Born Free [open-ish]
WHO: Rudy and his inner kitty, and anyone who feels like catching him (IM me first? XD)
WHAT: The kitty comes out to play~
WHERE: Husband's Alley
WHEN: Day 43, nighttime
Too long. It had been too long since his last kill. He had been playing the doctor, the "caring physician," the clueless one, the nice guy - and his mask was wearing thin.
It was the blood that did it.
He could smell it before he opened the journal, that metallic, sultry smell. It called to him, taunted him, brought him back all those many years to that small, red room. To the sound of chainsaws. It aroused him, sharpened his senses, sharpened that hunger that came from the dangerous lizard underside of his brain. He barely felt the pain. The fangs, the claws, the ears - he hadn't realized they'd appeared until his touch spilt blood.
Rudy sat amidst crimson-dyed sheets, his eyes glazed and unfocused. The body lay ravaged, torn apart, sinew and bone exposed to the dim light of the room. Red, everywhere - the walls, the floor, the ceiling... his shirt, his face, his hands... Rudy felt a vague sense of disgust. It was so very messy. But what did it matter? His eyes turned to the journal, lying on the bedside. Dazed, he flipped it open, the blood from his hands staining the page. Dexter he wrote. He scratched it out with a nail. No... The smell of blood, foreign, intoxicating. Not Dexter. ...Was it? It made him want to shiver and purr at the same time. He scribbled out a reply - I'll come... Home... - and left a long, bloody claw mark on the center of the page. Then he left it on the bedside and crept out into the hall, the heady adrenaline of the jaguar's blood coursing through his veins. More. He needed more.
They were in their rooms, for the most part, and that was where he caught them. He cut the ligaments they needed to run away, tore out the chords they needed to scream. Then he severed the limbs, leaving them in a neat pile, crowned with the head. And he moved on to the next room.
He took six of them that way - seven more who tried to stop him - before he fled, leaping from the open window into a tree, down to the street, and away. He took a wild turn towards the jungle, towards the call that throbbed through his veins.
WHAT: The kitty comes out to play~
WHERE: Husband's Alley
WHEN: Day 43, nighttime
Too long. It had been too long since his last kill. He had been playing the doctor, the "caring physician," the clueless one, the nice guy - and his mask was wearing thin.
It was the blood that did it.
He could smell it before he opened the journal, that metallic, sultry smell. It called to him, taunted him, brought him back all those many years to that small, red room. To the sound of chainsaws. It aroused him, sharpened his senses, sharpened that hunger that came from the dangerous lizard underside of his brain. He barely felt the pain. The fangs, the claws, the ears - he hadn't realized they'd appeared until his touch spilt blood.
Rudy sat amidst crimson-dyed sheets, his eyes glazed and unfocused. The body lay ravaged, torn apart, sinew and bone exposed to the dim light of the room. Red, everywhere - the walls, the floor, the ceiling... his shirt, his face, his hands... Rudy felt a vague sense of disgust. It was so very messy. But what did it matter? His eyes turned to the journal, lying on the bedside. Dazed, he flipped it open, the blood from his hands staining the page. Dexter he wrote. He scratched it out with a nail. No... The smell of blood, foreign, intoxicating. Not Dexter. ...Was it? It made him want to shiver and purr at the same time. He scribbled out a reply - I'll come... Home... - and left a long, bloody claw mark on the center of the page. Then he left it on the bedside and crept out into the hall, the heady adrenaline of the jaguar's blood coursing through his veins. More. He needed more.
They were in their rooms, for the most part, and that was where he caught them. He cut the ligaments they needed to run away, tore out the chords they needed to scream. Then he severed the limbs, leaving them in a neat pile, crowned with the head. And he moved on to the next room.
He took six of them that way - seven more who tried to stop him - before he fled, leaping from the open window into a tree, down to the street, and away. He took a wild turn towards the jungle, towards the call that throbbed through his veins.