mech-a-nical - Tumblr blog

[mech-a-nical]

Curl Up and Die

Composition: Unnamed

Word Count: 1,711

Character Focus: Charlotte (Younger)

I'm not another cookie cutter killer

I enjoy the adrenaline and thrill, don't make me an idiot

Bruises in different stages of healing littered Charlotte's legs, visible by the black shorts she wore. Similar wounds dotted the rest of her body with the exception of her face, and the wounds on her arms were covered by her red leather jacket to combat the afternoon autumn chill.

The chill stung against the scratches that were left behind on her face, her split lower lip had at least stopped bleeding since her after-school altercation. Even so, it remained a constant throb as she sat on the side of the edge of the sidewalk, lost in her head as she stared at the empty road and the silent trees in the orange afternoon glow.

She had been caught unawares outside the school grounds, a mistake that sent her sprawling to the floor after a punch to the side of her face, and her attempt to look up was met with a kick that left Charlotte tasting copper while trying to swallow down bitter tears.

It was pathetic, as she looked up bare legs to see skirts, and then further up to the vindicated faces of the two, vaguely familiar, girls. It was shameful, as she retaliated, knowing that she had not been prepared, that she had allowed someone to pull the rug beneath her feet. It was embarrassing, to feel herself powerless as she swung at the girls in desperation, wrong-footed and nowhere in the mindset to enjoy the feel of skin under her fist. It was humiliating, being unable to remember as a result of her panic.

It was mortifying that despite bringing one of the girls to tears, memories resurfaced as Charlotte basically ran away, blinking rapidly with her own arms around herself in an imitation of a hug. Memories of years when she would get mobbed by countless students, never getting the chance to get up the fatal position she would be reduced to on the floor. All she had been was just a punching bag, a ragged doll prone on the floor, receiving any kick or punch that came her way without a fight back.

Fighting back had not solved the issue, instead, many decided to take it as the green light to attack her further. Sometimes she wondered whether one day it would be herself or someone else snapping and ending up with someone dead instead of bruised and bleeding. She wondered if maybe it was a race to see who ended up going past the point of return.

She broke away from her thoughts when she saw a dog amble about on the side of the road. It was not a pretty one, most likely a stray wandering, searching for food.

A pretty stupid stray or a neglected pet, for the fact that the dog decided to amble towards her instead of keeping it's distance. It walked with it's head down low, hunched over, and a limp tail. A tail that made the attempt to wag as it nudged against her knee.

Charlotte curled her hand, letting the dog sniff her fingers. It lowered his head to push it against her hand until she was rubbing her knuckles onto it's head with care. She remained motionless otherwise, afraid to spook it away or find out it's aggressiveness via it's bite.

A pet was never something she wanted, a responsibility she did not feel on taking. Having a pet would also give the others the knowledge of a weak point, might use the dog to hurt her. That did not mean she hated dogs, or any other animal. There were no strong feelings either way, be it a raccoon or a dog.

Others did not deserve the responsibility of a pet either. She understood why owners beat their dogs, understood the high that came with the power of reducing something weaker to whimpers and obedience. Yet it never failed to make her flinch whenever she saw the dog trying to hide itself, curling in on itself as if it would save it from further pain. It was pathetic. It was saddening. It was understandable.

She gave one last gentle pat on the head of the dog before standing up, her voice a pitched higher as she looked down at the dog with a smile. The stretch of her mouth made her lip sting and her face throb.

There was a conversation she had heard, from when she would sit on the stool at the bar, waiting for her aunt to finish her night shift at the diner.

There had been some boys, older than herself. She guessed they were on their last year of high-school, if not, college already. They had been talking loud, careless of their surroundings or who heard them. Perhaps they knew how loud they were being and did not care. Perhaps they were proud and wanted to flaunt it.

She remember at what point in the conversation she had been listening to, a guy had boasted about beating it's dog to submission and how he should do the same to "his bitch" so that she would think twice about dressing and acting the way she did.

"Whore", they had called her, "bet she'd jump on any dick, even a dog's."

They had all laughed, adding to the fire with more comments and jokes.

"You psychopath!", had been delivered like a compliment.

She thought about the correlation she had heard before, the apathy towards animals leading to murderers. She felt pity for whatever stupid girl decided to get with someone like that. It was usually the really pretty girls. She had to give it to him, boy like those did wonderfully in lowering the self-esteem.

She thought back about the fantasies she had late at night. Laying beneath the thin blanket on her mattress, staring at the darkness of her room as she thought back to the boys who tried to touch her amidst their fights. To the jealous girls who would grab her hair and pull as hard as they could. To the girls who thought it was funny to splash water onto her face. To the girls who would sit on top of her stomach until Charlotte would buck them off and they would be underneath her instead as she punched them. To the girls who's makeup she would ruin, whose long hair she would have caught with her nails that would leave strands for her to find later.

She wondered how it would feel to bring her hands to their necks and squeeze, feel them gasps beneath her, scratch at her arms as their faces would turn red and purple, their eyes bulging out and their mouth gaping like fishes. To bring a knife from the kitchen and stab one of them on the stomach when they got too close. To grab a rock and bring it over her head and repeatedly smash it onto their face. A ruler. A book, a pen, a pencil. In the bathroom. Randomly stand up during class and pick anyone at random. Push them out the windows. Walk into a classroom while fighting recoil from a gun. Stomp hard enough on someone's head or neck.

They were not so different, Charlotte silent on her stool, and the cacophonous group on the table. But she was better than them, because she did not pick something that was not human, that trusted blindly and was reliant on her to survive. They were worse than her. She was better, because her high was earned after every wound she inflicted, every wound she evaded.

They were worse, arrogant. Blindly believing they were in control over whoever they decided to hurt. Maybe they would end up killing someone, maybe their "psychopath" comment not too far fetched. Maybe they truly were born to be cold-blooded killers.

Charlotte highly doubted that they would be successful killers. It had brought a smile to her face as she thought about it.

Shards of a smashed plate stuck through their skulls. The handle of a knife peeking out from the side of their necks. A fork stabbed between their eyes. A head repeatedly bashed onto the table. Puddles and rivers of blood painting the floor, booths, windows, and walls of the diner, red.

Or they would walk out the diner. She would get off her stool, follow behind them without them being any wiser. Drag it out, surprise them at their home, at the corner of the street, at their doorstep, drag their bodies into the shadows for someone to find them. Leave their bodies in the open for a shocking surprise.

The sight of her aunt walking towards her made her drop the fork she was playing with, the metal falling with a clank onto the bar.

She blinked, leaving nighttime diners in her memory and returning to the autumn afternoon, raising her arm to give a small wave to the dog,

"Bye-bye!"

She picked up her backpack, ignoring the painful throbs as she swung it over her shoulder. She ran a finger over the wounds on her face as she turned around, brushing the short hair away from her face.

She would go home, patch herself to the silence of an empty house before meeting her aunt at the diner. Maybe she'd be lucky and see her mom before the end of the day, once Charlotte and her aunt returned. See her mom asleep on the couch with the television droning on on the background as Charlotte would walk inside behind her aunt, the clock reading 1:17 am.

"According to policemen, the body of Rachel Davis, 18 year old female, a student at the University of Atropa, was found dead a day after being declared missing by her parents. Policemen were able to locate the body in a ditch on the side of Redwood Road. From the reports, the corpse was found with genital injuries and signs of struggle. The cause of death? Strangulation. Further information states of two possible suspects to the murder of this poor girl: Christian Odell and Louis Quinn, 18 and 19 year old males and students at the University of Atropa as well. The relationship between Odell and Davis was that of boyfriend and girlfriend, but the relationship with Quinn remains unknown aside Odell and Quinn being known close friends."

[mech-a-nical]

Losing Myself

Composition: 94 Pages of Void

Word Count: 1,509

Character Focus: First | Second | Markarian

if I were to be born again

I would look for you over and over again

You got me losing all my innocence

With every look my heart so vacant

Oh, holy ghost

Oh, baby you bring out the devil inside me

Flames from the candles flickered on the stage, throwing orange glares of light onto the sleek black surface of the casket. There was beauty there, a serenity that Second could not get his heart to enjoy in the silence of the dark building. All he could see, with empty looks at the stage, were memories painted in the stark shadows, the ever expanding darkness visible from the floor to ceiling windows. The crackling from the candles filled his mind, a heaviness weighing on the slump of shoulders, the hours ticking away as he continued to sit on the bench.

With no picture visible, it could have just been any other corpse on an everyday basis that laid inside the casket, another nameless fate whose threads were destined to be cut. A fate that Second refused to accept, red rimmed eyes and furrowed brows, and from the prickling feel of being watched, knew his desired was shared by a god that would be willing to go through heaven or hell for him. Even more so if it happened to regard First's life.

Footfalls, Second was intimately familiar with, approached until a body was pressed next to him on the bench. Head held high to view the stage, lowered, unable to look at Markarian in the eye as he turned his body towards the god. Second's arms rose, wrapping them around Markarian and clutching the black fabric of the shirt as if he was holding on to a lifeline, an embrace that was returned, both intertwined on the bench as close as physically possible.

And when you sing your lucid lullaby

You take me straight to lover's paradise

When you get close

Oh, baby you bring out the devil inside me

Lips moved in voiceless whispers where his head was tucked into the crook of Markarian's neck, words shaping in the void between them. A hand carded through Second's hair as shadows weaved around them, protecting them from prying eyes and ears, as tears threatened to fall, mourning Markarian despite being in the arms of his god still, yet he could deceive the both of them into believing the tears were for First.

Pulling away enough to stare into dark eyes, similar to a starless universe, to the black holes that ate sound and light, Second unwided his arms from around Markarian in order to bring his hands up to hold the god's face. Pain that wrecked him was mirrored back to him in those eyes, eyes that he knew would see the regret and longing from deep within his mind. His fingers tangled in the long black hair, his thumbs brushing cool skin, a contrast to the warmth of his own, to the wetness drying on his skin from the tears.

A gentle hand gathered one of his. Fingers interlaced together as the other hand pulled Second's head closer so that lips would brush against his forehead. An understanding that nothing would be the same anymore.

Bring out the devil inside me

There was no judgment, only affection and commitment, and Second feared for the loss of that love, but he knew that no word would keep him here. He needed First, no matter what he gave up in the process.

The threads would have another god to follow.

Devil inside me

There was no true understanding of where exactly they were, as human as he was. None of it mattered anyway, all inconsequential aside Markarian standing with his back to Second, protecting him from the attacks the Goddess of Threads tried to distract him with, trying to escape the hands that wrapped around her throat, absorbing the light of her life source.

Devil inside me

Her attacks gradually slowed, her hands dropping until she was dead weight in Markarian's hold, but even with Second's naked human eyes, he could see that she was not dead still, part of the deal he had made with Markarian.

Second moved from behind his god, the shadows protecting him trailing along as he curved around the two bodies. until he stopped by the head of the Goddess, staring head-on at the berserk face of Markarian.

Losing myself in all the things you do

Visions that we could rule the world

The valleys to the mountaintops, oh

Heaven or hell, it's all the same to you

But promise me this will never die

Holding on for life

The shadows that had acted as a shield crept down his arms, veiling them in shadows that he could shape to his desire by some of the control given to him over them. Due to Markarian's influence on his body, the threads of Fate had no effect on his human nature, his own hands wrapping around the delicate neck as he continued to stare into the dark abyss of his god's eyes.

The ability would transfer to Markarian first, as, by his own power, bested the Goddess of Threads, and from there, would release the ability to Second.

Although that had not meant that Second would not be able to inflict wounds on the Goddess. When the last light of life escaped the body and all that was left was a corpse, Second refused to stop there. His hands clawed at the face, skin tearing apart to reveal the very human-like inner core. Mutilation came in the form of eyes being picked out with shadowed nails, teeth being broken by repeatedly smashing his elbow into them. Brain matter and organs splattered onto his face as ribs cracked under his hands.

There was blood everywhere on him when he finally looked up to smile at Markarian, a pool of blood and junk under his knees. A pale clean hand reached down to him, the shadows removing themselves from his body as he placed his own red tainted hand on the palm offered.

With the pull upwards, he was pressed onto Markarian's body, crushed as if wanting to fuse the both together, and then there was pain, as his humanity was killed to make space for the destinies and fates to be his to control.

Oh, what a pair they could be, the God of Threads, and the God of Nihility, they would have the world in their palms, no entity would ever touch them again. No entity would ever undermine them, nor take what was theirs.

You got me losing all my innocence

With every look my heart so vacant

Oh, holy ghost

Oh, baby you bring out the devil inside me

Ruling together was all but a dream, at least for now, as he stepped back and looked at Markarian with mania and a grin to match, all the while searching for First's thread. Even if he could not bring her back to life still, he could tie himself to her, to follow her to wherever she would try to escape in rebirth and death. He would write new stories with her as his main character, see her face once again, to hear her laughter and cries, until he could bring her back to resume his story here with her.

And when you sing your lucid lullaby

You take me straight to lover's paradise

When you get close

Oh, baby you bring out the devil inside me

His plan continued, First's fate tied to a never ending cycle of stories until he could find a way to bring her back. It gave him time.

Time that he could not curse Markarian with, holding the string of his god's life in his hands as he walked up to him.

With a motion to lower his head, Second imitated the forehead kiss that Markarian had given to a human Second a lifetime ago, as he blocked any and all memories of himself and First in Markarian's mind, sending him back to the cemetery where First had introduced the both of them. The cemetery that First had cared for, next to the home that used to house First and Second.

The devil inside me

The thread of a life, of a human that was yet to be born, was cradled in Second's hands. His destiny was never to interact with Markarian's, a destiny so far apart with only a near approximation. Two strings that were never meant to intersect, even more so, twine together.

The changes should have been be enough to keep Markarian from looking too much into his missing memories, and even though the muted jealousy that cursed through his heart at the prospect of the love that Markarian had held for him, to be given to another, he could not have Markarian waiting for a possibility of their return, or for someone to search for answers and revenge due to the dead Goddess.

Second made sure to twist the human who would take his place in Markarian's future to resemble Second himself, in a final act of selfishness in this lifetime.

[mech-a-nical]

Four Bloated Corpses

Composition: Fragility

Word Count: 1250

Character Focus: Mimi

It is the ocean you love

That threatens to drown me with my inability to swim to the surface.

The roar and echo of the underground metro station equally comforted Mimi in its familiarity while threatening to drag her down to the level of the tracks as memories of years past climbed up her throat in bittersweet sentimentality. The afternoon cacophony soothing her frayed nerves with the knowledge of going back home to Nuru, yet the tiredness that started from her head down to her legs and showed itself in the slump of her shoulder warned of memories wanting to drown her under waves of gray and red as she spaced out staring at the platform across.

Sometimes Roxy accompanied her on these trips back home, something she had done without fail after Nuru died, and once again when Nuriah died. And Mimi can’t bring herself to resent the constant surveillance, aware enough of Roxy’s, and even William’s, worries, although that did not meant Mimi accepted the company without complaint, and it was easier to brush Roxy’s worries aside with a smile and a promise to stay safe, that Mimi just wanted “a little time and silence” for herself. Roxy was a wonderful person, no wonder Nuru had befriended her, but it was unnecessary the concern Roxy had for Mimi, and it wasn’t like Roxy tried to hide it either, working together in the same bank almost everyday.

There was no lie in her request for solitude today, even though it made it easier and faster to go to the cemetery with Roxy not there to supervise her location. Whenever Roxy accompanied her, she’d be insistent to take Mimi home, but as the rumble of the monotone voice of the announcer broke through her wandering thoughts, it’s easier to grab something to eat on the go and immediately visit Nuru.

She could feel the incoming train, and as she walked closer to the edge of the platform, she could see the light getting nearer. The roar filled her head, blanketing her as she glanced one last time at the platform across before the metro blocked it from view.

That was a mistake, as her eyes flicked past a woman that caused her to do a double take and glance back, and in that second she saw brown hair curled in such a familiar way, just before the metro crossed in between them, the air whipping Mimi’s hair onto her face despite the descend in speed.

Wide eyes remained stuck in that same spot despite the obstruction of the train as salt water overfilled her lungs, dripping down into her stomach like a waterfall and alarmingly flooding her mouth with the promise of drowning her.

When the doors opened and the rivers of people waded through to step either in or out, Mimi placed one foot in front of the other, following the crowd despite the heaviness making it feel as if she was walking in a particularly turbulent ocean, gray waves crashing into her and stinging her eyes and nose until all that was left of her were raw nerves and a red sea as far as she could see.

Rushing to a window to see the platform proved fruitless as that particular brown hair was nowhere to be seen, and Mimi would’ve considered the thought that she had hallucinated another person that looked similar to Nuru…and to Nuria, had she not seen that same woman some weeks ago at the cemetery.

It had started as a normal, daily visit. Mimi had brought a blanket to sit next to the grave as she recounted her day to the silent stone. As winter thawed away and spring bloomed with flowers and leaves, that particular day had been wonderful, the leaves blocking the sun and a breeze swaying through. Mimi had planned to stay until hunger overtook her, when she would bid goodnight to the grave and return home.

A plan that crumbled apart like a clump of sand in her grasp, when a woman arrived at a grave not too far away, Enough that the woman would most likely not notice her, but enough that Mimi could see her clearly enough. Clearly enough that Mimi cursed her vision as a cold wave managed to engulf her completely.

Mimi would admit that the woman looked beautiful, but refused to think further on the topic. Beautiful she may be, but it felt too close as if she was cheating on Nuria, despite the fact that Nuria has been dead for over three years now…and in those three years, Mimi had not gone to visit her after the funeral.

She saw the woman kneel down to place a bouquet of flowers in front of the gravestone, one that Mimi knows was a recent addition in the winter months, but she does not remember seeing this woman there when the burial happened. She does admit that she possibly could have missed it. Over 12 years it had been since Nuru died, yet every winter Mimi was thrown around as gray after red wave crashed into her from every direction, and despite the various years of getting used to the same taste of salt water filling every crevice inside of her year after year, every winter felt like the first time.

Despite the longing and raw desire to wash ashore and meet this woman, Mimi remained sitting next to Nuru’s grave, staring all the while, trying to memorize as much as she could. She refused to go through all that again, refused to take away Nuru’s spot as her best friend and Nuria’s spot as her first and only girlfriend for this new one that could possibly die like the first two did.

Mimi watched the woman stand up, lips moving and an angry expression on her face. She watched her turn around and walk down the path towards the entrance. Watched as the waves of Mimi’s ocean never reached her as the woman disappeared, and Mimi truly hoped it would be the last time she would see her.

As the cemetery went back with Mimi being the only one alive, she stood up to see who the woman had come to visit.

The grave held the name of the deceased, with the inscription,

ETERNAL LIFE AWAITS FOR A BELOVED SON AND FRIEND TO MANY

There were two dates as well, birth and death, which would have made this dead man 30 years old.

That night, Mimi remained next to Nuru’s grave, silent.

Back in the metro, weeks later, Mimi slumped into a seat, head thrown back until it thumped on the wall. The pain did not register as Mimi closed her eyes. She wanted to stand up, walk into every cart until she saw where the woman sat. Wanted to sit next to her, hear her voice, what type of inflection made her different from Nuru and Nuria. Mimi wanted to learn what the woman hated and what she loved, what she dreamed and what she feared.

Despite her urges, Mimi remained rooted into her seat until the metro stopped and then she was running away, taking her all the way to Nuru’s grave, where she broke down crying, salt water spilling from her lips and her eyes.

“I saw her again, Nuru! I can’t- I can’t! I miss Nuria, I miss you, I’ll make this- I’ll make this right, until I see you again…no more, please, no more…”

The grave remained silent, offering no comfort. Not like Mimi expected differently as she curled up on the grass, hugging her knees to her chest.

[mech-a-nical]

Would You Turn Me In?

Composition: Unnamed

Word Count: 2397

Character Focus: Charlotte

Is it jealousy, anger, or love

When I give her a corpse and a rose

Through the apartment backdoor, into alleys and streets, Charlotte kept her head bowed, her face shadowed by the black baseball cap she took back from Riley’s sleeping body. Car headlights and the flickering overused lights of the city shone down on her like spotlights, but she had made sure to appear as any other meaningless woman walking the night streets. She was scheduled for a one-man show after all.

Dressed in a different outfit than the one caught by the cameras earlier when she was with Riley, a black long sleeve and gray jeans with the black baseball cap hiding her gathered hair, she made her way back towards the bar, imitated soft steps as the only indicator of her presence. The burner phone dug into her hip where it was tucked on the waistband of her jeans.

With a shift that had ended at 11, added with Riley’s situation, it neared one in the morning when Charlotte arrived outside the bar. Though she did not enter, instead continued to walk past without a second glance. Her game was no longer there after all, having been kicked out soon after she and Riley left, almost two hours ago. That certainly did not mean he had gone far during that time.

Before she continued, Charlotte made a slight deviation from her path to a backpack that was deposited in an alley that contained a few things she had ordered, instead of using the pre-picked outfit for her later scheduled target. Primarily in the bag, a minor outfit change and a lipstick tub.

Picking out the clothes first, she traded the black long sleeve to a black tube top, the gray jeans for a black micro skirt, and the black sneakers for black and red leather ankle platform boots. Inside the bag was also a dark red leather jacket. An all black ensemble would have been too basic, and if she wanted the man to follow her, she needed to catch and secure his attention.

Without a wig, Charlotte adjusted the cap on herself again, this one a more personal kill that did not require a different identity. She wanted the man to see her, right before he died, but she needed to hide as much of her face from onlookers. However left her gold ear piercings back in the apartment, too much of an identifier if people noticed. The cameras were at least not a complete worry, knowing who was tampering with them at that moment.

She looked up at the singular camera, careful to not tilt her face too high up so that she could see the sky, at the mouth of the alley and she stuck her middle finger up while dropping the burner phone into the bag with her other hand. The phone buzzed, and she smiled, dropping into a crouch to retrieve the lipstick and knife.

The red lipstick tube was dropped back into the bag once she was done, and the bag was hidden until she returned for it. She had debated bringing the apartment keys with her, but at the last moment had placed them between the cushions of the couch. The sound of an unlocking door would have been too loud and taken too long incase of an emergency. Leaving her phone behind to act as a camera was vital.

Concealing the blade into the waistband of the skirt, and making sure everything was set, Charlotte left the alley, chin high and with purposeful strides.

From the location approximation her Informant had given her after their bathroom talk, Charlotte found herself walking down the same streets as similarly dressed women– low cuts, micro length, more skin than clothes– that walked up to any man on the road that appeared to be thick in multiple ways, more specifically, focusing on the size of his bank account.

Charlotte might have taken a moment to admire if she had not seen her target exit one of the buildings as if he had been shoved out to the curb, and as he stabilized himself to not eat dirt, he was clearly drunk enough to almost throw off his own balance.

That miserable scene brought a grin to her face, and she slowed down her steps as she made her way towards him, the sound of the city masking the snap of the heel and the platforms meeting sidewalk at every step until she was right next to the man, letting a hand drag down his shoulder to catch his attention.

She hummed, softening her grin into a coquettish smile, “Would you like to come with me?”

She never let her eyes stray from his face. In turn, she saw when his eyes met hers and continued to look downwards, allowing her to stare at him without worry. And she could admit he was easy on the eye, a little above mediocre, the money could easily be seen on him. It was honestly surprising he had not been picked up sooner. Charlotte would even say the distant paranoia of the man being a trap crept into her mind.

As she stared closer, she could see the blossoming bruise from Riley’s strike. The thought of the detective asleep on her bed briefly distracted her from the hand creeping up her leg until it was touching the bottom of her skirt, an action which quickly showered her coldly with awareness of her present predicament.

“Yes, yes.” His voice was nothing noteworthy, unremarkable.

She concealed the jolt that passed through her body at the feel of his hand, but she could not quite hide the tensing, which she covered up by taking a minute step away, and softly dragged the hand she had placed on his shoulder down his arm, touching him as long as she could as she continued to step and angle her body away from him.

She placed a finger up to her lips and looked at him from over her shoulder, before she turned her head and walked away from him, purposeful strides converted to an imitation of a model walk as she emphasized the sway of her hips.

He followed her readily, and she led the both of them into a service road, away from the areas the strippers usually frequented. That did not mean there were no more possible dangers, but it served as a reminder of her limited time.

An added plus that the smell of the dumpsters was not so unbearably unpleasant, but still noticeable enough she had to prevent herself from wrinkling her nose.

She spun on the heels of the boots and pushed the man against the sidewall of one of the buildings, pressing her body against him and allowing the jacket to slip off her shoulders and pool in the crook of her arms.

Leaned her face close to his, the smell of alcohol mixing with her breath as she smiled at him, moving one of her hands off his shoulders down to her skirt.

“It’s a shame you’re just as drunk as the lady that punched you.”

A multi-tool tactical pocket knife, all black, was slammed into the man’s shoulder, and Charlotte quickly moved her other hand to cover his mouth and muffle his scream.

Charlotte laughed, a bright sound, as she leaned back, “Oh! I doubt you even have an idea on why you are being stabbed!”

Ripped the knife out, switched hands, and stabbed his other shoulder, but this time, dragged the knife down the same path her hand had taken.

“You don’t even know who I am.”

Fully stepped back, taking the knife out, letting the man drop to the floor in a heap of moans, whimpers, and groans. His legs were splayed out straight on the floor in front of him, and Charlotte stepped over him, boots on either side of his legs as she dropped into a crouch and then to her knees.

“But do you remember her? She punched you squarely in the face after all. Strawberry blonde hair, brown eyes, black leather jacket?” She fell silent for a second, letting the pained sounds that came from him to ring between them, “…No? I’m sure all the women you meet blur together in your mind.”

His hands rested palms up on the floor and with a blood-red toothed grin, Charlotte repeatedly stabbed one of his palms, and roughly pressed her hand onto his mouth.

“She left you with only a bruise…I’ll leave you with more, and you’ll wish she’d just continued to punch you.”

His eyes were rolling up into his head with the pain, and raspy sounds were starting to be the only thing coming out from his mouth.

“Aren’t you lucky tonight? Having a woman on your lap?”

Abruptly standing up, Charlotte brought the knife over her head and drove it down into the top of his head, until her hands touched his hair. Then, she slowly dragged the knife up, relishing in the wet sounds of the blood and flesh against the movements of the knife.

When she had the knife freed once again, she bent down slightly at the waist to clean the blade off on his brand shirt, further staining the fabric in messy strokes until she was satisfied and flipped the blade closed, wiggling a bit to pull the skirt down which had ridden up with her movements, and then tucked the blade into the waistband again.

As she fixed her jacket and zipped it up, her eyes noticed two discarded roses on the ground, wilted and trampled. Meaningless gifts that men brought to their usual strippers.

Picking them up, Charlotte glanced back at the man and threw them at his chest.

“Maybe next time, try first with flowers.”

With her hands shoved into the pockets of the jacket, Charlotte left with unhurried steps.

Once she returned to the location of the backpack and the only remnant of her crime were the small splatters of blood that had splashed onto her skin, Charlotte turned on the burner phone, swinging the closed backpack over her shoulder.

A text from the number of her Informant was the first thing she noticed, that one that had buzzed when she had dropped it into the bag.

‘Red is a nice color.’

With a grin, Charlotte called the number, letting the phone buzz in her hand as she leaned against a wall and stared up at the camera, as she waited for him to pick up.

“You’re crazy, all sense gone.” His words were slurred, though it sounded more likely caused by tiredness than by alcohol.

“Am I supposed to apologize?”

“I do sleep, you do know? An apology would not hurt. It would be very nice actually. You risked our deal with this operation of yours, even more so since you did not conceal yourself very much.”

Charlotte rubbed a finger over her lips, making sure most if not all of the lipstick was completely off, continuing to whisper, “I’ll say I learned my lesson, and thank you for indulging me at the cost of your sleep.”

A weary sigh crackled over the line,

“We have your detective to worry about now even more, your stupidness and lack of foresight pains me. Will she hide you when your face is on the news, just because you killed someone for her?”

“This was not for her-”

“Yes, yes, you got jealous that someone else touched what was yours-”

“She’s not mine-!”

“Shut your damn trap…I’m still helping you, dammit, but your dog’s suspicions are yours to handle. Take this as a happy early birthday present. Refrain from being so reckless in the future and you won’t see your death only once in the news. Be quick in getting home safe. Goodnight.”

The line disconnected with a click, and Charlotte lowered the phone, tucking it hidden as she stepped out into the sidewalk.

The grin never wavered from her face.

Water dripped down her face, the faucet of the bathroom sink running noisily in the quiet of the bathroom. The white bathroom light stung her eyes, and from the quick glance to the powered on screen of her own mobile, the digital clock read 3:37 am.

Glancing back to the reflection in the mirror, a wide smile crawled onto her face and before she knew it, she was doubled over, grasping onto the edges of the sink as quiet breathless laughter shook her body completely. Tears pricked her eyes, her stomach cramping as she forced herself to remain quiet.

The same detective investigating her crimes was sleeping in the room over on her bed. She had a shift to take up later at 9:00 am. She had just killed a man that had made a move on Riley last night, who was, coincidentally, the same detective investigating her crimes. She had forgotten about her 26th birthday until her Informant brought it up. She hid the outfit she used among her clothes while she checked up on Riley.

She was falling asleep standing up.

Shaking her head, she took a moment to do a quick breathing exercise, and upon noticing her shaking hands, opened the medicine cabinet under the sink.

Nausea pills in a purple and orange box, sleeping pills in a blue and orange box, vitamins in differently colored boxes, salves and gels in colored packets, and amidst other medications and first aid objects, Charlotte found the sedatives for anxiety in a red box.

After taking the prescribed dose and washing it down with faucet water, Charlotte took one last look at her reflection before turning off the lights and stepped out of the bathroom, with a plan to sleep on the old couch.

“Despite the fine day, grim news were delivered this morning as, 34 year old database administrator, Alexander Cordell, was found dead this morning by a garbage collector who has decided to remain anonymous at this moment. Rumor is that Cordell had been a part of multiple little altercations that previous night in different clubs in the area, though the exact motives that lead to him with multiple stab wounds is still unknown. The two wilted roses that were found on his corpse raises even more questions and concerns among the police and the public. Is there a new killer on the loose bold enough to sign his work?”

[mech-a-nical]

Lying Perceptions

Composition: Absence of Mind

Word Count: 675

Character Focus: Ervos

How long will it be

Until weeds grow inside a safe space?

Lying down on the bed, Ervos twists his body around from facing the wall, curling into himself as he stares at the closed door of his room, his chin tucked into his chest and his arms coiled around his legs, the blanket slipping off his body with the movements, but he does not make a move to gather it and cover himself.

In this silence, he can hear the creaking of the house, and the wind outside, but this room remains quiet. Curtains cover the windows, but despite the constant fear, his fear of looking is a small thought at the moment, easily forgotten as he lays in this room. Dull yellow tinted light filters through those curtains, and there are no shadows blocking the light to render him into an immobilizing panic.

The door that remains close is the primary reason for his current panic, the fear weighing his limbs, the prospect of wasting his day away locked in this room a delightful option the longer he stares unblinkingly at the door, his fear mutating into the idea that this peacefulness and safety inside the room would be abruptly taken away from him if his constant surveillance is removed.

Despite it all, he has an itch to look outside. To see his garden, to see the sky, to see the green, yellow, gray, and brown. The cold wood shocks him when he manages to uncurl himself and swing his legs to touch the floor. Cold that follows him step after unsteady step as he makes his way to the window on the same wall as the head of his bed, until his hand is able to grasp the thin curtains and pull them aside.

Yellow skies tinted gray meet his vision when he looks out the window, contrasting nicely with the green of the bushes, from the small leaves and stems of the flowers, to the leaves and brown bark of the forest trees beyond his garden. The garden in the back is quieter and lonelier than the garden in front, but the sensation of being watched returns to him as he looks at the garden, his garden. It is a wonderful garden, he is proud of that, but the sensation of being watched slowly builds up the longer he stares out.

Quickly closing the window, the sensation dies down, the shaking of his body that he had not noticed finally brought to his attention as he watched the shaking of his hands grasping the curtains shut and the tremors of his body dimming down. His head bows as he regains a sense of control back, the white noise that had been filling his ears returning to the silence of the room.

He takes a step backwards from the window, to turn and he busies himself around the room and the joint bathroom connected to his room without a door, trying to waste as much time as possible even if he feels that he is moving, walking, touching, feeling, breathing, looking, hearing way too quickly. Only when he stares at the locked wooden door does he manage to feel slow.

His hope, fleeting and small, vain, had died when he opened the curtains and the sensation had returned to him, and tired resignation warms his enough to keep the cold paralyzing fear from impending him from unlocking the door, and slowly pulling it open, not breathing, nor blinking as the hallway comes into view, the sensation of being watched building up quickly, quicker than when he looked out the window.

As he steps into the hallway, leaving the safety of his room, closing the door behind him, the sensation stops increasing in intensity, reaching a peak as he walks down the hallway, but the sensation remains strong enough to build a pressure around his head, the white noise returning to his ears, and the beating of his heart adding to the internal cacophony.

They can smell and hear his fear, his senses untrustworthy, feeling and tasting only his ever consuming fear at every breath.

[mech-a-nical]

911, What's Your Emergency?

Composition: Unnamed

Word Count: 2034

Character Focus: Charlotte

The pros of being a murderer outweighs the cons

Being shot by a hot woman is better than dogs' batons

Someone opened fire, bullets ripping through the air, meeting unfortunate targets at random. With the bass boosted music, the first shots were ignored, until bodies dropped to the floor, spraying blood around. Screams rang above the music as customers, dancers, and employees ran from their places, chairs tipping over and crashing onto the floor, bottles and glasses falling from tables and hands, shatters adding to the cacophony of cries.

The majority of people were running away from the front exit, shoving their way to the back of the nightclub. Few others were trying their luck running towards the front, legs crumpling underneath them as bullets were showered into their bodies, while the rest that were not running remained rooted in fear or hiding behind anything they could use as temporary cover.

Charlotte ducked behind one of the pillars that stood throughout the floor of the club. An ornate nightclub had vexed her when both her and her informant had spent countless nights figuring out a plan with the amount of security installed, but as bullets slammed into any possible surface, it seemed that the pretentious decor saved her from eating bullets for dessert. 

The same could not be said to the many bodies littering the floor as awkward piles of limbs, the neon lights painting the blood in bright colors. Filled with bullet holes and covered with splashes of bloody gunk, couches and screens also acted as cover for those too cowardly to be with a back exposed trying to run towards the back exit and too scared to run to the front. They stay crunched down or curled up, phones in their hands as their mouths move rapidly.

Dogs will arrive at any moment, and Charlotte needs to vacate before they arrive and find her. She brushes blonde hair away from her eyes as she stands up, placing her hands in front of her for stabilization as she leans to see past the pillar. 

Another body hit the floor, and she could see the shooter now that the mob aiming for the front had thinned considerably. A woman was dressed casually, as if she had been lounging arounding and decided to commit a crime out of boredom, holding a handgun, a bag next to her on the floor and multiple guns scattered around her. Short black hair brushed the woman’s shoulders, soft brown eyes opened wide in what could have been considered a picture of innocence in any other scenario. Delicate pale skin was flushed pink, the neon blue and pink lights brushing her in vivid colors.

A shot went off, and Charlotte's body startled, her side that was uncovered due to her peeking jerked backwards when an unbearable warmth rushed through her shoulder.

Mouth open wide, Charlotte pressed herself with her back to the pillar, shielding her whole body. Blood was starting to well up and spill down her arm, she could see her shirt starting to stain. 

There was a commotion by one of the couches, and Charlotte raised her head, pressing her hand to the wound, to see a woman stand up from behind a couch and dash for the back door. A woman who looked eerily similar to her target.

Another shot rang out and the scrambling woman crumpled to the floor. Blood was pooling quickly from where the head had fallen, and with a last single glance towards the body, Charlotte looked past the pillar towards the shooter.

The shooter was crouching down, one hand on the gun raised into the nightclub, while her other hand creeped to the bag on the floor. 

It seemed that Charlotte was not the only one to get the idea to escape at that moment, as when she pushed herself off the pillar and ran towards the shooter, footsteps could be heard around her.

Wide eyes of the woman behind the gun locked with hers, the gun trained towards Charlotte's head, and Charlotte only ran faster, bracing herself for the shot. She might stumble with the bang of the gun being so close to her, or have her informant get news of her death.

It seemed there had been a third option, as a man arrived faster to meet the shooter, a hand coming down to jostle the gun and when the woman fired, the shot was aimed at Charlotte's legs, where another sensation of ripping hell spread through her left leg.

She bit her tongue, a scream ripping itself between her teeth. Her legs trembled under her, her steps landing heavily on the floor, jostling her shoulder and sending shockwaves up her leg. Blood would start dripping down her leg, and she needed to scatter before she left a trail back to her apartment.

The man probably wanted to be praised as a hero once all this was over, but Charlotte didn't spare him a second glance as she twisted herself to run past the duo struggling on the floor. 

Met with a blast of sound and air as she shouldered her way out of the door, onlookers were already crowding the streets, phones in hand, and some started to approach her. She wasted too much inside, and she could see the red and blue lights shining across buildings and the sirens getting nearer, the crowds starting to shift.

Charlotte ignored the cries and screams of people behind her as she bolted down the alleyway next to the nightclub. More people were crowded there, but she pushed her way through, letting the blonde hair cover her face as much as possible. Her hand was still pressed to her shoulder, and her leg was threatening to bring her crashing to the floor.

During their planning, her informant had mentioned various blind points that Charlotte had tested out days prior. With a path in mind, she weaved through the darkness. Her lack of jacket was biting her now, and although the black pants covered the bullet wound in her leg, the white v-neck crop top did nothing to hide the one on her shoulder. This led to angling her body in such a way that if she needed to get out of the alleys, her shoulder would not be visible and she could pass off as a hurried and cold woman going back home. She used the blonde hair to cover it further, lamenting the future discardment of this wig, but blood would be too troublesome to get out of the fake hair.

Charlotte hoped her limping would be misunderstood as well.

Entering another alleyway, Charlotte crumpled against the brick wall. She was far enough away from the club in order to take a moment to rest without fearing for her life, but still too far away from home to make the trip without alerting anyone.

Unsticking her hand from her shoulder, she cleaned her palm as much as she could on her pants, before fishing through the pockets to dig out the modified burner phone. Tapping the number one handed, she swallowed saliva that was threatening to overflow her mouth as dizziness and nausea started creeping into her reactions.

Pressing the phone to her ear, she waited in silence, curling herself as small as possible while continuously checking both entrances of the alley, until the call connected.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“How fitting”, through gritted teeth holding back her cries, she could not help a watery smile at the harshly accented voice of her informant. More blood gushed from her shoulder, and Charlotte could guess her leg was fairing no better, running down in rivulets down her skin. “I’ve been shot, I need- I need a delivery…”

"Multiple bullets?"

The question was clipped, no trace of humor in his voice, although there seemed to be anger underneath, though Charlotte knew for sure it was not aimed at her.

"Two…lots of blood…"

There was silence from his side, and Charlotte was starting to wonder if she should lick her arm to clean off some of the blood when he spoke again, tiredness apparent in his voice.

"Bag deposited three minutes away from your location, alley next to the corner drugstore on your way. Take everything and go home. Alternative transfusions in an early product packet at your door. Don't die."

The call disconnected, leaving Charlotte alone with her heartbeat pounding in her ears. She went limp against the wall, hand clutching the phone weakly as her arm and leg burned. Rising up seemed daunting as the seconds went by, but she knew she was at risk of bleeding out if she remained sitting like a corpse. So with a muffled scream that was reduced to wet gasping, Charlotte stumbled her way to the drugstore.

Lurching into the alley four minutes later, Charlotte found the bag nestled between the trash cans after stumbling around in the dark. Using the light of her own phone was out of the question, since it would give out her location. Interruptions were unwanted as she bent over to rummage through the bag, pulling out a jacket wrapped around a roll of bandages and a smaller roll of medical stape.

With already limited knowledge of bullets and her even more so limited movement, Charlotte left the jacket on top of the bag with the medical tape, holding the roll of bandages with her limited hand as she slowly unwrapped about half of the roll. To cut it, Charlotte brought up the bandage up to her mouth, switching to hold the roll with her available hand as she pulled and teared until she could drop the unused half onto the jacket.

Switching back the bandages to her limited hand, she dropped her jeans, embarrassment forgotten in the face of her wounds. Charlotte proceeded to wrap the bandage around her thigh tight enough to almost cut off the circulation in her leg, bending down to retrieve the medical tape to tear off pieces in a similar fashion to how she cut the bandages.

It was more of a struggle to wrap the bandages around the wound in her shoulders, and Charlotte stared with trepidation at the jacket lying on the floor when she was done wrapping her shoulder with the rest of the bandage. She could barely move her arm without the bandages, but considering how much bandage she used and how strongly she tightened it, it would be difficult to bring her arm through the arm of the jacket, although she could not remain like this either.

…needed to bring her pants back up as well…

Charlotte started laughing once she had finished dressing herself, tears dripping down her cheeks as her prior frustration that had bled out in cut off screams and sobs of aggravation trickled away from her. She was tired, cold, dizzy, nauseous, and incredibly wounded, with half the urge to fall asleep right then and there.

In her agitated state, she was able to start limping again towards her apartment, quiet giggles bleeding out of her, hand clutching the bag.

She was quiet when she stared at the package waiting outside her door, ready to kneel over after she had pulled herself up the stairs to her floor. Truly bothersome that they had decided on a location half an hour away from her apartment by foot. She could barely wrap her head around the trip she just took, the memories bleeding away like blood through her fingers.

Unlocking her apartment room, she leaned down to grab the light package with the logo of the supplement brand she receives monthly. There was an official label stuck on the package with structions written with a pen

Call for instructions.

Charlotte smiled as she locked the door behind her, staggering towards her bedroom with the box and bag in hand. 

“In other news, 28 year old woman, Laura Marley, apprehended without trouble two days ago for the shooting at Mirage, one of the few luxury nightclubs in the area, was found dead in her cell this morning. This same morning, information was acquired that she had been the perpetrator behind the string of nightclub shootings and that Laura had been considered missing and dead for some months. Now truly dead, police and investigators are stumped on the motives behind these heinous crimes…”

[mech-a-nical]

Cold Murder

Composition: Monochrome

Word Count: 1774

Character Focus: Malson Knight | Nu Ivern | Amaya Dagua Ivern

Misunderstandings come deadly

Love came in wings, now sharp in jealousy

╍ Shadows curled themselves above the snow in the ground, licking their way closer to him in familiarity. A familiarity that burned through Nu when he saw the man standing outside the door of his house. Burned, despite the constant cold of the Wintry Court, Nu could feel his anger awaken as he looked at Malson and restrained himself from summoning his sword, especially not with Danien held in his arms.

Remembering his youngest son, he shifts his hold to one arm and twists his body, hoping he could block Danien from Malson’s view. Danien makes no sound as he continues to stare at the winged man. Nu’s movement drags Malson’s attention down to the child in his arms, before his eyes flick back up, and those eyes drive Nu breathless as he is once again faced with those same emotionless eyes that once claimed to not know him despite his pleading. He presses Danien closer to his body, and hopes that Amaya keeps Markus and Marite from view as well.

“...a child, you have a child”.

It’s been so long since he last heard his voice, but there is no warmth from either of them. Nu remembered that tone well, remembering from that day they rounded up the Wintry Members, with Malson leading the militia. He stood in front of Nu like at that moment, face hardened and wings posed for flight at any moment, Nu would not have been surprised if Malson had Wintry ancestry.

Even though it hurt and pulled at Nu to see Malson again, it was years too late. He had a wife, and three children. He had moved on, and if Malson had come years earlier, Nu might have listened, might have reconciled, but not now.

“Leave, Malson. Go back from where you came from.”

Malson narrowed his eyes at him, and it felt as if the shadows had expanded, muting the bright white snow, as if the shadows that had been crawling near him had enveloped Nu completely.

“I tried to save the both of us.”

Malson took a step forward, and Nu felt the urge to take a step back, but remained with his feet planted firmly as he faced up to Malson.

“Saved us? I left the Wintry Court to be saved, and you took that away. Saved us? As Commander, you could have proved my innocence.”

Another step forward, closer to Nu.

“As Commander, they would have taken my position if they claimed conspiracy. As Commander, I could protect you through the Carnage Forest. As Commander, I gave you refuge in the Luminescence Court.”

Malson raised a hand to cup the side of Nu’s neck in an inappropriately intimate gesture that he no longer had a right to do. A sheet of ice was what he touched instead, and when he turned a shocked glance back at Nu, he saw Nu glaring at him as he had made use of his powers to protect his skin.

Malson retracted his hand, and it was a quiet staredown, as Malson shuttered his expression and Nu became increasingly agitated. The tension started to grab at their bodies, and Nu opened his mouth to tell Malson anything that might make him leave, when his heart plummeted at the voice of his wife.

“Is there something wrong?”

Hands took Danien from Nu’s arm, and he turned around slowly, eyes wide in fear as he looked at Amaya. She held Danien, and he could see her looking at him and Malson, then back at him with worry and trepidation. He could see Markus and Marite peeking from behind their mother, and Nu sucked in a breath when he heard rapid movement coming from Malson.

Snapping his head back towards Malson again, he summoned his sword to parry Malson’s own.

“Malson!”

Nu knew that he would not be able to hold his own for long going against a Commander. He needed to keep Malson’s attention on him until his children escaped safely. He knew Amaya would be able to keep them safe, and she might be able to alert the Wintry Militia, but he needed to hold off long enough.

Malson reared back and swung again, and Nu moved to block, but the strength behind the collision left Nu staggering backwards, and as he stabilized himself, Nu threw a glance over his shoulder and saw Amaya ushering the kids to a window she had opened.

Raising his sword, Nu was about to charge when shadows shot through the house and blocked any exits like barbed wire, including the opened window and door, and he could hear the surprised screams. He extended his own free hand to create an ice barrier to separate Malson and himself from his family.

As Malson stepped inside the house, he looked at Nu as if he was stupid, and with a bored expression, extended his wings and flailed them, and as he stopped them mid flail, the end of the wings were pointed towards Amaya, as black feathears shot out, and Nu could see as them slowly morphed to have a shaper tip. Nu could only throw ice attack after ice attack, attempting to slow them down if not break them before they could reach her.

While many of the sharpened feathers were aimed at the ice barrier to break it, one singular feather was sent straight for Amaya’s neck, and as she used a water defence, and moved to duck out of the way, the feather moved faster.

It cut through her neck, her throat, and disintegrated as soon as it escaped from the other side, leaving behind a clean path.

Horrified screams filled the air as Amaya’s body fell to the ground with a thump. Her eyes fluttered, and Nu could feel himself dropping his sword as he ran towards her body. He knelt beside her, picking her up from the floor to cradle her against his chest, running a hand through her hair and down her face. He forgot about Malson at that moment.

He felt a small body throw itself onto his side, and could hear Marite's sobs as she clung to him, burrowing her face on his shirt and her little hands clutching it tightly. Her body trembled, and her hair fell like a black curtain around her head, covering the view of her mother if she were to raise her head back up.

Looking to the side and over Marite's head, Nu could see Markus holding Danien, could see blue eyes stare horrified at the body of his mother but remain quiet with his mouth opened in disbelief. Markus had tucked Danien's face against the crook of his neck to shield the baby from seeing the corpse.

Footsteps approached Nu as he and Markus made eye contact, before Nu's eyes slid to his right, where he met black armour covered legs. He slowly moved his head up, it almost felt mechanical, janky, as if a weight was pressed around his neck, trying to stop him from raising his head. Legs shifted to the stomach, then torso, neck and finally black eyes met Nu's.

Nu lets out a sob, dropping Amaya back to the floor and gathering Marite into his arms. He flicks his wrist slightly and sends shards of glass towards Malson’s face. Shadows wrapped around the shards before they could reach his face, and they broke into a shower of ice dust.

Malson looked at Nu with vitriol as he swung his sword backward, the blade pointing diagonally at Nu’s chest as he brought his arm back, and then forward in a sharp thrust, sinking the blade though Nu’s soft skin and tense muscles. He continued moving his arm forward, making sure the blade passed through his chest, but in his tunnel vision, he forgot where Marite stood.

Her screams broke his focus on Nu, and Malson looked away from the blood dripping from Nu’s wound and mouth to see the girl. Both Nu and Malson saw the blade inserted into her own chest. Her face was white, and her chest rose in rapid bursts as her breathing picked up. Tears were falling down her face, and as Malson stared at her face with wide eyes, he saw the resemblance between father and daughter.

With gritted teeth, he yanked the sword out of both of them. Blood spurted out, and Nu fell to the floor sideways, following the path the sword had taken. He took Marite with him to the floor, and he gathered her into his arms as they slowly bled out into a guaranteed death.

He turned swiftly around when he felt hands pull at his armour, and without seeing, he sunk the blade into the new body. Wide blue eyes stared up at him, both of their mouths falling open as they saw each other. The same face that he had just seen bleeding out stared back at him; although this face was more youthful, younger, childish. Dead.

With a strangled scream, Malson shoves the sword further into the young boy before ripping it out again. Shadows wrapped around the baby that had been in the boy’s arms to prevent it from falling as the boy’s arm dropped and he tilted backwards, eyes blown wide open that stared up at the ceiling, unseeing.

Malson lowered his sword, point to the floor as he stared around himself. Four corpses and an oddly quiet baby. A baby he could not kill, but a baby he had to get rid of nonetheless. It was fortunate he had made sure to keep his night free, as he stepped around the corpse of the boy to walk out the door, the shadows he had used to cage the family in, retreating back to him as he stepped out the door onto the snowy outside.

Sheathing his sword, he held the baby in his arms as he spread his wings and took flight to the sky. It would only be a matter of time before the curse took hold and he would not be able to use his wings anymore, so he had to make the trip quickly. Take the baby to the Tempest Court and then hide away.

The Courts may not be in total alliance, but they would join together to take off his head, and Malson was set to deny them that satisfaction. The Courts would talk once they found the bodies, and with his disappearance they would know it was him, but the knowledge would be the only thing they would have in the end.

“Did you hear? A Wintry family was killed…but they only found the parent's corpses."

[mech-a-nical]

Trouble in Secrecy

Composition: The Resistance

Word Count: 1355

Character Focus: Muse | Misiyo | Anne | Alice

In the name of a cursed God

Fantasies continue to win

╍ Muse closed the door slowly behind him without removing his eyes from the figure of Anne lounging on his mattress. Her jacket and boots still remained on her this time, but she bared her neck to him, batting her eyelashes and smiling at him coquettishly. She raised her hand and beckoned him to come near, Muse merely narrowed his eyes at her as the door closed with a click.

He wondered how long she had been waiting for him, if she rummaged through his things and found the little gift box he planned to give Alice tonight. Throwing his jacket to the floor, he ignored her beckoning to check through his things. When his hands touched the little gift, he felt his shoulders lower in relief, but as creaking and shuffling then footsteps were heard behind him to the body that draped itself over him and the hands that started to roam his body, he felt himself still and tense, his grasp on the gift tightening.

Hot breath was blown into his ear as a hand slowly made itself down his arm to the hand holding Alice’s gift,

“I hate Alice. He’s tainted you when you could have been blessed with me. We could have had everything together.”

Muse remained motionless as he continued watching the hands touch him. If he tried, he could imagine those hands to be Alice’s, and his free hand twitched at the prospect of grabbing one of those wandering wrists and crushing it. Alice would have laughed, Anne would have seen it as an invitation to go further with her advances.

“What gave you the idea I want to be fucking blessed?”

He could hear the pout in her voice as she extracted herself from his body, and he turned around to look at her. She held her phone with one hand as she typed, and she was not looking at him, but he could her lips turn from dejected and slowly curl up to a small little smile as she pocketed her phone again.

She met his eyes and slowly moved to his right, and he turned his head to continue watching her. He saw when she made a very obvious move to grab for the gift in his hand, and in thoughtlessness, forgot to not provoke her as his other hand snapped up to grab her wrist in a crushing grip.

She grimaced and he was truly distracted, ready to shove her away when he heard the door of his room burst open. Slow to redirect his unfocused anger, something struck the back of his head before he could turn to look, and he let go of Anne’s wrist to swing at his attacker.

His fist was stopped before it could come into contact with skin, his body remained twisted enough to see who had attacked him as he came face to face with one of the older followers of the Church. He was a hefty man, who had once claimed to have gotten God’s guidance to let his anger and grudges go, but as Muse was shoved back and smacked into the wall, Muse called bullshit on that.

From his peripheral he could see as Anne ran towards the opened door and there he saw that it was not only one who had come to play. More streamed in, many who Muse remembered as being completely and utterly devoted as well as incredibly crazy. Many carried guns while others carried more silent weapons.

His attention was once again snapped back to the first one when Muse was grabbed by the shoulders and pushed down to his knees, where a knee was slammed onto his face, causing a scream to erupt from him as he clawed at what he could, the opening of his hand letting the box slip at fall to the floor with a soft thump.

The little box which was quickly forgotten as another hit was aimed at his face, blood dripping down from his nose and from his opened mouth where Muse had bitten his tongue. He struggled through breath with the pain and the stench of iron, his ears ringing with the pain and the laughter echoing around his room. In spite of, he looked past the bodies swarming in front of him to catch Anne’s eyes.

“You basta’d, you sol’ us out! Bi’ch!”

A stick was brought down across his face, and he was sent sprawling back, the back of his head smacking the wall. Pained sounds ripped out of his throat as he fell limp against the wall, his hands coming up to cover his face. With his face covered, hits and kicks targeted his neck, his chest, stomach, in between his legs. He doubled over as he continued to scream in pain, unable to stand up and defend himself. Screams that turned into laughter when a ruckus started as a new and familiar voice screamed through the crowd.

Opening his eyes as much as he could and peeking through his fingers, his laughter turned into coughs as he watched Misiyo throw punches and kicks, defending and attacking as every so often their eyes would meet, Misiyo’s eyes pinched with worry as he weaved and ducked away from retaliation. It reminded Muse of a dance, and it would have been undeniably beautiful to watch Misiyo move around if it was a different situation they were both stuck in and Muse was not trying to inhale his own blood.

Everyone had forgotten about Muse, and that helped him keep all of his attention on Misiyo, and saw when a bat cracked him on the head. His knees crumpled under him. His whole body trembled for a couple of seconds before he tried to crawl away. A kick at his stomach sent him sprawling to the floor and Muse could hear Misiyo groaning in pain, could see him curling into himself as the same treatment Muse had received rained down on Misiyo.

Hands grabbed at Misiyo, pulling at his hair, his legs, his arms, anywhere they could, to drag him up and over to where Muse remained slumped against the wall. Both reacted to the pain of their wounds as Misiyo was shoved on top of Muse, but another kick to Muse’s side dislodged the both of them, and sent Muse to lie on the floor, where a boot was pressed against the side of his head, digging it into the floor.

In his position, he could no longer see Misiyo, but he could hear him, and when the boot was lifted off his face, he tried to push himself up, only to receive another blow to the head that rendered him unconscious.

There had been a moment of consciousness later, as with one eye half opened, the blurred scenario appeared to be that of a car, and he could feel the rumble of the motor and the voices speaking in front of him, before he fell into unconsciousness again.

When he woke up again the second time, fully, he could only open one eye, the other swollen shut as he rolled onto his back. Wired mesh extended above him, and as he raised his head a little, he looked at the wooden walls of the cage bed they had placed him into, the cage beds that he knew were in one of the storage closets of the Church.

Pain stabbed him as he struggled to raise himself up, twisting himself to grab at the mesh with his hands, pulling at it. The wire dug into his palms and his fingers, and aside from cutting his skin open, the mesh did not budge. So, Muse let the mesh go and started throwing his body against the walls of the bed, trying to tip it over as he screamed.

He stopped moving when someone entered the room, but resumed his struggle when he saw Anne peeking at him through the mesh. She only laughed as he stuck his fingers through the mesh as Muse tried to grab her.

“I got you in trouble! I have no excuse! I caught you, my love!”

[mech-a-nical]

Third Eye

Composition: The Resistance

Word Count: 1097

Character Focus: Muse

Opening a third eye is the forbidden apple

Losing ignorance and innocence with one slice

╍ Chains ran along his body, weighing down around his waist, and connected to cuffs around his wrists pressed behind his back and the back of the wooden chair on the stage overlooking the pews filled with people who murmured and whispered as they stared and pointed at him, side eyeing his mom and dad holding each other. Belts were bound around his calves and the front legs of the chairs, and a stun belt was wrapped around his left arm, hidden from view and digging into his skin. His hair was a mess across his face, long strands sticking to his skin with the tears and sweat that dripped down, his struggling proving futile as he remained sat in the chair with limited vision with teeth bared at the crowd.

Three sets of footsteps walked on stage, two crossing behind him to reach the other side, while one walked to the front, covering him from view of the crowd, as the Pastor addressed the church, bringing a stop to the whispers with a raise of his hand. A silence that emphasized on the sobs coming from his mom. Muse’s sobs would have joined the cries but he knew that any cry or whimper would only excite the crowd further and his mom nor his dad would walk up the stage to unbound him, so he remained quiet, the tremors of his body showcasing his fear and anger.

“It is a shame that one of our children has been blinded by sin and taken away from the path of protection and guidance that our God gives to us. We had wished and hoped that our child would be strong enough to see the wrong and pray for help back into the right direction, but it appears that this is much stronger than his young and youthful body could handle, and he needed the help of us, his family. I want to thank all of you who spoke up and noticed, you saved a child by bringing him to us. We could say 'This wasn’t supposed to happen', but God always has a plan, and God’s plan for this child was so that he could see God’s guidance, and God will continue to protect him now and in the future, away from the evil influences with the help of the opening of his third eye.”

His hearing was muffled by ringing and the beating of his heart, but he could hear the Pastor spin his web upon everyone, enveloping his mom and dad in a cocoon of make-believe. He could hear the Pastor’s wife and the Co-Pastor walking near him again, and he looked away from glaring at the back of the Pastor’s head and saw as the other two walked with scissors, ropes, a knife, and a lighter in their holds.

His head snapped back to look at the Pastor when the buzzing of his voice stopped, and Muse’s eyes met his, as the Pastor walked towards the chair to stand in front of him. With rough hands, the Pastor gathered the strands of hair which covered his face, and his head was yanked up forcefully to reveal his forehead. His eyes filled with tears again as he gritted his teeth, eyes that flickered between the three bodies surrounding him, trapping him, as the wife passed the scissors from her hand to her husband. Husband who held his hair in one hand the scissors in the other.

Snip snip snip

Black hair fell in front of his eyes to his lap, as the Pastor continued to gather his hair, even if it was not in the way of his face. A cut not meant for style, only to remove, to chop, to rid.

“We remove the binds that the evil that had made a home inside this boy, we remove the negativity clouding him. This will no longer affect you, child, you will be saved.”

The scissors were traded for the ropes, and the Pastor turned around to address the crowd, holding the ropes in both hands as he held them up,

“These ropes are made of hair, hair tainted with blood from those that tried to fight God’s guidance and got lost, only to die in the darkness when they could have been saved. The ropes, we bless them today, so that they take away the bad away from our boy, so that just like how these people died, the evil dies as well before it takes our child as well.”

He continued preaching as he passed the ropes to the Co-Pastor, who took them and placed them around Muse’s neck, similar to that of a scarf. Until the ropes started tightening little by little, Muse’s breathing picked up as the ropes pinched his skin and restricted his airway, his hands curling into fists and his nails digging into his palms as he made short aborted struggles to escape.

The stun belt was activated, and shocks ran through his body, further enticing the crowd with a show. A show that looked like he was being healed, helped, saved. Instead of being harmed, worsened, and damaged.

The rope remained around his neck, but it was loosened enough so that he was not at the point of blacking out. The end of one of the ropes was held by the wife and she pulled to make sure his head remained facing up, as the Pastor turned around and grabbed the knife and lighter.

With a heated knife, the Pastor cut lines deep enough to scar onto Muse’s forehead, and not being strong enough to resist the fear and betrayal of a young child, he screamed and cried. Cried for his mom, his dad, begged for forgiveness, for mercy, for help, for the God they wanted him to believe in. He begged for the Pastor to stop, but blood continued to run down his face, to mix with the tears and sweats that dripped down anew.

Muse would much later see the third eye that was scarred on his forehead, when he had been unbinded by a couple who healed and brought him down from his panic, a couple which was not his parents, but that would be much later, as the rope was slipped out from the wife’s hand, his head bowed down as he continued to cry and wail, Muse cursed the God they preached, the Pastors who took him away from his life before, and the weakness of his parents.

"Today, he has opened his third eye, and will see the guidance from our Father, our God."