None of this is real. Not the scent of iron thick in the air, nor the strangled, gurgled pants coming from the unyielding human suspended in front of her, upper body swaying to and fro on creaky old chains which were in turn connected to an overarching beam. The weight of the apple-red knife in her hand is a fabrication, a prop made none other than moi.
Suspense, dear reader. Suspense is the spice to life, suspense is what makes the profits roll in.
So, if I write a story about a (technically) young demon who so strangely inhabits a vessel that has my appearance and appearance, you shouldn't think anything about it, or suspect that this person is actually me. That would be bad, now wouldn't it?
The scene is something that comes out of a horror film, the typical splatters of blood everywhere in a dimly lit place (you would think that these people would at least be able to afford better light bulbs or something), a torturer and the torturee, the obvious display of good versus evil -
It was all too bland. The killing that is. A style that can lose its particular use only after a few times, like those red solo cups you always see at alcohol-induced parties with all that grinding and pulse-pounding techno crap. It was a fitting description, a party for two, and the exciting potential of more guests. Although, she preferred some privacy, more wiggle room and better, real music.
With a Les Mis track playing in the background, chords twanging familiarly from her phone, she hums to the tune of Epilogue as she admires her work with a smile. Today's piece definitely had nice skin, smooth and tan from constantly being out in the sun, an athlete's body judging by how toned he was. The silvery webbing of hastily sewn-up wounds, the absence of body hair on his upper torso- a tattoo of a star encased in a ring of black flames?- Oh! This man wasn't one of those sport nuts, but a hunter.
She admiringly traces the pads of her finger across the marking, an anti-possession symbol which made sure things like her stayed out of his vessel, especially if they began to take a liking to it. And by Lucifer, she was really liking it.
He was a hunter not of animals, but of monsters like her. However, she didn't think that she was a monster, but rather, a sophisticated member of moral society who basically flipped the bird to everybody else and said, "Screw it. I'm going darkside".
It may sound bad to you, but in all actuality, it was the best decision she had ever made in the short expanse that was her life as a human. She loved being the villain, the one that parents would warn their children about as they tucked them into bed, lurking behind creaking, suffocating darkness- for once in her life, she had control. She was powerful.
If demons were real, then she would be the one you should definitely be afraid of. Of course, there would be stronger demons than her if this little screwed-up world did indeed exist, like the Knights of Hell or Lucifer, but you should know something.
Chloe was once human too, and I know that as well as she. However, things like morals? She doesn't have them anymore.
There was nothing holding her back now, and those without that kind of thing were dangerous.
He was definitely in her top five, right up there with Elizabeth, whom she also procured from the 'hunting grounds', as she liked to call it. The (physically) sixteen-year-old really put all she had into making sure he came out flawless. She probably put more effort into planning where she would cut first then she ever did back at home, with that boring old job as the prison guard for all the damned souls.
He coughs, the noise bubbly and waterlogged. His chest follows his movements in sharp, rhythmic spasms, and she is mesmerized at the way the dried blood crackles as the skin stretches to accompany the struggle for breath. Wounds reopen and the stench of iron almost slams into her, sinking past skin, past muscle, past bone- it bore her straight into her soul (at least, what she had left, that is). Chloe was held captive by this feeling of absolution. Of completion. Of a fullness that could not be replicated by sex or drugs or anything.
This was it. This was perfection in the making.
"G'morning, love" The asian greets as he finally focuses on her, his piercing amber eyes past a curtain of long, chocolatey brown hair making a smile involuntarily show, too wide and too strange on a borrowed face like hers.
In response, his own immediately scrunches into one vibrant with hate, something dark and fierce that made him all the more alluring. He struggles to get on his feet, but the loss of blood seemed to have affected him too much since he could do nothing more than get one of his knees to flop about an inch off the ground before falling back to it's original position. Hands gripping on the rattling chains tight enough for them to go white, he grits, "So, you were the one behind the homicides"
Well duh, Rapunzel. Who else could have done those works of art? Chloe slides a knife down the man's dominant forearm and watches as crimson paints the cheap pocket knife, dragging it's stained face across her tongue to catch that delicious, coppery life that was Sam Winchester. The knife seemed rather irrelevant however, since there were over fifteen gashes on the human's body that were already inflicted earlier. There was plenty of blood to get from there, but maybe she did this just to watch him squirm.
To see the moment when he would fall apart.
He hisses as she digs the tip in a bit deeper into the wound again, just until she feels the resisting scrape of bone.
"Did Crowley tell you to do this? To call them all under the guise of an idiot teen ready to get hammered so you could have your way?" He was roughly 6'4", towering over her meager 5'5" even when slouched and knees resting on the ground, so she has to look up while he grunted out his question, pain making his voice sound rather wispy. However, it was surprisingly unwavering and not as deep as she thought it would be, when compared to his older brother.
He definitely wasn't afraid to die. It was a common trait in his generation of hunters, far too reckless to even stop and think about what would happen if they lost. She sighs, absentmindedly running bloodied fingers through her vessel's pink-dyed hair back into it's beach wave style, ignoring how pink became streaked with red from the gore staining her appendages earlier. She pulls the knife out, ignoring his shaky breath of relief, and folds the knife back into itself, tucking it away into the pocket of her baggy hoodie.
"Sammy, Sammy…" She chided mockingly, "There's a bigger picture to all of this than the King of Hell. Crowley thinks that the world revolves around him, but really? He plays a very minor role in this play"
In the background, Fantine begins her part, as she comforts the dying Jean Valjean in the church.
In the background, little Sammy's brother emerges from the darkness, holding a knife with runes carved into it's face. He quietly pads up to the unsuspecting demon and in a fluid motion, before anyone or anything could process, Dean Winchester slides the weapon into the demon host's body.
She dies in a surprisingly quiet manner, as the consciousness of her vessel falls with her suddenly boneless, useless meatbag.
In that moment, only one soul goes to the pit, and what was left of it's humanity becomes tainted by the black that ate away at its once pure, heaven-bound light.
There was no salvation for her.
'Her' being the Chloe before possession. The Chloe that once was and never again would be.
For those wondering about Blue Eyes, I dropped the story. I was way too busy with school but if I ever get struck by some inspiration, I'll definitely go back and try to add some new stuff.
Thank you for reading~ \(^0^)/
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