And the feeling was mutual, if not to a ( Slightly ) lesser degree. The resentment was there. CLEARLY it was there, knowing that something was OFF about this man—this being in front of devil shaded eyes. Something too familiar and yet not, the feeling of superiority over the ‘ normal ’ human, a hint of something so terribly WRONG it should not have been a part of the world to begin with.
( An underlined desire to stab the kitchen knife into the mans throat, watching the blade slowly sink from POINT to hilt as ungodly red flowed over his own fingers, sticky and yet so refreshing ).
He resolved to simply starting to circle the man much like how a VULTURE would circle an animal for days ( Before the animal at last collapsed and DIED ). Looking, staring—for that one place where it would permanently harm the lake born man. The knees, the shoulders, the achilles heel. He truly had so many places to go for but he KNEW it would not be as easy. With how the machete was brandished this one was more prepared than Michael would have HOPED for. ‘ A satisfying kill, ’ rung in the back of his mind and he could only agree. A most gruesome one it would be, indeed.
Out of sheer habit his head tilted; contemplation, curiosity overbearing—you are prey. Could he wait long enough until the other made the FIRST move? Beneath ivory mask tongue prodded at sealed lips until teeth held it in place, biting down on the muscle. Fingers locked tightly around handle of blade; even if one tried to rip it from his hands they would find that it almost felt like it was glued to his palm. Shoulders tensed, waiting, and untensed all together. Like a dog rising it’s HACKLES, trying to make itself appear bigger; threat display.
Michael breathed out, air pushing against inside of mask and as a result the sound was loud and ruinous.
HE COULD WAIT AN ETERNITY.
THE CREATURE thrives on the tension in the air, the rage weighing in his lungs like lead. there was no fear --- he could feel hatred. resentment. the same feeling he would weild to tear into the other's throat, the add his masked face to a collection of faded memories of blood spilled. he knew this one would not beg or scream or cry... this one would fight. this one would thrive off of hatred, this one would be difficult to kill.
the way he is circled is near ironic; how many times had jason watched & watched & watched. circled his prey in the shadows, only to sink his blade into their flesh & revel in the way they drowned in their own blood... he did not fear the thing before him. evil & terrible & wrong. he hated him, he wanted to see if he could bleed & wanted to know that he could die... he did not care about the fight. they did not need to fight to die, but this one would. it was easy to see, easy to understand that the knife in the other's hand was an extension of his arm. that to tear the weapon from his hand would be near as satisfying as tearing limb from body.
fingers tighten around machete. hatred destroys chance of salvation, an instrument of destruction honed in on his next target. his next victim. oh, how he wanted to step forward, to move towards circling predator & fight the perversion of what man should be. they should be victims, sheep marching to the slaughter ---- this was something more than that, something that needed to bleed & die & taste the blade of the aged blade.
impulse drives him to take a step towards the thing who seemed so intent on watching. watching. watching. jason was the one who watched, not him --- jason was the one who would tear the limbs from his body, who would drive blade into his skull.
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