#leave me to peacefully rot and decay in my room | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

bloodycassian · 3 years

Text

anon request - READER X AZRIEL - sorry if this wasn’t exactly what you want! I got a bit carried away in my own idea of Azriel being supportive but protective at the same time!

some hurt/comfort with Azriel where he and the reader get in a huge fight over protecting Elain (like they travel to a different court and Azriel is overprotective) and then the reader goes scouting to also cool down a bit and they get ambushed, the reader gets injured and the mating bond snaps. Hope it's not too much trouble!!

Elain was absurdly still as the conversation played out. Conversation being a loose term for the shouting happening around her. You didn’t leave her side though, even though your anger flourished while they spoke as if she wasnt there. Azriel was packing her things, shoving them haphazardly into a bag. The bag that Feyre had given her from their first trip down to the markets after Elain had started acting somewhat normal again. The happy memory seemed so distant now, compared to the anxiety ridden emotions that played about in the room.

“We are not going to the continent.” Az’s tone shift was abrupt, a snap of anger leaning into it. He tied the top of the bag closed and set it roughly atop the living room table. The scattered odds and ends of survival gear and weapons scraped against the wood. You watched the stare down between the high lord and his shadowsinger patiently. Waiting for your moment to speak rationally to them.

Rhys’ power roiled above, his eyes did not hide his frustration with his brother. His gaze was simmering with that dark power he possessed. Azriel did not back down. “The continent is the only place that may be safe. If the King finds out she’s a Seer he will never let her go. We can’t risk losing her as a hostage.”

You knew she would be a hostage too. Feyre would never let her sister be taken without a fight. Rhys knew his mate well enough to know not to risk just Elain, but Feyre too. Cauldron knew what Nesta would do if she were in that room during the conversation. Likely spitting fire and shoving Elain out the door to wherever she seemed to think was safe. Thankfully, both sisters were scouring deep in the library for any way to help win this battle.

Azriel did not break eyecontact with his brother as he made to speak again. You interrupted before he could make the situation worse. “I have somewhere in mind.” You spoke softly, urging the staring contest to end. Azriel looked away first, and you were surprised at that. His eyes met yours with something like relief. “Autumn. We have Eris on our side if we’re caught. I have a spot we can stay until-” Azriels scoff sent anger shooting through you. You clenched your teeth together to keep from lashing out at him as he had been doing just moments before.

“Autumn is possibly the worst place we could send you right now. We’re on the brink of war with them potentially being on Hyberns side. We would be sending you straight to Hybern himself.”

“Exactly. It’s stupid and they would never expect it.”

“You’re not going. Beron exiled you. Don’t you remember what that means?” He looked at you with actual concern now that he knew you were serious. As if you had been injured and you were speaking a different language.

“It means we will be safe from Hybern when they come here to look for Elain. Isn’t that the point?” You wrapped an arm around her small shoulders and pulled her close. Az couldn’t argue with that. The other courts were not an option, as it would be harboring a target against one of the Night court Allies. And Winter court was nowhere to be spending the night. Not many survived the night there without shelter.

Rhys’ sigh was long and exhausted. Left without another option, he nodded to himself. He held out a hand and summoned two necklaces, both with pendants of black onyx that shimmered in the firelight. Az’s brows pinched together at the sight of them. The dull glow behind him shone through his wings, highlighting all the delicate structures there. You found his wings more beautiful than the enchanted stone Rhys handed you.

“Hybern won’t be able to sense your magic. Keep these on.”

Azriel was already tensing, his fists balling at his sides ready to make it physical if Rhys refused to listen. He knew with his entire being that something was off. Something would go wrong this night. His shadows warned him of something. And he couldn’t shake it no matter how hard he tried. “Rhys-”

“And you will be going with them. Keep them company while Feyre and I investigate just how many ships and forces they plan to bring.” He ordered in that indisputable tone of the high lord. With only a hint of friendliness. He gave Az a long look before turning back to you and Elain. “Do not take those off.” The nodded to the necklaces and started to winnow. Elain stood abruptly, startling you.

“Thank you.” She said softly to the high lord. He seemed taken aback for a second, before giving her a gracious nod and finally disappearing. You rose to Elain’s height and took her hand in yours. It was warm, welcoming. “We’re going to be fine.” You promised, not caring if Azriel saw the care you gave her. She had been there for you just as you needed to be now. She had practically kept you alive with her soft humming and reading to you when you were at your worst after being exiled.

“I know.” She said, voice soft as rose petals. But that dark power within her were the thorns of that pretty, perfect rose. The reason Hybern even knew to look in Velaris for Elain. That cauldron calling power that she couldn’t control to save her life. You grimly smiled at her.

“We need to leave.” Azriel ordered, tone neutral. Just a warrior needing to move troops.

“Let me get your bag.” Elain said, giving you a squeeze of her hand, disappearing up the stairs. Leaving you with the brooding Illyrian. You grimaced in his direction. He ignored you as best he could, hoping that the time for babysitting would pass quickly. He had always found it strange how you and Elain moved like magnets together. Found the soft way you comforted each other somehow upsetting. He paced quietly in front of the fire while you gathered your gear. Two small blades - one for Elain - and your sword. You rubbed at a speck on the hard steel of the sword.

Perhaps his lack of family had made that rivaling jealousy turn into hatred for the display of affection. He contemplated to himself. Had he become cold to everyone? Too harsh? Had the darkness he possessed taken him over? He tore his eyes from your short sword and locked them with yours. The thrill he felt wasn’t from anger or terror. His cheeks flushed slightly and you fought the grin that you wanted so badly to flaunt at him. The innuendos regarding the sword that you wanted to say were cut off by that look he gave you.

“Do not get into a situation where you have to use that.” He warned with a stern look. You couldn’t help the angelic smile you gave him.

The smell of rotting apples and decaying leaves was all you needed to sense to know you were home. You took in the court border slowly, adjusting to your orientation after being winnowed. Elain clutched your hand tightly, the bag in her other hand quivered only slightly from her shaking. Your hands became slick with sweat at the familiar sights and smells of Autumn. You hadn’t been back since being exiled.

“We wont be able to have a fire.” Azriel stated, gazing towards the sky. It was far too clear of a day out to risk it. The slight chill in the air filled your stomach with dread for the night to come.

“This way.” You pulled Elain along with you, leaves crunching under your feet as you entered Autumn court. She didn’t move. Her eyes were blank, staring lifelessly into the orange and yellow forest. “Elain?” You asked softly.

“Five foxes will die tonight. Three more in the morning.”

Her words sent a chill down your spine.

Az took the lead, territoriality putting himself a few paces in front of you. He wasn’t subtle about it either, occasionally jogging ahead to scout for any enemies around piles of bramble when you came across it.

By the time you found your hideout, you were fed up with waiting for him to give you the all clear everywhere you went. You let you go of Elains now calm hand and stormed into the small shack with familiarity. Azriel hissed and seethed when you lit a lantern inside. “Get over yourself, Shadowsinger.” You laughed, taking in the small piece of home you made for yourself long ago.

It indeed was a long time ago when you’d last been there. But it still felt homey to you. The small space was just big enough for a stove, the table you’d found, and a bed pushed against the far wall. The fireplace hadn’t been used in years. Soot marked small animal prints along the light plank floors.

The dusty blankets on the makeshift bed were pocked with holes from mice and moths. The fireplace was nearly caved in on itself. The bramble covering that acted like a second roof was growing through the actual roof in some places. But it was still home. Your small exit from the world when things got too tough. Even after being exiled Beron hadn’t known about this place. He would have had it destroyed if he did know of it.

Elain pushed in passed Azriel. His shadows went wild. Searching every surface of the cabin. The long beams of the floor were hardly visible through the darkness he brought.

You knew you should have brought more blankets. You held back the teeth chattering as best you could, letting Elain sleep. She would need all the rest she could get. You could tell she’d been tired after the days walk. She rested peacefully under the layers while the wind shuddered the leaves outside. You pulled your coat tighter to your body.

“This was a stupid idea.” Azriel muttered from the corner. He didn’t seem cold, but the dark curls of shadow wrapped around him protectively. While you were left with nothing more than a coat. Your own magic couldn’t save you from the stormy wind, the necklace Rhys had given you also weakened your power enough that you couldn’t use it. Even in your homeland. It bothered you endlessly, feeling so useless in such a dire situation of needing to help Elain.

“Then maybe you should just leave.” You barked back simply. He didn’t have to come in the first place if he was going to be so bothered.

“I just mean-” He sighed, and sat on the creaky old table that took up half the small kitchenette. “We could have done this better. We could have planned… Differently.”

“We didnt have the time. We’re here now, so we just need to deal-”

“I know that. I’m just bothered that you’re so recklessly looking for danger everywhere we go.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean? I’m from here Azriel. I know what areas are dangerous.”

“Maybe once.” His eyes were not angry when he said it. They were full of pity and doubt. Your rage spilled over, and you were ready to shout. Ready to scream at him about what a piggish idiot Illrian he was being. But Elain turned over, sighing softly to herself.

So instead, you clamped down on that burning anger and walked out. And of course he decided to try to follow you. He made it a few steps outside the cabin before you turned on him, ready to roar. “Be safe at least.” He tossed his red jeweled dagger to you. Your heart squeezed, choking you up slightly. You brushed it away as best you could before he could see. You couldn’t yell at him.

So you took the dagger and walked briskly away, into the brush of autumn forests. Laced with the smell of heavy fruits and warm trees. Leaves fluttering in your wake as the wind tossed with ease.

You held his knife close at your side the entire aimless walk. Then, the sound of twigs snapping and males laughing heartily made you pause.

Far to your east was a dull glow beyond a knoll. You backed away slowly. Trying to be as soundless as possible in case they could scent you. The breeze whipped at your skin, blowing in their direction. The trees above you shuddered sharply, and you swore as a heavy weight fell upon your shoulders.

Azriel paced in the kitchenette, his shadows swirling around him relentlessly, waiting for a target. It felt wrong letting you go. It felt like letting his hope sink. His shadows even seemed upset about it, as they now whipped around him angrily.

He swore he was going to run a rut through the plank floor. He sighed, glanced to Elain’s sleeping figure and forced himself to sit. You had the dagger. You were capable. You knew the area and knew what you were doing. He tried his best to soothe himself. It didn’t help much.

The old chair creaked under his weight, and he smiled. For someone who claimed they couldn’t work around the house, you were quite the crafter making such a nice hideaway for yourself. He finally took a moment to pause, and actually look at the cabin.

The stove may have been older than he was. The missing burners on top were replaced with a few forks placed carefully around them. The ancient shelves were dusty, along with all the jars and cups atop them. Cobwebs spotted the entire house, but his shadows had gotten rid of most of them after the first one clung to his face upon walking in.

Then he came to the table he sat at, the four unmatching chairs circling it. The table itself was solid oak, he could tell that much. But he wondered how you’d gotten it inside at all. Out of curiosity, he pulled on it. It didn’t budge. His eyebrows knitted together, and he stood slowly. The curiosity consumed him. He gave the table another tug. Still, no movement.

He crouched down, and noticed the planks around the single leg of the table had been cut out. Then he noticed the intricate roots weaving their way up the trunk. The table wasn’t just a table. It was an entire tree - or what was a tree once… And you’d built the entire cabin around it. His awe was quickly quieted by Elain.

“A part of you is missing. The foxes will die.” She muttered sleepily, her eyes blank. And he lay back down as if it hadn’t happened. “Elain?” Azriel called. Dread, cold and stinging coarse through him. “Elain?” He asked quietly, approaching her side. She flung the covers from her lithe body. Azriel jumped back, holding his hands up defensively. “It’s okay, its me.” He calmed her, noting the wild look in her expression.

“Find yourself.” She breathed, her eyes going wide with concern. Azriel’s heart sped, and he felt like he’d been dunked in a cold ocean of dread. Terror drug him under the deep waves and threatened to drown him the first chance it got. He took Elains hand and started walking the direction you’d left.

Leaving behind the supplies and the living table that you’d created.

A glance at the oversized uniforms told you all you needed to know. The fox sigil pinned to their tunics proved that the uniforms were stolen from Autumn soldiers. Your blood boiled. Elain had been right. But they would die. Five of them, at least. But you had only glimpsed at three so far. You tugged at the ropes that bound you. Firm, and not able to be broken.

Their campsite was large, and full of small boxes of different fruits. Several different types of weapons leaned against their low lying tents. And with how many scars their fae leader had, you knew the rest of their story in an instant. Bandits. Filthy trade merchants that lived for thievery and making a quick gold mark.

And you’d be worth their weight in gold once they turned you in to Beron.

“We’ve got a live one!” The male shouted to his comrades. They cheered drunkenly, their voices carried far by the wind. Their fire sparked and popped against the blue night sky. And you knew that your death may not come in glory of battle, or in the name of your home. But in being stupid enough to be caught by bandits. You could have died that instant if it would mean you didn’t have to feel that kind of shame.

The male cut the opal from your neck, and you felt your magic explode from you. Your thoughts were racing, searching. Finding something cold and dark in the depths of your mind and tugging on it. Then, it was a live beast beneath your mental hands. It coiled and rose, ready to strike.

The same one cut a long line down your cheek with the blade that had just cut your only protection against Hybern from you. You prayed to the mother that Hybern was too busy to notice a small blip of magic from an Autumn fae like you. You hissed in pain as the blade stung its way down to your neck, stopping at your collarbone.

You pulled on that coiling beast that called to you. Beckoned it to find you, to help you from this pain. Maybe you were begging for death, or at least unconsciousness so you wouldnt have to feel the pain anymore. The male stood back to let another scaled lower fae get a look at you. His tongue lashed out over your bloodied neck. He hummed in approval, letting his forked wetness slither across your wounds.

You felt them seal and itch with every pass as he took your blood. “Good.” the one with the blade ordered, then… to your dread, he pulled a glowing rod from the fire. They would brand you. Then take you to the high lord. Only after they’d humiliated you though. The males clucked at your involuntary reaction. They huddled close around, waiting for the screaming to start. Their excitement coated the air with a tangy adrenaline filled scent.

You reared away from the burning metal as best as you could. The ropes around you seemed weaker now that you had your weak magic back, but still too constricting to do much with.

You closed your eyes as the glow approached your chest. It warmed your face with the heat. They were going slow on purpose. Wanting to savor your reaction. It made your stomach go queasy. You hoped you would pass out. Better yet, just die of the agony. That way Beron wouldn’t have the satisfaction of killing you himself.

There was a thump, and sizzling. You cracked open your eyes, waiting that searing pain to hit you. But it didnt. The males stood back, bewildered. Across the camp in the dull glow of the fire as the one that had been lowering the branding stick to you. It was speared through his chest, pinning him to a tree. His mouth gasped, eyes wide and glowing a haunting orange from the fire. You would never forget the sight of it. The smoldering that came from the tree behind him as the hot iron burned into it. The wet sounds of his mouth opening and closing.

Then, the gasp and thump each male that Azriel incapacitated before you. Elain stood at the edge of the trees, her eyes still puffy from sleep. Azriel kept the kills quiet and concise. None resembled the one pinned to the tree, now sagging under the weight of death. No, the rest of them had easy deaths at the hands of one skilled at dealing killing blows. The wet splatter of blood leaving a body pulled you back to the scene in front of you. Az’s scowl as he cleaned his blade was that of a warrior who had seen much worse. Done much worse.

“I told you not to fucking-” He snarled, his hands on the rope at your wrists. He stopped though, and stared. The shadowed light of his eyes seemed to be blooming with awe. You couldn’t look away. The beauty in the deep irises, the way small freckles played about his dark skin. All new and exciting things you’d never noticed before. His scent alone was like a punch to the gut.

Him. Azriel. It had been him to find you. Him to respond to that silent plea that you so badly needed to be heard. He was that coiling darkness that had saved you. Your breath was a gasp, and you nearly fell to your knees before him.

His hands didn’t work anymore. The world stopped turning all together. His heart was no longer his own and his soul belonged wherever you were. It didn’t matter that you were in the middle of a foreign court’s borders. It didn’t matter that Elain trembled in the corner of the clearing. He was yours, and you were his.

He vowed it, for eternity that was how it would stay. He’d never leave your side again. Never choose to be without you for as long as he may be alive. His very being was now shared. With you. His soul intertwined your yours, wrapping delicately around your earthy light that contrasted his darkness so perfectly. If you were the sun he was the moon, always chasing, always following and living in your light.

The words weren’t needed but he managed to utter them. Around a shuddering breath and a shattering explosion of love he managed it. “My mate.”

#azriel #azriel x reader #acotar #acotar fic #reader x azriel

269 notes · View notes

milktaru · 4 years

Text

MAFIA AU! - Jaehyuk

Treasure’s Jaehyuk - “They don’t need to know” + “Why can’t I get you out of my head?” + “Do you want that?”

🖋 requested by @no1nas

Theme: mafia au!, it’s angsty but not super heart breaking, honestly i got carried away it’s kind of long (ooops)

Warnings: mentions of blood, weapons, violence, wall pining (but not smutty enough to be considered smut lol)

a/n: yes, it is a treasure mafia au. i saw the opportunity and I took it. sorry not sorry

Fear is an insidious feeling. It starts nearly imperceptible; as it didn’t even exist. Then, it suddenly thrives until it feels tangible and maddening.

The metallic pistol you are carrying on your left hand resonates with your fear. It is bitter, cold, and burning. If you try hard enough, you can taste the metal and despair on your tongue.

The dreadful feeling creeps on your fingertips, like a delicate but cunning touch. It crawls up your arms, spreading through your neck, your collarbones, finally arriving in your heart. It rushes into your atrium, diving deep in your soul as the last blow.

As you get closer to your target, the beautiful young man tied to the old wooden chair in your basement, the fear and you become one. The man squirms and tries to cry for help, but you are apathetic.

The fear is the predator, and you are his prey.

Growing up as part of the reckless mafia, you always knew your destiny was arranged marriage.

There were a ton of families for your father to choose from. You could get settled with the son of the Kanemoto family, who had just assumed the head of the mafia after his father's passing. Or, it could be with the son of the So family; although your father always referred to him as the “too shy and scared boy”. Even worse, your father might prefer the son of the Takata family. You hated this option because their son was too loud and boisterous for your liking.

Well, if the decision were up to you, you would definitely prefer the Yoon family.

Your parents were friendly with the Yoon family, and you had spent your childhood playing tag and hide and seek with the only two sons of the Yoon mafia: Jaehyuk and his older brother.

You appreciated both of the Yoon’s prodigies. They were pleasant, sympathetic, and treated you with much respect. It is true; however, that you were closer to Jaehyuk; in age and in personality. Jaehyuk’s older brother was equally nice, but he was three years older than you and a little bit more reserved and nonchalant.

The contrast between the two brothers got even more discernible in your teenage years. You and Jaehyuk loved to talk about your dreams: traveling the world, stargazing at the highest peak of Earth (so you could touch the stars!), and rescuing abandoned cats. Jaehyuk’s older brother, on the other hand, was too busy with the role of Mafia’s successor and had no desire to daydream.

Metaphorically, his older brother was a fighter, whereas you and Jaehyuk were more of the lovers type.

On your 17th birthday, you realized that maybe Jaehyuk was more than just a childhood friend. He could also be your real lover.

The sound of loud voices competing for dominance, glass and bottles clinking, and nicotine smell was making you dizzy. After one night of standing still on your high heels and serving as the mafia new toy, you earned to take off your tight and impractical dress and take a nap till the end of the week.

“She’ll grow up to be a fine woman.” You heard one of the capos of the Grazzi family saying.

“And a great wife too,” his henchmen said while opening one more bottle of alcohol.

Oh, god. It was disgusting. You wanted to roll your eyes at those types of comments. Heck, you wanted to scream and cry and even throw some punches. However, you knew better than to make a scene. The last thing you wanted was to piss off your vicious father.

Glancing sideways to your mother, absorbed in a deep conversation with another lady, you were ready to apologize and go back to your room. You stopped mid-action when you heard Jaehyuk calling you from the back of the ballroom. His silhouette barely showing, covered by the deep shadows that the blue lightening in the room provided.

You sneaked towards him, hoping no one would notice your escapade from the humiliating social gathering.

“You’re beautiful tonight" - he greeted you, taking your right hand and caressing it slowly with his thumb - “ you always are.”

You answered him with a faint smile. You wish you could say more, but the birthday party made you exhausted.

As if he read your mind, Jaehyuk made you an offer, “Would this dazzling lady do me the honor of getting the hell out of this place?”

You chuckled, nodding while looking around you. Happily, no one appeared to be paying attention to your little agreement. You let Jaehyuk guide you towards the empty and dark gardens outside the ballroom.

As you got there, you both got lost in comfortable silence, gazing at the night sky and enjoying each other’s company. Jaehyuk’s smooth skin glowed with the moonlight. Although he was a member of the mafia, to you he would always be your enchanted prince, ready to rescue you.

Bravely, Jaehyuk broke the quietness by holding your face between his hands.

“I’ve been thinking about our childhood these days, all the things we’ve done together, and how much we've grown up “- he stammered, searching your eyes for some form of reassurance - “To be honest, I've been thinking a lot about you these days.”

He swallowed hard, letting his stare run from your eyes to your plump lips, “Why can’t I get you out of my head?”

At his confession, your heart beat harder inside your ribcage as it desired to slip out and run away. At that moment, you understood that if you could not achieve freedom in your life, at least you would allow your heart to be free.

And you knew what your heart craved: the handsome, young, and brave man in front of you, still waiting for an answer. So, you came closer to him and lightly tiptoed, reaching for his lips.

On your 17th birthday, Jaehyuk gifted you your first kiss.

After that day, all of your other firsts would be with him too. And, just like he had experienced, you would never be able to get the thought of him out of your head.

When you completed twenty springs, your father announced it was time for you to get married. According to him, there was no sense in wasting money with a daughter if she was going to stay at home and be as useless as rotting fruit.

Leaving your home was not your worst nightmare. When you were with your family, this was exactly how you felt: like rancid, decaying fruit. Not much could be worse than having to put up with your authoritative and sexist father every day.

As you got closer to your secretive fiancé's home, you started to squirm nervously in your car seat. However, all the nervousness left your body when you finally arrived. You knew the facade of the house; you recognized the gardens on the front because you spent your childhood playing there.

It was the Yoon mansion.

Yes, it was a logical and somewhat predictable choice: your families were already close, and your marriage with Jaehyuk would strengthen the bond.

You entered the huge house peacefully. It seemed like a dream to be able to marry the man you loved.

Each stride you took towards the dining room felt like a step closer to freedom. You elegantly took your seat at the dining table, observing Mrs. Yoon’s immaculate porcelain plates and intricate table cloth.

When your eyes finally found Jaehyuk, his face was not that of a man about to marry his beloved. His eyes were wide, his skin pale as he had just taken a fright. His whole body expression screamed despair.

You tried to understand what was going on. Why was Jaehyuk not happy? Did he not love you?

Jaehyuk was fidgety, his body faintly curved towards the exit. He wouldn’t stop peering at you, almost as he wished to send you a message.

Mr. Yoon cut your line of thought, standing up proudly and lifting his cup filled with the most expensive drink of his collection, “I would like to propose a toast to our crucial alliance with the YLN family.”

You felt your father lifting his cup from your left side, beaming with equal pride.

Mr. Yoon continued his toast with a loud, commanding voice, “And, of course, let us toast to Y/N’s marriage with our oldest son.”

You once read in a book that there are moments in life in which time stops. But you had never experienced it.

That's it, until that announcement.

You lifted your cup robotically, and equally as roboticaly you got through the rest of the meal. You never once took your focus out of your plate because if you did and met Jaehyuk’s stare, you knew you would break.

Run.

You complied with the only command in your head. After taking a bathroom break before dessert, running was what you did. It seemed there was nothing else to be done other than succumb to your most primal wishes.

Your legs hurt, your breathing was shallow, and you had no idea on what floor or corridor of the enormous Yoon mansion you were. You just knew you felt the need to run as your life depended on it.

Not even a meal had passed after you lost Jaehyuk and your chance to be happy, but your heart already felt ripped into shreds.

Too stuck in your deranged mind, you failed to notice someone grabbing your arm and pulling you into a small room. Your captor’s hand was cold, and you tried your best no to scream and let your father discover you were not in the bathroom as you promised.

At the same time, it was agonizing and soothing to recognize that the cold hand holding your arm belonged to Jaehyuk. Looking at your prince, you felt the strong urge to cry.

How could life be so unfair and cruel? How could it torture your soul so mindlessly? Maybe the universe was laughing at you both. Maybe, it was the star’s plan all this time - gifting you with consuming love, letting it bloom inside your hearts, and then plucking it as if it was weed in a farm field.

“Baby, ” Jaehyuk gasped in between passionate and messy kisses he placed on your lips. “it’s okay. We won’t let them separate us.”

He’s too desperate to care about your surroundings. You trip on the carpet, hitting your back with a loud thud on the cold wall. Jaehyuk pins you to the wall, not wanting to separate your bodies.

“They don’t need to know,” he murmurs.

Like every terrible plan ever made, at that moment that idea seemed great.

It took two short months for Jaehyuk’s older brother to discover that the glances shared between you and his brother weren’t only out of cordiality.

He was mad, of course. But, not hurt.

Honestly, he couldn’t care less about you. He didn’t mind if you did not like him. Also, he didn’t mind that you refused to sleep with him on your honeymoon on the Yoon’s family country house. He could search for sexual pleasure in other places. Anyways, you weren’t even his type.

However, what made his blood boil was the fact that his younger brother had the petulance of stealing something from him. That was unforgivable.

Ever since childhood, he was meant to be the best, the successor of the family. He should have the best toys, the best devices, the best clothes, education, and grades. He was to be on top, and his younger brother (that fool!) could content himself with the second place.

In his family, there would be no sharing. Never.

Little did Jaehyuk’s older brother knew, he committed his worst mistake when he decided to knock on your and Jaehyuk’s hideaway door. Holding pictures of your most intimate moments in his dirty and jealous hands, demanding you to stop your affair at that moment. Or else, he would tell the whole Family about your filthy secret.

It is true, supposedly you and Jaehyuk were not the type to clash or engage in conflict. You were not fighters but lovers.

Lovers - in all the meanings of the world.

And love is a dangerous creature because when cornered and nudged, it feels threatened. Threatened love transforms itself in raw panic. And this panic, so ready to fight for its survival, converts into fear.

And fear does not forgive.

“Do you want that?”

Jaehyuk reaches toward you with his left hand, touching your index finger, already settled in the trigger. His other hand holds his brother's head roughly. Jaehyuk wants to end this fast since he cannot take his brother squirming and struggling against the chains holding him in the chair anymore.

Although he would have pulled the trigger the moment you both carried his brother to the country’s house basement, he did not want you to regret a decision that could stain you forever.

He was patient, for you, and only you.

“Once you pull it, there is no turning back.” He analyzes your glossy, terrified eyes. “After this, we will probably have to run away.”

You are scared, yes. And you are also shaking, yes. But you couldn’t care less about the consequences of your actions anymore. You just want to be free and live the rest of your life with the man you truly love.

You can feel the heat of Jaehyuk’s hand creeping on your fingertips, like a delicate but cunning touch. It crawls up your arms, spreading through your neck, your collarbones, finally arriving in your heart. It rushes into your atrium, diving deep in your soul as the last blow.

Yes, you are love itself. And you are the fear.

Together, you and Jaehyuk pull the trigger. The bullet draws one straight and fixed-line, ripping through the man's glabella.

You do not need to look twice – he is dead and the chair holds now a souless body.

There is blood splattered everywhere – in the basement's ground, in your clothes, in Jaehyuk’s hands.

It is going to stain, but you do not give a fuck. The fighter is dead.

And the lovers are finally free.

#yg treasure #treasure imagines #treasure scenario #jaehyuk #yoon jaehyuk #jaehyuk imagine #jaehyuk scenarios #treasure #i love angsty things im sorry if it sucks #jaehyuck bby i love u ;)

53 notes · View notes

dzamie-oc · 4 years

Text

Smaugust 07 - Decay

A peaceful monk is ordered to "deal with" a dragon whose very presence is causing a swath of death and decay in the kingdom. He promises to do so, but does not wish to betray his nonviolent ways.

Darvos was transcribing a copy of his texts when the summons arrived. The king of the land had requested his presence, and further, his assistance. Although Darvos was well aware of his own skill with his staff, used only to protect and defend those who were unable to protect themselves, he could hardly guess why the king would want to see him. Nonetheless, a request from the king himself was not something someone would turn down if they knew what was good for them. During the trip to the capital, and castle within, Darvos tried convincing himself that the king was going to request that he travel the kingdom to further spread the word and teachings of his largely nonviolent beliefs to his fellow citizens. He failed miserably, and wound up nervous at what he would be instructed to do.

Every hall of the castle was lavish beyond Darvos's imagination. Huge, stained glass windows decorated every wall, impeccable carpets rolled from one end of the building to the other, and the parts of the walls not occupied by windows or doors were covered with long, ceiling-height banners, embroidered with the royal family crest, and masterfully detailed portraits of the king and his family. Darvos did his best not to stare as he saw in one glance more wealth than his order would allow to have among the lot of them. Finally, he was ushered into the throne room, where rows of knights, dressed all in bright, shining, golden and blue armor guarded the king on his extravagant seat. As he looked around, Darvos could see how the room had been designed to keep the throne - and the monarch seated upon it - at the perpetual center of focus.

"Darvos, is it not?" the king asked, rhetorically, "We have heard great tales of your deeds. Call you yourself a monk, then, or paladin?"

"Just a monk, sir," Darvos replied, before hastily appending, "Y-your Majesty."

"Very well, monk. You have proven yourself beyond capable at dealing with unsightly monsters." His head moved ever so slightly towards a man standing in attendance, holding a book. Although the king said nothing, nor did he move further, the man stepped forward and read aloud from the book.

"August 2nd, 19 KC. A flock of ferocious griffons ravaging the town of Hillshire were driven away by the actions of Darvos of the Order Nonpugil. No townsfolk bore witness to the deed, yet all affirmed he returned unscathed from the fight.

"March 17th, 20 KC. Frequent reports of nagas kidnapping travelers between Hillshire and Waterford ceased after Darvos of the Order Nonpugil ventured into the territory of the nagas. All but three victims - presumed dead - returned to their respective towns shortly after.

"September 9th, 20 KC. A sphinx, who prevented people from entering or leaving Hillshire regardless of their answers to her riddles, left or was removed after Darvos of the Order Nonpugil approached her. Regular trade resumed swiftly."

Darvos shifted uncomfortably. He had a suspicion as to why the events were recorded like that, and what sort of task the king was about to saddle him with. The bookkeeper continued for several more entries before the king silently signaled for him to stop. "Now then, Darvos," the king began, "We have called you here about a beast most foul in the north of Our kingdom. What information We have is merely rumor and educated guess, but for that it causes all within a growing radius to waste away and perish. The wasteland is expanding towards the people of this kingdom, and that is unforgivable and unadmissible." He fixed Darvos with a commanding stare. "As such, you, a fierce and experienced warrior against monsters, who defends humanity against such beasts, are tasked with eliminating this creature. The rumors which have been collected suggest this monster is a yellow dragon; however, all attempts to get close enough to confirm such have ended in failure."

There was a pause, and Darvos realized it was his turn to speak. "My practice discourages fighting when not necessary, and forbids killing," he started. The king's stare grew harder, and he could see and hear the armed guards tense, readying themselves for whatever he might command them to do. Darvos swallowed a lump and went on, "however, protecting my fellow beings is a noble task of the highest order, so if I must fight... I must fight. Either way, I will do all I can to stop the encroaching death."

The king's face softened into a smile. "Very good. You will have The Guard's arsenal at your disposal, should you wish to arm yourself for the task. And, of course, several magical draughts to resist the fiend's effects will be available."

Darvos nodded, then bowed. "Thank you, Your Majesty. I hope to not fail You or my fellow beings."

The monk spent the next week in preparation, trying to work out what he would do. He would not, of course, call out the king for having the wrong information on his deeds, especially not when he suspected doing so might get the king to send a warrior to kill the creature causing this. When he faced the griffons, he had merely convinced the town's hunters to refrain from stealing the flying creatures' eggs and poaching their young. After this, the cat-birds were perfectly content to live peacefully nearby. And again, when the snake people caused problems, they had been greatly slighted by horses and carts rumbling near and even over their dens, resulting in interruption and occasional injury. Only those who veered off the main, cleared pathway had been taken. With greater communication between the nagas and... well, Hillshire, at least (Waterford was less than eager to listen), and clear markings to mark the main road, the nagas were granted peace in their homes and travelers were granted peace of mind as they traveled. Except for the two who had been eaten, but Darvos could see no reason to increase the number of corpses for it.

And the story with the sphinx was similar, though unique. He hadn't sought to leave Hillshire; he merely asked for conversation. She spared him long enough to spend a very entertaining afternoon with her. One thing had led to another, and he soon found himself quite grateful - for his sake and for Hillshire's - that his vows did not include one of celibacy. She still visited him from time to time, although most encounters were largely to catch up on events and for her to test out riddles on the monk.

However, by the time the end of the week rolled around, and he was set to travel out, he was prepared. He had turned down offers of armor, of swords, and accepted only a staff. Even then, he intended to use it far more for walking than for fighting. Accompanied by a guard to protect him up until the wasteland, Darvos began the trip towards the northern edge of the kingdom. It was largely uneventful, and before he realized, he had reached the town being threatened with encroaching death. He disembarked and decided to find out what more the people of the town knew of the dragon.

Results were mixed.

"It's surely divine punishment for Vance and Doyle stealing each other's tools constantly, and arguing without stop!"

"Mom said it gets closer because some people in this town don't eat their vegetables! It can't be me, though, so the adults are screwing things up for the rest of us!"

"It coughs a lot. Maybe it forgot how to breathe fire?"

"Darryl suggested a virgin sacrifice like people in old stories please dragons. He dropped it when I suggested we use him for the sacrifice, of course."

"It's a mighty wizard dragon, concocting a spell to visit a plague across the entire world, until only it and other dragons and poison creatures are left!"

"It's as yellow as the sand it holes up in."

"Silzer used to grow flowers, you know. I suppose he's lost his green thumb, then."

Darvos did a double-take at that last one. The old woman smiled in kind remniscence. "Oh-ho, you doubt me, I'm sure. Well, I was barely even a woman when he left for good, but ol' Silzer used to be such a pleasant drake. Thinking back on him, he was far more patient with us little kids than he had any need to be." She sighed. "Oh, I hope he didn't go away and start doing this because of how we loved to climb his tail and hug his snout."

"I am... sorry to hear that, ma'am," the monk said, "er, would you happen to remember what sorts of things he used to eat before he left?"

She scrunched her face up in thought. "Oh, I'm not so clear on that. I never had to cook for him, you see, and seventy years is quite a long time back to recall. Perhaps fish? Fish and eggs, I think. Maybe the plants from his garden? That sounds like it might be right." The old woman squinted at him. "There were, and are, no humans in his diet, you hear? I know you come from the capital, and Silzar deserves better than getting beat up like a common thug!" The fire in her dimmed as she gazed to the north end of the town with a wistful look, saying, "at least, I hope you can save us and him, both. I've not seen him, myself, in several years."

Darvos placed a hand on her shoulder and smiled. "I do not believe fighting should be necessary in anything. Rest assured, ma'am, ending that dragon's - Silzar's - life is not even on my mind."

She smiled back. "In that case, young sir, I wish you the absolute best of luck."

"Glad to hear it." He turned to leave, but before doing so, looked back at her. "Say, would there happen to be an apothecary, or alchemist, in this town? I have a rather special request for them."

Hardly an hour later, he walked to the north edge of town, package from the alchemist in his hand. He and the guard uncorked the rot-resisting potions from the capital, downing their respective doses. As they stepped into the dead lands, Darvos looked at the trained warrior. "If you would, please stay back while I deal with Sil- with the dragon. If I am successful, I will not need your aid, and if I fail, it is better that you are able to escape and tell the king of what happened." He received only a stiff nod in response.

After some walking, a sizable mound in the barren soil appeared, with a hole in the side well large enough to fit a young adult dragon through. "Here should be fine, if you do not mind," Darvos said to the guard, who took a few more steps before visibly coming to a stop. "Thank you," he said with honest gratitude, and he steeled himself and strode up to the entrance.

"Dragon? Silzer? I am Darvos, seeking to help. Will you come and talk?"

"Simply to talk? My every breath is death; I kill the very soil I stand on," a deep, rattling voice echoed from within, "what do you hope to gain from a talk? If you have come for a fight, I will not drag myself out for one; if you are true for a talk, come and face me in my domain."

Darvos took his second dose of the potion, in case his first grew weak in the dragon's home. "Very well, Silzer. I hope to gain nothing, but I believe what I carry with me will help you regain a friendship and forge new ones, and a town will be freed of an unnatural clock over their lives." He walked into the hole, quickly finding himself in the dark. "My heartfelt apologies if I am clumsy and run into you; I have not the keen eyesight of a dragon."

A jet of flame shoots through the air in front of him, lighting a solitary torch between him and a large, yellow-scaled dragon. His teeth had dulled and yellowed, too, over the years of isolation, and while Darvos was no expert on dragons, he could not call the dragon's tired features "healthy." Silzar, he sensed, was also looking him over, as if to see what fancy weaponry he had snuck in to brave a dragon's cave unassisted. "Truthful, foolish, or beyond skilled," Silzar remarked, "now, you mentioned carrying something with you. What would you present to me?"

"Ah, I'm afraid there is no fully polite way to ask this," Darvos said as he reached into the bag from the alchemist, withdrawing two of the tablets within, "but would you care for a breath mint?"

Two days later, the king's book had a new entry in it. "August 7, 23 KC. A plague of death and rot in the northern lands, brought about by a dragon, wass put to end when Darvos of the Order Nonpugil faced the dragon alone."

#text #dragon #smaugust #smaugust 2020 #writers on tumblr #writing

3 notes · View notes

hystericalrogertaylor · 6 years

Text

Reconnecting (Chapter Fourteen)

Pairing: Ben Hardy!Roger Taylor X Reader

Word count: 2077

Summary: (Y/n) and Roger have been friends since the cradle. When they’re suddenly pulled apart and reconnected years later, they both can tell that the relationship has evolved. They lead very different lifestyles now. Can they continue what they had, or go for something more, with this gap between them?

Warnings: Hospitals (?), cussing, angst and fluff ahhhhh

A/N: OMG I’m so sorry I haven’t updated in forever. Life just keeps coming at me. I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Master list in profile description!

(Not him as Roger but it’s fine lol)

~~~

The hospital had no idea who to call. You were unconscious for almost a full day and a half due to blood loss and surgery. They were able to give you several transfusions and bring you back from the brink of death. Once you came too, you were able to tell them who did this to you. It took several tries to even get the bastard’s name out, you were crying so hard. You were in so much pain; the knife hadn’t hit any major organs, but the tissue and muscles around the wound was in terrible shape. You were laid back in bed, letting the tears fall down your face and onto the pillow. You knew life would never be the same again.

Eventually, you were able to tell them who to call. Your nurse, Melissa, used the phone on the desk to call the person.

“Hello?” he said.

“Is this Roger Taylor?” she asked.

He sighed. “Look lady, I don’t know how you got my number, but if I’ve slept with you, I’ve moved on. And if you’re a telemarketer, you can just lose this number.”

Melissa blinked in surprise. “Um, no, I’m not a telemarketer.” She ignored the comment about sleeping with him. “I’m a nurse at London General Hospital. (Y/n) (L/n) is here and she wanted me to call you.”

Suddenly, Roger sounded much more urgent. “What? Why is she there? What happened? Is she okay?”

“She’ll live, if that’s what you mean by ‘okay’.” Melissa took a deep breath. “She was stabbed. By her boyfriend. She’s pretty shaken up.” Your nurse heard a clatter on the other end of the line. “Hello? Mr. Taylor?” She can only assume he dropped the phone. She waited what seemed like minutes for him to pick the phone back up.

“Um...okay. I-I’ll be right there.” He quickly hung up the phone. Melissa set her receiver down, going to check on you.

Roger had never driven so fast in his life. It seemed as though the hospital was on the other side of the world. The whole way there, he had to grip the steering wheel with his entire strength to avoid making a detour to your house and legitimately killing James.

He had hardly stopped his car before he sprinted through the parking lot and into the emergency room doors. He ran up to the front desk, barely skidding to a stop. “(Y/n),” he breathed, panting. “I need (Y/n) (L/n)’s room.”

The woman there looked bewildered, slowly looking over at some papers. “Okay, she’s in room 438. But be careful, she may not want visitors.”

Roger nodded, speeding off in the direction of the 400 rooms. He took an elevator up to the fourth floor, following the signs until he reached the door of your room.

A woman came running at him from the side. “Sir! She doesn’t really want visitors right now--” He could tell it was the woman he had spoken to on the phone.

“I’m Roger Taylor,” he said. “I’m the one she wanted you called.”

She widened her eyes. “Oh! Okay. I’m Melissa, (Y/n)’s nurse.” She stuck her hand out for him to shake.

He shook her hand, still wanting to go in your room. “Can I see her?” he asked.

The nurse looked hesitant before nodding, motioning to the door before walking away.

Roger slowly twisted the handle, pushing the door open. His eyes first landed on you, asleep in your uncomfortable hospital bed. Your head was tilted to the side on the pillow, and even in sleep you looked like you couldn’t find peace; your face was contorted as if you were in pain, and it looked like you had very recently been crying.

Roger pulled a chair up to the side of the bed, sitting down next to you. Your hand was on top of the blanket, and he took this opportunity to grab it and hold your hand in his. Your fingers were shaking, and you couldn’t tell if you were cold or having a bad dream. He pulled the blankets up to your chin just in case it was the former. He held your trembling hand under the blanket.

About half an hour after his arrival, you stopped shaking and rolled over so you faced him. This was the first time he properly looked at your face since he’d gotten there. Your cheek was red, and you had a few little cuts littering your face. He didn’t want to move the blanket and see any of your other wounds; he didn’t think he could handle it.

A while after Roger had stopped keeping track of time, you stirred and began to pry your eyes open. You vision was still blurry as you were waking up, but you would recognize him anywhere. “Roger?” you murmured.

“Yeah, I’m here,” he said, rubbing circles on the back of your hand with his thumb. “How are you feeling?”

You shifted uncomfortably so you could lay on your back again. “Like I’ve been stabbed,” you said, laughing dryly. “My entire torso hurts.”

Roger wasn’t in the mood to make jokes. “I’m going to kill him,” he whispered. “I’m going to kill your boyfriend.”

You shook your head. “He’s not my boyfriend,” you said, tears already beginning to form. “He’s a monster.” You took a deep breath. “They sent police officers to the house. He should be in a jail cell right now.”

Roger nodded. “Good. The asshole deserves to rot in prison.”

“Let’s not talk about him.” You hand had begun to shake again; it must be anxiety, he thought. “Just…” You sighed. “How’s your day been?”

Roger blinked. “Um, it’s not really going great.”

You chuckled. “Yeah, sorry. I just didn’t know who else to call.”

“No, I’m not blaming you!” Roger corrected himself. “I just wish you weren’t here. I wish you hadn’t been in that shitty situation.”

You stared at the ceiling blankly. “Yeah...I’ll just have to use it as a learning experience, I guess. I’m not going to get anything else out of it.”

Roger couldn’t hold it in anymore. He’d been containing his emotions with the thinnest of walls since he’d gotten the call. And that wall had just crumbled. He put his face down into the sheets, letting out a series of gut-wrenching sobs. You were thoroughly baffled; Roger had never shown this much raw emotion in front of you.

“Roger?” you asked. “Roger, are you okay?”

“Of course not!” His head shot up. “You could’ve died! James could’ve killed you!”

“Hey,” you said quietly, squeezing his hand. “Yes, but he didn't. And right now, he’s behind bars, and he’ll hopefully be decaying in prison for a long time.”

Roger wiped his eyes, sniffling. “This looks pathetic,” he said. “You’re the one suffering and you’re comforting me.” He leaned up, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I’m sorry. I’ll stop blubbering.”

“You’re fine,” you murmured. “Thank you for being here. You’re amazing.”

“Any time.” Roger gave a sad smile. “I…” His words got caught in his throat, and before he could spit them out, Melissa the nurse walked in to take your vitals.

---

Roger tried to distract you from your pain by finding the dumbest game shows on the TV in your room. Most were coming out of America, and you laughed every time something reminded you of your time over there. Roger was enjoying seeing you smile.

You lied to the nurses and said Roger was your cousin so he could spend the night with you in your room. He pulled out the convertible chair, turning it into a semi-comfortable couch. The new night nurse, who was significantly grouchier than Melissa, brought some sheets and pillows for him, leaving him to attempt to make his own bed. It didn’t end well, and he ended up just laying on the unfolded lump of sheets.

After an hour of him tossing and turning, keeping you awake, you sighed. “Roger, do you want to share the hospital bed?”

“Nah, I’m good.” A few more shuffling noises later, Roger huffed. “Yeah, but I don’t wanna hurt you.”

“It’ll be fine.” You slowly scooted over, leaving half the bed for him. “C’mon. You need sleep.”

Roger rolled off the couch, making his way over to the bed. He sat down gingerly, making sure the dip in the mattress wouldn’t hurt you. When you flinched a little, he stood back up.

You rolled your eyes. “Roger, it’s fine. Once you settle down, nothing’s going to hurt.”

Roger slowly sat down on the bed again. You grimaced at the movement until he laid down, causing the bed to stop moving. You leaned your head on his chest, sighing. “You’re warm,” you murmured. “This room is cold.”

Roger chuckled. “Just go to sleep. I’ll try to keep still.”

You yawned. “‘Mkay, goodnight.” You were asleep in the next few seconds.

Terrified to move, Roger took a deep breath. “Goodnight, love. Sleep tight.” He didn’t sleep a wink.

---

You were discharged from the hospital a week later. Roger was with you the whole time except for when he needed to eat, use the toilet, or shower. He helped you eat, because almost any movement of you arms hurt. He told you jokes when you started to relive the moment that put you in the hospital. And he slept next to you every night, cuddling you so you could sleep peacefully.

He wheeled you out to his car in a wheelchair, making sure to go gently over bumps and dips so you weren’t hurt. He helped you into the car, even buckling your seatbelt for you. The muscles and tissues in your stomach were severely compromised, and you knew you’d need his help for a while.

Halfway through the drive, you realized he was taking you to Freddie’s house. “Why are we headed to Fred’s?” you asked.

“I called him and he said he was willing to take care of you until you can handle yourself again.” He turned left into Freddie’s neighborhood.

“Why can’t I stay at your place?”

Roger blinked. “I didn’t think you’d want to.”

“Why not?” you exclaimed.

He sighed. “I don’t know, because I might try to kiss you again? I won’t, by the way, I know you hate it.”

“Rog, you just took care of me for a week in a hospital and did just about everything for me.” You put a hand on his arm. “And I was so glad it was you. You’re the only person I want to take care of me.”

Roger pulled the car over. You could see Freddie’s place down the street. “I’m sorry,” he started. “I am. I really shouldn’t have kissed you those times.”

“I’m not mad anymore, Roger.” You moved your hand down to his, holding it. “I’m eternally grateful for everything you’ve done for me in the past week. You’re the greatest friend I could ever ask for.”

Roger tried to ignore the tight feeling in his chest at your use of the f word. “O-Okay, we can go back to my place.” He put the car back in drive and turned around, speeding off towards his house.

---

“Pepperoni?” he asked, about to pick up his phone.

“Yeah.” You slowly sat up a little bit better on the couch. “With extra cheese.”

“Gotcha.” Roger dialed the number of the pizza place, putting the phone to his face.

You pulled the blanket up around you tighter, laughing at something said on the TV, then grimacing in pain. You’d never realized how much you used the muscles in your stomach until it hurt to do so. You knew it would take you a while, and probably some physical therapy, to be able to recover.

Roger sat down next to you a few minutes later, pulling you over so you could lean on him. “It’ll be here in about an hour.”

You sighed contentedly. “Thank you so much.” You grabbed Roger’s hand, holding it in your lap.

He smiled. “Anything for you.”

You closed your eyes; being in the hospital is tiring, and you hardly got any sleep. “I’m sorry if I fall asleep before it gets here.”

“It’s all right, love. You deserve a good nap.”

Pretty soon, you drifted off to sleep. You heard Roger murmur something right before you went unconscious, but you couldn’t hear it. Probably nothing important.

Taglist:

@thessxoxo @roger-bang-the-drum @slavsher @sabbrriiinnaa @i-ship-it-ironically @blissfully-queen@oyoke @borhapqueen92@girlpluto @secretsweetscollectionblog@bentaylorrogerhardy @16wiishes@emmieliabedelia @onevisionliz @mr-stank-i-dont-feel-so-dank @rebelrebelyourefaceisamess (Sorry if it didn’t tag you, I don’t know what this app’s doing.)

#ben hardy #queen #gwilym lee #roger taylor #brian may #freddie mercury #joe mazzello #john deacon #rami malek #bohemian rhapsody #roger taylor x reader #ben hardy x reader #queen fanfiction #ben hardy roger taylor #reconnecting #fanfiction #x reader

92 notes · View notes

arrowraptor · 5 years

Text

Since you wanted to see it

Here are a few cringy old writing things I did years ago.

They are bellow the cut since they are long and I don’t want to take up your dash.

Yeah, they’re bad and I left out some of the worst fan-fiction stuff I did as an edgy teen. Maybe I’ll post those too...Maybe.

Title: Darkness

The world is a dark place The human race is no longer interested in mere survival, they want to thrive and is not afraid to destroy everything in their path I’m only 15 but I feel like I may have more sense then any of the other humans In this dark world money is everything, no one cares for anything other then money Teachers don’t care about the kids only their paychecks, all the kids can’t wait to get a job and to get money, everything revolves around money I found that out No one would know that I have a monster I hold at bay but before, when I was little, it was hard not to let it out I tried to lock it away and throw away the key but it got out For a year it was no longer me, but the monster, it ruled I was lost in the dark world, locked away all my cries for help where met with nothing People looked down on me, seeing me as a threat My life fell apart because of the monster Then it went away, but it left my life in shattered I knew that no one would answer my calls for help, so I stopped trying Writing became my life, it helped keep the evil at bay Still people saw me as a threat so I became a doormat, a pushover Then I was seen a week, people could do anything and I would go along with everything they said or did I tried to fight it but every time I did the monster would return, I felt it’s claws tearing at my mind It wanted me to surrender, and let it take over I didn’t want to, I would ignore the pain and the teasing Writing helped me hide from the dark world but I still knew the monster was waiting, the evil would take over One day it happened, I snapped everything crashed down and I was done I stood up and became a threat again The younger kids didn’t know anything they didn’t like that I was older, I knew more and could show them the right path So I didn’t, I fought everyone The darkness got larger the more I fought Then the water came, it washed my life away I was soon drowning in everything So I did what I should have do in the beginning and became a nightmare around everyone but those I trusted But no one knew the pain the evil caused me, each day I woke up afraid it would take over and leave me in that dark, again To stop it I tried to be help full, I tried to help but everyone was too afraid I hated help now, once asking for it in my own way I not despised it and wanted it to go away I still hate to get help To me help is a sign of weakness and surrender I’m afraid If I stop fighting

The darkness will come back And everything I worked for would be destroyed I can feel the evil coming I know that monster is waiting I don’t know how to end it I don’t think I want to Darkness is not that bad, it’s just scary and lonely so I create characters to join me In my internal prison In the darkness as a monster takes my life away and leaves me to clean up the mess

Title: Fight in the past to protect the future (Cut down, cause it was 14 or something pages long)

The new girl, Bella, looked around for a table, everyone had friends they hung out with, but her. She noticed a blue glow, turning her head she saw four boys grab a backpack and hurry out of the lunch room, curious about what they were going to do, she crept after them, unaware she was being followed Rose tried not be seen. She had also seen the backpack and was following Bella without being seen but she had tripped over a pile of boxes and landed behind Bella. Bella pushed Rose off her “Who are you?” She asked, trying to be quite “Did you see that backpack glow too?” “Yes my name is Rose.” “I’m Bella” Bella noticed something on the ground, she picked them up, they looked like tops, with dinosaur figures on top “These look cool, I wonder what they do” Bella held them out “Do you want the raptor or Tarbosaurus?” “I want the raptor” Rose said “Ok” Bella handed her the raptor, there was a sudden blue flash, that filled the entire room. “What?” Rose said

Title: Into the darkness (I’m 90% sure this was from a dream)

Shadows hung over the ground, cast by the decaying trees, eyes flickered in the pale moon light, the blood red eyes searched for it’s prey. The eyes faded into nothingness, as a heart stopping shriek filled the air, it wasn’t the sound of an animal in pain but a creature howling in anger. Knife sharp claws scraped down a rotting tree, creating four deep gashes in the trunk. A small bear cub wandered down the path, her black fur with stunning yellow eyes and spiraling suns that danced across her fur. She looked about, curious about this dark place, her fur seemed to shine like the sun, lighting her path. Blood red eyes watched her from the darkness as she wandered, blood stained fangs dripping with saliva as the creature watched the cub. It seemed to move swiftly, blending into the dark perfectly. The cub stopped suddenly, she glanced behind her the shadows seemed to move, no longer curious about the forest her yellow eyes widened in terror but it was too late and huge shadow rose up, blocking out the moon. Before she could run, or scream the light radiating from her fur showed long, sharp claws just before the dug into her neck. Blood ran down the path, black and yellow fur mixed with it. The thick blood oozed down the path and pooled in a little puddle right under a sign that read The Dark Forest DO NOT ENTER

Young Flinch trotted under the stone arch, it was the gateway to her destination, a school on survival and learning how to control the unique power each predator is born with. Flinch was ten moons old, her family had sent her out on the long journey away from their small town to this school, she had been on the move for two weeks and was looking forwards to sleeping peacefully. Mud splattered her white fur, almost hiding the ice blue watermarks on her paws and shoulder, her water blue eyes danced from spot to spot in amazement, until this day she only had heard stories on this place and now she was standing in it. There was a tan watch tower on the hill, Flinch recognized the gleam of water at the base of the tower. “Welcome to Frozen Ember” An elderly polar bear growled, welcome “I’m Lilly the head instructor” “I’m Flinch” The wolf pup dipped her head “I’m glad to be here” A older wolf pup trotted up “This is Lark, she will escort you to the den” Lilly nodded to the wolf, like Finch, Lark had watermarks but they were a darker ocean colored, to match her brown fur “She will also be your mentor” “Come on” Lark wagged her tail “I’ll show you around” Finch barked happily and pranced after Lark “If you need anything, I’ll be around the school, just find me” Lilly called after them “Ok!” Finch barked over her shoulder

“Here is where I spend most of my time” Lark said, splashing into the water “There are a lot of water power in school right now, I guess the world needed it” “Where are they?” Flinch asked “Studying, there is a test coming up” Lark barked, Flinch looked worried “You don’t have to take it, neither do I because I’m mentoring you”

Title: The forgotten pup

Clouds tumbled in the sky, driven by wind, below the sky, huge trees stretched towards the sky, their branches piled in snow, the thick white frost clung to the trunks as the wind howled, no stars, nor moon shined on the ancient forest. A pack of wolf paw prints were quickly fading into the snow. A small, white, wolf pup bound through the snow, she jumped onto an exposed root and looked back, the barks and growls from her pack rang in her ears, she searched the empty forest for her mother and siblings, a twig snapped and savage jaws tried to grab her, with a yelp the wolf pup darted away, zig, zagging between the huge trees, fighting the wind. Fear drove the pup further and further from her pack, and her home. The snow slowly began to pile higher, slowing the pup down, she looked around, flattening her ears, she was lost, and alone. “Mum?” The pup whinned, searching the shadows for the dark pelt of her mother, only the wind answered her call. The pup noticed a small den under a root, the tree above it sheltered it from getting buried in too much snow, the pup forced her way through the snow, diving into the den she watched the snow pile up until she curled up and let sleep take over.

Finally, last but not least here is this.

I can’t even explain it, just read it. I have no clue when I wrote this or why but it’s something I have now... I’m sorry

Sunlight, that was the first thing Lucky Seven saw when she woke up. It was strange, one minute she had been spending eternity under the ocean in a graveyard of broken jaegers, and now she was here, no longer destroyed, broken, left to rust away. The jaeger tried to stand, but it was different, she was no longer a massive robot, she was small, weak, fragile. Tucking her legs under her large body she pushed up, now standing she swung her head from side to side, taking in her surroundings. She was by a mountain range, it curved so the ends were out of sight, Lucky glanced the other way, she could see the faint green glimmer of trees in the distance, suggesting to a forest. Preferring not to go into the trees, she looked the other way, it was plain and flat, the grass was dried and golden, but an aurora of green seemed to still shine from the dried stocks. Confident she got the lay of the land, Lucky evaluated herself. She was in a stocky body, her fuzzy sooty brown coat slightly rippled as a salty breeze blew over her, her greyish mane and tail swayed with the wind. Finally it clicked for her, she was a horse, a large one from what she could tell, she remembered Scott and Herc’s memories from the drift what the beasts looked like. The mare shuttered a bit as she inadvertently brought on memories of the rangers, the battles, the betrayal, she shook her head, clearing it. Lucky looked around again, there were definitely other horses, she could faintly see their figures milling about just about everywhere, she wondered if any of her comrades were here also, and why she was brought here. Carefully Lucky began picking her way down, deciding to go in the opposite direction of the forest, she set off at a brisk trot. Every so often another horse would approach her, she would be friendly but tried not to linger too long, she was on a mission to find her comrades, she had to know if she was alone here.

It was day four, or at least she thought it was, Lucky sighed, she had hardly covered any space, in fact she could see the area she woke up. She stood at the edge of a forest, not as dense as the first she saw when she first woke up, but it still made her nerves. “I’m never gonna find anyone” She muttered to herself, if she was still a jaeger it would be easy, she would probably would have searched the entire island by now. Another horse approached her from the shadows of the forest, at first she prepared herself for another boring interaction with one of the local horses, but this horse seemed different, in fact almost familiar. “C-Crimson?” Lucky gasped, the horse bounded up “Lucky!” He greeted her “It’s great to see you!”

#Sorry #My writing #the cringe #its really bad #writing #just sorry

2 notes · View notes

therestisconfettii · 6 years

Text

My first fanfic in YEARSSSS

The dirty red and green sweater was there again that night - as soon as Alison had closed her eyes she had known that she was no longer alone. With her eyes squeezed tightly shut, she prayed to herself, pleading for it to be just a dream – a dream she would wake from, could wake from, able to laugh at herself for being so naively and unnecessarily petrified. But she knew, she knew that it was not a dream and no matter how desperately she tried to disguise her fear, her trembling body betrayed her façade.

With a deep breath, Alison opened her eyes. She was back in the boiler room, a place she had come to know so very well. A thick wave of steam filled the air causing Alison’s eyes to burn and her chest to tighten, she spluttered uncontrollably.

With her view mired by the thick fog, Alison trepidly shuffled forward, her bare feet burning on the hot metal below her. Her long white nightgown caressed the curves of her slender figure and softly trailed the floor, fraying around the edges with each step she took. The pipes around her whistled and hummed with every step – each sound causing her skin to prickle and her heart to beat harder, faster.

Alison could remember the first time she had seen Freddy’s face - the hideous scars that rippled his skin like the scales of a creature, his worn fedora that hung slightly forward shielding his eyes from view and the vicious smell that clawed at her nostrils from his decaying teeth as he smiled menacingly and whispered “I’m the man of your dreams sweetheart”.

The dreams had started to happen a month or so back, her friends had shared an online forum with her full of crazy people discussing a man name Freddy Krueger, a child molester burnt to death by the angry parents of the children he had abused. The forum was filled with theories and stories about how Freddy’s spirit had lived on and he was killing people in the confines of their imaginations. Alison had thought the thread was nothing but nonsense and distortion, but the dreams she had been having were leading her to believe that perhaps some truth lay behind the claims.

The first nightmare came the night her friends had introduced her to the idea of Freddy. She had been lay on her couch drifting peacefully in and out of sleep when two pairs of arms shot out of the sofa, grabbing her and locking her into position. Alison had screamed in pure terror and wrestled against the mysterious arms to no avail, they pinned her down spreading her legs. A bladed hand began to rise out of the couch between her legs, swiping ferociously, catching her inner thigh.

Alison had awoken screaming and fallen from the couch in a panic, her body soaked with sweat, her breathing heavy. Only after she had calmed herself down did she notice the blood seeping through her clothes. Alison had been unable to sleep since – with every loss of consciousness came the man with the dirty red and green sweater.

Alison knew that this night would be no different, but after 3 consecutive nights of no sleep she was beginning to falter. She could barely keep her eyes open in class and her mind had begun playing tricks on her, every person she laid eyes on would morph into Freddy.

With sleep beckoning, she had decided to give in to her temptation – setting an alarm for fifteen minutes time, hoping this would rouse her from her sleep unscathed.

The loud clanging of metal made her stomach somersault as she rounded the corner in the boiler room, the sound of metal scarping metal made her hairs stand on end. ‘you’re going to make it, you’re going to make it’ she whispered to herself over and over.

Alison began to regret her decision to sleep, becoming angry at herself for being weak and giving in. Suddenly, a tall shadowy figure began to rise from the ground in front of her, a small yelp escaped her lips before she had time to catch it.

She stood agonizingly still as she watched the figure grow taller and taller, so impossibly tall it seemed as though the room around them was shrinking. Before she could say or do anything the figure lunged at her causing her to scream so loudly she could feel the room begin to shake. Unexpectedly, the figure dissipated into a thick black fog as it slammed into her tensed body. Alison silently fought the urge the throw up and as tears cascaded down her cheeks she prayed to wake up.

Pushing forwards, her entire body trembled with fear. She wanted desperately to use the pipes as a guide but, as she had learned from another nightmare, they were excruciatingly hot to touch – so hot, she had awoken to blistering burns across her palms.

She reached another corner and urged her body to keep going, but the sound of faint tapping filled her with dread. As she rounded the corner she came face to face with 3 three young girls, playing with a jump rope. Two were swinging the rope and the third was jumping – all singing the same song. A song she had heard before. It meant that he was close.

One, two, Freddy’s coming for you the girl’s voices echoed, sending a chill down Alison’s spine, she turned to run back. Three, four, better lock your door, five, six, grab your crucifix, seven, eight, better stay up late’ abruptly the voices disappeared, leaving Alison alone with the whispering of the pipes.

Alison’s mind was running in circles, her pulse thudding piercingly in her ears, “why hadn’t they finished the song?”. Panic beginning to take over, her vision began to spin.

‘Nine, Ten, never sleep again’ a deep voice whispered into her ear.

A pair of hands shot around Alison and squeezed her tight. She tried to scream and fight but all that could escape her mouth was the air being squeezed from her lungs by the strong grip. She was running out of time. Desperately, Alison threw her head back expecting to feel a painful collision of heads, but she was greeted by nothing but air. She fell to the floor, gasping for air. Where had he gone?

Alison looked to her watch, ‘ten minutes, just another ten minutes’ she whispered.

She stood, regaining her balance and panned the room for an exit. There was a narrow corridor to her left that she had not seen before – deciding to pursue this, she ran as fast her legs would carry her, not stopping for breath for fear of Freddy being on her trail.

Her run slowed to a halt as she came to the end of the corridor. Thick white plastic sheets hung like curtains in her way preventing her from seeing any further down her chosen path. An unexpected draft caused the sheets to writhe. Freddy’s laugh echoed down the corridor, snapping Alison from her daze and spurring her into action. She quickly grabbed the plastic sheets and whipped them aside.

Alison gasped as she stepped forward. As the sheets receded, an old derelict house came into view. The house appeared abandoned and was secluded, standing alone on the unkempt land. Panic stricken, Alison turned back to re-enter the boiler room, but it was no longer there. As she turned, she came face to face with overgrown land that went on for what appeared to be miles.

The wind began to whip Alison’s night gown and stung at her skin. Deciding it was her only option, she headed for the house, weaving through the overgrown grass. The closer she became to the house, the taller and darker it appeared. Every window was broken and boarded up and the wooden door frame was rotten and gathering a collection of moss and weed. The porch at the entrance to the house was worn and splintered and pained her bare feet as she stepped up towards the door.

With baited breath, she reached for the door handle and pushed. The door opened with an eerie creak. As she slowly stepped inside a deafening silence infiltrated her senses. The entire building was littered with cobwebs and the only light was that of the moonlight streaming in through the cracks of the boarded-up windows.

The light streamed through the cracks of the house, illuminating a path up the stairway. As though drawn by a force, Alison mounted the stairs.

Her grip tightened on the rotting banister as she began her ascent. She looked down to her watch ‘5 minutes to go’. As she reached the top of the stairs, the light began to fade. Making her way across the landing she began to squint as her eyes adjusted to dark. Alison’s attention was caught by what looked like a pile of material on the floor, as she moved closer a scream escaped her lips.

A young girl in a blood-soaked cotton white dress lay in a heap, a teddy clutched in her hand. Alison trembled, tears streaming down her face as she reached out to touch the girl. Suddenly the girls neck snapped sharply, and her face contorted into an evil grin ‘he’s home’ she whispered as she melted into the floor and disappeared between the floorboards.

‘No!’ Shouted Alison, spinning on her heels.

Freddy’s lips curled into a vicious smile as he raised his gloved hand and waved. His other hand shot out and pulled Alison closer to him. She fought and screamed, ‘please, not, get off me!’

Freddy loved when they pleaded. It made him feel as though he was a God. He ran his bladed hand through her hair and watched as a few strands came loose and fell to the floor. ‘Don’t worry’ he whispered, his rotting breath infiltrating her airways ‘I don’t bite hard’ His un-gloved hand ran down her back and grabbed at her skin.

He leaned in to smell Alison’s hair. ’Strawberry. My favourite’ he exclaimed before running his tongue down the side of her face, his viscous laugh ripped through the air once more as he felt her squirm against him. His grip tightened and his hand grasped at her breast. She threw her hand towards him with as much force as she could muster, slapping him harshly across the face. This made him laugh even more.

Abruptly, Freddy launched his bladed hand at Alison, catching her shoulder. She fell to the floor with force, tears streaming down her cheeks as she clutched her wound.

She felt Freddy’s hand slip around her neck and grab her hair. He yanked her up from the floor with such force Alison was sure he’d break her neck.

He gently ran a blade down her face, leaving a red mark down her cheek. ‘Beg’ he smiled ‘Make Freddy happy little one. Beg’

‘No’ Alison cried.

‘Bad girl’ he cooed. With the hand wrapped in her hair he tilted her head backwards and placed a soft kiss to her lips. Lifting a blade to her throat, he slowly sliced and watched as her eyes widened and her chest began to heave and glow a violent red. He tenderly ran his tongue along her chest, tasting his victory and then loosened his grip and let her fall to the floor.

Alison’s body glistened with blood in the moonlight, her final whimpers heaving her blood-soaked chest.

The watch on her wrist began to chime and Freddy smiled again.

He laughed as he walked away into the night, ‘too late little one’

#Freddy Krueger #nightmare on elm street #a nightmare on elm street #elm street #fanfic #fan fiction #creative writing #horror #horror fiction #horror writing

4 notes · View notes

quill-of-thoth · 6 years

Text

Nemo Me Impune Lacessit

Caveat Lector: Death by suffocation, dementia, the catacombs are small and dark and creepy. Also, this is 4k words of me mimicking Poe’s writing style.

As I listened to the rantings – no, the ravings! – of Montressor, there remained no doubt in my mind that the man had finally gone mad. The fits of pique and passion to which he was subject, the whims that I must needs indulge him or face his wrath, the very mercurial aspects of his personality: these I had patiently borne, knowing my company his only comfort in his decline and considering that, in all other ways, my position in the crumbling manse of the Montressors was an easy one. The old man, perhaps seeing something of his youth in me, preferred my company to that of all others as his health failed and his world narrowed to the scope of his ancestral halls, then finally to his own private rooms, where he pored over the tomes of his forefathers and dreamed of the long faded glory of his progenitors until he was half convinced that he was in fact imbued with the power and the authority of his forefathers, the utmost master of his own domain, untouchable, beyond reproach so long as his honor remained unsullied, and the family motto Nemo Me Impune Lacessit gleamed proud underneath the ancient heraldic crest, a serpent rampant striking, with its last breath, the human foot that crushed it.

For the better part of a year, I had watched the decline of the mind of the last of the Montressors, and smiled in his face as he decayed from a man of unparalleled brilliance to the decrepit wreck that he was now, infected by honor, raving about the imagined slights of other gentlemen of the city, some of whom I was convinced had never existed. I showed my teeth at his purposeless ramblings, feigned a laugh at his imagined triumphs over his neighbors, lied with kind eyes as I explained why men long dead would not visit – not that the living ever haunted our halls! No, I, and I alone, bore the changing of days and the decay of the house around us – I alone, too distant a cousin to bear the old man’s name or any resemblance to the gloomy portraits hung upon the walls, cared enough about the old man to let him die in peace. All other friends and relations had abandoned him; little wonder that it was I who he addressed as one who knew the very nature of his soul. None other still addressed him as anything other than a patient, to be dosed and quieted and sent to bed.

The months had served to all but wipe away my memories of a happier time before the old man’s mind had begun to rot away – I had long since ceased to think of him as anything other than the wreck he was – when I noticed a new turn in his mind. Where before he had told boastful stories of his youth, his prowess at debating, the respect he was afforded by the town, hunting parties, whatsoever else came to mind – a mind previously as quick as a steel trap, which now resembled a selection of lost pieces from a child’s jigsaw puzzle – his tales, (or perhaps some still were memories,) began to take a much more sinister, even grotesque turn. He claimed that he had been a member of any number of secret societies – had overseen arcane rituals to turn lead into gold – had seen one midwinter night the ghost of his father, begging him to dig him up out of his grave and release him from the suffocating earth. I paid these stories as little mind as I possibly could, as he rambled by candlelight in the dank, empty house with the winter wind whistling through the gaps in the shutters.

The story of Fortunato I dismissed almost instantly as pure phantasm.

There was no family named Fortunato in the city, nor had Montressor spoken before of such a man – though when he spoke, it was with the deepest and most vehement hatred of him, such that I shuddered to think – for the old man’s mood had been angry and volatile for so long, now – what he should do if he had any such enemy living, and was not kept under constant watch. For in some things, Montressor’s mind was still as cutting and agile as ever: he spoke with the same impassioned fluidity of old, but he knew not to whom he was speaking; each crevice and cranny of the old house was still known to him, yet it had been over half a year since I could trust him outside of its doors; he would in a day remember events from fifty years ago and forget the events of the day before. In time, the preposterous imaginings of the old man grew far more bizarre – ominious, confused, and at times disturbing despite his growing bewilderment and vitrol towards the world – and his story of vengeance in the crypts below the palazzo was all but blotted out of my mind, replaced with more trials and tribulations of the old man’s dwindling life, such as a night spent tending to a detailed delusion that he was dead already, with centipedes crawling about under his skin. After that, I took the advice of the local pharmacist, and Montressor grew quiet at last.

In the bitterest dark of the winter – in fact, just after Carnival – that the old man caught influenza, then pneumonia, and finally died, though not quite peacefully. More people came to his funeral than had come to see him in the last year. They toasted to his memory – to a friendship that they pretended to fondly remember, though all the while I watched, knowing what the late, great Montressor had thought of them in his final months, and saw nothing on their faces but condescension and smirking deceit.

Then they were gone, and I was left alone with the crumbling wreck that was the manse of the Montressors; fit, I thought for a few wild moments, only for burning to the ground. Yet it was mine now, for the old man had no closer kin, and loathe as he was to allow it to pass out of the family proper, he would have been horrified to see it leave his bloodline entirely. How he had thought I would manage to keep the moldering skeleton in one piece was entirely beyond me – had there been money for the necessary repairs, it would already have been spent on them – so I resolved all at once to sell it, crush that last ounce of patrician vanity, the only legacy of a dead man, take whatever I could get, and make a new life far away, in a land where my connection to the Montressors raised no eyebrows and my name carried with it no shame.

And yet, as I lay listening to the rats scratching through the walls of the newly emptied house, alone save for my candles, I could not sleep.

I did not miss the old man’s waking nightmares, his mirages cut from whole cloth, the way he had laughed smugly at the world outside, seemingly unaware that his lot in life had diminished to little but delusions of grandeur – but it had covered the noise of the questing rats and the wind whistling about the house. It had kept the shadowed portraits at bay, and the thousand morbid fantasies that the night bears to a waking brain – and I could not go on in that house, not without knowing the answer to the thought that had begun in that night to gnaw at my soul.

Surely, the old man had only imagined it all – far stranger things had he told me, of a woman buried alive, of guilty murderers who heard the hearts of their victims beating on and on even after death until the drumming drove them insane, of secret signs and symbols, of pirate codes and buried treasure, of portraits that stole the youth of their subjects, of vengeance extracted after years through slow poison, of the tortures of the inquisition, and of impenetrable mystic rites that conferred upon the recipient of a draught of lamb’s blood the ability to read men’s souls and find precious metals in the earth. Next to such fuel for dreadful fantasy, such a thing should have quickly been forgotten.

And yet, I had not forgotten, for the old man’s eyes had flashed so, the spittle had flown from his lips, the cold and unholy light of vengeance had lit up his whole countenance, the words fell from his lips with an inviting surety: he had felt sure, I thought, that I should celebrate with him his great victory over the oafish, the drunken, the bumbling Fortunato! I should feel in the marrow of my bones that the insult to our house by the smug aficionado could not be borne – that Montressor’s course of action was the only which was right, which was just, which would preserve the dignity of those who, no matter how poor and how decayed, should never suffer such impudence against them without swift and terrible retribution. The untold numbers of our ancestors – his, not mine, though at the moment he had extended to me the hand of acknowledgement, perhaps not even remembering who I was – should turn over and over again in their crypts, should have haunted him until he destroyed that serpent, that buffoon, that motley bedecked dunce for daring to –

I had not the least idea what insult Fortunato was supposed to have offered my recently deceased cousin.

Nor did I have any belief that such a man had ever existed, save as a confused compilation of all Montressor’s most abhorrent acquaintances, a face to attribute every imagined slight of his youth – a face that he had conjured in the absence of his so-called friends during his slow decline, and hung upon the hated visage every bewildered memory of the indignity that he had suffered – old, childless, poor and yet too proud to do aught but rot in it, draining the dregs of the family fortune that my own father’s cowardice had barred me from with each pipe of Amontillado!

No, I no longer had to smile and bear the old man’s diatribe with placid blandishments – I was free, free from the long-forgotten heraldry, from the often translated motto – for there was nothing left of the Montressors! I was soon to wash my hands of it all! I resolved to go as far as I could, to Britain or Austria, for the company of millionaires reviled by the rest of the town for their gauche and presumptuous ways was far preferable to the poisoned insincerity of genteel poverty and a slow, agonizing slide into the darkness of ignorance and obscurity, pitied by all and valued by no one! No, I had no sympathy left for the old man – for he knew not what it meant to be truly, and honestly, despised for circumstances he could not change, nor what it was to scrabble for acceptance, to curse his paternity at every sly smile, at every moment of condescension, knowing that it was impossible to gain that which he so desperately sought – for should you please anyone, you are “well mannered, considering your birth,” and should you give offense, you are instantly lowered – for who should truly consider one so misbegotten worthy even of their anger? Even in his old age, when I was willing to aid him in his illness, the old man had always had a self-righteous look about him, as if to say “I give you the crumbs off my meager table only so your mouth may water at what little more I have,” the cruelty of one beggar to another. It was only as his mind had begun to fade and his fair-weather friends, his creditors and his connoisseurs, had abandoned him, that I, my ancestry forgotten, became his bossom companion, his only confidante. But for an accident of birth, I should have shared equally in the name, the reputation of the Montressors – and I should not have drank and gambled myself into poverty and obscurity! Yet he sought to give me his bleakness, his desolation, his macabre mockery of gentility and his obsession with a dead era of nobility and honor!

How then, should I believe in his fearful chimeras, why then, should I lay awake near-drowning in the impression of his voice, his boundless arrogance, his certainty of purpose?

Why should I shiver at the thought of a dead man in the crypts below? There were any number of dead men, for the crypts had been used as an ossuary for many years before my cousin had taken possession of the house. Rationality told me that they were naught but bones, that being aware, so suddenly, of where they lay unburied underground, behind perhaps only a few doors, did not change this – for no ill had come of them in the past decades, and no ill would come of them tonight. Yet it seemed I heard, in the voice of Montressor, hushed and yet gleeful, as he was wont to be when he told me of his superstitious exploits or his exaggerated prowess in revenge, the words, “No harm has yet come to a Montressor from the remains of his ancestors.”

I lay awake as the candle guttered: I thought that Fortunato would not have died quickly, even bricked up in the vaults. He first would have exhausted himself, testing his chains and shouting, hoping fiercely that it was all a fit of dark humor on the part of my cousin, that he had now been well and truly humiliated for whatever offense he had given, that any moment now he would be released… as hours passed, that perhaps someone would hear him beyond the catacombs, that he should be rescued by a steward lost in search of some rare wine, that he would miraculously be encountered. If his chains had been long enough, he would have tested the wall – he would have clawed at it until his fingers bled, his nails worn down to stubs – he would have thrown his weight against it, tried to break the shackles, tried to knock the bricks loose before they set – known that the bricks were what would kill him quickest, had they been properly set, for soon he would run out of air –

No! For the last time, there was not – never had been – a man by the name of Fortunato! Therefore, no man had suffocated alone in the vaults of the manse that I now owned, nor starved, nor died of fear and despair and betrayal; therefore there was no body hanging, shackled, behind a wall, mute evidence to the depravity of my line; therefore I must snuff the candle so that I may sleep through the night and wake in the morning to make the preparations to sell the wasting pile as fast as I may. Yet when I reached for the candle, my hand was shaking.

All at once I stormed up from the bedclothes, candle in hand, and was halfway to my chamber door before the freezing stones against my feet became unbearable. I dressed with undue haste in some of my warmest clothes, and then, candle in hand, I descended to the depths of the vaults.

It was indeed as damp and cold as I had thought: nitre hung from the walls and the ceiling like frost stiffened moss, and my breath fanned out in front of my face like a silent shroud. Everywhere there were racks, filled haphazardly with empty bottles of wine stacked one upon the other, and glass fragments of brilliant colors that would have dignified a cathedral glittered on the floor. As I searched amongst the wreckage for a torch, I cursed the biting air and my cousin’s drunken, wastrel heart – then, warming my hands one at a time by the new flame that threw the lurking shadows of the catacombs into stark relief, I blew out my candle and placed it upon the steps.

The catacombs of the Montressors were vast, descending deep beneath the Palazzo in long, winding passages cut into the rock of the hill beneath – vaults and caverns older by far than the Montressors. It would be far too easy to lose myself amidst the walls of piled bones, the emptied barrels and flagons, which grew only more deeply encrusted with white nitre as I descended yet another stair, passed under another series of low arches, and began to come upon the small bones of rats mixed in with the powdery debris of human existence. The air became oppressive – not yet foul, but heavy with the weight of the earth above me, the dust that stirred at my footsteps, the ever-present smoke of my torch and the silence that, save for my footsteps and the hiss and crackle of my light, reigned inviolate. Though I knew it to be only a trick of the mind, I fancied myself able to see a deeper weight to the shadows, as if they had passed beyond mere darkness, out of the reach of my torch, and into some life and animation of their own – as if they moved of their own accord, a sort of antithesis to light rather than it’s mere absence. As I stood and the faint, wet echo of my footsteps died away, the silence grew louder, until I felt that my heartbeat must be as loud as a drum, my breath the sound of a whirlwind, the very blood in my veins the roaring of the ocean.

I should be pleased when I was finally quit of this place, and all the morbid fascination that it contained. Let some foolish scholar, some young pomp pleased with his own fortune inherit this gloom, this reproachful silence!

Gripping the torch in fingers that felt raw with cold, I descended once more to the lowest level of the crypts, far below the bed of the river. The air had grown from merely still to actively foul, and the flame of my torch sank low against the wood. Although there seemed no reason for any rational being to enter, these chambers were also filled with bones - in the smallest, they were stacked on three sides and scattered across the floor, surrounding a curious wall, where some bones were clumsily stacked across three feet of space between a pair of rough hewn pillars was sealed with badly mortared stones.

Though I did not remember all that my departed cousin had said on the matter, I knew without a doubt that this was the place. Here were the bones of the quiet dead, thrown down to clear the way for his delusions. There was a dark niche fit only for hiding the most gruesome of secrets: here too was the foul air that would quickly kill a man with a chronic shortness of breath, the oppressive darkness and the silence that might drive him mad with fright when he recognized the onrushing pace of his own death. How must he have gasped, fighting to breathe against the crushing weight of the earth above him, when my own breathing was even now a little labored? How must his heart have beat its way out of his chest as he saw the face of one he counted friend distended by the madness of vengeance for some unforgotten ill? How must he have died, despairing, alone save for the nameless, faceless bones complacent in their tomb, filled with the body and yet empty of the soul of the house of the Montressors –

With a cry I threw down my torch and seized the first object to hand – a trowel thrown down amidst the bones – and I hacked at the wall. I would prove that this was nothing but a phantasm, brought on by the disturbed mind of my mad cousin! I would open the wall and see only a dark passageway, bricked up to stop the foul vapors from rising, the memory of which had prompted Montressor to elaborate upon his invented revenge! I would have peace, would sleep at night in the house I now owned, would, by destroying the very foundations of his delusions, exorcise the ghost of the last of the Montressors!

The masonry crumbled beneath the tip of my trowel, never having been dry enough to set, and the first block fell almost upon my feet. I could see nothing beyond it in the dim light, so I yanked out first one stone, then another, until they came crashing down in a ragged wave and I jumped back, seized my torch, and thrust it into the opening, already giving a little cry of exultation as the light reached smooth granite, empty of all save a rusty band of what must be metal, no, two, a pair of chains depending from them –

My cry of exultation gave way to a gasp of horror as I saw the truth. The years had not quite mummified him, though the nitre must have to some degree counteracted the damp – in places the sagging skin peeled back from the bones, and there was no way of knowing , save for the rags of the oversized garb he wore, that the corpse had once been a large and fleshy man. Yet I knew – I knew it with a certainty that to this day shakes my bones, that still causes me to see in my mind the skeletal, half-rotted face with hair that might pass for a living man’s hanging down around it – that this was the mortal remains of Fortunato, bound in chains to the stone wall. His cap bore three bells: it must once have been motley.

#Cask of Amontillado #MonthOfHalloween #quill does a fanfic #technically pastiche?#this has to be public domain #Poe's zombie is invited over for tea #And a complimentary tuberculosis screening #Have some penicillin you ancient corpse

15 notes · View notes

donttelluswhattodo · 4 years

Text

The Filmmaker, parts 1-4

Part 1

Hector hung up the phone and replayed the conversation in his head. I’m sorry, Hector, but your film is just not the type of work we’re looking for right now. It was the nicest way a producer had ever turned him down. “Another film, another waste of time, and not another dollar in my pocket,” Hector said to himself.

He scanned his apartment with tired eyes. His small room felt dark, even with the silent television flickering in front of him, and all the lights on. It was partly his dark mood, as well as the single poorly placed window in his apartment, which was tightly snugged between two similarly large apartment complexes, and allowed next to no natural light to enter his tiny apartment.

His room had cracked and sagging walls, a floor that often made him feel as if he was walking downhill, and was constantly dirty - only partly due to the mess of his own making. Scattered across various tables, counter tops, chairs, and even on the floor were a variety of camera and film-making equipment; all of which caused him a sizable portion of his meager savings. Aside from that, there were discarded clothes, week-old pizza boxes, and even a stray cat he had taken in as a favor to an ex-girlfriend.

Hector had believed it would be only a temporary accommodation while he worked on his documentaries. But even now, ten full years of his life later, and he was no closer to achieving the fame and recognition he felt his films deserved, and certainly even further away now from leaving this hellhole behind him.

This last film he created was an expose piece on the crimes committed within a local nursing home, where the staff had started stealing money from the residents and selling their life-saving drugs, often giving them dangerous replacements, or if the resident had a poor memory, not giving them anything at all. A few residents had died, the nursing home was shut down, and several attendees were sent to prison.

“How is that not interesting?” Hector said to no one. He took a deep breath and sighed.

“Christ, there’s that smell again… Smells like someone died in here.”

“Mrow,” cried the cat. She was staring directly at him with piercing eyes.

You hungry, cat? Join the club.”

Part 2

“Mrow?” cried the cat again.

“Fine, fine,” Hector said.

The cat followed him into the kitchen, where Hector opened a can of cat food and dropped it into the cat’s bowl. It attacked the bowl mercilessly and happily.

Hector sat on his chair again, contemplating his next move. He would have no more chances. He had taken out more loans than any reasonable person should, and each one was knocking on his door, asking for payments and interests. He had already started being denied by banks several years ago and had then resorted to taking loans from more questionable sources. Unlike the banks, these other lenders wouldn’t mind using violence as a means of getting their money back.

The news flickered on in front of him silently. It was another report on a string of murders that had taken place recently throughout the city.

Hector read the headlines under the reporter: “Another mysterious killing rocks the city. This time, the victims were two high school seniors, Kara Larson and Samantha Bennett, just months away from graduation. Viewers, the images you are about to see are graphic in content and are not recommended for younger audiences.”

A series of photos crossed the television. Two bodies piled on top of each other, covered in gore and bloody wounds. The two girls lay, their eyes open and lifeless, their white uniforms covered in red.

“Jesus…”

Hector could smell it again. It smelled like decay; a strong, pungent, and offensive smell. It was death and rot - probably a raccoon or rat that died in the pipes between the walls.

“Christ, I’d give anything to figure out what’s causing that smell. How do these things even manage to get in there and die?”

“Mooow!” cried the cat, licking his lips and running excitedly around the room.

An idea struck him. It was an idea of morbid curiosity and too taboo to give it any serious thought. But there, sitting alone in his room, the only thing entering his senses in the darkness were violent images, a stampeding cat, and the smell of death.

“Cat,” said Hector. “Would you ever want to see how something like that happens?”

He pointed at the television and the bodies of the two girls.

“Mro?”

Part 3

“My name is Hector Hernandez,” he said into the camera. “Today is October 5th, 2019. A little bit about myself first. I’m a documentary filmmaker, 32 years old. I live alone... with my cat... I should probably edit that out later.”

Hector paused the recording and stared at the cat sitting on his work desk. It was sleeping soundly, its belly rising and falling peacefully.

“What the hell can I say here to not look like a total psycho?”

He stared back into the camera, cleared his throat, and put on his most serious face, and hit record.

“There’s no way for me to say this and not sound crazy. For my next project, I intend to find and apprehend the man or woman responsible for a series of murders in the city. I have a plan to find this person and I think it’ll work. The key is being the bait.”

He turned the camera towards his cat, filming it close up. “I’ll add voice-overs to this later. You make good b-roll, Cat.” The cat opened one eye, stared into the camera, and closed it again.

“Some of you may be asking why I would do something so dangerous. I have decided…” he paused, unsure of how to say what he wanted to say next. He kept the camera rolling, allowing it to capture every emotion that crossed his face.

“I guess the only thing I can do is say it. Along with being my final project, this film will also act as my suicide note.”

The camera lingered on his face, the small blinking red light staring into his eyes.

“By the time this film is released… if it’s ever released… I’ll already be dead.”

---

Here’s what Hector knew:

- The killings all happened between 2:00 and 5:00 in the early morning.

- The victims had been between the ages of 15 and 40.

- Men and women were not discriminated against, but the killings seemed to tend towards younger girls.

- As of today, the victims are, in order: Joana Jones, 17, a student; Clark Martinez, 22, an accountant; Sarah Banfield, 21, university student in linguistics; Bailey Harris, 18, high school graduate; Cameron West, 18, high school dropout; Henrietta Smith, 39, housewife; Phillip Smith, 40, husband to Henrietta and small business owner; and finally, Kara Larson and Samantha Bennett, both 17, high school students.

- The victims were all found in parks in various suburban neighborhoods, all within 5 miles of each other. The police had declared a non-mandatory curfew, asking everyone to be in their homes and not alone in public areas past midnight.

- All the victims showed similar forms of death: strangled with a plastic cord which was then somehow melted around their necks, stabbed between 10 to 20 times while they struggled with suffocation, no evidence of sexual contact, no detectable link between the victims, and no DNA linking them to the killer.

This was all that Hector could figure out on his own from reading the crime reports online. He sat on a nearly empty subway heading East towards the final stop. Aside from him was a homeless man, asleep at the far end of the train car, and a woman who kept stealing nervous glances in his direction. He flipped through his notes and ignored her.

Hector arrived at Grant Park sometime around 1am. As he had expected, the park was empty. Even the police had taken to avoiding dangerous areas like this. The city was far too large for them to police every neighborhood and park. First, he went to a massive oak tree. He set up a tripod and carefully set the camera on top of it, hooking up the microphone and connecting it to the camera. He hid it behind the falling leaves and massive trunk, ensuring that the frame was perfectly set for where he would be.

“Now, we wait.” He sat on a bench and closed his eyes, running through the plan in his mind.

He had worn a turtleneck beneath his jacket today for a reason. Beneath the portion hugging his neck, he had sown on four metallic bars. If he was lucky, they would stop the plastic cord from choking him. If he was unlucky, well…

I’m ready for the worst.

Hector waited there in silence, eyes closed. He had still not figured out the perfect plan beyond first finding the killer and, hopefully, not getting killed before he got a chance to speak to him.

The first night went by without incident.

---

“So far, I’ve had no luck.”

Hector sat in his room, now brightly lit to ensure that the image came in clear and crisp.

“I have about 16 gigabytes worth of low-quality footage of me sitting on a park bench every night for two weeks like some homeless nut job.”

Hector turned off the camera and tried to share some of his .50 cent cup noodles with the cat. It sniffed the noodles, licked it once, then walked away disappointed.

“Too spicy for you? Ungrateful little bastard.”

---

Hector was dozing off on the same bench in Grant Park on day 18 when he heard a shuffling noise behind him. His ears perked up, but instinctively he thought it was another raccoon, a squirrel, a cat, or some other small animal.

Then, a voice, no more than a whisper. “I know what you’re doing.” Two thick hands touched his shoulders, working their way slowly towards his neck. They toyed with the metal bars on Hector’s neck.

Hector sat still, his heart racing. “You finally showed up. You should know something -”

“Shut up,” said the voice.

The hands grabbed the metal bars and pulled at them forcefully, ripping them all off with ease.

Shit, I should’ve stitched them on better.

Hector tried to stand, but the hands upon his shoulders pushed him back down to his seat.

“Sit still or I’ll just kill you now,” said the man. It was a deep, calm voice. It spoke to him forcefully, but politely, intimidating Hector into behaving.

The man came down, putting his mouth to Hector’s ear. He could feel the man’s rapid breathing entering his ear and Hector’s heart pounded. Hector could feel the cloth of the wool mask that covered the man’s face.

The man’s arm extended, pointing his finger towards the camera behind the oak tree.

“Is that for me?” said the man.

“That camera is wirelessly connected to a GPS and a cloud storage. It’s on a timer that will send all the footage to the police station if I don’t input the password on my home computer twice a day.”

It was a lie and a desperate one, but Hector prayed the killer would believe him.

The man hesitated.

“What’s your plan here then?” asked the man. “I can kill you and destroy the camera. Even if the police get the video, they won’t know who I am or where to find me.”

Shit.

Hector cleared his throat, sitting up slightly, trying to assert his authority. “I’m not here to send you to the police. I’m a filmmaker and I want you to be the subject of my final movie.”

Part 4

“Your final movie?” the man said.

It seemed like a rhetorical question, so Hector sat completely still.

“I’m listening.”

Hector hesitated, the fear building in him that the man would simply lose his patience and end this whole encounter.

“Speak already,” the man finally barked.

“I want to kill myself!” Hector said suddenly.

“Oh? I suppose you know, but I’m quite good at doing that for people.”

“My life is already over. If I don’t die now, I’ll just die later. Everyone thinks I’m a failure and they’re probably right. My movies won’t sell. All I have is this idea, this curiosity to know about why people do the things they do. I’ve been following your… work for a few weeks. I think there are people who want to know who you are and why you do what you do. They’re afraid of you, but they admire you. This world is something they want to know about but they’re too afraid to ask. I just want to show them.”

Hector took a deep breath. The words had tumbled out of him without thought. He did not know if they were true words, but Hector wondered if a part of him believed them. And he certainly hoped this man would believe them.

The man said nothing for a moment, perhaps thinking of how to reply to such an odd request. Hector hoped he was more than just a man who enjoyed killing for the sake of killing.

“No one does something like this just because they have nothing better to do.”

“Time to be quiet,” said the man. He was walking around the park bench where Hector sat, stroking his chin, twirling a massive chef’s knife in his hand casually, as if he were on a phone call with his accountant or someone else so dull and uninteresting that his mind could not help but wander.

After an eternity of waiting, the man finally said: “My name is Jean.”

“Is that your real name?” Hector asked.

Hector felt his heart skip a beat as it began to race even faster. His mouth was dry but his hands were cold and clammy.

“Indeed.”

“Does this mean you accept?”

“For now. You’ve piqued my interest.” Jean suddenly lunged at Hector, brandishing his knife and sticking the tip against Hector’s neck. Jean’s eyes were sharp and wide, staring directly into Hector’s soul, draining his energy through sight alone.

“Just remember one thing. If I suspect you of doing anything stupid, if you go to the police, or if I so much as hear my name on the wind, I will come for you and cut you apart until you’re nothing more than a mound of meat. Understood?”

Hector didn’t move. His hands were frozen at his sides. “I understand, I understand.”

Jean continued to stare into Hector’s eyes for a moment before pulling back and spinning the knife in his hand in an almost celebratory fashion.

“Well, that’s good. What’s your name?”

“My name? My name is,” Hector contemplated giving him a false name but could not think of any good reason to do so.

Who do I have to protect? My cat?

“My name is Hector.”

(to be continued)

#writing #write #writer #story #stories #writings #short writing #shortwriting #shortstory #short story #fiction #shortfiction #short fiction #film #filmmaker #film maker

0 notes

quill-of-thoth · 6 years

Text

Nemo Me Impune Lacessit

As I listened to the rantings - no, the ravings! - of Montressor, there remained no doubt in my mind that the man had finally gone mad. The fits of pique and passion to which he was subject, the whims that I must needs indulge him or face his wrath, the very mercurial aspects of his personality: these I had patiently borne, knowing my company his only comfort in his decline and considering that, in all other ways, my position in the crumbling manse of the Montressors was an easy one. The old man, perhaps seeing something of his youth in me, preferred my company to that of all others as his health failed and his world narrowed to the scope of his ancestral halls, then finally to his own private rooms, where he pored over the tomes of his forefathers and dreamed of the long faded glory of his progenitors until he was half convinced that he was in fact imbued with the power and the authority of his forefathers, the utmost master of his own domain, untouchable, beyond reproach so long as his honor remained unsullied, and the family motto Nemo Me Impune Lacessit gleamed proud underneath the ancient heraldic crest, a serpent rampant striking, with its last breath, the human foot that crushed it.

For the better part of a year, I had watched the decline of the mind of the last of the Montressors, and smiled in his face as he decayed from a man of unparalleled brilliance to the decrepit wreck that he was now, infected by honor, raving about the imagined slights of other gentlemen of the city, some of whom I was convinced had never existed. I showed my teeth at his purposeless ramblings, feigned a laugh at his imagined triumphs over his neighbors, lied with kind eyes as I explained why men long dead would not visit - not that the living ever haunted our halls! No, I, and I alone, bore the changing of days and the decay of the house around us - I alone, too distant a cousin to bear the old man’s name or any resemblance to the gloomy portraits hung upon the walls, cared enough about the old man to let him die in peace. All other friends and relations had abandoned him; little wonder that it was I who he addressed as one who knew the very nature of his soul. None other still addressed him as anything other than a patient, to be dosed and quieted and sent to bed.

The months had served to all but wipe away my memories of a happier time before the old man’s mind had begun to rot away - I had long since ceased to think of him as anything other than the wreck he was - when I noticed a new turn in his mind. Where before he had told boastful stories of his youth, his prowess at debating, the respect he was afforded by the town, hunting parties, whatsoever else came to mind - a mind previously as quick as a steel trap, which now resembled a selection of lost pieces from a child’s jigsaw puzzle - his tales, (or perhaps some still were memories,) began to take a much more sinister, even grotesque turn. He claimed that he had been a member of any number of secret societies - had overseen arcane rituals to turn lead into gold - had seen one midwinter night the ghost of his father, begging him to dig him up out of his grave and release him from the suffocating earth. I paid these stories as little mind as I possibly could, as he rambled by candlelight in the dank, empty house with the winter wind whistling through the gaps in the shutters.

The story of Fortunato I dismissed almost instantly as pure phantasm.

There was no family named Fortunato in the city, nor had Montressor spoken before of such a man, though when he spoke, it was with the deepest and most vehement hatred of him, such that I shuddered to think - for the old man’s mood had been angry and volatile for so long, now - what he should do if he had any such enemy living, and was not kept under constant watch. For in some things, Montressor’s mind was still as cutting and agile as ever: he spoke with the same impassioned fluidity of old, but he knew not to whom he was speaking; each crevice and cranny of the old house was still known to him, yet it had been over half a year since I could trust him outside of its doors; he would in a day remember events from fifty years ago and forget the events of the day before. In time, the preposterous imaginings of the old man grew far more bizarre - ominious, confused, and at times disturbing despite his growing bewilderment and vitrol towards the world - and his story of vengeance in the crypts below the palazzo was all but blotted out of my mind, replaced with more trials and tribulations of the old man’s dwindling life, such as a night spent tending to a detailed delusion that he was dead already, with centipedes crawling about under his skin. After that, I took the advice of the local pharmacist, and Montressor grew quiet at last.

It was in the bitterest dark of the winter - in fact, just after Carnival - that the old man caught influenza, then pneumonia, and finally died, though not quite peacefully. More people came to his funeral than had come to see him in the last year. They toasted to his memory - to a friendship that they pretended to fondly remember, though all the while I watched, knowing what the late, great Montressor had thought of them in his final months, and saw nothing on their faces but condescension and smirking deceit.

Then they were gone, and I was left alone with the crumbling wreck that was the manse of the Montressors; fit, I thought for a few wild moments, only for burning to the ground. Yet it was mine now, for the old man had no closer kin, and loathe as he was to allow it to pass out of the family proper, he would have been horrified to see it leave his bloodline entirely. How he had thought I would manage to keep the moldering skeleton in one piece was entirely beyond me - had there been money for the necessary repairs, it would already have been spent on them - so I resolved all at once to sell it, crush that last ounce of patrician vanity, the only legacy of a dead man, take whatever I could get, and make a new life far away, in a land where my connection to the Montressors raised no eyebrows and my name carried with it no shame.

And yet, as I lay listening to the rats scratching through the walls of the newly emptied house, alone save for my candles, I could not sleep.

I did not miss the old man’s waking nightmares, his mirages cut from whole cloth, the way he had laughed smugly at the world outside, seemingly unaware that his lot in life had diminished to little but delusions of grandeur - but it had covered the noise of the questing rats and the wind whistling about the house. It had kept the shadowed portraits at bay, and the thousand morbid fantasies that the night bears to a waking brain - and I could not go on in that house, not without knowing the answer to the thought that had begun in that night to gnaw at my soul.

Surely, the old man had only imagined it all - far stranger things had he told me, of a woman buried alive, of guilty murderers who heard the hearts of their victims beating on and on even after death until the drumming drove them insane, of secret signs and symbols, of pirate codes and buried treasure, of portraits that stole the youth of their subjects, of vengeance extracted after years through slow poison, of the tortures of the inquisition, and of impenetrable mystic rites that conferred upon the recipient of a draught of lamb’s blood the ability to read men’s souls and find precious metals in the earth. Next to such fuel for dreadful fantasy, such a thing should have quickly been forgotten.

And yet, I had not forgotten, for the old man’s eyes had flashed so, the spittle had flown from his lips, the cold and unholy light of vengeance had lit up his whole countenance, the words fell from his lips with an inviting surety: he had felt sure, I thought, that I should celebrate with him his great victory over the oafish, the drunken, the bumbling Fortunato! I should feel in the marrow of my bones that the insult to our house by the smug aficionado could not be borne - that Montressor’s course of action was the only which was right, which was just, which would preserve the dignity of those who, no matter how poor and how decayed, should never suffer such impudence against them without swift and terrible retribution. The untold numbers of our ancestors - his, not mine, though at the moment he had extended to me the hand of acknowledgement, perhaps not even remembering who I was - should turn over and over again in their crypts, should have haunted him until he destroyed that serpent, that buffoon, that motley bedecked dunce for daring to -

I had not the least idea what insult Fortunato was supposed to have offered my recently deceased cousin, nor any belief that such a man had ever existed, save as a confused compilation of all Montressor’s most abhorrent acquaintances, a face to attribute every imagined slight of his youth - a face that he had conjured in the absence of his so-called friends during his slow decline, and hung upon the hated visage every bewildered memory of the indignity that he had suffered - old, childless, poor and yet too proud to do aught but rot in it, draining the dregs of the family fortune that my own father’s cowardice had barred me from with each pipe of Amontillado! No, I no longer had to smile and bear the old man’s diatribe with placid blandishments - I was free, free from the long-forgotten heraldry, from the often translated motto - for there was nothing left of the Montressors! I was soon to wash my hands of it all! I resolved to go as far as I could, to Britain or Austria, for the company of millionaires reviled by the rest of the town for their gauche and presumptuous ways was far preferable to the poisoned insincerity of genteel poverty and a slow, agonizing slide into the darkness of ignorance and obscurity, pitied by all and valued by no one! No, I had no sympathy left for the old man - for he knew not what it meant to be truly, and honestly, despised for circumstances he could not change, nor what it was to scrabble for acceptance, to curse his paternity at every sly smile, at every moment of condescension, knowing that it was impossible to gain that which he so desperately sought - for should you please anyone, you are “well mannered, considering your birth,” and should you give offense, you are instantly lowered - for who should truly consider one so misbegotten worthy even of their anger? Even in his old age, when I was willing to aid him in his illness, the old man had always had a self-righteous look about him, as if to say “I give you the crumbs off my meager table only so your mouth may water at what little more I have,” the cruelty of one beggar to another. It was only as his mind had begun to fade and his fair-weather friends, his creditors and his connoisseurs, had abandoned him, that I, my ancestry forgotten, became his bossom companion, his only confidante. But for an accident of birth, I should have shared equally in the name, the reputation of the Montressors - and I should not have drank and gambled myself into poverty and obscurity! Yet he sought to give me his bleakness, his desolation, his macabre mockery of gentility and his obsession with a dead era of nobility and honor! How then, should I believe in his fearful chimeras, why then, should I lay awake near-drowning in the impression of his voice, his boundless arrogance, his certainty of purpose?

Why should I shiver at the thought of a dead man in the crypts below? There were any number of dead men, for the crypts had been used as an ossuary for many years before my cousin had taken possession of the house. Rationality told me that they were naught but bones, that being aware, so suddenly, of where they lay unburied underground, behind perhaps only a few doors, did not change this - for no ill had come of them in the past decades, and no ill would come of them tonight. Yet it seemed I heard, in the voice of Montressor, hushed and yet gleeful, as he was wont to be when he told me of his superstitious exploits or his exaggerated prowess in revenge, the words, “No harm has yet come to a Montressor from the remains of his ancestors.”

I lay awake as the candle guttered: I thought that Fortunato would not have died quickly, even bricked up in the vaults. He first would have exhausted himself, testing his chains and shouting, hoping fiercely that it was all a fit of dark humor on the part of my cousin, that he had now been well and truly humiliated for whatever offense he had given, that any moment now he would be released… as hours passed, that perhaps someone would hear him beyond the catacombs, that he should be rescued by a steward lost in search of some rare wine, that he would miraculously be encountered. If his chains had been long enough, he would have tested the wall - he would have clawed at it until his fingers bled, his nails worn down to stubs - he would have thrown his weight against it, tried to break the shackles, tried to knock the bricks loose before they set - known that the bricks were what would kill him quickest, had they been properly set, for soon he would run out of air -

No! For the last time, there was not - never had been - a man by the name of Fortunato! Therefore, no man had suffocated alone in the vaults of the manse that I now owned, nor starved, nor died of fear and despair and betrayal; therefore there was no body hanging, shackled, behind a wall, mute evidence to the depravity of my line; therefore I must snuff the candle so that I may sleep through the night and wake in the morning to make the preparations to sell the wasting pile as fast as I may. Yet when I reached for the candle, my hand was shaking.

It was indeed as damp and cold as I had thought: nitre hung from the walls and the ceiling like frost stiffened moss, and my breath fanned out in front of my face like a silent shroud. Everywhere there were racks, filled haphazardly with empty bottles of wine stacked one upon the other, and glass fragments of brilliant colors that would have dignified a cathedral glittered on the floor. As I searched amongst the wreckage for a torch, I cursed the biting air and my cousin’s drunken, wastrel heart - then, warming my hands one at a time by the new flame that threw the lurking shadows of the catacombs into stark relief, I blew out my candle and placed it upon the steps.

The catacombs of the Montressors were vast, descending deep beneath the Palazzo in long, winding passages cut into the rock of the hill beneath - vaults and caverns older by far than the Montressors. It would be far too easy to lose myself amidst the walls of piled bones, the emptied barrels and flagons, which grew only more deeply encrusted with white nitre as I descended yet another stair, passed under another series of low arches, and began to come upon the small bones of rats mixed in with the powdery debris of human existence. The air became oppressive - not yet foul, but heavy with the weight of the earth above me, the dust that stirred at my footsteps, the ever-present smoke of my torch and the silence that, save for my footsteps and the hiss and crackle of my light, reigned inviolate. Though I knew it to be only a trick of the mind, I fancied myself able to see a deeper weight to the shadows, as if they had passed beyond mere darkness, out of the reach of my torch, and into some life and animation of their own - as if they moved of their own accord, a sort of antithesis to light rather than it’s mere absence. As I stood and the faint, wet echo of my footsteps died away, the silence grew louder, until I felt that my heartbeat must be as loud as a drum, my breath the sound of a whirlwind, the very blood in my veins the roaring of the ocean.

With a cry I threw down my torch and seized the first object to hand - a trowel thrown down amidst the bones - and I hacked at the wall. I would prove that this was nothing but a phantasm, brought on by the disturbed mind of my mad cousin! I would open the wall and see only a dark passageway, bricked up to stop the foul vapors from rising, the memory of which had prompted Montressor to elaborate upon his invented revenge! I would have peace, would sleep at night in the house I now owned, would, by destroying the very foundations of his delusions, exorcize the ghost of the last of the Montressors!

My cry of exultation gave way to a gasp of horror as I saw the truth. The years had not quite mummified him, though the nitre must have to some degree counteracted the damp - in places the sagging skin peeled back from the bones, and there was no way of knowing , save for the rags of the oversized garb he wore, that the corpse had once been a large and fleshy man. Yet I knew - I knew it with a certainty that to this day shakes my bones, that still causes me to see in my mind the skeletal, half-rotted face with hair that might pass for a living man’s hanging down around it – that this was the mortal remains of Fortunato, bound in chains to the stone wall. His cap bore three bells: it must once have been motley.

#writeblr #horror #my older work #why didn't I bring this back when the Cask of Amontillado was an actual meme?#anyway #TW suffocation #*Pours tea for Edgar Allen Poe's shambling zombie*

5 notes · View notes