Well Aimed Chaos (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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rainbowfic2014-09-02 02:55 am
whitemage) wrote in rainbowfic2014-09-02 02:55 am
Entry tags:
Angel Cake #15; Fever Red #6
Name: Ardy
Piece/Story: Monsters Aren’t Made, They’re Born
Colors: Angel Cake 15. Fire Born; Fever Red 6. Infection
Styles/Supplies: Stain: Rules are just helpful guidelines for stupid people who can't make up their own minds. - Seth Hoffman, House M.D.
Word Count: 1280
Ratings/Warnings: R - violence, language Warnings:: Serial killers, insinuation of cannibalism, insinuation of use of chemical restraint, depictions of physical restraint, child abuse, mentions of blood, depictions of violence
Summary Nameless heroine gets the drop on her old man.
Notes: No, I have no idea what this is, either.
“Lady, we asked you not to touch the glass.” The guard’s tone on the intercom was impatient.
Her breath fogged this transparent wall of the cell. “It’s okay. He’s my father.”
“What?”
“How does it feel to be a predator? How are your fangs and claws coming in, my darling?” Piercing eyes so like her own stared back, in a face old, more wrinkled, more filled with memories of the acts it had wrought. “What’s it like to take after your 'old man'?”
She smiled in a sweetly twisted way, the smile she had learned to do for grown-ups, where the majority of them wouldn’t notice what lay beneath it, swimming just under the surface. “Oh, I could never be quite like you,” she nearly cooed. “You, you are a roaring, golden lion. And a lion hunts for his… pride.”
She used the tone she had perfected listening to transcripts of him, growing up in the nightmare of his so-called care. Everything about her voice and words was carefully chosen to showcase the pedigree he had constructed for her, right down to the play on words.
And he swelled with fatherly hubris, let it radiate upon her face.
“Me, you see, I am a mere she-wolf.”
“Oh?” He couldn’t help letting the intrigue slip through. But he swiftly turned it back on her, reeling her in. She smiled in admiration. They no longer made monsters like him. “Such an interesting choice. And why does the wolf hunt, my sweet?”
But his mistake was he didn’t use her name, as he did with the others. He couldn’t bear to say her name after what had passed between them.
She leaned in once more, their faces nearly pressed together save for that which bound him from the world. “The wolf? She hunts purely from hunger.”
“And that…” She let her voice drop down, until he was leaning his ear, straining to catch her words. “And that makes her far more dangerous.” She snipped the words so her jaw snapped. He flinched.
That was all she needed. All she had been waiting to get out of these clandestine visits of theirs, the weekends her brother thought she was camping with friends and her mother thought she was finding herself at yoga retreats.
Had she been even 10? She was a child with just hints of womanhood. Maybe less.
Her brother had finally done it. Kissed her on the head, promised to come back for her, then run away.
But she told him he’d be caught. And he was caught. Daddy was always right. What Daddy said was what was.
“Take a good look: you will never see him again after this.”
She sat obediently on the steps and watched as her father beat her brother, lashing him with whip and chains. She slowly blinked to keep the spatter of the blood from her eyes. She wiped her mouth on her sleeve, trying not to grimace.
She stood impassively, holding the mortar tray, swaying as her father drove the trowel into it with increasing passion. Her eyes stayed on her brother’s face, that look of terror and resignation reaching out beyond a gagged mouth, begging her to scream, to run, to do something for herself, knowing he was beyond help. Knowing he was breaking his promises to her.
But still she stayed dead. Dead through dinner, dead through evening recitation, dead as she sat in her bed in her little nightgown. Equally dead when she rose, when she slipped out into the hall, when she crawled back into bed and hid under the covers and dialed the phone.
But she licked her lips and she spoke and with the first word, it was as if the Word of the universe itself sprang up like a spark within her.
Things happened quickly then. Blue and red lights, sirens, scrambling. Local forces and FBI, and encampments of peace officers now in siege and battle with her own family.
Her mother screaming at her not to say anything, not to say anything, oh, god, why, why now, why not sooner? But why, why take her away? This was her home, her home.
The girl felt pain in her heart for her mother. The spark set something ablaze in her heart. She wanted to reach for her, meant to. But inside, she pointed at the kitchen door. Her father was holed up there.
They treated her like a ghost. They saw her, they acknowledged her, they pressed on full of adrenaline and the righteous urge of justice against the monster.
She slipped through the back hall as they looked the other way.
“They got your mother, I take it?” He looked so old there in the moonlight, crouched behind the counter. So old, so scared, so mortal. Like a trapped animal.
The blaze died back to embers, and a new fire grew. Her lips curled into a feral smile.
“Do they know where I am? Did they give any orders? … Come here, come here, little one…”
She feigned fear. He leaned forward, off balance. He had to press his hand with the knife against the floor. She took that moment to scream.
He lunged, blade headed towards her heart. Guns burst through, blazing.
She stepped back, he fell. The blood fell across her in the way cool water from the hose did coming through the sprinkler one week in July where she had been able to pretend they were a normal family. And she didn’t blink this time. Didn’t flinch or think of turning away. Crimson spread across the floor and she licked her lips.
She led them through the basement: the restraints, the cells, the tables of drugs and the butchering block. The knives, the freezers, the tanning rack. She traipsed the horrorscape with a skip in her step like this was the garden of innocence.
“Oh, god, there’s really someone back there--get him out!”
“Oh, shit, he’s got a pulse--it’s weak, but he’s alive.”
He wheezed in the oxygen mask, eyes rolling as he faded in and out of consciousness. It was when he reached for her as they raised the stretcher that they finally seemed to notice she was, somehow, a live little girl.
Or at least, she had been.
“Hey, you don’t think…?”
“She’s got her nose, her hair--Jesus, yeah, they said there’d be two kids, didn’t they?”
“And here’s what’s left of them, then.”
She ignored their rudeness, treating them as if they weren’t there, just as they’d done to her.
“Don’t worry, this is all silly Dad’s.” She said cheerily, finally dropping the handset to take his hand in her two tiny ones. “I didn’t get hurt one bit.”
But her brother’s eyes wept worry as tears crowded at the corners.
“Shhhh, it’s okay. I helped you! We kept your promise. I'm safe now...”
Piece/Story: Monsters Aren’t Made, They’re Born
Colors: Angel Cake 15. Fire Born; Fever Red 6. Infection
Styles/Supplies: Stain: Rules are just helpful guidelines for stupid people who can't make up their own minds. - Seth Hoffman, House M.D.
Word Count: 1280
Ratings/Warnings: R - violence, language Warnings:: Serial killers, insinuation of cannibalism, insinuation of use of chemical restraint, depictions of physical restraint, child abuse, mentions of blood, depictions of violence
Summary Nameless heroine gets the drop on her old man.
Notes: No, I have no idea what this is, either.
“Lady, we asked you not to touch the glass.” The guard’s tone on the intercom was impatient.
Her breath fogged this transparent wall of the cell. “It’s okay. He’s my father.”
“What?”
“How does it feel to be a predator? How are your fangs and claws coming in, my darling?” Piercing eyes so like her own stared back, in a face old, more wrinkled, more filled with memories of the acts it had wrought. “What’s it like to take after your 'old man'?”
She smiled in a sweetly twisted way, the smile she had learned to do for grown-ups, where the majority of them wouldn’t notice what lay beneath it, swimming just under the surface. “Oh, I could never be quite like you,” she nearly cooed. “You, you are a roaring, golden lion. And a lion hunts for his… pride.”
She used the tone she had perfected listening to transcripts of him, growing up in the nightmare of his so-called care. Everything about her voice and words was carefully chosen to showcase the pedigree he had constructed for her, right down to the play on words.
And he swelled with fatherly hubris, let it radiate upon her face.
“Me, you see, I am a mere she-wolf.”
“Oh?” He couldn’t help letting the intrigue slip through. But he swiftly turned it back on her, reeling her in. She smiled in admiration. They no longer made monsters like him. “Such an interesting choice. And why does the wolf hunt, my sweet?”
But his mistake was he didn’t use her name, as he did with the others. He couldn’t bear to say her name after what had passed between them.
She leaned in once more, their faces nearly pressed together save for that which bound him from the world. “The wolf? She hunts purely from hunger.”
“And that…” She let her voice drop down, until he was leaning his ear, straining to catch her words. “And that makes her far more dangerous.” She snipped the words so her jaw snapped. He flinched.
That was all she needed. All she had been waiting to get out of these clandestine visits of theirs, the weekends her brother thought she was camping with friends and her mother thought she was finding herself at yoga retreats.
Had she been even 10? She was a child with just hints of womanhood. Maybe less.
Her brother had finally done it. Kissed her on the head, promised to come back for her, then run away.
But she told him he’d be caught. And he was caught. Daddy was always right. What Daddy said was what was.
“Take a good look: you will never see him again after this.”
She sat obediently on the steps and watched as her father beat her brother, lashing him with whip and chains. She slowly blinked to keep the spatter of the blood from her eyes. She wiped her mouth on her sleeve, trying not to grimace.
She stood impassively, holding the mortar tray, swaying as her father drove the trowel into it with increasing passion. Her eyes stayed on her brother’s face, that look of terror and resignation reaching out beyond a gagged mouth, begging her to scream, to run, to do something for herself, knowing he was beyond help. Knowing he was breaking his promises to her.
But still she stayed dead. Dead through dinner, dead through evening recitation, dead as she sat in her bed in her little nightgown. Equally dead when she rose, when she slipped out into the hall, when she crawled back into bed and hid under the covers and dialed the phone.
But she licked her lips and she spoke and with the first word, it was as if the Word of the universe itself sprang up like a spark within her.
Things happened quickly then. Blue and red lights, sirens, scrambling. Local forces and FBI, and encampments of peace officers now in siege and battle with her own family.
Her mother screaming at her not to say anything, not to say anything, oh, god, why, why now, why not sooner? But why, why take her away? This was her home, her home.
The girl felt pain in her heart for her mother. The spark set something ablaze in her heart. She wanted to reach for her, meant to. But inside, she pointed at the kitchen door. Her father was holed up there.
They treated her like a ghost. They saw her, they acknowledged her, they pressed on full of adrenaline and the righteous urge of justice against the monster.
She slipped through the back hall as they looked the other way.
“They got your mother, I take it?” He looked so old there in the moonlight, crouched behind the counter. So old, so scared, so mortal. Like a trapped animal.
The blaze died back to embers, and a new fire grew. Her lips curled into a feral smile.
“Do they know where I am? Did they give any orders? … Come here, come here, little one…”
She feigned fear. He leaned forward, off balance. He had to press his hand with the knife against the floor. She took that moment to scream.
He lunged, blade headed towards her heart. Guns burst through, blazing.
She stepped back, he fell. The blood fell across her in the way cool water from the hose did coming through the sprinkler one week in July where she had been able to pretend they were a normal family. And she didn’t blink this time. Didn’t flinch or think of turning away. Crimson spread across the floor and she licked her lips.
She led them through the basement: the restraints, the cells, the tables of drugs and the butchering block. The knives, the freezers, the tanning rack. She traipsed the horrorscape with a skip in her step like this was the garden of innocence.
“Oh, god, there’s really someone back there--get him out!”
“Oh, shit, he’s got a pulse--it’s weak, but he’s alive.”
He wheezed in the oxygen mask, eyes rolling as he faded in and out of consciousness. It was when he reached for her as they raised the stretcher that they finally seemed to notice she was, somehow, a live little girl.
Or at least, she had been.
“Hey, you don’t think…?”
“She’s got her nose, her hair--Jesus, yeah, they said there’d be two kids, didn’t they?”
“And here’s what’s left of them, then.”
She ignored their rudeness, treating them as if they weren’t there, just as they’d done to her.
“Don’t worry, this is all silly Dad’s.” She said cheerily, finally dropping the handset to take his hand in her two tiny ones. “I didn’t get hurt one bit.”
But her brother’s eyes wept worry as tears crowded at the corners.
“Shhhh, it’s okay. I helped you! We kept your promise. I'm safe now...”