"Bella Muerte" is spanish for "Beautiful Death". It's included in the line of My Chemical Romance's "This Jet-set Life is Going to Kill You"
Samara is from "The Ring", I do not own her, I make no profit
Kenneth McCormick is from "South Park", I don't own him, I make no profit
It's dark, and he can't see.
"Round we go…the world is spinning…"
He can hear a little girl's voice….so soft, so innocent. He wonders if she's trapped here too.
"When it stops…its just beginning…"
He groans. His head hurts. How did he get here? He forgot. He tries to get up, but his head is pounding, pain resting deep inside his skull. He touches the back of his head. There is blood, thick and warm and sticky.
This shouldn't be new to him.
And then, in a single moment, the room is no longer shrouded in pitch-black, and he can see how large it actually is. A small light flickers in a corner. He staggers to his feet. With effort he is able to stand. His thin, wiry body casts a skeletal shadow behind him as he faces the small beacon. Slowly, cautiously, he walks toward it, drawn in like a moth.
It's not long before his fear is replaced by curiosity. When your daily life is filled with your own mutilation, when you can feel the reaper's boney hand chilling your shoulder, when the dark angels of death rise from the pits of hell constantly, calling your name, you're less fearful than others. This is his mind set. It's just how he is, its how he's always been. He keeps stepping forward, eye growing wide as he tries to take in the scene: he is in the middle of nowhere, a large room with a low ceiling, a television glowing, static buzzing, and no one to have turned it on.
"…the hell?" He mutters to himself, his tone slightly panicked, because, well, he's not used to this. The machine whines. He yanks at the cable. Even unplugged, the box screams. It begins to splutter, and the static subsides, just enough for an old grainy image of an ancient well to come into focus.
Mesmerized, he begins to stare at the picture, transfixed with renewed curiosity. So much that does notice the demented fingers curling around the edge of the stone wall. He doesn't notice a second hand joining the first one. In fact, it's only until the claw-like extremities are joined by two scrawny arms that he noticed anything at all. Alarmed, he inches back a bit. His eyes grow wider, wider, as a figure rises above the granite, hauling itself up and over towards the outside. It's a girl, her face covered by a thick black curtain of dirty hair. She's waiting. The television's picture began to quiver, and with each flash of static the figure staggers closer and closer. He can make out details, eyelets in her white satin dress, the veins in her prune-like skin. It gets clearer and clearer with each crackly beat. It's a rhythm, really, pulsating through the room. Crackle. Stagger. Slide. She gets closer, he scoots away. Tick tock, clockwork.
She reaches out with a pale arm, and he stares frozen in horror like a corny movie character .The rest of her body follows her arm, years of being in the water turning her into a translucent mess. Her two gnarled hands reach out and grab him by the collar of his orange parka, nails digging into the cloth, pushing him against the wall. Her face, still hidden behind a curtain of wet hair is inches from his.
"Kenneth McCormick…" She breathed.
His breathing quickens. Her lips curl into a sadistic smile. For a young girl, she is very strong, which is displayed by her yanking the boy to his feet. He could run at anytime, except the look she gives him has deemed him immobile.
This doesn't happen everyday.
Helpless, he is bound by mere strings in complicated knots to a metal chair way too small for someone of his size. She checks each not thrice, yanking on the rope, humming a foreign tune.
She steps away, as if looking at a blank canvas.
Slowly, she walks around, examining her prize from every angle. A child playing with its food. A cat torturing cornered prey. She places her hands softly on his shoulders, long nails slightly curving into his skin. Her warm breath ghosts on his neck. She bushes a few strands of hair out of his eyes.
"You have no idea how long I've waited for you Kenneth," she whispers. Her fingertips lightly trace his jawbone.
"You've got quite a waiting list, you know that? Everyone wants you dead. There's Freddy, Chucky, Jigsaw…but I digress." She chuckles and brushes her lips lightly against his cheek. Her voice is soft and sweet as she whispers.
"I'll make you beautiful Kenneth…you'll be my masterpiece." He wants to scream, he tries to get up, but she holds him down.
"Shhhh. Relax, dear. I'm creating you, a new you. You will be gorgeous."
There's no gag, the bonds can't be too tight. He could easily get up, scream, and run away. It must be her eyes, her voice, her. It's just her. Her threatening and bow-down-to-me aura. She doesn't have to say it. She's inferior.
"You've been deprived of a beautiful voice, Kenny. You're muffled, silenced," She paused, tilting her head; thinking for a second before saying, "I'll fix that." She places a palm on his mouth, running her fingers along his lips and hooking her nail on the corner, pulling up suddenly. She does so with the other corner, tearing the skin as if it's fabric ripping from the seams. And yet, he doesn't shout. It doesn't hurt yet. By now, he has a gaping hole where his mouth used to be.
"There, now you can never be silenced, dear." She kisses the top of his head, "next…you poor thing, you've seen so much death, sex, bad things. I'll take it away, it'll never happen again…" She claws at his eyes until they are but mutilated sockets, bits of gore around the rims. She squeezes his lids together, as if he is squinting. She stands back, admiring her work. She is not done.
"This is nice…but I want you beautiful! Who knows, dear Kenneth, when or if I will ever get this opportunity again?" So she continues, but not with motives as before. No, she leaves her meaningful conceptual art for a more abstract point of view. She randomly rearranges and tears and destroys and creates where she sees fit and, in the end, she is quite satisfied. She sighs, kissing him once more on his face, her finished artwork, her masterpiece.
"Oh Kenneth, see how beautiful you are. If I only I could keep you forever…but I can't, and so I won't dwell on 'if only' and 'what if's. The colorization begins." Now there is the burning curiosity again, because what the hell is colorization? But there's no time to think, for she presses her palm firmly to his chest. This, this is the pain. A sensation of freezing, of thawing, of burning to death, all in a single flash. He's singed to a near crisp. He can feel his skin felting, becoming gummy and useless. Shock after shock, a violent pulse of tearing, veins rising to the surface, skin bubbling up. A burn victim, mangled and helpless. And yet…
Tomorrow, Kenny McCormick will wake up the same bed, get dressed the same clothes, go to the same school, see the same friends, flirt with the same girls. He will die. He will come back. When he glances at himself in a puddle, or a mirror, or a window, he will see the same Kenneth McCormick that was there yesterday, and the day before that. It's just the cycle, how it was, how it is, how it will be.
Sun comes up…
We laugh and we cry…
Sun comes down…
And then, we all die…
A/N: Thoughts? Love it/ Hate It? Wanna make fan-art for it? (I won't object :3) Please tell me what you think. Reviews make me skip like a happy little pony.