She was dreaming. At least, she thought she was. The world was monochrome, only one thing in color. Her. And the weirdest part was that she wasn't seeing things from her point of view. Jada was watching herself, registering everything like it was a story, and she was the protagonist and antagonist, all at once. She was watching a movie from many places at once. Jada was the observer. Jada was Norman Bates (she knew he was. Stalking the her that wasn't her, with his steely eyes.) At the same time, Jada was Mary Crane.
It was cold. Scylla pulled the shawl she'd taken from home closer around her shoulders, wishing not for the first time that she had something warm enough to cover her legs. Well, she supposed that she could have gotten some leg-warmers. But they just wouldn't look right with the outfit. Ah, vanity! Her blue heels clicked along the cracked sidewalk, brushing against weeds that cracked as she touched them. Late at night everything was gray and dark. Even the street lights were darker than normal, dim with the rains. The air was something pure. Fresh rains had washed away the impurity, and the breeze that rustled her skirt was crisp. She took in a deep breath, slowly, feeling how invigorating it was. How damp the air was. The night smelled like jasmine; It was peaceful. Silent. Not even a hoot from an owl on the air, or a squeal from a mouse. There was only the rustling of the leaves in the wind. The breeze blew, and a strand of hair caressed her cheek like loving fingers, wrapping around her slender neck.
In the darkness, light eyes watched her. Nostrils flared, inhaling her scent; sandalwood from her perfume, the light taste of vanilla from the shampoo she'd washed her hair with earlier that morning. There was a hint of cinnamon of the incense she burned in her room to help herself relax. Nostrils flared with something unreadable, blood heated. She kept moving, and he kept following.
Her hair was piled up atop her head; exposing the back of her pale neck, dark with little streaks of ebony. It was like watching a moving piece of art. And he loved making art. Each base that he'd chosen, everywhere he had been, had been as beautiful as she was when it started, as marble-skinned and impeccable. He had made sure to see every emotion cross that face, the twist of her lips, the way her eyes would move at a certain type of stimuli. He'd examined others, but none of them had the same desperation hidden in their depths. None of them had the spark he was looking for in the canvas which would become his art. She didn't know she had it. If his prey ever knew, if they ever guessed, it ruined the final part of his masterpiece. The final expression. The one that he sculpted with tender, caring hands as they screamed and pleaded. It was the ultimate expression as an artist, the ultimate way he could display his love for his model and his clay. She passed within inches of his hands. He reached out, stole away her shawl, releasing it into the wind. She turned, gasping; did she honestly think it was her own weakness that had relaxed her grasp? Couldn't she feel the warmth of his need, hear the beating of his heart as it pounded for her?
His final Galatea. The one he would go into eternity with.
He'd said it before, of course. Each was beautiful in her own way, each had her own charm in the expression she gave to him. Each piece of canvas had its own beauty. Each piece of canvas had its own flaws. But he'd always found another expression to twist out of someone else, another canvas to moan his name in the dark and weep their diamond tears while he carved and sculpted them into the shapes he wanted. Scylla's heels clacked against the concrete, the black waves of hair flying behind her as she chased the piece of white material that had covered her shoulders. He followed, silent as the wind, slipping through the trees as a ghost, watching. Annoyance rather than panic gleamed in her eyes when she realized she wouldn't, she couldn't, catch the silken scrap. She stopped, curls bouncing into her back and he paused, still as a predator, watching her chest heave, cheeks glowing with blood. Cheeks glowing with the most precious paint he dreamed of.
Scene shift.
She turned, sighing, her shoulders falling. He rustled in the trees. He watched her stiffen, look into the darkness as though she could see him. She shook her head, those brilliant stone-colored eyes (they would glaze over as she cooled, and become frozen at a slightly dimmer color, which is why the color needed to be so brilliant for his canvases) closing briefly before she turned back in the direction she had come from. Moved back along the tree line, his eyes on her.
He whispered her name into the wind, and she never heard it.
How did he know that this woman was going to be his masterpiece? He'd been stalking the young woman for a long time, examining her for suitability. He'd never dreamed he would find her to be so. It hadn't been until that day in the bookstore that he'd known her canvas was ripe. He would have taken her that day, if it weren't for the intervention of two male annoyances and the mall police.
When would be the right moment? Would it be tonight? Would it be another night?
It wasn't until she was leaving the tree line, passing the park, and gave a soft, breathy sigh of ennui that he knew tonight was the night he would create her masterpiece. He let her pass the corner of a building. No one was looking at the glory that had passed them on the streets. See, that was what happened. Bare canvas went unappreciated, and then he created his art, and everyone realized. The red, shimmering streaks of dye that flowed in her veins would paint her, and him, and the concrete base of her statue. From his coat he pulled out a white rag and a clear bottle.
She disappeared form his sight and he moved. He was fast, quick, coming up behind the unsuspecting canvas, His hand fisted in her hair, pulled her head backward, the other hand which was full of his handkerchief covering her mouth and nose. She struggled, writhing in his arms, head pulling free. Her lips opened, as though she were going to scream, and he pressed the rag between her lips, into her warm mouth. He punched her roughly in the belly, where it would not mar his canvas, and watched her world go dark.
Scene shift.
The world smelled like pine needles. The ground was wet and cold against her back. She shuddered, shook; She couldn't breathe through her mouth. Her body arched up unbound from the ground and Scylla realized she was alone. At least visibly so. Her mouth tasted like cotton and poison (was this the taste of chloroform?), and she pulled out the handkerchief, scowling at it. It was dirty. Her shawl was draped across a stump, laid out over a blanket like some kind of a trophy. She pushed herself to her feet, stumbling towards the shawl. There was a white blanket. A sheet pure and crisp. She stepped around it. “It is your shroud.” the voice sent shivers down her spine. She started to spin, to try and find the person who had said it. “White is your best color. I had to put it there so it wouldn't get dirty while I worked.” Warm hands wrapped around her waist, warm lips pressed to the back of her neck, tenderly settling on her hips, holding her still so that she could not turn. “You are a perfect canvas. Flawless. Unfissured. Nothing hard about you anywhere, nothing toned. Nothing athletic to ruin the softness.” She shuddered. Norman's voice continued. “Like unrisen dough.”
“That isn't flattering.” she snapped.
From an observer's standpoint, Jada wondered how she was keeping her composure. Bile rose in her throat; something told her what was to come. “We are beyond flattery, my Galatea.” his teeth nipped into her ear. Lips moved down her neck, scraping the sensitized flesh. And then he started. His hand dug itself into the warm cavity of her chest, grasping at something Jada did not want to think about, gripping it in his hand.
Jada started to scream but she couldn't. Her hand clutched her chest, as though she could keep the other her complete and whole.
On the forest floor, Scylla started to scream, but she couldn't. She who was Scylla faded away, leaving Jada with unbound hair. Leaving his canvas draped in the white gauze she slept in. She was gasping for breath, and he withdrew his empty hand, turning her to face him. Tenderly, he laid her down on the white blanket. “Paint for me.” Norman whispered into her ear.
She was going into shock. He wasn't surprised. They always did, far too quickly; it was while they were still warm he could perform his form sculpting. He draped her, he brutalized her. Listened to her ragged symphony of breath, judging the amount of time he had left by the way she exhaled. She was a work of art, and he worshiped her. He whispered to her as she turned pale and cold as stone, telling her of the immortality he was giving her. Sharing with her every step of his art, while the light faded from violet eyes. When she was at last perfect, he reached into her chest, and pulled out her heart. It glowed; logically, Jada recognized it as a starseed.
It would be his forever. No one else would be able to have it, when it was inside him. The stalker pressed his lips to her, smearing his lips along the red paint. The white scarf was draped over her face. He spread out her hair, and spread a second blanket over her, covering every inch of her so that the wind could not blow even a single strand out of place. Next to her covered canvas, he took her into himself, and joined her in eternity.
Scene shift.
Jada woke up screaming, shrieking, as nurses worked around her. One of them was blonde and another had hair like blood, hair that dripped out of her cap and made Jada arch off the gurney, trying to get away. “Sedate her!” a doctor snarled. He was old, with grey in his hair and eyes that said the sight of her did not put him off. Jada had a needle in her hand, taped down, and she instinctively went to rip it out, to tear it out. The young woman tried to rip it out of her veins, blindly fighting an enemy she couldn't see. She was...
Breathing.
Her chest hurt. Her back was on fire, and she writhed, shrieking. It didn't qualify as a scream anymore. The sound was like a banshee, wailing. Jada thought she saw a nurse inject something into her iv while two other nurses forced her to be still. And then everything started to dull, almost immediately. She wanted to fight. It hurt. Her body was betraying her. They rolled her onto her side, babbling something that started to blur into itself. Her eyelids felt heavy.
She slipped back into dreamland.
Scene shift.
It was cold. Scylla pulled the shawl she'd taken from home closer around her shoulders, wishing not for the first time that she had something warm enough to cover her legs. Well, she supposed that she could have gotten some leg-warmers. But they just wouldn't look right with the outfit. Ah, vanity! Her blue heels clicked along the cracked sidewalk, brushing against weeds that cracked as she touched them. Late at night everything was gray and dark. Even the street lights were darker than normal, dim with the rains. The air was something pure. Fresh rains had washed away the impurity, and the breeze that rustled her skirt was crisp. She took in a deep breath, slowly, feeling how invigorating it was. How damp the air was. The night smelled like jasmine; It was peaceful. Silent. Not even a hoot from an owl on the air, or a squeal from a mouse. There was only the rustling of the leaves in the wind. The breeze blew, and a strand of hair caressed her cheek like loving fingers, wrapping around her slender neck.
In the darkness, light eyes watched her. Nostrils flared, inhaling her scent; sandalwood from her perfume, the light taste of vanilla from the shampoo she'd washed her hair with earlier that morning. There was a hint of cinnamon of the incense she burned in her room to help herself relax. Nostrils flared with something unreadable, blood heated. She kept moving, and he kept following.
Her hair was piled up atop her head; exposing the back of her pale neck, dark with little streaks of ebony. It was like watching a moving piece of art. And he loved making art. Each base that he'd chosen, everywhere he had been, had been as beautiful as she was when it started, as marble-skinned and impeccable. He had made sure to see every emotion cross that face, the twist of her lips, the way her eyes would move at a certain type of stimuli. He'd examined others, but none of them had the same desperation hidden in their depths. None of them had the spark he was looking for in the canvas which would become his art. She didn't know she had it. If his prey ever knew, if they ever guessed, it ruined the final part of his masterpiece. The final expression. The one that he sculpted with tender, caring hands as they screamed and pleaded. It was the ultimate expression as an artist, the ultimate way he could display his love for his model and his clay. She passed within inches of his hands. He reached out, stole away her shawl, releasing it into the wind. She turned, gasping; did she honestly think it was her own weakness that had relaxed her grasp? Couldn't she feel the warmth of his need, hear the beating of his heart as it pounded for her?
His final Galatea. The one he would go into eternity with.
He'd said it before, of course. Each was beautiful in her own way, each had her own charm in the expression she gave to him. Each piece of canvas had its own beauty. Each piece of canvas had its own flaws. But he'd always found another expression to twist out of someone else, another canvas to moan his name in the dark and weep their diamond tears while he carved and sculpted them into the shapes he wanted. Scylla's heels clacked against the concrete, the black waves of hair flying behind her as she chased the piece of white material that had covered her shoulders. He followed, silent as the wind, slipping through the trees as a ghost, watching. Annoyance rather than panic gleamed in her eyes when she realized she wouldn't, she couldn't, catch the silken scrap. She stopped, curls bouncing into her back and he paused, still as a predator, watching her chest heave, cheeks glowing with blood. Cheeks glowing with the most precious paint he dreamed of.
Scene shift.
She turned, sighing, her shoulders falling. He rustled in the trees. He watched her stiffen, look into the darkness as though she could see him. She shook her head, those brilliant stone-colored eyes (they would glaze over as she cooled, and become frozen at a slightly dimmer color, which is why the color needed to be so brilliant for his canvases) closing briefly before she turned back in the direction she had come from. Moved back along the tree line, his eyes on her.
He whispered her name into the wind, and she never heard it.
How did he know that this woman was going to be his masterpiece? He'd been stalking the young woman for a long time, examining her for suitability. He'd never dreamed he would find her to be so. It hadn't been until that day in the bookstore that he'd known her canvas was ripe. He would have taken her that day, if it weren't for the intervention of two male annoyances and the mall police.
When would be the right moment? Would it be tonight? Would it be another night?
It wasn't until she was leaving the tree line, passing the park, and gave a soft, breathy sigh of ennui that he knew tonight was the night he would create her masterpiece. He let her pass the corner of a building. No one was looking at the glory that had passed them on the streets. See, that was what happened. Bare canvas went unappreciated, and then he created his art, and everyone realized. The red, shimmering streaks of dye that flowed in her veins would paint her, and him, and the concrete base of her statue. From his coat he pulled out a white rag and a clear bottle.
She disappeared form his sight and he moved. He was fast, quick, coming up behind the unsuspecting canvas, His hand fisted in her hair, pulled her head backward, the other hand which was full of his handkerchief covering her mouth and nose. She struggled, writhing in his arms, head pulling free. Her lips opened, as though she were going to scream, and he pressed the rag between her lips, into her warm mouth. He punched her roughly in the belly, where it would not mar his canvas, and watched her world go dark.
Scene shift.
The world smelled like pine needles. The ground was wet and cold against her back. She shuddered, shook; She couldn't breathe through her mouth. Her body arched up unbound from the ground and Scylla realized she was alone. At least visibly so. Her mouth tasted like cotton and poison (was this the taste of chloroform?), and she pulled out the handkerchief, scowling at it. It was dirty. Her shawl was draped across a stump, laid out over a blanket like some kind of a trophy. She pushed herself to her feet, stumbling towards the shawl. There was a white blanket. A sheet pure and crisp. She stepped around it. “It is your shroud.” the voice sent shivers down her spine. She started to spin, to try and find the person who had said it. “White is your best color. I had to put it there so it wouldn't get dirty while I worked.” Warm hands wrapped around her waist, warm lips pressed to the back of her neck, tenderly settling on her hips, holding her still so that she could not turn. “You are a perfect canvas. Flawless. Unfissured. Nothing hard about you anywhere, nothing toned. Nothing athletic to ruin the softness.” She shuddered. Norman's voice continued. “Like unrisen dough.”
“That isn't flattering.” she snapped.
From an observer's standpoint, Jada wondered how she was keeping her composure. Bile rose in her throat; something told her what was to come. “We are beyond flattery, my Galatea.” his teeth nipped into her ear. Lips moved down her neck, scraping the sensitized flesh. And then he started. His hand dug itself into the warm cavity of her chest, grasping at something Jada did not want to think about, gripping it in his hand.
Jada started to scream but she couldn't. Her hand clutched her chest, as though she could keep the other her complete and whole.
On the forest floor, Scylla started to scream, but she couldn't. She who was Scylla faded away, leaving Jada with unbound hair. Leaving his canvas draped in the white gauze she slept in. She was gasping for breath, and he withdrew his empty hand, turning her to face him. Tenderly, he laid her down on the white blanket. “Paint for me.” Norman whispered into her ear.
She was going into shock. He wasn't surprised. They always did, far too quickly; it was while they were still warm he could perform his form sculpting. He draped her, he brutalized her. Listened to her ragged symphony of breath, judging the amount of time he had left by the way she exhaled. She was a work of art, and he worshiped her. He whispered to her as she turned pale and cold as stone, telling her of the immortality he was giving her. Sharing with her every step of his art, while the light faded from violet eyes. When she was at last perfect, he reached into her chest, and pulled out her heart. It glowed; logically, Jada recognized it as a starseed.
It would be his forever. No one else would be able to have it, when it was inside him. The stalker pressed his lips to her, smearing his lips along the red paint. The white scarf was draped over her face. He spread out her hair, and spread a second blanket over her, covering every inch of her so that the wind could not blow even a single strand out of place. Next to her covered canvas, he took her into himself, and joined her in eternity.
Scene shift.
Jada woke up screaming, shrieking, as nurses worked around her. One of them was blonde and another had hair like blood, hair that dripped out of her cap and made Jada arch off the gurney, trying to get away. “Sedate her!” a doctor snarled. He was old, with grey in his hair and eyes that said the sight of her did not put him off. Jada had a needle in her hand, taped down, and she instinctively went to rip it out, to tear it out. The young woman tried to rip it out of her veins, blindly fighting an enemy she couldn't see. She was...
Breathing.
Her chest hurt. Her back was on fire, and she writhed, shrieking. It didn't qualify as a scream anymore. The sound was like a banshee, wailing. Jada thought she saw a nurse inject something into her iv while two other nurses forced her to be still. And then everything started to dull, almost immediately. She wanted to fight. It hurt. Her body was betraying her. They rolled her onto her side, babbling something that started to blur into itself. Her eyelids felt heavy.
She slipped back into dreamland.
Scene shift.
