was originally posted at http://quadrantal.dreamwidth.org/3472.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
Fandom: Original
Characters: Unnamed someone, policeman
Word Count: ~1,000+
Rating: High T
Warning/s: implied graphic stuff such as violence, murder and cannibalism
Summary: Worrying don't agree, things that bother you, never bother me! Things that bother you, never bother me! You and a stain remover.
Disclaimer: Since the fiction is original, the character and situations contained herein are my brain children.
Notes: Written for Prompt #11 - Abandonment of I:U’s Writing Challenge. This is the trippy sh!t I come up with after listening to this for more than 30 minutes. The unitalicized part of the summary is the lyric to Tiny Tim’s “Living in the Sunlight, Loving in the Moonlight.”
The first time you receive a rose on your front step is just as you are cutting the oranges to season your food. You are humming a song whose lyrics you do not know, and when the bell rings, your hand slips and the knife cuts a gash into your index finger.
Your blood is red.
You take a towel from one of the drawers and wipe your injured finger as you make your way to the door. You do not bother to check the peephole, because there is rarely anyone who visits and even having the mailman ring your bell sends a trill up your spine at the thought of someone of your front step. The solitude and silence you once thought would be a balm to your frayed nerves have swallowed you completely until the only noise you are accustomed to is the television set droning on and on about products you intend to buy but do not get around to doing so. Sometimes, you wonder if you should venture out now; but you pack your coat and hang it up on the rack even before your feet hit the ‘Welcome Home’ mat.
It isn’t as if you are scared of the outside world. It’s just that the outside world does not want you anymore.
Your blood is red.
When you open the door, it is empty save for a rose on your front porch.
You bend down to pick it up, and its petals match the red, red stain down your finger.
The rose goes to a vase on top of your mantle, just beside a picture of you during your high school days.
There are no other frames.
You have stopped knowing anybody else, since.
The liver tastes delicious with the red wine, and you savor each bite with careful, thoughtful chewing. After eating one piece, you set your fork down and push your chair back. It needs more seasoning -- salt, preferably. You rummage through your cabinets, humming a song you last heard when you last made your way to the city for groceries. It goes, “I just go my way, living everyday! I don't worry!” You think they are making more and more beautiful songs this time around. You sway your hips as you mouth the words, waving the salt shaker in the air.
You bump against one of the chairs as you make your way back to the table, and your lips quirk into a smile as the pain blooms across your flesh.
It is exquisite.
Just like the liver with a few more pinches of salt.
Like fresh meat.
It is exquisite.
Just like the liver with a few more pinches of salt.
You take out a mop and run the wet head against the parquet floors of your study. It makes a squish, squish noise that goes very well with the thundering pitter-patter of the light spring rain against your windows and the reverberating thud, thuds on your cellar door. But you do not hear this, because you are too busy singing, “I’m just as free as any daughter; I do what I like, just what I like, and how I love it!” as you squeeze more water out of your mop and onto the floor to clear the stains away.
You think the dinner tonight will be especially appetizing.
The noises against the cellar door have ceased, and you swipe your mop to remove the last traces.
You think dinner tonight will be especially appetizing.
The stain remover you bought two days ago is worth every dollar, you think. It’s been nothing short of effective, and you make a mental note to buy another one as your one liter bottle is almost empty.
You think dinner tonight will be especially appetizing.
Your bell rings again, and you skip a bit as you make your way to the door. But your smile morphs into a frown when a serious-faced policeman greets you, looking stuffy in his sharply-pressed suit. He flashes a police badge before taking a notebook and flipping it to a page lined with hasty scribbles.
“Good morning,” He says, and your face morphs back to a pleasant smile.
“There has been a series of missing people...” He licks his thumb and uses it to push two pages to one side. You notice he leaves one empty, unwritten page every time he uses the notebook. Idly, you wonder if you can somehow get your hands on it, or--
His hands.
They are brown and tanned, with a scar just by the joint of the thumb.
Yes, his hands are busy folding, unfolding and refolding the corner of a page.
They are brown and tanned, with a scar just by--
His hands--
He stops fiddling with the pages of the notebook.
“...so be careful and report to us if you see any weird goings-on.” He tips his police cap to you, before leaving.
His hands swing by his sides, and they are brown and tanned, and the scar by the joint of his thumb is stark against the brown and tanned skin of his hands they are brown and tanned, with a scar just by the joint--
“Living in the sunlight, loving in the moonlight, having a wonderful time!”
Your voice breaks in the middle but you plod through the lyrics, happy and joyful and gleeful and happy and joyful and gleeful, even though your voice breaks in the middle but you plod through the lyrics--
There is a loud thud and a crack, and you think you should buy more of that stain remover because there is a stain on your parquet floor again.
His thumb is brown and tanned, and there is a scar just by the joint.
You hum as you drag the body of your dinner and bury it beneath the rose bushes just beneath the rose bushes is buried the body of your dinner and bury it beneath the rose bushes--
It will be good fertilizer.
You know, because for the past five years, the petals of your flowers have been a vibrant, blood red.
This entry was originally posted at http://quadrantal.dreamwidth.org/3472.html. Please comment there using OpenID.