|Blood Sings to Her
Author: Atren Graves PM
Bea is fun, and funny, and also likes to talk to her knives. The ones that she uses to cut people up. Because she's a serial killer. With the killing, and the random strangers and such. Don't expect anything like a plot. Ever. Also, not super clear on the genres. Light horror?Rated: Fiction M - English - Horror/Parody - Chapters: 5 - Words: 7,124 - Favs: 1 - Follows: 2 - Updated: 05-20-13 - Published: 09-24-12 - id: 3060591
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
A/N: A shift in view...a shift in tone? Could this still be considered 'light'? Was it ever? And was 'parody' the proper place to put this? Is there a reason I'm asking these questions? I'm not sure. Is.
My face stings, but the pain is...inconsequential. At least, it is when compared to the unconscious psychopath laid out on the floor in front of me.
I don't recognize her. I've never seen her before in my life.
She groans, and I decide that it would be best to start moving. People rarely stay unconscious for as long as you would think, unless properly sedated. Head trauma (short of anything truly damaging) will buy you minutes, at most.
The house is...empty. Really empty. No furniture. That's a good thing, because my legs are like rubber. And I ache.
She...drugged me. I remember that. She drugged me, and whatever she used screwed me up pretty bad.
Door...there's the door. Polished wood with a glass window in it. I push it open, and pull it shut behind me. Quiet. After all, I'd hate to wake the killer inside.
She brought me to the suburbs. And I must have been unconscious for awhile, because it's late. Nearly dark, actually. Less than ideal. Thomas will be worried. Jenny, too, now that I think about it. Tonight is going to be tiring. I just know it.
There's a car, in front of the house. I'm pretty sure it's hers, seeing as it's halfway over the curb. I weave my way toward it...keys in the ignition. My coat in the back seat. And...my phone, in the coat. Seven missed calls, five voicemails, two texts. Thomas, most of them. Jenny once, and Mallory twice. Apparently, someone assumed she would be able to contact me more easily.
I'm not sure how they came to that conclusion.
The car grumbles, but starts without too much complaint, and I pull out as smoothly as possible. Home would be nice. I'll talk to Thomas, and he can talk to the others while I get some well-deserved...rest...
I should...probably call the police. Thomas will be worried, which means I'll have to be worried. And shocked. And 'traumatized by the experience'.
That's...far, far too much trouble to go through for one crazy with a knife.
I'll explain it away. It'll be easy. I tripped and fell, and sliced my face open on a corner. In a perfect, clean line (incision), something that doesn't generally occur in an accident. It's not as if Thomas will take enough notice to wonder, and it'll be covered up by the time I have to work again.
A much better plan.
I focus on staying in my lane, while also trying to stem the bleeding with my sleeve and find my phone again. It doesn't help that my hands are shaking...and I keep misjudging my speed. It won't do to be pulled over now...
Traffic gets harder to work with, as I get back into the city. My head is pounding...I need to get rid of the car, anyway. That's easy enough. I pull into an alley, just...leave it. I wrap myself in my coat, and walk.
I'm good at walking. But it takes more focus than normal to keep on a straight path, to look irritated and in a hurry rather than tired and hurt. Appearance is important, in these areas almost more than some others.
The subway isn't as crowded, now. That slim window between night and day shifts. I count myself lucky, for that. Less trouble.
My apartment. No. Our apartment. I share it. And I shouldn't have to keep pointing that out to myself. It's a simple fact, compared to some of the other things I have to keep track of. Like the landlady's habits (check for rent on alternate Thursdays, watch the doors on Sundays to strike up 'conversations'), or the specific muscles involved in a convincing smile (The zygomatic major and orbicularis oculi)...
I'm getting distracted. That's...abnormal. I push through the door, and trudge up the stairs. Apartment 14. The key is in my coat, and I manage to open the lock without trouble. A glance in either direction (caution), and I slip inside. Lock the world out.
My stage shrinks.
"Babe?" Thomas's voice drifts from the tiny kitchen. It's late, for dinner. A snack? It wouldn't surprise me if he hadn't eaten properly. He's surprisingly forgetful, considering his intelligence.
"Hey." I inject just the right amount of tired into my voice, school my expression into something dull and decidedly annoyed. "I'm sorry I'm so late. Today just...didn't go my way."
"I definitely know that feeling..." He steps out, into view. And there's the surprise. "Jesus, Alex! You're bleeding!"
I make sure to wince at the sound of his voice, though the throbbing in my head is far too real for my liking. "I was...bleeding." I wave it off, approach slowly, and lean into him. Play to his expectations, allow him to offer his 'support'. The best way to keep him from worrying is to make him feel as though he's helping. "I tripped and fell. Don't worry about it."
"Are you sure?" He reaches up to tilt my head back. I look at the bridge of his nose as he examines the wound. And I huff as he tries to touch the drying scab. "Jeez..."
"Yea, I'm sure." I smile, then, allow it to seem a little fake. "Look, Thomas...I'm gonna get cleaned up and get some rest." Lean away, a gentle, insistent push. He won't argue it, as long as there's surety there. "It's been...a long day."
"Alright..." He doesn't look entirely convinced, but I can also see his worry fading. Just like I'd hoped, his attention span is working to my advantage. "Are you hungry? I was just putting something together..." A smile, slightly crooked...sheepishness. "Uh...well, I was toasting some waffles, anyway...I could make a couple more."
Frozen waffles. "I had something a little while ago. I'll be fine." Another smile. More 'tired'. "See you in a minute."
I brush past him, head for the bathroom.
I hang up my coat on the hook behind the door, allow myself to relax again. Shed my shirt...note to self; study ways to remove bloodstains. I like this shirt.
The mirror is a little smudged, but it's easy enough to see the damage. A single line, sealed shut with dried blood, from my temple, to my cheekbone, angling slightly as it continues down my cheek. I'm thinking...a store shelf. Metal, some have exposed edges. Easy enough to fall against...
There's a spot on my neck...like a bruise. I lean in close, try and get a good view beneath the light.
Injection site. It's not something that could be mistaken. And that just won't do.
I pull open a drawer, and find the pair of sewing scissors that I use to trim my hair. They're sharp, the blades thin and pointed. Perfect. I fold them open, a careful grip. Blood wells from the shallow cut, and suddenly there's no 'injection'. Just another reminder of my clumsy little accident.
I dig out some tissue to help stop the bleeding, examine the larger wound. I'll need to disinfect it, but I don't really want to open it up again. I suppose it comes down to whether I've got everything I need...
A bit of searching, I find a handful of workable supplies. A few gauze pads, some medical tape, and a topical antibiotic. I use rubbing alcohol to sterilize, cover it up as best I can.
Time to sleep. I need to rest, and tomorrow I start recovery...extra water. Start flushing drugs from my system. But sleep first.
Thomas is still in the kitchen. I slip into the bedroom without being seen, and square my things away. Some semblance of normality, at least. The bed is shockingly soft. It's the differentiation between the two states of being. Sensation is interesting, like that...
I relax my hold on the world, and let it all slip away.