WRITING Roth Rites

[Astaroth]

PENUMBRA: A BEACON IN THE DARK

She was born on a rainy day, and died in the midday sun.


There was a certain kind of sadness about her, even in life. It was part of her charm, the way her eyes were so wide and dark that they formed a vacuum for the soul of anyone who beheld them, how her gaze was always focused on some distant, unseen place, staring straight through the city for miles. She had that look, that wan and fragile look, that speaks volumes about how a person has lived. It was a look she'd borne since she could walk, and she wore it until that very last sunny day.


It was a Tuesday afternoon in the height of summer, and she was young and broken. The walls of her apartment were shoddy props, serving neither shelter nor solace from the stifling heat- made all the more stifling by an income too low for climate control. There was a flimsy foot-tall fan plugged in next to the couch, but it did little good. She fared much better by opening the refrigerator at intervals, pressing her shoulder against the cold metal strip on the frame and letting the air rush out over her skin. She lived in the kitchen; she cooked, she cleaned, and she cooled. It was her world, ten hours a day, seven days a week, and that day was no different. It seldom is.


But something happened that day, in that kitchen, at nearly a quarter past two o'clock in the afternoon. Something was different, despite the boil of the pot on the stove and the scratching of her pencil on ruled paper and the never-ending beeping of the dead smoke detector that she'd grown so accustomed to as to tune out. Somehow, this day was not the same.


She simply didn't remember how.


What she did recall was squinting heavenward into a light that was piercing, which seemed to tear right through her, only for it to spin away from her and leave her blind and stumbling. There was a railing which served to help her regain her footing, and she found herself standing there on the pier by the lighthouse. It was not a large lighthouse, she thought, though she'd only seen such structures with her own eyes once upon a long-ago childhood. The building stood in disrepair, clinging to the rocks in desperation lest it crumble into the sea... and yet it remained lit, the only beacon in the dim gloom. Her eyes were drawn to the wooden door- green from either paint or weather, it was difficult to say- above which was nailed a rusted plaque. As she blinked away the aftereffects of the light, she could make out two words in the dessicated metal surface.

POTTER'S FIELD

​

The wind whipping her hair against her face, she turned, and looked upon a dead city.

---

This is a story set in the same world as an old RP of mine. That RP, called PENUMBRA - An Afterlife Story, dealt with the stories of those souls reluctant to "move on" who found themselves upon their death to be in an abandoned city called Potter's Field, and beset by shadowy monstrosities known as the Umbra. You can view the OOC thread and IC threads here:

OOC

IC

 

[Astaroth]

FINDING THE POINT]

red WARNINGS: Violence, sexual themes, non-consensual themes.

I knew what was to come.

Every night, I was taken from my bed. Every night, I was snatched up and manhandled as searing and dexterous fingers trailed with wicked intent along my curves. The man who held me in his frightening grip would croon and whisper to me, telling me in explicit detail how we would spend the hours until sunrise.

I was his prisoner and his accomplice. I had no choice but to lay in his hands... stiff, cold, unyielding, blind, and mute... and let him do as he pleased with me. And oh, what great pleasure he found. My screams were soft whooshing sounds in the dark- the closest thing I could come to a protest of his deeds- even as we sinned together. To my utter shame, I found that only his hands could warm me; only through him did I move and come alive.

In and out, in and out. Short, sharp thrusts followed by more languid and loving violence. He took pride in his work, gripping me with ever so much care that I would have cried if I were able. It wasn't fair or right that a monster like this man could seem so awfully tender when it came to just one thing.

Later, I lay motionless on the floor as he meticulously scrubbed the blood from his hands. When he was finished, he drew me to him and rubbed me down- every last inch, every shameful nook and cranny- removing all traces of what we had done, so that no one would ever know. No one would ever stop him.

Not even I could stop him.

"Good job, beautiful," he told me in a voice as soft as spider's silk. Always the same words. "I don't know what I'd do without you. Why would I ever pick one of these whores when I have you?"

It was our private joke, I suppose, although I never laughed.

There was a soft and sickening thud, or perhaps a crunching like the noise of a piece of chalk breaking in half, or sometimes just a wet squelch. Then he bundled me into his coat and left behind our masterpiece to be discovered.

The cops would find the body of his victim the next day.

All of his victims were left behind except for one. All were allowed freedom, at least, in death- all but one. I was the silent witness to all of his crimes, powerless in his grasp, and there was no salvation awaiting me should he die or be captured. The knowledge that they were frantically searching for me gave me no comfort, for I knew the role that I would play. I was just a means to an end, in his hands or theirs.

Coveted, used, imprisoned. That was all I had been or would become.

Unless...

Perhaps... I could become something to fear.

The light glistened on my blade as I was set back down upon the table at home. No one looking at me would ever guess that I had been put to use in the mutilation of fifteen women.

Tomorrow, I would meet number sixteen.

---

Herp derp, @Diana made me do this in response to this writing prompt. I BET YOU'LL NEVER MAKE ME WRITE WHEN I HAVEN'T SLEPT FOR 24+ HOURS EVER AGAIN, DIANA, WILL YOU?

God, I hate writing in first person.

UPDATE: Read the edited version on In Your Bones.

 

[Diana]

BEAUTIFUL. JUST BEAUTIFUL.

 

[Astaroth]

CLIPPING

red WARNINGS: Gore, body horror.

She was clipping her fingernails when she noticed it.

At first, she wasn't sure what she was seeing. She blinked to banish what surely had to be a trick of tired eyes, but it was still there: a hard strip on the back of her wrist that looked like a nail of strange proportions growing up through her skin. Her lips parted in shock and the clippers slipped from her suddenly slack grasp, landing with a bounce on the mattress.

She walked over to the light to get a better look, and found that the same strip of thick keratin circled around to the inside of her wrist as well.

Her face contorted into a grimace. She prodded the strange growth to no result. The surface was smooth and almost plastic, just like the back of one of her fingernails. She could see now that it was poking up from her skin, too, like the very tip of a nail protruding over the pad of a finger; there was a gap where it wasn't attached.

Curiously, she picked at the underside of the growth with her thumb.

It came loose.

Not only did the part of the strip that she'd pried at tear free from her skin entirely- like pulling a toothpick out of a soft cheese- but she could feel the rest of the strip slide inside of her wrist. Whatever it was, it wasn't held in place anymore. Heart leaping into her throat, she hastened to just pull the rest of it free, threading it through the hole she'd already made in much the same manner as easing the drawstring out of a hoodie or pair of pajama pants. The oddest thing- the thing she didn't want to contemplate- was that there was no pain.

And when she finally held the entire strip of keratin in her shaking fingers... just when she was trying to take a steadying gulp of air, staring down at her wrist... it happened.

The seams where whatever it was had been poking through- the cuticle, she supposed- were seeping with blood. The skin felt loose. And it must have been, because it began to slide down her arm like a rubbery sleeve. Gasping, she dropped the thing in her hand, letting it fall free as she made a grab for her wrist. It was to no avail, and in fact, it was only made worse as a large, thick slab of flesh peeled away from the heel of her palm to halfway toward her elbow. It was slack, half-liquefied, and stank like day-old meat. Nor was it the top layer of flesh only; even the muscle had pulled free.

The remainder of skin on her arm, meanwhile, was still sliding down. Blood was weeping from the wound- if it could be called that- and splattering on the floor, drop after sickening drop. Raising her ruined limb as best as she could to stem the slow spilling of her life force, she slumped against the doorway, shut her eyes fast, and opened her mouth in one final, desperate scream.

---

Read the edited version on In Your Bones.

 

[ZsafineGypsy]

I couldn't read this without feeling sick....
It was amazing! Perfect horror to end my night and give me nightmares. I would say "Hope to see more" But I probably wouldn't be able to read it. :(
But you do very nice work Ozzie.

 

[Astaroth]

@ZsafineGypsy

That is just about the best kind of compliment a horror writer can ask for. :D Thanks!

 

[ZsafineGypsy]

Haha! You're Welcome. I actually tried reading this earlier and I couldn't because I was too sick. Just now I got the strength to finish it. That black...-gags- I have to get of this post now because I can see it in my head. x.x -Runs off to the garbage can- You're amazing! Write more for others!

 

[Astaroth]

UP AND DOWN

He stood on a ledge.

No, he wasn't about to jump. Fuck you for thinking that. He just liked the feeling of standing there with his toes touching the air and his heels on something solid, the breeze catching at his clothes and the sun glaring in his eyes. He liked feeling like he was teetering on the verge of something much bigger than he was. He liked seeing the world- or at least as much of it as he could see- laid out at his feet.

He liked knowing that if he wanted to jump, he could. Or better yet, he could let himself fall. It would be so easy. It could be an accident. It could be fate. No one would know if it was on purpose. Maybe not even he would know.

None of that mattered, because for a few moments, he could forget everything and just be calm and powerful and alive.

Drugs didn't do it for him. They left him feeling ill and uncomfortable and out of control in all the wrong ways. And sex just left him empty, like the act of tangling up with another person had scooped out his insides of all the best parts and spattered them on the walls. It reminded him that he wasn't made right, that all his parts and pieces didn't line up the way he knew they were supposed to. He used to write, but that was a long time ago. Now he had nothing else but this.

Up here, his thoughts were sharper. Sharp like little glass shards, sometimes. He watched the traffic down below and thought about every girl and boy he'd ever loved, and the ones he'd never loved, and the ones he ought to have but couldn't. Mostly he thought about the ones he might have loved if he'd gotten the chance. Occasionally he wondered if he'd loved any of them at all. If he even could.

He thought about his father, a man he knew next to nothing about and yet who'd known him inside and out, who'd been the one person in the world that ever truly understood him. A man who had left him behind, gone far away beyond where he was able to follow, and now he sat at the table with his mother and his brother and sister and he was the stranger and the curiosity and the odd duck out. Sometimes he hated his father, but always he missed him and he wished he could be half the man his father had been. And now and then he was terrified that he would be exactly the man his father had been.

He took a deep breath of cold, heavy air.

Regrets. So many regrets in such a short life. So many doors shut in his face, barred and locked. He wanted to take a hatchet to those doors. That was another thing that was nice about up here: no doors. Just open spaces and a long drop.

He wasn't suicidal, he really wasn't. That was why he came up here.

He was sick of being dead.

---

This is what happens when I get drunk and listen to Coldplay, apparently.

 

[Astaroth]

KAYNE'S INTRODUCTION

The first post featuring Kayne from the one-on-one "TEEN ISLAND" with @Buttercorn.

---

"Screw those rich brats," Kayne muttered to himself, hauling himself up and over the edge of the pool house roof with ease. It was a almost a shame that he could scale walls so quickly and stealthily, because it almost certainly would have been an impressive feat to behold. This was his first time climbing this particular building, but he had plenty of practice from his years on the streets; it was like he did this every day.

As soon as he'd cleared the ledge, Kayne drew his trusty blade from the scabbard at his back. He'd managed to sneak it in past the lazy security; they probably didn't expect someone his age to be bringing weapons to a private island resort. But Kayne never went anywhere without his katana. It was one-of-a-kind, passed down in his family for generations. He had taken that blade from his brother's hands the day he died.

"Hah!" he yelled, taking a practice slice. The blade swung through the air with a soft whooshing sound, catching the light of the tropical sun. Kayne smiled grimly as he thought of the blood that had stained this blade over the centuries. These rich bastards wouldn't mess with him if they knew what he could do...

Unlike the other kids who had come here, Kayne was poor. His family had been murdered when he was young, leaving only Kayne and his older brother to fend for themselves and to flee their father's enemies. Naturally, they had wound up joining a gang to survive. Kayne's brother managed to work his way up through the ranks and even to turn the gang around, protecting their neighborhood and only taking from those who could afford it. But a jealous rival had betrayed Kayne's brother and left him to die, and gotten Kayne arrested. Kayne was about to be thrown in juvenile detention, but then a mysterious man had arrived and bailed him out if he agreed to enter into a "rehabilitation program".

If Kayne had known that it involved spending his summer with the very snobs who used to call him trash and hate him for only doing what he needed to survive, he might not have agreed.

Swip! Swip swip! The ancient blade swang as he vented his rage at invisible foes. Panting, he knelt by the edge of the roof, looking down onto the pool.

That was when he saw her.

The girl by the pool had raven black hair and wore a blood-red swimsuit, and her skin was like pale silk. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever laid eyes on. She was perfect.

Kayne hated her instantly.

She will never want me, he thought, as he watched her move gracefully to the side of the pool where she alighted like a butterfly and dipped her delicate feet into the water. Kayne ground his teeth. She will never look at someone like me.

"Hey kid, get off of the roof!" a man's voice shouted. "You're violating like ten safety codes!"

"Very well," murmured Kayne with a sneer. With catlike grace, he jumped down and landed in a hunter's crouch, watching the owner of the voice- a preppy-looking blond man in a uniform- scamper away in fear. Smirking at him, Kayne stood.

He cast another look at the girl.

I'll make her look at me, he decided. No one here would know who Kayne was or where he came from. Perhaps this was his chance to prove to these assholes that he was better than them. He was better than all of them.

Kayne sheathed his sword at his back and approached the dark-haired beauty, still smirking at his plan. As he drew near her, his shadow fell across her... an appropriate introduction.

"You seem troubled," he said, smoothly and with a sardonic charm. "A beautiful girl like you shouldn't be sad."