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tampered2007-11-19 07:34 am
angelinashes.livejournal.com) wrote in tampered2007-11-19 07:34 am
(no subject)
When; November 18th
Rating; R - Allusions to emotional/sexual abuse. Physical Abuse. Violence.
Characters; Angela (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
angelinashes) and Hallucination!Thomas Orosco NPC.
Summary; Angela revisits the memory of her father's murder by her own hands.
Log;
She was tired as it was. She’d exhausted herself to the point of nearly passing out and yet she was venturing outside instead of laying down to rest. She hated outside. She hated being amongst people who looked at her and probably thought dirty, horrible things. Angela had deemed a few people in the City as “safe”, but she was convinced that rest of the population were dangerous. They had one tracked minds, only thinking of and desiring one thing.
People were inherently evil, until they had proven that they were safe. And few had managed to achieve that in the City. But she didn’t want to sleep…Anything was better than sleep.
Blue paint. She needed a tube of blue paint, because she’d used it all up on Vash’s painting; a killer whale leaping out of the ocean, immortalized on canvas. Water sprayed up around it as it momentarily greeted the sun. She’d been putting off giving it to him; afraid of showcasing any of her art to anyone for fear that they would laugh at it and tell her what she already figured she knew. That she was simply no good. It wasn’t Vash she was worried about as much as it was anyone he might show it to.
And even though she seemed to flicker in and out of consciousness whilst stumbling out of the entranceway to building five, she kept pushing herself onwards. She had fallen into this habit of staving off sleep not even a week after first arriving in the City. Sleep meant dreams of fire. It meant dreams of mirrors, and walls of flesh that pulsated and bled. Those walls made noises as little appendages in them slithered in and out through holes that seemed to be littered in some of those godforsaken rooms. The arcane messages painted on walls in dark substances were always best left unquestioned.
Seductress. Whore. She…
Angela felt her exhaustion taking a firm hold on her. She’d been lethargic from the word go, but soon after leaving the apartment, it felt as though something was sucking any and all remaining energy straight out of her. She could feel herself slipping in and out of consciousness, a wave of nausea hitting her like a sudden slap to the face.
Her hand gripped--
--She didn’t even know anymore. It was cold; felt like solid steel but with pieces of something scratching the palm of her hand. Peeled paint? A railing? Her eyes were open, but she couldn’t see. She gave it little thought, tripping over her own footing. Her legs giving out, she landed on the concrete with a thud, darkness overriding any and all awareness she might have had.
She did not how long she’d been out for, her eyes fluttering open and her hand sliding forward, fingers scratching at--
--carpet?
She lifted her head up, a new found alertness washing over her as the very confused young woman peered into darkness. A bed. There was a bed there. Moonlight was filtering through a window directly above it; seemingly highlighting it. It was as though the light was pointing it out. As if that was what whatever was happening here wanted her to focus on. The rest of the room was doused in shadow, but Angela already knew where she was.
She recognized everything. The half-made bed. The curtains, which were once white but now dirtied and stained, the edges of the material lined with lace that was unraveling slowly. They had been for years. Her bedroom needed much maintenance but nothing had ever been done about it.
There were articles of clothing scattered all over the floor, her hand bumping denim and cotton. And she was panicking. Why was she here? She’d only realized that she’d stopped breathing from the sudden realization of where she was when her chest had started to burn; urging her to take a breath. And there was a lump in her throat; dread, fear and confusion melding together inside of her.
And she did not have enough time to even sit up before something took a hold of her. Such force; a hand gripped a large clump of her hair and pulled, forcing her up. She instinctively reached back, her own nails digging into his flesh. And he was screaming at her.
Those harsh words overcame her, demanding answers to questions that seemed to come all at the same time. He barely gave her time to respond, before throwing more tainted words at her as he forced her to stand up. The pain seared through her, and she had no choice but to stand.
She knew who he was. Oh, she definitely knew. That dark voice was all too familiar to her; it haunted her even now. Violent yells. And the tone of his voice seemed to change every second; from seething anger to pleading statements of love and back again. It was an unstable wave of a dozen different emotions, happening at the same time. He’d mock her feeble whines and whispered whimpers. He’d mock her cries and laugh in a way almost maniacal, asking her questions about her own loyalty to her family. To him.
Angel…
He loved his angel, after all.
Crack. A wash of pain overcame her as her head was forcibly slammed into a wall; the paintwork already severely marked and cracked from past struggles. And his arm was pressed against her stomach, as he held her against him. Cold steel pressed against her throat; she knew what it was with sick realization in the pit of her stomach.
She remembered this.
Her head ached; she felt herself being pulled outside and into the hallway, her feet skidding against the carpet as she struggled furiously against him despite the position she was in. He was demanding that she tell him why she was running away. Why she had a knife in her bag. His demands were followed up with proclamations of her own ungratefulness, and his own love and concern for her. And he was threatening to take her life; his monstrous voice detailing what he could and would do with the kitchen knife that she’d slipped into her bag with her.
She could feel emotions so familiar washing over her as he forced her into the main bedroom, his hand tugging violently at her hair and causing her neck to snap back again. Desperation. Fear. Hurt. Anger. She could never be happy. Wasn’t she allowed to be happy? With him gone, everything would be so much better. Gone for good. A permanent fix. The knife had switched hands, and he was now clutching it in the same hand that pressed tightly against her stomach. She could grab it easily...
She couldn’t do it. She’d be bad.
She could do it. He deserved it.
She deserved it.
He deserved it.
Her own mind played games with her, tossing thoughts and contemplations about a dozen things that were wrong and terrified her, and yet at the same time the idea was just so frighteningly enticing. It urged her to do it or die; a red-winged devil whispering temptations in her ear. Her own disgust, resentment and rage, built up over the years and repressed with fear, were quickly seeping out of her. Those emotions were like floodwaters straining against a barricade that was slowly threatening to give in.
It had all happened so quickly, and Angela felt as though she were both participant and observer. She’d heard every word before. She’d performed every action and felt every single emotion once before in a time that nothing seemed to want her to truly forget. It was like the past had possessed her; wanting her to give an encore of her crime to some invisible, otherworldly audience that demanded to see it again.
She’d managed to gain control of the knife, and he now looked as terrified as she was maniacal. Something had possessed her back then, and something possessed her right now. A frenzy. An almost sick joy that she now had the upper hand over him, and he was helpless. She was holding him down, crouched over him with that knife clenched in her hand over her head. There was a certain, unspeakable thrill in hearing him scream instead of her, and the blade seemed to slide so easily into his flesh as she brought it down upon him.
Again.
And again.
And again.
And she found herself unable to stop, screaming hate-filled words as she repeatedly thrust that knife into him. Tears welled up in her eyes as she clenched her teeth, an almost inhuman wail escaping her lips as she continued with frightening speed and ferocity. Blood rushed up from his body, staining the knife. Splattering her clothing. Coating her hands.
His cries and gargles were only fuelling her fire, but she soon came to fear that those pathetic sounds would only draw attention to her. Ripping the blade out of his torso, she brought the knife up over her head and jabbed it into his throat.
Once. Twice. She’d lost count, repeatedly letting that blade dive into him long after his body had stopped moving..
She paused, the knife still embedded in his flesh as she stared down at the body. There was complete silence, the girl catching her own breath as her own uncontrollable anger died down—
--and turned into realization of her deed. Stunned distress. She was frozen on the spot, crouched over him with eyes wide. Her lips parted but no sound came out. She tugged the knife out of him, holding it between her fingertips like it was infected before violently tossing it aside.
Body shaking, she stared down at her blood covered hands. The blood staining her hands. Staining the carpet. So much blood.
So.
Much.
She couldn’t stop shaking. Her hands clenched open and shut and she couldn’t tear her gaze away from them, staring at them as though she’d never seen them before. She bowed her head, her dark bangs falling over her face as she dug her fingernails into her arm and cried.
She didn’t even notice the shift in environment. She didn’t notice as the walls of his bedroom seemed to twist and fade back into an alleyway. She didn’t notice as his face twisted and changed, features melting and morphing into an unfamiliar face she’d never seen before. She saw nothing. All she saw was that scene replaying over and over against in her own fractured mind, and his blood all over her.
She crawled away from him. Her. It was a her now. She pressed her back against a cold, graffitied wall, hugging her knees to her chest as she felt a million emotions overcome her. She rocked herself gently, crying uncontrollably as memories of him and of the town struck her all at once. She was choking on her own tears, unable to breath and making herself feel sick. Her chest hurt. Her eyes stung.
She couldn’t stop crying.
Rating; R - Allusions to emotional/sexual abuse. Physical Abuse. Violence.
Characters; Angela (
angelinashes) and Hallucination!Thomas Orosco NPC. Summary; Angela revisits the memory of her father's murder by her own hands.
Log;
She was tired as it was. She’d exhausted herself to the point of nearly passing out and yet she was venturing outside instead of laying down to rest. She hated outside. She hated being amongst people who looked at her and probably thought dirty, horrible things. Angela had deemed a few people in the City as “safe”, but she was convinced that rest of the population were dangerous. They had one tracked minds, only thinking of and desiring one thing.
People were inherently evil, until they had proven that they were safe. And few had managed to achieve that in the City. But she didn’t want to sleep…Anything was better than sleep.
Blue paint. She needed a tube of blue paint, because she’d used it all up on Vash’s painting; a killer whale leaping out of the ocean, immortalized on canvas. Water sprayed up around it as it momentarily greeted the sun. She’d been putting off giving it to him; afraid of showcasing any of her art to anyone for fear that they would laugh at it and tell her what she already figured she knew. That she was simply no good. It wasn’t Vash she was worried about as much as it was anyone he might show it to.
And even though she seemed to flicker in and out of consciousness whilst stumbling out of the entranceway to building five, she kept pushing herself onwards. She had fallen into this habit of staving off sleep not even a week after first arriving in the City. Sleep meant dreams of fire. It meant dreams of mirrors, and walls of flesh that pulsated and bled. Those walls made noises as little appendages in them slithered in and out through holes that seemed to be littered in some of those godforsaken rooms. The arcane messages painted on walls in dark substances were always best left unquestioned.
Seductress. Whore. She…
Angela felt her exhaustion taking a firm hold on her. She’d been lethargic from the word go, but soon after leaving the apartment, it felt as though something was sucking any and all remaining energy straight out of her. She could feel herself slipping in and out of consciousness, a wave of nausea hitting her like a sudden slap to the face.
Her hand gripped--
--She didn’t even know anymore. It was cold; felt like solid steel but with pieces of something scratching the palm of her hand. Peeled paint? A railing? Her eyes were open, but she couldn’t see. She gave it little thought, tripping over her own footing. Her legs giving out, she landed on the concrete with a thud, darkness overriding any and all awareness she might have had.
She did not how long she’d been out for, her eyes fluttering open and her hand sliding forward, fingers scratching at--
--carpet?
She lifted her head up, a new found alertness washing over her as the very confused young woman peered into darkness. A bed. There was a bed there. Moonlight was filtering through a window directly above it; seemingly highlighting it. It was as though the light was pointing it out. As if that was what whatever was happening here wanted her to focus on. The rest of the room was doused in shadow, but Angela already knew where she was.
She recognized everything. The half-made bed. The curtains, which were once white but now dirtied and stained, the edges of the material lined with lace that was unraveling slowly. They had been for years. Her bedroom needed much maintenance but nothing had ever been done about it.
There were articles of clothing scattered all over the floor, her hand bumping denim and cotton. And she was panicking. Why was she here? She’d only realized that she’d stopped breathing from the sudden realization of where she was when her chest had started to burn; urging her to take a breath. And there was a lump in her throat; dread, fear and confusion melding together inside of her.
And she did not have enough time to even sit up before something took a hold of her. Such force; a hand gripped a large clump of her hair and pulled, forcing her up. She instinctively reached back, her own nails digging into his flesh. And he was screaming at her.
Those harsh words overcame her, demanding answers to questions that seemed to come all at the same time. He barely gave her time to respond, before throwing more tainted words at her as he forced her to stand up. The pain seared through her, and she had no choice but to stand.
She knew who he was. Oh, she definitely knew. That dark voice was all too familiar to her; it haunted her even now. Violent yells. And the tone of his voice seemed to change every second; from seething anger to pleading statements of love and back again. It was an unstable wave of a dozen different emotions, happening at the same time. He’d mock her feeble whines and whispered whimpers. He’d mock her cries and laugh in a way almost maniacal, asking her questions about her own loyalty to her family. To him.
Angel…
He loved his angel, after all.
Crack. A wash of pain overcame her as her head was forcibly slammed into a wall; the paintwork already severely marked and cracked from past struggles. And his arm was pressed against her stomach, as he held her against him. Cold steel pressed against her throat; she knew what it was with sick realization in the pit of her stomach.
She remembered this.
Her head ached; she felt herself being pulled outside and into the hallway, her feet skidding against the carpet as she struggled furiously against him despite the position she was in. He was demanding that she tell him why she was running away. Why she had a knife in her bag. His demands were followed up with proclamations of her own ungratefulness, and his own love and concern for her. And he was threatening to take her life; his monstrous voice detailing what he could and would do with the kitchen knife that she’d slipped into her bag with her.
She could feel emotions so familiar washing over her as he forced her into the main bedroom, his hand tugging violently at her hair and causing her neck to snap back again. Desperation. Fear. Hurt. Anger. She could never be happy. Wasn’t she allowed to be happy? With him gone, everything would be so much better. Gone for good. A permanent fix. The knife had switched hands, and he was now clutching it in the same hand that pressed tightly against her stomach. She could grab it easily...
She couldn’t do it. She’d be bad.
She could do it. He deserved it.
She deserved it.
He deserved it.
Her own mind played games with her, tossing thoughts and contemplations about a dozen things that were wrong and terrified her, and yet at the same time the idea was just so frighteningly enticing. It urged her to do it or die; a red-winged devil whispering temptations in her ear. Her own disgust, resentment and rage, built up over the years and repressed with fear, were quickly seeping out of her. Those emotions were like floodwaters straining against a barricade that was slowly threatening to give in.
It had all happened so quickly, and Angela felt as though she were both participant and observer. She’d heard every word before. She’d performed every action and felt every single emotion once before in a time that nothing seemed to want her to truly forget. It was like the past had possessed her; wanting her to give an encore of her crime to some invisible, otherworldly audience that demanded to see it again.
She’d managed to gain control of the knife, and he now looked as terrified as she was maniacal. Something had possessed her back then, and something possessed her right now. A frenzy. An almost sick joy that she now had the upper hand over him, and he was helpless. She was holding him down, crouched over him with that knife clenched in her hand over her head. There was a certain, unspeakable thrill in hearing him scream instead of her, and the blade seemed to slide so easily into his flesh as she brought it down upon him.
Again.
And again.
And again.
And she found herself unable to stop, screaming hate-filled words as she repeatedly thrust that knife into him. Tears welled up in her eyes as she clenched her teeth, an almost inhuman wail escaping her lips as she continued with frightening speed and ferocity. Blood rushed up from his body, staining the knife. Splattering her clothing. Coating her hands.
His cries and gargles were only fuelling her fire, but she soon came to fear that those pathetic sounds would only draw attention to her. Ripping the blade out of his torso, she brought the knife up over her head and jabbed it into his throat.
Once. Twice. She’d lost count, repeatedly letting that blade dive into him long after his body had stopped moving..
She paused, the knife still embedded in his flesh as she stared down at the body. There was complete silence, the girl catching her own breath as her own uncontrollable anger died down—
--and turned into realization of her deed. Stunned distress. She was frozen on the spot, crouched over him with eyes wide. Her lips parted but no sound came out. She tugged the knife out of him, holding it between her fingertips like it was infected before violently tossing it aside.
Body shaking, she stared down at her blood covered hands. The blood staining her hands. Staining the carpet. So much blood.
So.
Much.
She couldn’t stop shaking. Her hands clenched open and shut and she couldn’t tear her gaze away from them, staring at them as though she’d never seen them before. She bowed her head, her dark bangs falling over her face as she dug her fingernails into her arm and cried.
She didn’t even notice the shift in environment. She didn’t notice as the walls of his bedroom seemed to twist and fade back into an alleyway. She didn’t notice as his face twisted and changed, features melting and morphing into an unfamiliar face she’d never seen before. She saw nothing. All she saw was that scene replaying over and over against in her own fractured mind, and his blood all over her.
She crawled away from him. Her. It was a her now. She pressed her back against a cold, graffitied wall, hugging her knees to her chest as she felt a million emotions overcome her. She rocked herself gently, crying uncontrollably as memories of him and of the town struck her all at once. She was choking on her own tears, unable to breath and making herself feel sick. Her chest hurt. Her eyes stung.
She couldn’t stop crying.