Post by Valerie on May 29, 2005 23:44:17 GMT -8
Sometime in Late April...
The cold mix of bleach and blood that saturated her jacket began to creep slowly down the leather bench seat and onto the pile of books that littered the floor of the car.
Rochelle watched as the translucent droplets wavered reluctantly along the slick folds of velvet, lit up as tiny shards of crystal and eventually came to rest upon the pages of a well-loved copy of Foucault's Pendulum. She frowned, disappointed at the mess that was being made of her beloved books before scolding herself for leaving them out in the first place. She had other things on her mind now, though, and her books became the least of her concerns.
The two men in the front seat of the car were silent, eyes fixed staunchly forward as she eyed the view in the rear-view mirror. Languid orange flames slowly began to consume the house, now five or so blocks behind them. Her mind still strained to make some sense out of the night's events. There was no doubt in her mind as to the depravity of the acts she had just committed. Duty was duty, though, and beyond that... something new was taking shape.
This, she remembered, is the feeling of lust.
The pleasure that boiled up within her then was beyond that which could be explained by conventional means. This transcended the satisfaction of a job well done. In reality, she'd done a shit job. She had failed her clan, becoming so lax in her studies that even a simple test of her skills was too much for her to handle alone. She made it out alive, though. They'd left no witnesses.
And that... that, she knew now, was the best part.
Her mind cycled back to the sight of a man falling through a shattered bathroom window, knives of broken glass shredding through skin as he fought for air in shocked, rattling breaths. The baseball bat he had fell softly into the flowerbed as his hands now grasped empty air. It had taken a while for the gravity of the situation to manifest to her and when it did, she was terrified. This was no accident. She had accidents before, and in time, she had learned to live with them as best she could. In this situation, time was a luxury she couldn't be afforded. She had to think on her feet. Get in, get out, and get it over with.
As Rochelle pushed the man's limp form backwards into the bathtub, his wounds became more evident. What little blood she had not stolen from him earlier now flowed freely and deeply from the puncture wounds inflicted on his chest and stomach. His once-wild eyes began to lose focus as he stared dumbly at the her form standing above him. She, in turn, became mesmerized by the rivulets of thick red liquid soaking through his shirt and collecting in pools around the edge of the tub. The deluge of blood and humbling rattle of his last breaths entranced her.
"They're so surreal when you see them from the outside in; they're so fragile", she thought to herself, peeling her coat from her body as blood seeped out slowly through her pores. "They carry these things around all their lives and I'm the first one to see them. I'm the first to make them feel this way. Nobody else will be able to give them this..."
... and there, in that house, something deep inside her collapsed.
The possibilities became intoxicating. The afterglow of the first kill faded quickly and she became host to a new tenacity. This, Rochelle knew, was not enough. Seeing someone die in this manner was already so plebeian, so cliche. It was beautiful, yes, but it was only the beginning. She could push harder. What did a gunshot wound look like, anyway? Is an anesthetic overdose truly painless?
Do they at least twitch, just a bit?
She picked up the small black gun from the bathroom floor and crept through the house, drawn to the quiet sobbing noises emanating from a back room. She killed the child first. He died in much the same manner as his father... a rending of the blood from his body through one quick force of will. She'd never seen a child die before, and that made it interesting enough. For now. Next was his mother. She silenced the woman's screaming by solidly clutching her face and forcing her jaw shut. Rochelle smiled widely as she watched the woman's eyes contort, her face worming helplessly beneath her hand as she placed the gun against her sweat-slick forehead and fired. It was such a satisfying feeling...
That was when things started going wrong, she realized. The gun suddenly backfired and exploded in her hand, causing her index finger to crack off at the base as the surrounding skin blistered and split open. She winced sharply from the pain... the first of many mistakes. Her rage began to cloud her judgement as she tossed the broken gun aside and grasped for the mother in vain. She was still clinging to the wrinkled body of her son with one arm as the other flailed in panic, her fingers bent taut. Rochelle snatched the child's withered body away from the panicked woman and raised it aloft, swinging it, hoping to connect...
She was not so lucky, though. The mortal woman was furious, landing blow after blow before finally kicking her attacker to the ground. Rochelle shivered slightly against the carpet, still clutching the boy's corpse, as a dark and familiar frame materialized out of the shadows near the door. Suddenly, the room filled with a red mist as the woman shook slightly before slumping over on the bed with a quiet thud.
"You have failed," a voice spoke from above her, lilting with disappointment and anger. "Find some bleach and clean this mess up." The silhouette of a finger waved wantonly towards the general area of the mixed bloodstains on the floor. "Pick up your coat, pick up your finger, and get in the car. We're leaving."
Closing her eyes, she idly stroked at the soggy teddy bear that was wrapped in her coat on the seat beside her, ticking slightly as stray shreds of her blistered flesh caught in its plush fur. Even if the events of the evening had not gone as smoothly as they should have, she had learned much. As much as her books had educated her in the events and nuances of the greater world order Rochelle now knew she had man things to discover about herself. Things you don't learn from books. Things you learn from experience.
It was going to be a long week.
P.S. - Thanks to Drake for the editorial work, and to everyone else who nudged me to post this instead of having it lurk on my desktop forever and eventually go all... moldy. Nobody likes a moldy post.
The cold mix of bleach and blood that saturated her jacket began to creep slowly down the leather bench seat and onto the pile of books that littered the floor of the car.
Rochelle watched as the translucent droplets wavered reluctantly along the slick folds of velvet, lit up as tiny shards of crystal and eventually came to rest upon the pages of a well-loved copy of Foucault's Pendulum. She frowned, disappointed at the mess that was being made of her beloved books before scolding herself for leaving them out in the first place. She had other things on her mind now, though, and her books became the least of her concerns.
The two men in the front seat of the car were silent, eyes fixed staunchly forward as she eyed the view in the rear-view mirror. Languid orange flames slowly began to consume the house, now five or so blocks behind them. Her mind still strained to make some sense out of the night's events. There was no doubt in her mind as to the depravity of the acts she had just committed. Duty was duty, though, and beyond that... something new was taking shape.
This, she remembered, is the feeling of lust.
The pleasure that boiled up within her then was beyond that which could be explained by conventional means. This transcended the satisfaction of a job well done. In reality, she'd done a shit job. She had failed her clan, becoming so lax in her studies that even a simple test of her skills was too much for her to handle alone. She made it out alive, though. They'd left no witnesses.
And that... that, she knew now, was the best part.
Her mind cycled back to the sight of a man falling through a shattered bathroom window, knives of broken glass shredding through skin as he fought for air in shocked, rattling breaths. The baseball bat he had fell softly into the flowerbed as his hands now grasped empty air. It had taken a while for the gravity of the situation to manifest to her and when it did, she was terrified. This was no accident. She had accidents before, and in time, she had learned to live with them as best she could. In this situation, time was a luxury she couldn't be afforded. She had to think on her feet. Get in, get out, and get it over with.
As Rochelle pushed the man's limp form backwards into the bathtub, his wounds became more evident. What little blood she had not stolen from him earlier now flowed freely and deeply from the puncture wounds inflicted on his chest and stomach. His once-wild eyes began to lose focus as he stared dumbly at the her form standing above him. She, in turn, became mesmerized by the rivulets of thick red liquid soaking through his shirt and collecting in pools around the edge of the tub. The deluge of blood and humbling rattle of his last breaths entranced her.
"They're so surreal when you see them from the outside in; they're so fragile", she thought to herself, peeling her coat from her body as blood seeped out slowly through her pores. "They carry these things around all their lives and I'm the first one to see them. I'm the first to make them feel this way. Nobody else will be able to give them this..."
... and there, in that house, something deep inside her collapsed.
The possibilities became intoxicating. The afterglow of the first kill faded quickly and she became host to a new tenacity. This, Rochelle knew, was not enough. Seeing someone die in this manner was already so plebeian, so cliche. It was beautiful, yes, but it was only the beginning. She could push harder. What did a gunshot wound look like, anyway? Is an anesthetic overdose truly painless?
Do they at least twitch, just a bit?
She picked up the small black gun from the bathroom floor and crept through the house, drawn to the quiet sobbing noises emanating from a back room. She killed the child first. He died in much the same manner as his father... a rending of the blood from his body through one quick force of will. She'd never seen a child die before, and that made it interesting enough. For now. Next was his mother. She silenced the woman's screaming by solidly clutching her face and forcing her jaw shut. Rochelle smiled widely as she watched the woman's eyes contort, her face worming helplessly beneath her hand as she placed the gun against her sweat-slick forehead and fired. It was such a satisfying feeling...
That was when things started going wrong, she realized. The gun suddenly backfired and exploded in her hand, causing her index finger to crack off at the base as the surrounding skin blistered and split open. She winced sharply from the pain... the first of many mistakes. Her rage began to cloud her judgement as she tossed the broken gun aside and grasped for the mother in vain. She was still clinging to the wrinkled body of her son with one arm as the other flailed in panic, her fingers bent taut. Rochelle snatched the child's withered body away from the panicked woman and raised it aloft, swinging it, hoping to connect...
She was not so lucky, though. The mortal woman was furious, landing blow after blow before finally kicking her attacker to the ground. Rochelle shivered slightly against the carpet, still clutching the boy's corpse, as a dark and familiar frame materialized out of the shadows near the door. Suddenly, the room filled with a red mist as the woman shook slightly before slumping over on the bed with a quiet thud.
"You have failed," a voice spoke from above her, lilting with disappointment and anger. "Find some bleach and clean this mess up." The silhouette of a finger waved wantonly towards the general area of the mixed bloodstains on the floor. "Pick up your coat, pick up your finger, and get in the car. We're leaving."
Closing her eyes, she idly stroked at the soggy teddy bear that was wrapped in her coat on the seat beside her, ticking slightly as stray shreds of her blistered flesh caught in its plush fur. Even if the events of the evening had not gone as smoothly as they should have, she had learned much. As much as her books had educated her in the events and nuances of the greater world order Rochelle now knew she had man things to discover about herself. Things you don't learn from books. Things you learn from experience.
It was going to be a long week.
P.S. - Thanks to Drake for the editorial work, and to everyone else who nudged me to post this instead of having it lurk on my desktop forever and eventually go all... moldy. Nobody likes a moldy post.