The alley was dark, quiet
The alley was dark, quiet. A picture perfect cliché for everything terrible and horrific: and it happened now.
Suzanne Gonzales was pinned, held against the moist concrete as her attacker mounted and tore her blouse away. "PLEASE!" she'd scream, as kisses were forced along her neck and jaw line. Three men stood near by, watched the savage fucking illuminated by the headlights of their car, waiting their turn.
"Yeah! Get her!"
One of them licked his lips, and Suzanne cried in horror. The alleys were vacant. No one responded to the violent cries of rape.
#1 finished and stood, leaving his victim sobbing and bloody: #2 replaced him and got to work. She'd scream louder, legs flailing in the air, crying for help – crying for God, crying for anyone. The four men took turns, each going in for a second, some for a third, their brutality heightening with lust.
There was a brushing in the darkness. Subtle, almost silent. A rapist investigated.
He stepped into the shadows, producing a switchblade and flicking it – he lurked through a narrow passage, letting the light and muffled screams of pain disappear behind him.
Something moved, he twisted backwards – the outline of a black cape draped down and entangled his body, snapped his bones. It pulled him, silently, like the wind. The switchblade hit the concrete.
#3 finished and wiped sweat from his brow. "I'm done," he said, pulling his pants up, "Look at her. She isn't any fun." Suzanne sat paralyzed, cold eyes gazing into nothing. She was frozen. #1 stood forward and curled his lips into a sly grin, revealing a set of stained teeth. "Just one more… she's such a sport. You hear that, sweetie? You want a little more? You wanna make me cum one last time?"
"Wait a second," another said, adjusting his pants, pulling them up his waistline, "Where the fuck is Harold?"
A body fell from above and landed on the car. Metal crumbled, glass shattered. One of the men pulled a gun and the rest watched in horror, watched as the tattered body lay in a pile of blood and twisted metal.
It was their accomplice, twisted and broken. They panicked.
"What the fuck?!" the gun toter shouted, and the figure emerged from the shadows – it grabbed one of them from behind and pulled his neck, tearing his jugular with a bone-like blade that emitted from his forearm. Blood sprayed, the victim gargled as a fountain of blood fired from his body; the gunman pulled the trigger, terrified, covered the two bodies in fire.
His friend bled red. The attacker bled green.
The lifeless body was thrown and the figures wounds pushed out the bullets, let the holes heal themselves with the faint sounds of crushing flesh. It'd lunge forward at devastating speed, avoiding the next shot, and stabbing the man in the stomach: blade like protrusions had grown from its wrist. The man dropped his gun, let out a cry. The wrist twisted and he fell, succumbing to his death in a pool of blood and bile.
The survivor was running. He'd scream in panic, sprinting down the alley, begging anyone – ANYTHING – for help.
Karma is a bitch.
A chain stabbed into his lower back. Another in his calf, a third in his Achilles tendon. They pulled him back and he collapsed into the pavement, dragged him towards the headlights of the car and blood soaked grounds of terror.
The chains released and he looked up – the figure stood over him, black cape fluttering, eyes burning fiery red. He was lifted up, pleading for his life, mumbling 'I'm sorry.' He was thrown into the brick wall, head slamming into the surface, splitting. He died instantly.
It was silent.
The figures cape disappeared. His eyes glowed. It'd stand over Suzanne, and lift her by the neck. "Please," she said, so faintly, exhausted with trauma, "Please, God. Help me."
The red eyes changed shape and the figure smirked, its cracked and demonic voice speaking.
"God cannot help you."
