Hey guys, I'm back, and will be updating my other stories soon (for those who care, which I know is most of you)
This is a new shebang, something which I've been thinking of trying when writing other stuff, so here is a taster first chapter, please let me know what you think (:
~Walliezinga
A slender woman dressed in only a thin shift stretched provocatively before Clary, fiery wings spreading wide from her shoulder blades as if aching for escape. Her arms were pulled upward and outward, her head tossed back as though in the throes of passion, or torture. Her mouth hung open in silent horror, her rosy lips pulled taut and her pale hair, a halo, floated delicately around her face, only drawing attention to the contrastingly dark eyes staring beseechingly at Clary, an unspoken plea clear in her features. Her skin, though pale, seemed to glow, even in this crude illustration, and her haunting beauty seeped from the painting, captivating her. Orange fire licked at her ankles, her feet firmly encased in frozen flames.
A shudder worked its way down Clary's spine, as it did every time she focused her attention on this painting. Gently, reverently fingering the thorns curling themselves intimately around the edge of the canvas, she trailed her fingers around the side of the painting, pulling it from the rickety easel, trading it for something considerably safer: a study of her friend Maia, in grayscale. The curve of her jaw was a fine ebony line, the whites of her eyes snowy and pale, and her skin a muted grey, the harsh light drawing out the contrasts. Her eyes, Clary had kept the same, carefully painting life into them. They watched Clary amusedly from the canvas, ringed with thick black lashes, a vivid coffee brown, amber specks flaring like fireflies within their depths. She pulled a thin brush from her collection, stroking the tiny stub to a skinny point for the finer detailing and hummed thoughtfully.
Her phone buzzed from deep within her pocket and she sighed, digging it out. Simon's name lit up the screen, and she pushed the phone back into her pocket, glancing at the clock behind her. "Five minutes." She muttered, as she collected more white paint, hurrying back to her work station. Her phone buzzed again. Pulling it out, she balanced her paint brush and palette in one hand, texting a hasty reply. Wait 4 me by gates. 5 mins. C.
Immediately a reply came back, Ok. Don't b late. S.
Dabbing her brush carefully along the palette, Clary set to work on fine-tuning her work, putting in subtle shadows and highlights. So engrossed in her work, she failed to notice the low clicking of pincers as a small creature scuttled along the art studio floor.
Simon slouched against the metal gates of the high school, his canvas messenger bag resting against his thigh. He checked the clock on his phone impatiently before shoving it back into his hoodie pocket. The janitor raised a hand in greeting as he passed, and Simon waved, calling, "You seen Clary?"
The old man paused, before replying, "The red-haired lass? Ain't been by the studio yet. Ernie's gon' lock it up though. I'm off home." He readjusted the backpack on his shoulders before leaving, sending Simon a crooked smile. Simon furrowed his eyes at the different windows of the school, trying to establish which was which. Some were shrouded in darkness, whilst some flared with light.
Narrowing his eyes in the fading light, he jumped slightly as the lights disappeared completely on the second floor of the school. Feeling a little spooked, he reached for his headphones, pushing a bud into each ear before checking the time again. Sending Clary another impatient text, he flipped his Gameboy open and resumed his Mario game, determined to beat his previous score.
The janitor eased his way down the corridor, muttering to himself as he went. Keeping his eyes on the ground, he trudged along the rough blue carpet, his obvious limp hindering his progress; he disdainfully eyed the graffiti marking the pale walls. The lights flickered, and his steps faltered as he furrowed his eyebrows, watching the lights blink erratically. He put a hand to his walkie talkie but faltered, remembering that his colleague had decided to leave for home early. Pushing aside jealous thoughts, he tightened his grip on his wooden walking stick and continued slowly down the corridor, his keys jangling at his belt.
The lights began to dim, still sputtering, and he stopped to eye the ceiling bulbs. He reached for the walkie at his belt as the lights died completely, leaving the school hallway shadowy and ominous, a blue hue tinting the surroundings, as the evening filtered through the small windows. Hurrying to the lit area at the end of the corridor, he could see the double doors to the art studios, children's paintings tacked proudly to the wood, splashes of colour on canvasses lining the entrance; images of beautiful flowers, and smiling people, busy streets and dominating structures. He focused on these as he tried to shake off the obscure feeling that crawled in with the darkness. A feeling of complete paranoia, uncertainty and fear. A spike of adrenaline shot through him as he adjusted his belt with a wrinkled hand, and peered nervously over his shoulder. He felt like prey.
He panicked as he heard a rattling breath behind him and tried to quicken his step, his own breath coming in heaving gasps, but his leg acted as dead weight, and he struggled to move forward. He heard a low keen, and the material of his trouser leg snagged, causing him to lurch forward, forcing all his weight onto the wooden stick. He twisted his body, falling onto his side. Rolling onto his back and grimacing in pain, he saw what had caught his trouser leg. The creature hooked another claw into the rough material, hissing quietly. His eyes widened at the sight, and he tried to call for help, his mouth forming the words but not releasing them. Tears fell silently from his eyes and followed the lines etched on his face as it crawled up his body. Its lipless black mouth twitched as it opened its jaw, running a thorny tongue across the man's leg. "To eat, to eat." It moaned, sinking its arrow-tipped tail into his thigh, a wave of stinking breath wafting into the old man's gasping face. The creature hurtled for his neck, forcing his head back onto the hard floor. He released his wooden stick, fumbling for his walkie, only to have his arm stabbed by the creature's dangerous tail. The old janitor collapsed into darkness, an image of his smiling wife etched into his final thoughts.