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Post by L Y N X ! on Jul 18, 2011 21:24:01 GMT -5
It was cold. Her breath trailed like smoke out of her mouth as she let out a breath into the chilly air, and she rubbed her bare hands together to try and warm them. It was sometime past midnight, maybe even later. Hell if she cared. The cold wind bit at her cheeks as she strode swiftly down the city sidewalks, which were basically deserted. The only people out were the occasional drunk partier that had strayedtoo far from the bar an were stumbling their way back home. Which was exactly what she was doing, only she wasn't completely intoxicated. She had restrained herself from taking more than a few drinks, but she had enough to send a pleasant tingle through her body.
Ashia shuddered as she wrapped her coat closer to hertrembling body, thinking of her warm apartment a few blocks over. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she glanced around the street. She would have to find a closer place to get her fix, this was completely obnoxious walking this far. She turned into a dark alley, where she knew it would be a quicker route home insead of walking the whole block over. She dreaded the winter weather, it was always the worst time to go anywhere. She couldn't wait get home.
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Post by Storeh on Jul 18, 2011 21:34:12 GMT -5
The trails of smoke that twirled away from the edge of the cigar with every puffing breath, a soundless serenade cradled so by the darkest edging of the icy night. Clad in a heavy black garb, the man leaned with the pretense of idleness against the soiled roughness of the bricks, shrouded in the shadow. Waiting as he was. Listening to the footsteps as they beckoned closer. The long curling claws of his fingers touched so mindingly the blade clutched, the tips playing too roughly. Shame. The pain was little pinpricks, trickles of warmth as Spyder paid no mind. The echoing footfalls were resounding closer, reaching out toward him as he counted the ways in his mind. Slash up, body down. No fun without a struggle. The silhouette was playing within his sight, and he took another fateful drag, feeling the sheer burning in his lungs, on the exhale it was dropped to the ground. A booted foot crumpled it. Playfully, sweetly, the wind nipping bitterly. The clocks tolled with the bells all soundfully. Mirage, was this? By the end, one would hope it to be.
Female by the walk. Mutter by the talk, edging little chasms and patterns in his head. Thoughts were streaming with such wonderful things. He wondered if she would sing like a nightingale for him as he dug his nails into the flesh of her throat, squeezing the pleas away into the night. Coiling about him like reaching hands as the spirit fluttered away as delicately as a bird. Smile. Razor edges digging across his face. She was tottering, sauntering. But he had time. All the time. The lowest of the high. The strongest of the cries. It sung its way into his muscles, settled into his bones. Spyder smiled at the thought. He waited. Waited. For the little fly to become ensnared.
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Post by L Y N X ! on Jul 18, 2011 22:00:14 GMT -5
Nervousness. It was the first time she had ever really felt it in a while, enough to make her pause in mid-stride and take a careful look around her. Was she being watched? Had she perhaps stumbled on something she wasn't supposed to? It wouldn't o been smart of her if she had interrupted any form of a drug deal, for she knew any kind of witness were usually found the next day in a pool of their own blood. Her breath quickened in her throat as her mind ran wild with the possibilities. Curiosity killed the cat. Perhaps it was someone lying in wake, ready to spring and violate her being? Heaven forbid that they would get away unscathed if they web thought to try. Murder of the innocent want too uncommon around these parts either, and standing here in the cold didn't help her very much either. "Hello?" she called out, softly, unsurely. Her teeth pulled her lip, regretting speaking out. She might as well have blown whatever cover she had. The towering brick buildings on either side of her made her edgy, like a looming threat, ready to close in on her. She gathered her nerves and tucked her hands into the pockets of her gray overcoat, burring her chin into the somewhat warmth of her cooler as her boots moved against the dirty pavement. The sooner she got out of here, the better.
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Post by Storeh on Jul 18, 2011 22:12:39 GMT -5
Drawing muffled little gestures from the throat, lost in the smog, twirled away on the breath. Warmth. On he watched, his throat aching as though burning raw in itself. Closer she came, mindlessly sauntering, scared. Fear? Could the man himself but feel it as it coiled off her overcoat, leaving little trails as though to mark where the woman had wandered. Voices to shake, was it? A musical box melody that cast shadows onto the dirty cage. Trapped was she, not even knowing. Pity? Without remorse in movement, in silence he was watching. Harder his hands dug, dripping crimson and causing scars in the pockets of thickest leather. So very gently, calmly, collectively stroking the blade, leaving it where it be, imagining in in the bare flesh of her neck. Blinded by curiosity, where his patience preserved. Humbled in this place so rank with filth. Scared? Mirrored in the ashen puddles, he could see her distorted face. Pity be where children play with the demons on the playgrounds in their mind. One step he took, the smile curving his lips. Silent save for the slightest little scuffle. Would she take notice with the passing? Another. She drew farther away. Come. Come. The conductor's snap beckons. The heavens are smiling, the night is young. You breath is stale, and it is all so old. The rankness of alcohol is on the air, and we know how this shall end. What a wonderful night to play.
His shadow stretched across the pavement, the cracking of cobblestones like gentlemanly gesture. Straightening his spine as he examined hers, out of words that would fit. The patchwork places of the shadows played across his face, tempting at his mind and pulling it across. Away. Her ribs contracted, exhaled with the mist. His could stop such breath with the force of a fist. Was her blood sweet like cyanide? Did she have nightmares that hosted or dreams that had died? Where was she in these fairy tales wander. The clicking of his boots as he swept closer. Stopping in front with the lowest of whistles. Did she know? Did she guess? She had fallen for the trick. The hand had pulled the card from the hat. Here she was, sitting in the trap. Without escape, he stepped from the shade, smiling so sweetly in escapade. Did she notice? The sparks of his orange eyes. Die. Die. Die. Did she want to tempt death and fate and chance? Dance with me, my little fly. Dance with me and you will surely die.
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Post by L Y N X ! on Jul 18, 2011 23:23:30 GMT -5
Paranoia still gnawed at her insides, racking her brain and feeding her living nightmares. Did that shadow just move? No, it was a shift in the wind. Or was it? A presence seething in her mind brushed against the corners of her mind, curious attar sudden pick up of her breath, and the flutter of her heart like a caged bird trying to break free. It was intriguing, finding the new emotions that rose in it's host after her throughts ran buckwild. Her teeth chattered slightly together in the cold as a large gust swept through the alleyway, causing her to pause and close her eyes as they stung from the bitter wind. Step, shuffle. What was that noise?
Terror surged through her body as she froze, her sapphire eyes slowly opening, keeping her pupils low to the ground. Shadows, shifting and writhing at her feet. One remained still, if not sauntered closer to her. A quick, fleeting glance behind her revealed a dark, looming figure. Teeth glinting in the faint light. Eyes widened, pupils dialated, heart continued to hammer, desperate to be freed. She turned to face the figure, eyes searching for distinctive features hid in the darkness. She took a step back, cautious, then another. Eyes never strayed, before she turned and fled.
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Post by Storeh on Jul 18, 2011 23:39:00 GMT -5
Instincts. Instantaneous reactions. The pounding of the heart like the beating of a dream, out of rhythm as it was cornered in the mind. Caged, so trapped, the puddles parting at her feet. Run. Flee. Flight not fight, a pity indeed! The look in her eyes, the sparks that they fly, the sensation of a hare in the wolf's orb before the strike. Deer in headlights of a transferred truck. Demons in the courtyards. Lucky to be made, cared. Swayed, the saunter, the clickering of her feet a melody beyond his reach as he threw back his head for the moment. Directional cases. Wrong place to turn. Shame, shame, back against a wall. Would she then come at him tooth and claw? Scrape. Laughter leaking from his throat so toxically as though in audacious gloat. Never, never, singing so sweetly down, counting backwards from nine to ten. The edges of shade stretching, contorting, distorting, leading onward as his chuckles persisted. Giggles, glittering the air as the lights dare not touch or scathe across these alleyways. Muscles tightened, obeyed and sealed. Limps so leaping as though grinding gears. Sinew smarting, starting to fetch. The finch was running away on a shattered goodbye. Hello, he could chuckle on the breath of a new syringe. Goodbye, he could call when taken to the bitterest of ends. The world was showered, painted in vivid red. Dead. Dead! Red brings the dead. Haunts, wraiths and ghouls! Fetch. His hands were reaching, his fingers were grasping forth, the fabric teasing of her coat. She was near the end. She was near the ride. She was about to wish she had chosen vengeful suicide. Plight! in the night. A fight for the life. Void so of light. Drinking her down. Down. Down...Down..
Grasping and reaching, legs so bounding and leaping, mind so reeling, and mouth not speaking. Heart so pounding, tasted in his throat. Her fear stuck on the edges of his own doting dear. Twisting of arms, breaking of bones. Shattering her ribs and ripping her clothes. Stucking the knife in so deep. Feeling the pressure of the final release. Sensual with the need for any other desire. Tooth, nail, knife, and fist where his only friend. The moon was looking on with a vacant expression, and Spyder was licking his lips at the thought of a funeral procession. Tongue scraping, knuckles cracking, hands still waiting for their mark to throw her back. Back. Down. Down. The only direction for one was down. Down the stairs, down to the ground, down below, down straight past town. Earthen tombs and soggy graves. Little lights had started to fade. Apprehension on the calmness made. Dance with the Spyder. Dance with him. Stay.
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Post by L Y N X ! on Jul 19, 2011 0:23:37 GMT -5
Desperation, the moment that his feet moved to dash after her in presuit. Like a lion springing after it's prey, like a junebug giving a final struggle entwinged in a spider's sticky web. How appropriate. Stomach churned in fear, a sick feeling rising and the temptation of puke up bile. She hadnt the time for such delay, she must make it to the safety of the streets, of watchful eyes. The hope was quickly stowed away and crushed with the tugging of her coat from a pair of strong hands.
Desperation.. Mind churning like grinding gears, she decided to give up her coat with a fluid motion, shrugging it free from her shoulders and giving a surge forward, confident on trying to throw him off for the sliver of a second more she needed to escape into the spotlight of the streetlights that wold put onto focus the girl running for her life. Snag. Arm caught in her coat as she tried to flee before it slippd loose, but the slip up was enough to throw her off balance and send her onto her back along with the jerk of his hand onto the gravel with a cry of shock. Pain throbbed at the back of her head as she gazed up, starry eyed as her eyes sought out a face. The faint glint of something - a knife. So the fly was caught in the trap.
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Post by Storeh on Jul 19, 2011 0:40:26 GMT -5
Success. Not bitter. Exaltation. The sweetness of her labored breath, the crunching of her body to the gravel, the thought of the crimson beading. Calling to him, beckoning. Attentiveness without the pressure, the shimmering specks of his fire laden orbs glinting in the darkness. Deadly? Thrown so eagerly on her death bed, the little frail thing skidding. Snap of the silence, the wave of his hand, the motion of his feet as his arms sought to cradle, hand to the neck, fingers pressing farther, deeper. Edging into the skin. Pain radiation from his ruined hand, the chafted lure of his skin as he brought the knife so tauntingly to the edge of her perfect lips. Pretty face. Pretty. Pretty is as pretty does. Smile, sweetly, so coaxingly, leaning so heavily over his prey. Legs sought to ground her own, pressure of weight without resistance. Speak. Plea. Savor the breath she breaths, however stale. Worthless it may seem. The little edges of her stained eyes, the watery orbs of immaculate blue. Heavens be sought, with the ticking of clock. The lowest of chuckles on tongue. However wonderful the thought, if the sharp edge would cut...leaving those permanent indentions. Blade pricking the edges of her expression, seeking entrance to her mouth. Purr so lightly, so divinely. His. His. His. Spyder with his fly. Dove in a cage, plucking the feathers from her wings. Beauty. No. More. Please. Stop. Sing for me, little lark. I beg with the pressure of my fingers on your windpipe, nails digging, edging, wishing for the lovely substance under. Under. Yes. Silence. The hammering so tangible under the fingertips, the smearing of crimson on skin. Bit. By. Bit.
Tightening of grip. Waiting for the second wind. Stab? Rip? Stab. Stab! Slash so slowly, expression so demure. So dully tempting with his own lazed expression. Euphoria and release, acidic of these dreams. Delicious as the aroma wafting from her cuts. Yes, revival. Jubliation. Salvation! What a price for eternal damnation. Rip open her chest, climb right inside, eat what he can. Save the rest for the crime. Evidence. Ha! Tearing her apart, what would be left? Oh, so sweet is she, her bones against his. Breaking. Breathing, heart hammering. Hurt him. Please just strike, bite, make this a reckless but needful plight. Bleed. Blood. Fluttering of lids. Want this. I want this. To see the color drain from her face. Her ghost then given to the empty space. Moldering away in a gutter or well. Fuck me, screw me. I am going to hell! Hands twitch with the blade. Validation for the insane.
Run away.
You have to get away.
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Post by L Y N X ! on Jul 19, 2011 1:43:20 GMT -5
The gut churning stench of blood was already prominent in the air around her before even the slice of her skin was made. Blood dripped onto her face, beading from what she realized was his hand as it moved to grip her neck. Restricting, digging. Pain. Lip curled in a ghost of a snarl, an attempt at ferocity at her moment of paralyzing fear. She swallowed against his grip, pain surging through her neck as his fingers broke the surface of her fragile skin. Blood beaded in response, rushing to break free from her body, pressing against his fingers before trailing down her neck. Harder. Pressure. A soft whimper rose, seeking relief. His legs crushing down on hers, weight pressing. Was this the end? Her hands were still free.
It seemed like a moment in a Hollywood murder scene. Hopeless for escape. But she would be sure that she would put up a he'll of a fight before bring ripped apart. Silver blade slicing open her lip with pressure, but she refused access with a blockade of her own teeth. With sudden vigor she struggled with her whole body as much as she could muster, grunting wig the effort of moving against his weight. Fingers posed to strike as she struck her hand across his face, clawing with her nails in the blow. Her body arched as she struggled, hands moving to his to try and pry them off of her. "Let me go!" she demanded, voice rising win hysteria.
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Post by Storeh on Jul 19, 2011 11:02:52 GMT -5
Challenge. Flight to fight the unexpected, savoring the lasting degrees of shattered fame or warranties, as though the blood dripping from the tattered breaking of her neck where is own to wonder and not lament. Flying fancy with all the rage, twisting frame and contorted spine, hands to rake across his cheek, the pain almost teasing a groan. Hurt was the magically essence of these nights, with the flowing of his crimson to poison her skin, the little fiery please that wished so to be commands. Drawn from her throat with extra malice, he digested every last one. Yet this was not the first of these murder scenes. Violence etching around closed doors, buckling fear as the knife started. Endlessly looping to this cycling point. Fear for the inevitable. Clear on her face? Behind the mask of crimson disgrace? Where shall she hide if she ever gets free. The places were numbered, especially to he. A coldness of denial set so in stone. Tasting her crimson on his tongue. Willing away. Fluttering by. Licking his lips. Not a lie. Oh, mercy it was fine. Yes, masterfully it was good. Sweetest of substances. Peril. Gaining the atlitude to soar. Click goes the knife as it is wonderfully discared. Unneeded. Unwanted. Just in the way of his cheering. Leering. The pounding of her adrenaline soaked heart as his hands constricted farther, claws still pressing, tighter. Tighter he willed them. He wanted to see the whites of her timid eyes pressing back into her skull. Skin so taunt. Fair. Life fair. Life as a fair. With the murky depths of these cobblestones like a crooked gravestone. Lips pulled back with the deduction of pleasure, the crooning from his lips so humbly low. Dragging across the coils as his claws glanced inward, beading the blood. Tantalizing as her nails dug into his face. Was his own beauty something she sought to erase? Ha! What a thought for a madman concerned. Let her have her fun. He out to have his. Mercy me, and mercy my, the little crimson calling. Battling. Breathing. Yes, that he must.
Craning of neck, the bending of head, the shifting back of weight onto the bones of the bed. Tongue from the coils, seeking to scrap along the fresh wounds he had serrated. Lapping at the blood, trailing, plucking at the skin as delicately as from within. Teeth and nail, flailing without purpose. Endless tortures and respectless ventures. Breathing was shallow as his tongue continued to scrape. Masochist. Sadist. Was this all so right? Her blows were like pins into his skin, sending little shivers to race. Temptation for darkness, idleness a sin. Moving so wonderfully like her pulse under skin. Teeth wish to gorge, aching with need. Give in. Give in. Spyder had to give in. With her arching to flee, her dire needing to get away. How else was he to use this wonder of play? Hurt me, lovely. Make me a corpse. Walking. Talking. Assaulting. His teeth against her flesh. Digging. Deeper. Who needs a knife? If she got hold of it...it would be a long long night. Blood to drip. Chasms to rip. He could already see the drunken mishap. Chained by the bones. Unreconizable. Lips searing her flesh. Run. Run. Kill. Kill.
To the end we saunter.
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Post by L Y N X ! on Jul 19, 2011 15:01:42 GMT -5
Wasted. How could this come to be? Dancing along the lines of murder, time wasted, blood trickling with steady flow down her fair skin. Crimson beginning to pool in the gravel, slipping through the slivers and cracks of the rocks. Beading blood from the small impact wound on the back of her crown, seeping and seething into soft brunette tresses sprawling out onto the rocks about her. Throbbing, dizzying aches pounding inside her head, a wave of heat passing uncomfortably over her despite the low temperatures that seethed through her shirt and onto her bare arms, gooseflesh spread rampant. Lost her coat a step away. Continually she twisted and pulled against his frame so heavy over hers, easily overpowering with a simple restriction of her legs. Hands both at her delicate throat, squeezing, wringing more of the sweet liquid from her veins.
Smiles of pleasure, soft noises serenading her from his throat as if he were leaning over a lover instead of his prey. Orange eyes so malevolently focused on her own icy pair, wide and dilated with fear. Heart. Must. Escape. Pound. Faster. Swift intake of burning ice air, quick exhale into smokey vapor trailing out of her bloodied maw rising from the slit in her lip. Airway restricted by crushing paws. Were her breaths numbered? A soft whine as he leaned, closer to her bleeding neck. Shudder unlike the cold as his touch swiped hungrily across the crimson as if he were a mere purring kitten getting a taste of his milky dinner. An ounce of pleasure amongst pain as his tongue traced, curving lines where blood flowed. Sadistic. Like a trap suddenly sprung, teeth enclosed, pressing, squeezing, constricting, breaking. A sharp outcry bubbled from her throat, extending to somewhat of a scream that vibrated and echoed across the walls if the rank alleyway. Knife. Where was it? One hand against his face,nails digging as she tried to push away the monster seeking a taste of her flesh. The other trailed across the gravel, searching for the blade that had about damaged her before, but could possibly save her life now. Grgling, choking, sputtering, droplets of blood hacked up as droplets from her lips spilled into her mouth. Pleading for mercy from this man would prove futile of an effort. Continued struggle beneath him, but lessen in fear of a wrong jerk tearing her throat with his teeth so delicately tight.
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Post by Storeh on Jul 19, 2011 17:24:29 GMT -5
Brooding so ashen as seductively suite, clinging to the trails of his skin like a cellophane smile. Plastic wrapped to constrict her flow, little wonders of gasping. Taking their toll. The mindlessly groping of her desperate hands, pitiful noises as pathetic as gestures get. Teeth sharply toying, picking the strings, tying the knots with his tongue. Blood rushing through the hole of his throat, tickling like rivulets he wished from her eyes. Seeking the burning. Icy for the flesh. Fingers edging deepening, where was his mark? Needle spun from the edges of thinnest of threads, fingers kneading against the broken skin. Piercing. Animal sounds or animal tastes. Spyder's hands were not in the race, leaving her throat to wrap at her wrists. Snapping his teeth so close to the inch. Eyes so wide, so startled. So his. He thought. He waited without a wish, ever drop of the moments so savored, into the bucket of the warp he enabled. Iron fingers, sinew as steel, demon in trenchcoat, sitting on this creature of misfortune. Purr. Purr. Did she scream as much as she whined and whimpered? Radiant pain through the scars of his face, though it mattered little. Back. Ward. Jump! His muscles tightened, and he vaulted back onto his feet, peering down at her with his gorily stained teeth. Wire edges of the perfect trap. Would she lay her head down for a bit of a nap? Curl in a ball in the blood soaked champagne, trickling from her, dripping out of the wounds. Into the air. Soar of smell as though bitterest of years. Yards away the knife glistened and called. Did she respond to its beckon- call? Towering over her shriveling form, grinning. Grinning from ear to ear. Tone deaf proclamations, here we are again. Disasters to falter.
Give in. Give in.
Whispered promises to save the fly. No way. No how. Swaying to the clock of his mind. One to the thousand. Two to the morgue. Three a procession. Four to the sanctuary. Burning the church! Drown her skin in gasoline, kerosine. Flicker of match, burning her eyes! Picturesque and perfect. Say a goodbye. Bow your head in a prayer. His eyes, pumpkin meat from the ink, watching for the move. Dug in deep. Sway. Sway. Saunter so smooth, purring of tongue, licking again the blood from his lips. Purr. Purr. Little spyder, where have you gone? What are you playing, standing there all along. Games. Games! Sweetly so tempted. Three more seconds for interjection. Ready was he. Intoxication. Injection. Straight to her heart- so fine. Crumbling through his fingers and bits and chunks. Dreams from reality. Help them be spun. Little fly, why are you staring? Choking? Gasping for breath? Let us continue with the torment.
Spyder's gears were grinding.
Spyder had his next hand.
His card trick was ready.
And he had taken his aim.
He had to pull the trigger.
And away they would go
Again.
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Post by L Y N X ! on Jul 19, 2011 19:59:19 GMT -5
So the spider's simply crafted web caught the fly. Such thin fragile strings, binding the poor fly into place. Once the spider took its bite, the game was sure to be over, and the fly just an unlucky victim to the spider's hunger. The comparison was all too appropriate. What chance did the little fly have of getting away, struggle as she may? The spider's workings were too tight to escape. But maybe, there might be a chance to shake free of the grasp. But for the little fly, pain was too prominent to think of moving her wounds in the effort to flee. It was hard to fly away when your wings were broken.
Soft noises continued to rise in her throat, but never once did she plea. Perhaps if he had wanted her to he would have commanded her to, but he never once spoke a word. Only smiled, and feasted on the tenderness of her neck's flesh, and the blood that continued to seep there as more pressure was applied. Her throat stung, on fire with the agony as nails dug into the soft tissue beneath the surface of her skin, provoking a steadier stream to flow. Trickling down in thick veins, seeping and soaking into bits of her shirt that provided no safety from the cold. What had she done to deserve such a punishing? She was caught, her hands both searching for a weapon and attempting an assault were quickly grasped in his own bloody fingers. Filthy, retched. She had to wrinkle her nose against the horrible stench that filled the air. Her blood. His blood, that dripped off the tips of her fingers. Icy sapphire mashed with pumpkin orange in their never ending gaze. A deer looking into a pair of headlights. And suddenly, that car swerved as he sprang off of her and straight onto his feet. Her lips parted, surprise eminent on her facade before it faltered into one of relief. The attack on her neck had stopped, leaving a painful throbbing behind, but it was still better than being actively clawed at. Chest heaving, fighting for the air that burned her lungs with each intake.She waited, expecting something, but he seemed to be waiting for something too. Licking the blood from her lips, she rolled onto her stomach with a groan,uncaring as she layed in her own pool of blood. Eyes closed, breath shuddering. One, two, three. Losing more blood, mind whirling. Cough, spit more blood that had gathered at the back of her throat. Coughing turned to violent hacking, scorching her wounds with the fire. Growing limp against her own arms, diving into the relief of unconsciousness.
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Post by Storeh on Jul 21, 2011 13:50:26 GMT -5
Blinking back in contemplation against the onslaught of city lights. Burning holes into the keys of his flesh, strumpets fall on the calling of an midnight lay down in respect. Looking with torrential convulsions, the hacking of the blood on cobbles, cemented into mind. Fabric lining little wonders falling so from the sky. Again with the blinking, flickering of lids, a parting of blackness in the cold. Outside of habitual resting, watching torture take its toll. Crawling for a life well sated, on her stomach or her knees, crimson tide trickling sweetly, in the thoughts reside. Yet Spyder was not a rock's throw from piety or pity, or whatever one shall feel. Crawling shivers of spineless pleasure reaching across his skin. Was she feeling so breathless now that her throat was not cradled in his hands. The skin under his fingers burned as though in lament. Watching, stepping, peering down at the prey. Play? The breaking of bones and ashes on the wind. The darkness swelling to consume with her hacks. Spread of dark locks, soaked with shimmering splendor. A caress as the breathing, the fits of shuddering smoothed into timeless low. Even. Unconscious. What a swell of relief for the victim. Spyder could stick a knife between her ribs. End it with a flow and a jab. Walk away. Leave it at that. Tsk. Click. Wasteful was that thinking. Tearing apart her chest spindle by spindle and chord by chord. Evenly. Easily. What a thought for the road. His fingers cracked, his body creaked, but the pain was an idleness thought for the release. Smiling at the show, the little pools left behind. Mass convulsions of a suicide? Where was the corpse, the morgue. Held in his arms, breeched so close. Like a bride past her time for the alter, laying in his cage. Grip so sweetly prepared. Cradled. Against.
Through the fabric there was the faltering fracture of a heart. Beatless. Unrhythmatic. Distorted. Blood through the veins, heat by the hour. Taking a turn to the streets. Shower of smoke, not looks to spare, stumbling drunks unakin to a stare. Did they not see the spreading grin from the jagged edges of his teeth, the beads of liquid sent to the wind in time with the walking. The state of the brute in his captive. Shuddering wrenched by trickery. Nevermore. Fluttering wings against his skull, the wish to let her body feed the crows. Crash to the ground, break upon her head. Life to live is one surely better served dead. Oh, death. Pardon my intrusion. My instruction. My institution. So many plans, flickering across his flesh, playing on his features, licking at his mind. Survival. Impossible. Hazordous play. Enter the lions den, enter a bloodied maze. Patchwork clockwork. Shriveling corpse. Warehouse rising on the horizon. Due time. Spyder was set on the course with the body in tow. Her breathing so shallow. How how was this to go?
The ashen of bricks, the boarded of windows.
The creaking of hinges, the spiraling of stairs.
The cobwebs and glass shattered and strown.
The smell of a hellhole rotting in tone.
Candles flickering brought to the world.
Flames casting shadows on the doors.
Metal and brick.
A chamber for the two.
In the spyder's web.
Coiled by the hands with rope.
Strung up so high.
He waited for her to awake.
With the taste of blood still fresh on his tongue.
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