PROMPT Writing Prompt Challenge: The Antagonist's View of the Protagonist's Bedroom

Discussion in 'INSPIRING MUSES' started by Diana, Nov 11, 2013.

  1. [​IMG]

    This writing challenge was so interesting, I have kidnapped it for Iwaku!

    Write a scene from your ANTAGONIST'S point of view as they walk through, snoop, and browse your Protagonist's bedroom.
  2. ((Is this where I'm supposed to post the response? I'm not quite sure. Oh gosh, this is intense.))

    I'm crouching behind a plotted plant in the hall, waiting for Little Miss Goody Two Shoes to just leave already, because while this hiding spot is all that keeps her from discovering my presence, it's absolutely killer on the calves. I'm pretty sure that I have mere minutes before I lose the use of my legs forever. My arch-nemesis, who seriously looks too damn happy to actually exist, is now finally vacating her hideout. I wait a moment to make sure that she's really gone, as one of her many insufferable habits is head-in-the-clouds syndrome, and I can't risk her catching me if she comes back to retrieve something that she's forgotten.

    I stand up, releasing my calves from their noble burden, and I quietly begin my short trek to the door. I reach into my bag and pull out my lock picks. I disarm the door with practiced ease and then slip into the hideout, careful to keep my footsteps light. I take a cursory glance around the room, and I am immediately disgusted by the sights that surround me. Pink walls? Unicorn bedsheets? Posters of mainstream boy-bands? What kind of sick, twisted things was my nemesis into?

    I shake my head and force myself to focus. I'm on a mission. I creep silently towards the mahogany wardrobe, covered in a thick layer of smiley face stickers and posters of shirtless Rom-com stars. Despite my reluctance to go anywhere near the dreadful thing, I understand that it is but a necessary evil if I have any hope of getting my information. Walking over to stand in front of the monstrosity, I set my bag down on the desk to the left of it, which was spray painted a dreadful shade of lime green and covered with stick on flowers, which made it look as if it was ripped right out of a 70's porno.

    I carefully check the wardrobe for traps, and then I open it up to claim my prize. Inside of the wardrobe was a large pile of precariously stacked clothes, each designed to look as though a rainbow had gotten black-out drunk and puked all over them. A clever diversion, but I could see right through it. I reach inside of the chaos and haphazardly shove the multitudes of clothes out of the way. Finally, buried under what appeared to be Britney Spears' entire wardrobe, I finally find it. The Book. The Book contains all of my nemesis's weaknesses, and with it I can finally take the insufferable little prick down. I grab the Book and thrust it into the air with glee, letting the clothes fall out onto the floor, sullying her otherwise impeccably clean room. I'd finally done it. After all these years I'd finally accomplished everything that I'd-

    Suddenly, the door bursts open. My nemesis stands there staring at me, her mouth gaping like a fish, before she lets out an earsplitting shriek. “Mom!” she yells, “Alex is trying to steal my diary again!”

    Drats. She'd foiled me again.
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  3. Show Spoiler
    It was quite ironic that after two years of searching, attacking and interrogating with a force of one hundred and fifty men, it was a freak explosion that separated him from his men, and into this house. It was hers, he is sure of it. Luke can smell her perfume through the acrid smoke and scent of gunpowder. Or at least he thinks he can; a once curious thought twisted into an obsession now as he explores the dingy house, until he finds a hidden handle in the floor cupboard. It is dark and dank little space, just big enough for him to crawl into, but with a yank on the handle, the secret is revealed; a staircase leading into the ground below him. It made perfect sense there and then. She would not sleep anywhere else; even as a child she avoided sleeping upstairs, for fear of a fire breaking out. The basement was always a safe place to sleep and to hide… especially from a bomb.
    Show Spoiler

    He takes each descending step carefully; it is concrete, solid underfoot but that doesn’t mean that there are no traps set or hidden tricks awaiting intruders like himself. Reaching the bottom without incident, he smiles as he makes out a door in front of him. It is stiff, but moves reluctantly as he presses his shoulder against it. His hand fumbles for a moment trying to find a light switch, and much to Luke’s surprise, a dim light flickering into life on the ceiling. The room is small and just tall enough for him to stand upright. The walls are mostly bare concrete, although paint peeling off in corners suggest that this was once a happier place than it is now. It is chilly, although as his fingers moved over the duvet on the single bed, he notices the many blankets beneath. Guess she isn’t as tough as she tries to make out. He catches sight of a gun, a flash of panic streaking through him. She never goes very far without her weapon. Instinct drives him towards the door, urging him to leave while he still has the chance, but for some odd reason he approaches the weapon instead, picking it up in his hand. He sighs in relief; the gun is out of charge, and as he examines it further, he realises that it is completely useless. He recognises the weapon as the one she held the last time they met, the first time he had seen her face to face in over ten years. That look of utter horror, then of fear before her face composes itself into an expression of determination as she raises the gun slowly to mimic her partner. She presses the gun against her temple, silently daring him. She knows that he wants her alive. So much intelligence to gain, friends and comrades to avenge, justice to be served…
    He presses a hand to his head to try and focus his thoughts. He is looking to find her, or at least some information on her whereabouts. He rummages through a drawer, finding nothing but a broken radio and an empty bottle of Cure-All heart medication. This catches his attention… Is she ill? The name on the bottle means nothing to him, but then again, it is probably stolen. One of the most wanted criminals of modern times, the joint head of what they called a rebellion, was hardly going to be able to walk into a pharmacy and fill out a prescription.​
    He moves onto a battered wardrobe, containing the bare essentials of clothing. Such a thing is probably a luxury for a girl like her. Her shoes, like the clothes, are sensible and durable, although they look well-worn and almost in need of repair. It is such a sharp contrast to his world where one couldn’t afford to hold onto last season’s wardrobe without fear of scandal. He frowns as he finds a small pile of men’s clothes at the back; while the odd vest or shirt made perfect sense, there were trousers and shorts much too big for her to be wearing as spare clothing. It was policy out here for the leaders to live separately, often as far apart as they could risk. If one was discovered, it was only one to bury, not two or three. So what were these things doing here?​
    Luke moves onto a cardboard box beside the bed, still puzzled at his unusual discoveries. There was very little of interest in here, some sub-par medical supplies and one or two spare sheets. As he was about to give up, he uncovered a small tin box at the very bottom. The lock on it was easy enough to pick, and at first the contents were as uninteresting as the rest of the box; pictures drawn by children, bits of broken jewellery, and scraps of paper from the days when this country had been called England. Then towards the bottom, a sketch of them that would have been beautiful if not for the subject matter. He was sitting down, a large, cheeky grin on his face, a smudge of dirt on his cheek, while she had her arms wrapped around his neck, captured mid-laugh. They looked happy together. The clothing comes together with the picture; the result makes him sick to his stomach. He scowls, tossing the sketch aside, but the picture is quickly forgotten as he finds the last item in the box. It is an old, faded photograph, a little burnt, a little water-damaged, but the picture is still clear. Two children beam out at him, arms around each other with matching smiles. The boy is about eight, the girl he knows is about six. He remembers this photograph with a lurch of his stomach. He leaves quickly, not bothering to clean up after himself. If she kept that photo, she still cared. No, that was wrong, she wasn’t supposed to care. She was the enemy, the traitor and the murderer.​
    If there was one thing she wasn’t… She wasn’t his little sister anymore.

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  4. Lights dimmed out. Everything's pink and pretty, but I don't care. I hate pink, but I hate not enjoying moments like these more, so I should just focus. Focus on what I'm doing. Focus on the victory.
    She sounds like she's enjoying it. I bet she's enjoying it more than anything else she's enjoyed. She's moaning, nope now she's screaming. Screaming in pleasure.
    Everything's so wet. I think the waterbed's leaking. Damned waterbeds are never sturdy enough for my kind of sex. Oh, wait, it is leaking. Everything's all wet now.
    And she's thinking it's kinky. Hmm... Well, it is kinda kinky.
    Leaks are becoming little springs now. Her shirt's getting wet. Ha, this reminds me of Saratoga...
    Screams are getting louder. Okay, maybe a bit too loud. The neighbors are gonna hear us. And we don't want a scandal to start, now, do we?
    Hmm... Oh, a potted plant there. Heh, it looks just like hemp.
    Wait... I think it is hemp. Guess that's why he's so strange at work. And why everything in here is so pink...
    Oh look, a barbie doll closet. Wow. Could this guy's room get any gayer?
    Still don't get how he managed to beat me in that contest. Oh well, at least I beat him here. She seems to really be enjoying it.
    Really, really enjoying it. Wow, her face is just... I dunno, stuck in euphoria or something.
    And a make up kit. Okay, I lol. Although that maybe hers. Maybe. Or not. I bet not.
    Wait, no. I don't feel anything in her chest.
    Oh my god, did she just die of pleasure? Haha- Oh, wait, let me cum first.
    Yep, I think she's dead. Oh well, not my girlfriend.
    Wait, I hear knocking. Oh shit. Better get my clothes, and-
    What the hell are you doing here?
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  5. Slowly I thrust my head into the slightly ajar door that my enemy has so carelessly left open. Sometimes I wonder if my enemy is right in the head, alas that was the least of my worries as I was waiting for her to leave her room so I could go look for those letters. If anything I HAD to get those letters to my contact or it would be a World War or worse my death! A soft sigh of beautiful relief left my lips as the heinous creature left the room and eventually the house.
    I moved into the room and looked around at the light pink walls with the occasional purple dots decking the walls and the creme colored fuzzy flooring trying to think of a place were those letters would be. I moved to the small brown minaudière in hopes to find something that would lead me to finding the letters. The only thing I found in there was an old rusted Iron Cross necklace and a small pendant, while still looking at the jewelry I quickly slid them into my pocket. Again my eyes wandered around and they rested on her bed so I pulled the covers off and pillows only to find absolutely nothing. So I put back the covers and pillows in their proper order and that's when I saw the zipper on the pillow on which I pulled to find the letters. I stuff them into my long coat, replaced the forgeries, zipped up the pillow again before going out the way I came completely undetected by anyone.

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  6. "I thought you said she'd be here!"

    "We were sure she was!"

    Two men in black suits searched the apartment for the woman they were looking for. One made his way to the back of the room, holding a gun close and at the ready. Into a room he went. It was empty just like the rest of the place, so he decided to check for clues. The room didn't look very lived in. The walls were a dark blue in shade and the only thing out of place was a lone gray hoodie too big to fit their target, resting on a regular wooden chair. "So clean..." The male took the time to marvel. He hadn't seen such organization since he cleared off the paperwork on his desk weeks ago...

    The bedspread was an inviting silky red fabric, matching the four pillows that rested there. Two plain wooden dressers were on either side of the bed and the man looked at the closest one. "Huh..." He looked at a picture in a black frame. The target and a male and female accompanying her...Had to be her family.... It was times like these when he questioned why he did the job he did. But the Organization specifically ordered them all around on a 'don't ask, don't tell' basis.

    The frame was set back down. Hearing his partner move across the apartment made him put some pep in his step. He filed through drawers on one side. By the way the male tees and boxers were there...he had to guess the male in the picture was a lover of some kind. Rushing to the other drawer, quite the opposite was found. Despite having to find such a target and being a criminal, he couldn't help but be modest about grabbing women's under clothing.

    "Hurry up!"

    In the male's search, he realized he had defiled the room from its untouched look. "Alright, alright."

    The two rushed out the way they came after throwing the apartment in disarray. However, when they planned to leave from the balcony, they didn't expect to see the three inhabitants standing right in front of their way of escape.

    "I didn't expect visitors, did you?"

    "Not one. How about you?"

    "Heh, can we get rid of them already?"

    The two men looked at each other. "Boss isn't going to be very happy..."

    "Ugh, shut up."
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  7. Shards of broken glass are scattered across the blood smeared carpet, and a blue pillow lies by the open door beside half-read fairy tales and colored crayons. This is princess Lily's room, but there is no sign of her. I suppose that is a good thing. The all member royal family must perish, but I do not want to stain my hands in a child's blood. The royal family is dead, the king slain by my own sword and the queen slain by an arrow through the heart. I wonder if the child managed to leave the burning city. I wonder if she is still alive, or if she's lying by a roadside, riddled with maggots and decomposing.

    I glance around the room before a rabbit doll catches my eye.

    I walk towards the stuffed animal and hold it between my fingers. I hope for her sake that she is dead. "House Locke is no more." The words feel strange on my tongue, so I say it again and again as if I were a conjurer lost in his chanting. The stuffed rabbit falls to the floor and I run my fingers over the smooth surface of her bed's frame.

    I spoke to her thrice, and each time I was dressed as a traveling merchant.

    She was a sweet child of eleven, a curious little thing that liked to sneak past the castle guards and into the city. We talked about the castle in the sky, about Aven, about all things under the sun. We talked as if we were acquaintances, as if I weren't one of king Nevermore's men.

    "Oi, Tomas, did you find anything? I don't think she's here. The place is deserted."

    Leon, a lanky mage, pokes his head through the half open door. He's carrying all sorts of things in his hands; silverware, a mirror, a necklace. "Might as well loot the place. The people here won't need material objects anymore." He shrugs awkwardly and shuffles away. "Royce and Serah are waiting outside, I guess I'll see you there."

    I nod my head but do not follow. Instead, I make my way to the balcony and stare at the ruins of the once great city of Aven. I wonder what is must be like for her—what it must be like to have your entire life reduced to ashes and dust.

    The bustling marketplace, the cathedral with its stern-faced priestesses, all of it has been consumed in a blaze. I am one of King Nevermore's men, but the emptiness of the room leaves me feeling tired. I push past a glass door and stumble onto her balcony, I press myself against the railing, but before I can think of anything else I hear Leon shouting frantically.

    He fights past the bushes, both hands pressed over his nose. I can see the whites of his teeth, he's grinning and it's a little too big for his face. Leon looks up at me. "Royce found the body," he nods his head. "House Locke has fallen."

    I think of the curious eleven-year-old and of the stuffed rabbit I found on her dresser. "Long live the king," I raise a fist above my head and wait for a surge of triumph to wash over me. It never does and like the castle, I am left feeling empty.
    #7 Fox of Spades, Nov 12, 2014
    Last edited: Nov 12, 2014
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  8. "Idiot" I mutter softly under my breath. I wish not to alert her of my presence but holding my tongue when she so carelessly left the door to her quarters open seems to be nearly impossible. I glance behind, searching quickly for an unseen witness before moving in upon the lair of my most hated.

    On the vanity, is a picture of what appears to be her mother. I scoff at the sentimentality she holds for the dead. Keeping pictures like that serves no purpose. I don't keep a picture of any of my dead kin. Doing so would only pour salt in an old wound. I'd rather forget. She though aims to gather the pity of others with this idiotic sentimentality.

    Prying my eyes away from the photograph I touch the whorish makeup the girl has scattered across the vanity. "Red is a beautiful color my dear, it doesn't suit you though." I murmur. I take the red lipstick off her vanity and pocket it.

    Having enough of that corner of the room I move to inspect her bed. Seeing it makes me scowl. This is where she took him from me. My darling was to weak to resist her seduction. She's made an art of it. My man gave his purity to her. He vowed he'd only be with one and that slut took him from me. I'm tempted to ruin the sheets but I don't wish to be caught. I've been to long here anyway. I must leave before someone notices I'm gone. I sneak through the door and walk back down the corridor of the castle back to the library.
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  9. I'm finally here. Right here and he'll never know. The bastard, god damned punk! I want to scream for what he has done, but no, just - just a little longer. He'll be here soon.

    I gripped the nine-mil tucked safety on in my back pocket. It felt cold against my sweating palms, waiting in some cramped low-class closet. The apartment was the kind you'd find on the lower east side below the street corners. B1. B3. B5. Et cetera. It smelled like old cheese and rancid carpet in the darkened room, only a soft shade of violet would flash through the window; the source belonging to some shady bar titled, "The Happy Cock" which overlooked the run down apartment block. His bed looked like something out of a seventies catalog, as did the room. Old, the walls had age to them, in desperate need of attention from years of smoke or maybe a meth lab. Who knows, who cares?

    That fuckers bed. Where he sleeps, where he rests his oh-so sleepy head. Maybe I should wait until he's sleeping, show him just how comfortable that bed is when I cram his hippy colored comforter down his throat! The room was otherwise a mess, alcohol bottles and other assorted trash covered the sty. A bit of old food, I'm guessing Chinese based on the boxing, had become petrified on the nightstand next to a flashing alarm clock. It made me sick to be in this so called mans house; I'd be convinced some sub-human waste had burrowed it's way in.

    A jingle at the door! It's him. I wanted to burst out and put a bullet right in his face. Just imagining the look, the reaction, the sight of his innards spray across the cheap walls. Not yet, not yet. I want to savor the moment before I run. I want him to know who I am, I want him to remember! The apartment door swung open and the sound of heavy feet scattered into the apartment, followed by the loud clunk of the door shutting. The walls in the room rattled, the closet around me shook. I know he deserves it, deserves to live like such an animal. Trash. Trash! No wonder his decrepit room was filled with meaningless trash, he needed company! I laughed under my breath, taking care to remain silent. The anticipation crept across my skin like the smell of old cheese washing into my poor sinus'.

    He was talking, his voice seemed cracked or scarred. The light flipped on, revealing the trash ridden room into fine a detail. A few different ash trays lay strewn about, bits of of it rubbed into the yellowed carpet. The door was missing to the bathroom next to the mangled bed, revealing a worn tile and broken toilet. I know him. It's him!

    "There's nothing more to do?" His cracked voice lazily droned, "I don't know if I can..." He paused and turned toward the closet; distressed eyes and a fatigued expression were masked upon him. "I will. I promise." With that he tossed the phone to the nightstand, landing on remnants of the fossilized Chinese to-go order. He fell sideways on his bed, curling up and pulling his pillow into his chest.

    I felt my chest become light as the sounds of his muffled whimpers fell into the torn pillow and I felt a heat wash over my cheeks. No, he killed her. HE KILLED HER! I stayed myself and held my silence. I can't bear it, he has to die... he deserves what he gets! I pulled the handgun from my pocket and stealthily disarmed the safety. Slowly I put my hand to the closet door when the faint words caught my ear and sent a shock over every hair on my body.

    Momma... I'm sorry, please... you c-can't go... His whimpers grew into short wails as he rocked back and forth. M-m-momma, you can't di-hi-hie!

    But. It's unfair. You. You bastard! It's unfair! Not this way! I stepped back to collect myself. You killed her for what!? Money!? You... you... I can't say it. Not now. You killed mother. You killed her! But this isn't fair. The room became blurry as my eyes welled up. You don't. No, you don't deserve that. You didn't deserve this. I waited until he fell asleep and left the man to his own devices. Still the scene of an old apartment played out in my mind over and over, as if plastered within my memory. I will not forget that room, as I know I will carry it unto my grave.
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  10. It was dark. Huffing, he reached in and flicked on the switch. There was no need for sneaking around- she was contained now, and there was nothing anyone could do to stop him. Really, he only wanted to come in here so he could find something else to use against her.

    Plain white walls greeted him, the base's standard. She didn't seem to have decorated much of anything. The bed in the center was messy and torn apart, the blankets hanging off the edge of it and piling by its right side. The television sat there, the only thing not in a chaotic state- though a thick layer of dust rested on its surface. Drawers hung open, half the clothes inside gone, and the closet was in the same state. She had left in a hurry, hadn't she?

    He meandered his way to the kitchen. The fridge was practically empty, only holding an expired carton of milk, moldy takeout leftovers, half of a salami, and some chocolate that looked like it had been melted at one point. The cupboards were stocked with chips, cereal, and other junk foods. Suitable, considering she couldn't cook. He was surprised she hadn't caused a disaster trying to in the early days of her stay here.

    The bathroom was untouched, as it was in pristine condition and holding her toiletries and half-used bottles of shampoo and conditioner. There was nothing here that would give him leverage. seemed she wasn't one for nostalgia.

    With a growl, Alexis stormed from the room and slammed the door shut behind him. He'd have to find something somewhere else.
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  11. "Cute place," I said as I inspected the dusty chest-of-drawers. Pictures were pinned to the seer's corkboard above it, the typical teenage fare of group selfies and 'aesthetic' photos. She was an artistic type, I had guessed, from the posters of watercolors on her walls, the unused art supplies that littered the room.

    "Boss, the mom doesn't know where she is," one of my employees said, and I looked up at him. I didn't know why I bothered with Rodriguez. Pardon the stereotype, but he usually did his best to slack on anything that wasn't breaking and entering, and that part of the job was done already. I raised a finger at him, not bothering to glance his way, as I turned about the girl's room.

    The bed was neatly made with a bright blue-and-white coverlet straight from Pier 21. Her walls were a delicate shade of eggshell white, the carpet a sort of beige. It was too neat. Clothes were put away, the room had been straightened up, and dust covered the bright black desk lamp and desk toys. Her full-length mirror was also dusty, and I surveyed myself, a transgressor, in its reflection, the oddity of a man in a suit within a teenage girl's room.

    "You're sure she doesn't know?" I asked, looking over at Rodriguez.

    "No, she says she left for the day and hasn't been back, and she has no idea where she went," Rodriguez answered, shrugging his wide shoulders.

    Lying. She hadn't been here in a while. In fact, probably a couple of weeks, if I had to guess it. I knelt beside the bed where I could see the edge of a notebook.

    "What do you want me to do, put her out or something?" Rodriguez asked.

    "Did she see your face?" I asked slowly as I flipped through the pages. Numbers. NASDAQ and DOW. No wonder her mother got rich. She was an insider trader without ever having to know a single thing about economics.

    "Uh... Martinez accidentally slipped back in without a mask and she saw him."

    "You should know better by now," I drawled, looking over my shoulder and lifting my eyebrows.

    Rodriguez ruffled, but he didn't say anything more.

    "Put her out. The usual. No fingerprints, no identifying features, shoot her full of the street stuff, and let her rot in a dumpster. They'll peg her as another heroin casualty," I advised, standing up and brushing off my suit.

    Rodriguez ran off to do as I had said, and I stared at the notebook in my hand, full of random pages of numbers, numbers that no one but me and Mrs. Arletto could understand. And her daughter was nowhere to be found, coincidentally right as we began to snoop.

    There are no coincidences.
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  12. Now that they had flew the castle and it was safe for him to return now to claim his prize, Nikolai returned to the scene of his triumph. He'd not had time to take in the bedroom while he had been engaged in a sword battle, but now he was free to survey her private sanctuary.

    She was such a tiresome thing, but she had elegant taste. He could not fault her that. The bedding was stained deeply with her blood and the smile that brought to his lips was victoriously evil. Still, it had been beautifully crafted in lilac lace and satin. There was a desk, and a vanity there next to the huge poster canopy bed that was the centerpiece of the space, and the matching tufted bench at the foot thereof was a dainty touch. The floor was the finest marble, and one would expect no less int he bedroom of the future queen, but it had the glorious stains of her blood upon it now as well.

    He was a bit shocked that there were not more personal touches of femininity dappled about, but then as he'd noted, she was not very feminine.
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