awalkingcasualty I’m cleaning out all the saved stuff on my phone.
An aloof glare worked so well for Astoria. On the other side of blinding flash bulbs and their deafening pops only drowned out by clamoring yells of her name, over and over, it was touted as her signature smolder. Hand on hip, chin up, her stroll down the carpet bore the smirk of one secretly planning the murder of each voice behind the screamed “Astoria, this way! Look over here!” That one would ‘accidentally’ get flattened by a boulder dropped via an intricate trap a la those old Tom and Jerry cartoons. The half laugh that thought drew was eaten up in another roar of yelling journalists. Astoria Greengrass was making her return debut! They /needed/ that exclusive. Ignoring their questions, instead she began working her way down the line scrawling autographs here and there, the odd reporter mixed in.
“What are you wearing tonight Miss Greengrass?”
“The skin of my enemies,” she dead panned, not looking up from the quick note she was jotting for a fan.
“Come on, come on!” he laughed as the socialite posed for a selfie. “Who designed your dress? How long did it take to get ready tonight?”
Astoria scoffed ignoring the same inane questions that got asked every, single, time. The string of questioning continued as she moved down the line. “What’s in your purse?” “What is the regimen for your hair?” Eventually, “No man tonight? Who are you going home with?”
“Speaking of men, are you asking them these same questions?” she replied dryly.
“Uh-oh! Trouble in paradise?” A chuckle so pleased at their joke, “How do you balance home and career?”
If looks could kill, “I don’t know if my silly female brain can answer that.”
A decisive turn of her shoulder ended the conversation, dismissing the entire group. Astoria returned to the flow of the carpet ushered along with the stream of other VIPs arriving. Slipping her phone from her purse she sent Kevin a quick “I’m about to kill a bitch and I miss you” text.
The night flew by. After months and months and months physical wounds had healed, emotional wounds beginning to shift to the rearview; drinking and dancing put normal within grasp. Normal enough that when the club called and Astoria said she was fine, Kevin believed her this time. He was helping the club, she was fielding invasive questions about splintering scars; all was as it should be.
In the wee hours of the morning, she stumbled into the bathroom tucked away from the blasting speakers. Her mission, determine which photos would accurately convey to Kev the obnoxiousness of the night he was missing. Her phone’s glaring screen revealed a voicemail aaaand four missed calls.
“Sebastian!” She laughed with a hint of a slur when he answered, “It might be time to consider stapling Kev’s phone to his hand if he lost it again!”
“No, no I saw it but I didn’t listen to it.”
Astoria wrinkled her nose at her own reflection, smoothing a bit of hair, half listening. Something about a quiet place to talk. “Can hear you fine. I only have a few minutes Bash, give Kev the phone.”
Her smile faltered. Heels clicked from feet moving on their own. Grip crushed her phone to her ear, second hand groped blindly for purchase along the wall. Strong hands caught her shoulders before trembling knees failed her.
“Take me home,” Astoria gasped to the body guard who waited just outside the bathroom door. Noise rattled in her ear, so loud, why wouldn’t it stop. One of those hands pried the phone from its vice, a hasty conversation between her crutch and that rattling.
She was in the car. Lights and blaring horns drifting in and out of her awareness. “Pull over,” no questioning that demand. Fumbling hands barely opened the door before the contents of her stomach painted the side of the road. Collapsed back against the seat, were it not for a particular set of dark scars, one couldn’t tell where the white dress gave way to ashen skin.
Rowena was bored. Overly, extremely bored. Her parents were out and she didn’t know where her siblings were but she didn’t particularly want to spend time with them. Rhys was on his date and Megan wasn’t talking to her since she bailed on their date.
After she went through everyone in her head, her nose crinkled. Did she really only have one friend, Megan not withstanding? That was almost ... pathetic. She blamed it on the summer and that all of her friends were off doing their own things, even if summer meant she should be spending time with them, not away from them.
The doorbell rang, something that drew her mind back from wandering. She must have been seriously out of it, she didn’t hear the footsteps coming up to the door or the car in the driveway. It held the promise of doing something exciting and she rolled out of bed, hurrying downstairs to get the door. There was nobody there and the driveway held no cars. On the doormat outside was a note and she raised her eyebrows.
Sheriff Stilinski. You’re scum. You have 48 hours to say your goodbyes, then we’re going to play a little game. Tick-tock, sheriff.
The note was typed and Rowena knew they couldn’t get a handwriting analysis on a typed note. The police wouldn’t have been able to do anything with this. But she was smarter than that. She could feel her shift oncoming but she didn’t try to suppress it. She took a long whiff of the note, instantly catching the scent of whoever left it. She barely had the presence of mind to lock the door behind her before she took off running, the scent stuck in her nose.
She stuck to the woods, keeping out of sight until she found the scent leading to a car. They pulled over at a house and went instead and her temper flared. She found a way inside through the open window. She couldn’t control it, the anger in her heart and the blood pulsing through her veins and when she finally managed to rein herself in, she noticed the body lying in front of her in a pool of his own blood.
Rowena found a mirror, catching sight of her eyes. What were once amber and radiant were now a bright blue. Oh no. She ran out the way she came in, careful to stay out sight from any possible nosy neighbors. When she got home, she noticed her dad’s cruiser in the driveway and she had to steel her nerves. This was going to end badly.
She went inside, prepared for the worst but was already starting to break down. “Daddy...”
my gross ulgan centimanus cathar and @selkie-prince’s galateid mimic dancing to commemorate my eternal emotional commitment to white wolf’s body horror alchemical soulquest rpg
He was wearing the suit. The Pauly suit. Named such for Lorenzo only wore the suit on his brother’s funerals and subsequent yearly memorials. The wool fabric was made to breathe during the muggy late May weather, but his fingers continued to tug on the collar. He wasn’t sure if he was suffocating due to a tight tie or the atmosphere that pressed down on his shoulders as he stood with his father. For the first thirty minutes spent in the cemetery no words were spoken between the remaining Mastronardi men. Everything that needed to be said would’ve been repetitive as they had come here for the past four years. At least this time, Father Dante wasn’t here to see Lorenzo’s tantrums or expletive anger come out only to be silenced by his father’s hand. Besides, what was there to tell his brother’s grave? That Maria was out there gallivanting her freedom? That he still couldn’t kill her? That he was happy and had a life and a girlfriend while his brother’s life was cut short.
Marco spoke soft words about God’s path for everyone, some scripture verses Enzo couldn’t exactly recall from which chapter as his mind cut in and out--his focus long gone. He didn’t want to stand here anymore and think of the past. All Lorenzo could think of was how the usual high amount of guzzling liquor down his throat would muddle his mind for the day and let him be. He took a step back. Then another, before his exit caught Marco’s attention.
“Where the hell are you going!” He shouted, turning his back on his son’s grave to focus on live one. “You’re going to disrespect Pauly like this. Get back here. Now.” Lorenzo turned holding his arms out and shoulders hunched as he weighed the options in front of him. “I’m going to drink myself to death in Pauly’s name. Only thing I can do since I can’t kill that fucking bitch.” After an exaggerated salute to a livid father, Enzo found his way to the nearest bar pulling himself up on a stool and asking for only a beer. Just one beer.
That turned into two. Which turned into four, before he switched from beer to scotch and from scotch to gin. Over the course of several hours Lorenzo morphed into a drunken slob--his tie missing after hour one and his hair ruffled and matted. When he tapped the bar and shoved another empty glass he waited for the bartender to hand him his umpteenth drink only to be grasping at air. “Where’s my drink, man?” Lorenzo slurred, leaning forward to get face to face with the bartender.
“You’re cut off. Go home,” the man said refusing to serve another drink for the Italian. Enzo let out a boisterous laugh as he body nearly slumped off the stool. “Can’t a guy drink so he can forget how his brother died. I mean did your brother have a hold in his forehead when they showed you the body. Wa-was he better than you in every way and yet the golden boy is dead.” The bartender was about to walk around the bar, deciding to snap his fingers for security to handle the drunkard instead. Not even bothering to put a fight, he let the guards drag him off the stool before giving him a solid push out the doors and on his laughing ass. “Fuck you too!” He called back, before his head dropped on the floor and the giddy drunk-induced laughter continued on.
Beck smiled ruefully to himself as climbed into the car and pulled out of his parents driveway. Normally if he had approached his parents about going to stay at Jade's for a few days his mother would have had a conniption and he wouldn't have bothered asking. Today, his mom had just shrugged and told him to have fun before returning her gaze her magazine. He knew that there was something going on with his parents at the moment but he didn't want to think about it too seriously and so he had left without another word.
He parked in Jade's driveway and hopped out of his car, struggling to find a way to comfortably carry everything. When he had stopped to pick up NyQuill he had impulsively ducked into the Jet Brew across the street to get Jade a coffee; which he was now juggling with his duffel bag and car keys. She was probably too sick to drink the coffee anyway but he had figured that he could always drink it if she didn't want it.
It felt strange to be walking up to her front door again, it felt like forever since he had even been to his girlfriend's house which sent a small wave of guilt rolling through his stomach. He knocked on the door as loudly as he could manage, unsure as to where exactly in the house Jade might be. As he stood there he thought that maybe he should have just texted her or even let himself in. It was unfortunate that he only seemed to have that idea after he had already knocked.
Angel Adams, age ten, went missing two days ago.[x]
Inside the little room, though, Fall has already been and gone — Winter is here: dark, cold and desolate, without any remorse or care for those that feel its biting sting or succumb to its harsh conditions. Light filters through the little room by way of a small window hatch up high on the wall. Viewed from the outside, the window is near invisible, located low on the ground and covered by the long and unkempt grass. There’s no other sign that there is a bunker located here, or any sign at all, for that matter, of human activity.
Though there is some light in the room, the grass colors it an eerie green and prevents the majority of it from entering the room. Her eyes have adjusted enough to make out the door and the poorly-carved wooden chair, but that’s all. The room is too dark for her to make out anything of seriousness — anything that would give her an indication of where she is, and of how she can escape.
Her hands are shackled to wall with a pair of tarnished silver handcuffs, the kind one needs a key to unlock. They’re on too tight, and there’s dried flakes of blood from where she’s twisted her wrists trying to loosen the handcuffs up only to have them dig deeper into her skin. She doesn’t know how they’ve been attached to the wall, but however it’s been done, they aren’t moving. Her shoulders ache from the position, a dull burning sensation that’s been her constant companion this last - what, few days? Weeks? Months? She can’t remember how long she’s been here for.
The ends of her headband dig into the sides of her skull and, not for the first time, she tries to shake them off. They slip slightly, but her movements are too sluggish to throw them off completely. She hasn’t eaten since she’s been here, and her throat is dry and raw, crying out for something to slake her thirst. Even her eyes feel dry and as though they’re burning — but that would be due to all the crying.
She’s scared and hurt and wants to go home.
But he won’t let her.
He’s sitting there, on the poorly-made chair, and she almost jumps when she realizes it, tears springing already to her eyes. When did he come in? She didn’t see him come in, or hear him. And he definitely wasn’t there earlier … was he?
She can’t discern any details aside from his silhouette, but she knows he’s watching her, gaze dead and soulless, lacking compassion, empathy, remorse. His gaze is cold, colder than this room, and it makes her blood freeze in her veins. She’d watched horror movies with her friends before (despite her parents refusing to allow her to do so, saying she was ‘’too young’’). She thought she knew horror, knew what fear was.
She had been so, so wrong.
His movements aren’t swift like she had expected them to be. From what she’d heard of kidnappers was that they moved quickly, excited, wanting to indulge their desires immediately. But he’s different. He doesn’t rush anything, not even when crossing the room. This, she’s realized, makes it all so much worse. He drags it all out, and her fear increases with every second. There’s a quiet scraping sound that she’s become familiar with over the past few days, and all of a sudden her eyes are burning for another reason altogether.
The room is illuminated by a solitary match, lighting up its holder’s face from beneath, the shadows it casts dancing, mocking her. His gaze locks onto her and she looks away in terror, clenching her eyes shut tightly, as if that would make him go away.
If I can’t seen him, he can’t see me.
She opens her eyes slowly, and he hasn’t moved. The match still throws a strong-but-centralized light, the flickering flame reflected in his dark eyes. From here his eyes looking completely black — completely soulless.
“Please.” She manages a whisper, her throat sore and screaming in protest. “P-please. Let me go. Please. I won’t — I won’t —“ she falters as he begins to move towards her without any indication that he can even hear her begging. The match dies out and he drops it without hesitation onto her leg. It stings very briefly, the match already going cold, but she knows this isn’t even the beginning. Her red tights are barely even tights anymore - there’s more skin on display than tights, the material burnt and torn and ragged. The arms of her red shirt are in a similar condition.
He still hasn’t said anything yet, and that scares her more than his outburst earlier - yesterday? the day before? - the day he had thrown her in here. He hadn’t yelled; his voice hadn’t gone louder than fifty-five decibels, but that had been what made it so terrifying. The gruffness of his voice combined with the many expletives and threats that fell from his lips had been enough to give her nightmares. Now she knew what the Boogie Man sounded like, what voice the Monster in her Closet and the Monster in the Dark had. They had his voice.
He hadn’t said much, but somehow she knew that this was different to the kidnappings of young girls she’d seen on television. She couldn’t pinpoint how — after all, she was only ten — but she had been able to tell. He didn’t want her for the same reason all those kidnappers had wanted their victims; he wanted her for his own reasons entirely.
There’s light again, and she realises he’s turned on the small lightbulb above her. It’s not enough to illuminate the room, but it’s just enough to illuminate the two of them. She feels her stomach flip as her gaze takes in the face of her kidnapper, and, dimly, she realises that she’s peed herself out of fear again. If he notices, he doesn’t give any indication of it, instead reaching into the bag he holds and bringing out a lighter. She knows where this is going, and lets out a cry.
His gaze locks with her, and a cold, almost imperceptible smile tugs at the corners of her lips. His motions are purposeful yet fluid in their movements as he pulls a cigarette pack from his bags and lights one up, almost as if he’s forgotten she’s there. The acrid smell of smoke mixes with the strong ammonia smell from her piss and it’s enough to make tears spring to her eyes again. “Please,” she begs, voice hoarse and ragged. “I’ll do any-“ her voice cuts off, the last syllable replaced by a choked cry of pain as he holds the lit cigarette to her leg’s bare flesh. It’s the same way he started last time, and naively she wonders if it’s going to be the same again. When she sees the carving knife, however, she knows it’s going to be very different.
The sky has darkened to an overcast gray as Danny throws the unconscious body into a bush far from where he’d been keeping her. There’s a quiet floomp as the limbs hit the ground, barely cushioned by the shrubbery. The small pale being is almost unrecognisable from the one he’d taken two days earlier. Her devil costume, originally a shirt, tights and tutu of varying shades of red, topped off with a devil’s horns headband from a children’s costume shop, has been torn to shreds, burnt and blackened, and stained red with the girl’s own blood. Her skin is covered in lacerations and varying cuts, and Danny has to admit he’s rather proud of his ingenuity when it came to usual non-conventional weapons and devices. The scratches from the coat hanger are raggedy and almost sure to get infected. He’s not sure the depressions in the girl’s skin will ever fade away completely, but then again he doesn’t want them to disappear. Her face is red and blotchy, circular burns on her cheeks and forehead matching the ones on her thighs and stomach. She’d screamed so much, her throat ripped raw. Danny could have sworn he’d even heard blood running down her throat on occasion due to its dryness.
He’d lost interest, however, when she’d fainted for the fourth time. Her eyes had rolled to show their whites and her body had gone limp and clammy, her wrists being supported by the handcuffs instead of trying to escape them. He’d taken a break then, ducking out for more alcohol and cigarettes. She was still out of it when he’d returned, but came back to her senses when her scalp had started to burn.
Danny’s gaze lingers on the blistered, bald scalp that, only twelve hours earlier, had been covered by silken blond curls pulled back in a simple ponytail. Fresh blood oozes from a blister popped open by his rough treatment of the body, slowly trickling down onto her forehead. Misshapen and burnt, her eyebrows having been singed off within seconds, it’s unlikely her head will ever look the same — or that her hair will ever grow back. Likewise her eyesight will never be the same. He’d resisted the urge to melt her eyeballs like he’d so wanted to do when she’d started crying again, purely on the basis that if she had no eyes she could never look at him in terror again. But, of course, she doesn’t need sight in both eyes to look at him in terror. Her eyelid is scarred raw, a horrific pink-red color already, and he thinks that maybe that drop of whisky there hadn’t been such a bad idea after all. He’d almost imagined he could hear the sizzle once the match had hit it.
Disfigured beyond recognition, in need of hospitalisation and medical care, but still very much alive, the girl serves as a warning. It had been her costume with which he’d taken offence — the fact that she had glorified and romanticised the devil, Satan himself, Lucifer the Fallen Angel, turning the King of Hell into an unrecognisable spin-off. She’d decided it would be cute to go as the devil, cute to completely demean the very essence of evil. He hadn’t hurt her because it was fun — though he had enjoyed it immensely — but rather because he had been angry at the way she had misappropriated the devil; angry at the way people misappropriated all that was horrific during the month of October. His actions against the girl had been slow and purposeful, intended to cause as much harm and pain as possible. He wasn’t one to act rashly in a situation such as this; rash actions meant mistakes, and mistakes could mean victims dying.
The sun dips slowly beyond the horizon and a chill air begins to blow through the trees as Danny leaves the girl’s body behind, strewing a few locks of her hair throughout the forest as he goes. Maybe he’ll even leave an anonymous tip as to her whereabouts. She has to be found, has to survive, otherwise his work will have been for naught. After all, what’s the use in emotionally, mentally, and physically scarring someone for life if they’re going to die not long afterwards? Of making someone so completely frightened of you that they soil themselves without even realizing it?
And that’s all Danny wants in life: for people to be afraid of him.
Walking into the clinic, Ian scanned around for the checkin desk, soon finding it not too far away. "I'll go sign you in, you can sit down over there if it helps with your stomach at all," he said, turning towards Addy, his take charge instincts coming into play.
Due to taking the role of man of the house when he was younger, Ian had become rather good at taking care of people, which he was more than happy to do right then at the medical clinic.
After making sure that Addison made her way to the chairs alright, he went over to the checkin counter, catching the attention of one of the nurses. "Hey, yeah, my girlfriend has been having off and on nausea for the past few days. We think it's probably just a stomach bug, but we're not sure."
Sorting some papers on his desk, Colin has barely noticed the passage of time, but before he knew it, it was lunchtime. Usually, he might just skip the meal and keep working, however there was a pit in his stomach he couldn’t ignore.
Colin made his way through the queue in the cafeteria, picking up some passable looking food and heading towards a table. It was then that he noticed the worrying student from that monday, Illyeana, he thought her name was. “Good Afternoon, how are you feeling today?” Taking a free seat across from her, Col smiled softly and looked over at her, figuring that he could have a quick check up on her whilst they ate.
