Post by Jules on Mar 2, 2009 23:29:29 GMT -5
Zizzy had taken to staying indoors as much as Nightmarely possible. Once in a while, Armand would try to coax her outside with a promise of a lovely night out. The first few times she’d actually gotten dressed and ready, but was unable to make herself go passed the gates. She would stand, transfixed by the spot just a few feet away where it had happened and Armand would have to shake her out of it and bring her back inside. She felt bad, Zizzy knew she was worrying him, to be honest she was worrying herself.
She’d be doing good for a day or two, she’d wake up less gray, more energetic (most of her time lately was spent sleeping), and Armand loved it when she actually had an appetite, but then something would remind her of the baby. The first time it was the crib and things being delivered. She’d been consumed by such cold rage when she’d seen the baby things they’d bought together, that they’d never make use of, that every last scrap of clothing, crib included, had been fried to a crisp. She’d accidentally burned one of the servant’s hands in the process, as they’d been carrying the crib. She’d felt horrible and sick with herself and had slept for the rest of the day after an overly tearful apology.
She knew she had to be wearing Armand down. She didn’t like it when he was out of her sight for more than a few minutes, she had to know where he was, he had to be within earshot. When she napped, he had to be there when she woke up or she became upset. She knew she was being taxing, and she apologized for it when she caught herself being especially bad. But no amount of logical reasoning quelled the panic that thrummed up inside her like bile when she was left alone.
Rarely, she needed to be by herself. Not because Armand’s almost constant presence was getting to her, but because she didn’t want him to see her cry until she threw up, or find plates in the kitchen, take them into the cellar and fling them at the wall as hard as she could to relieve some of the tension in her, caused by an unsuccessfully smothered well of rage. The servants never said anything about the missing plates, for which she was grateful.
Physically, she’d healed well, and only felt soreness in her ribs when she over-exerted herself, which was not very often. Her arm had the bright pink scar spelling PIG still, for reasons withheld, she would not wish it away.
So it was that she went for a plate smashing session while Armand was sound asleep, no doubt dreaming of a girlfriend who wasn’t mentally handicapped.
And so it was that a newly freed Vilmos zeroed in on the beacon of rage she provided. He moved quickly when he wanted to, shaping his black, blobulous mass into something resembling a snake that shot forward silently. It was easy to simply slip through the cellar door and coil in the shadows, watching the skinny girl smash plates. She wouldn’t last long, he could tell already, but she was alluring, irresistibly so. Not for her looks---Vilmos didn’t really understand ‘beauty’, but because of all that rage. And there was the taint of violence to her. Whether she’d committed it, or had it committed to her, he didn’t know, and wouldn’t know until he could partake in her memories.
He waited until he was sure she was completely consumed by what she was doing before he slid along the floor, up her leg, and simply allowed himself to be absorbed by her skin.
*** ** ***
Zizzy woke up utterly bewildered. Groggy and for some reason tired and wet, the last thing she could remember was smashing plates in the cellar and then she was here. Where was here? Sitting up she groaned and held a hand to her head, a headache unlike anything she’d ever felt had taken up residence there, pushing out almost all intelligent thought.
Slowly, she stood and looked around. She was in an alley way in what seemed to be down town Chimera. She was in an alley way with a dead body. Not just dead, but mangled, like a wildcat had been let loose on him. His body was literally in shreds, his guts had been pulled out, Zizzy felt sick and had to look away. The knife that had supposed done this was by his body.
It wasn’t until the L.O.S came and started questioning her that she even realized she wasn’t wet with water, but with blood. Zizzy began to shake, grew even paler, and immediately, almost out of her control, a raincloud popped over her head and a mini monsoon washed her clean of all blood. They were treating a few wounds as they asked her questions, so apparently some of the blood had been hers. What they couldn’t figure out was if Zizzy had been another victim of the attacker, or the attacker herself. But looking at the weak, trembling woman, none of them really thought she was the perpetrator of the brutal murder. Her answers were stupid, bovine and unhelpful, because she was beyond confused. She had no clue what had happened, although they were marking that down to a head injury.
Really, the only mysteries left in place was how she’d gotten out here in the first place and who the criminal was. What disturbed Zizzy the most was that the man’s face was left in tact and she recognized that face. Would never, ever forget that face, as it was that of the brutish Nightmare who had held her back while the others had.... He'd been someone she'd fantasized about killing, maiming, destroying, and now...
She shuddered and came to the belated realization that she was outside alone and that Armand was no where nearby, that he was in fact still probably sound asleep.
“And you’re sure you don’t remember any---“
“Armand.”
“What?”
“Where’s Armand?”
“I assumed the Prince is at the castle, he’s been notified.”
“He’s coming, right? He’s coming? He’ll be here, right?”
The officer made a little note on her pad and nodded, “He’ll be here any second, don’t worry. Someone get her a blanket.”
She’d be doing good for a day or two, she’d wake up less gray, more energetic (most of her time lately was spent sleeping), and Armand loved it when she actually had an appetite, but then something would remind her of the baby. The first time it was the crib and things being delivered. She’d been consumed by such cold rage when she’d seen the baby things they’d bought together, that they’d never make use of, that every last scrap of clothing, crib included, had been fried to a crisp. She’d accidentally burned one of the servant’s hands in the process, as they’d been carrying the crib. She’d felt horrible and sick with herself and had slept for the rest of the day after an overly tearful apology.
She knew she had to be wearing Armand down. She didn’t like it when he was out of her sight for more than a few minutes, she had to know where he was, he had to be within earshot. When she napped, he had to be there when she woke up or she became upset. She knew she was being taxing, and she apologized for it when she caught herself being especially bad. But no amount of logical reasoning quelled the panic that thrummed up inside her like bile when she was left alone.
Rarely, she needed to be by herself. Not because Armand’s almost constant presence was getting to her, but because she didn’t want him to see her cry until she threw up, or find plates in the kitchen, take them into the cellar and fling them at the wall as hard as she could to relieve some of the tension in her, caused by an unsuccessfully smothered well of rage. The servants never said anything about the missing plates, for which she was grateful.
Physically, she’d healed well, and only felt soreness in her ribs when she over-exerted herself, which was not very often. Her arm had the bright pink scar spelling PIG still, for reasons withheld, she would not wish it away.
So it was that she went for a plate smashing session while Armand was sound asleep, no doubt dreaming of a girlfriend who wasn’t mentally handicapped.
And so it was that a newly freed Vilmos zeroed in on the beacon of rage she provided. He moved quickly when he wanted to, shaping his black, blobulous mass into something resembling a snake that shot forward silently. It was easy to simply slip through the cellar door and coil in the shadows, watching the skinny girl smash plates. She wouldn’t last long, he could tell already, but she was alluring, irresistibly so. Not for her looks---Vilmos didn’t really understand ‘beauty’, but because of all that rage. And there was the taint of violence to her. Whether she’d committed it, or had it committed to her, he didn’t know, and wouldn’t know until he could partake in her memories.
He waited until he was sure she was completely consumed by what she was doing before he slid along the floor, up her leg, and simply allowed himself to be absorbed by her skin.
*** ** ***
Zizzy woke up utterly bewildered. Groggy and for some reason tired and wet, the last thing she could remember was smashing plates in the cellar and then she was here. Where was here? Sitting up she groaned and held a hand to her head, a headache unlike anything she’d ever felt had taken up residence there, pushing out almost all intelligent thought.
Slowly, she stood and looked around. She was in an alley way in what seemed to be down town Chimera. She was in an alley way with a dead body. Not just dead, but mangled, like a wildcat had been let loose on him. His body was literally in shreds, his guts had been pulled out, Zizzy felt sick and had to look away. The knife that had supposed done this was by his body.
It wasn’t until the L.O.S came and started questioning her that she even realized she wasn’t wet with water, but with blood. Zizzy began to shake, grew even paler, and immediately, almost out of her control, a raincloud popped over her head and a mini monsoon washed her clean of all blood. They were treating a few wounds as they asked her questions, so apparently some of the blood had been hers. What they couldn’t figure out was if Zizzy had been another victim of the attacker, or the attacker herself. But looking at the weak, trembling woman, none of them really thought she was the perpetrator of the brutal murder. Her answers were stupid, bovine and unhelpful, because she was beyond confused. She had no clue what had happened, although they were marking that down to a head injury.
Really, the only mysteries left in place was how she’d gotten out here in the first place and who the criminal was. What disturbed Zizzy the most was that the man’s face was left in tact and she recognized that face. Would never, ever forget that face, as it was that of the brutish Nightmare who had held her back while the others had.... He'd been someone she'd fantasized about killing, maiming, destroying, and now...
She shuddered and came to the belated realization that she was outside alone and that Armand was no where nearby, that he was in fact still probably sound asleep.
“And you’re sure you don’t remember any---“
“Armand.”
“What?”
“Where’s Armand?”
“I assumed the Prince is at the castle, he’s been notified.”
“He’s coming, right? He’s coming? He’ll be here, right?”
The officer made a little note on her pad and nodded, “He’ll be here any second, don’t worry. Someone get her a blanket.”
