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 Posted: Tue Oct 14, 2014 6:36 pm
One, two, three...
The tips of her fingers play against the fading imprint of teeth on her opposite arm. Rhythmic, like hitting piano keys, she plays the dull ache back to life. Disappointingly distant. She finds herself wishing for the sharp sting it had been, and then frowns, as the implications of that realization sink in.
One, two, three...
She'd begun to wonder about herself, her motives. She'd begun to second guess, to pick it all apart. Her small fist drilling into the side of some high school a*****e's head as he screams at her, laying him out. That satisfaction that followed, the pride, and now she can see it, the joy. He'd never touch Astrid again, never go near her. But had he ever? Was it all just defense? Of course she's protective, doting, even maternal to some degree, but was she protecting her little sister in the past? Or herself? Or had that been her justification after the fact?
Defense, or instigation?
One, two, three...
Warrick is looming and worried in her mind, and she assures him she's alright. Not hurt, barely a scratch. Again she plays the tips of her fingers over the fading imprints, and she recalls the shock that sings up her arm as the crowbar connects with the side of Jack's ribs.
Nails biting into her hands. Glass scrapping against her cheek.
She remembers feeling alive in a why that's all but terrifying.
So she shoves it back, locks it away, and tries to forget.
One, two, three...
She plays her fingers against her own skin, but the marks are gone, and she's disgusted that she mourns them.
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Posted: Wed Oct 15, 2014 4:04 pm
She doesn't know where to go, who to talk to, about the weight that has settled on thin shoulders. The itch, irritating and deep, beneath tanned skin. Distractions help, but there is no shoving it away. It crawls back, dark and dispassionate, when her mind is at rest.
There is one person she can talk to, but she's loathed to open that door, to give him that power, but he sees her like no one else is able, and she can see herself in his eyes. In the monster that's staring back at her.
Her partner hovers, annoyed, as she sends the first message, but she ignores him, because she's already made up he mind.
Because she can't tell Noah, or Taym, or Otto, or Astrid. Not even America, who of all of them, would understand. She can't tell them, because she can't lose them.
So she'll turn to someone loathsome, who there is no lost love for, and even as she admits she needs his help(and isn't that just nauseating), she regrets the choice to give him that leverage.
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Posted: Sun Nov 09, 2014 1:46 pm
It's the same every night now.
The chase--the hunt--is a rush. It always is, regardless of her target, regardless of why, it always makes her pulse pound, loud in her ears, as she pursues. Guiltless, thoughtless, she is a weapon, and she is precise, and enacting, and without remorse as she bares down upon those she set upon.
Though who pulls the strings?
She is a puppet.
Orders from on high; she follows them to the letter.
Urges from within; she is powerless against them.
Eyes stare up at her--hazel, blue, brown, green, red. She can feel the beat of their body beneath her as she leans over them, the tip of her blade balanced just above the sweet spot; a gap, over the heart, where a thin blade can slip in easily, effortless, to pierce that frantic muscle and slow it's heavy pulse. Knowledge born from practice, it's so easy now, she doesn't even have to think.
And it's better that way, mindless and numb. She's stopped feeling it by now, the string of the loss, the pain. It's gone, and there is nothing left but the hunter, and the monster within.
"Your suffering is over." It's a whisper, voice sweet as spun sugar, and before they can so much as draw a breath she's laying her weight against the blade at their chest. It sinks in easily, it always does, and her breath leaves her body in a shudder as she counts the last futile beats of their heart before it slows to a stop.
She is their assassin, precise and efficient.
She is the monster, cold, vicious, and always hungry.
It must be done.
There can be only her.
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Posted: Sun Jan 11, 2015 6:41 pm
They call it a guilty pleasure for a reason, and this is no different. As the adrenaline leaves her--as he body calms and the quick beat of her heart slows to normal--that rush is fading, and in it's wake is something close enough to shame to leave a bittersweet taste in her mouth. Of course she knows why, lying had always sat uncomfortably with Peyton, even when she lied to herself.
She says its training, and it is, but that is not the end of it. She believes she needs the help, and she does, but that's not the only reason she seeks the giant out.
She can say, or think, what she wants, but she knows the truth, and she can't hide from it, and she doesn't want to, but the girl believes she has no choice.
That rush is addicting. Intoxicating. She does not actively seek it out, not often, but she never passes up the chance either. It is her drug of choice, the only one she could admit to, even if she won't admit it. It's no longer simply a want, it's a need. Like food, or water, or air. Without you wither, wasting away from the lack of it.
And now there is another person on the island she can turn to. Another kindred spirit that seems to feel the same way she feels. Green still, woefully weak, but delightfully tenacious. Ruthless, dirty, he'd kept the dainty Sun on her toes, and she'd commended him for it, praised him, and she whispered promises to play again. Because he liked his as much as she did, maybe even thrived on it.
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