The movement of her hands caused the long untouched nails to
scrape against the strong material that bound her arms against
her body, the slow fabric noise setting her teeth on edge.
The thick fibres of the straightjacket rubbed against the sore
reddened skin beneath as she shifted towards the shaft of
moonlight, her single constant connection to the outside
world, her only light in the darkness of her prison. Still
crouched she moved forward entering the beam allowing it to
illuminate her, almost feeling it playing across her skin and
through her tangled mane hair, running in torrents over the
stained landscape of her bindings. The connection to life, to
freedom, was almost tangible and before now it had been so far
away, so impossible to reach for, it was non-existent. The
grip of the drugs after the injuries to her body and mind had
made it so hard to think that she had not even tried. The
wounds to the body had healed quickly but the damage to her
brain had been the problem, without blood it could not, and
had not healed. The one medicine that she required, not even
thought about being given to her.
Her fingernails scraped harder against the stained fabric as a hazy memory of a man leering at her as he undid his flies and pulled down his pants came to her, his face, a mask of terror, as she took him to the floor. Holding him in the coil of her body as her teeth tore through his throat, his arms desperately trying to push her away causing her to bite deeper, the erotic taste of blood on her tongue and its warmth flowing down her throat; orgasmic. Her body shuddered with pleasure as her face twisted in revulsion at the memory of the much needed elixir of life filling her; the elixir of healing. Thought had started to become easier after that, the drugs that they daily forced into her system less effective at keeping her under; she was returning to herself, keeping the animalistic urge to simply hunt, kill and feed within and controlled.
It had taken time but she was now fully herself again, though she kept that secret, escape not release was the answer problems like this. Nails scratched harder, cloth started to give way beneath them. Arms stretched, joints cracking with sounds like gunshots in the silence, and the re-enforced seams began to give way. With a sharp bestial cry of effort, she straightened tearing the straightjacket apart and stood, arms spread wide, under the moons glow.
Greg opened the slot and looked in on the sleeping figure of Justin Joyce, an extreme paranoid schizophrenic, who had first tortured his parents to death then eaten them before calmly walking through his apartment block gutting anyone who he came across, leaving them to die in agony. Though he had no memory of the entire event he relived it every night in his dreams. Greg watched as he thrashed about in the restraints, his face twisting from delight to terror while giggles and laughs escaped his lips; he would never leave the haven.
In fact Greg thought, as he closed the slot, the only ones who would have any chance to get free of this wing were those who died, most likely of old age or some terminal disease. Even then the last thing they saw would be the padded ceiling of their cell; shaking his head at the worlds' self-denial he signed the list and reached for the sliding panel on the next door. As his fingers tightened around the knob ready to pull it back the scream rang out.
It started quietly in the silent corridor, a movement of air felt more than it was heard, like the feeling you got before a storm. The throat that made it could not have been human. Half scream and half lions roar it warped and echoed along the narrow hallway, a creature in its own right. Later he would think it was his training, or shock, or some unknown force that had made him run towards the cry rather than away from it, he was sure that the rational part of his mind had no say in his action.
He dashed down the final fifteen meters to the door, skidding to a halt before it and reaching up with one trembling hand to open the slot. His fingers, clammy with a sudden sweat, gripped the knob so tightly that they turned white. Taking one deep breath he commanded his arm to move, it refused. Taking another deep breath he tried again; the metal slammed back revealing the void, he fixed his eyes to it and thrust his head forward.
She stood in the silver light, a being of ethereal beauty, the straightjacket that should hold people in such a way that they could never place enough force on it to tear the double re- enforced seams even if they had had strength to do that, lying round her feet and hanging in its sections from her neck and out flung arms. Transfixed he watched as she lowered her arms, letting the tattered remains fall to the floor, before raising one hand, gripping and ripping the collar like fragment that hung round her throat free. She glanced at it for a moment before throwing it disdainfully away from her into the darkness. Greg found that he could not move, his own body in deference to his wishes refusing to look away, so he stood and stared, taking in every detail of this girl of his dreams, stalker through nightmares. Her legs encased in the hospital pajamas were longer than he thought they would be, never before seeing her standing. Her top, he knew, was the same as the pajama bottoms but had yellowed and creased, most of the ties were frayed and broken, it looked as though it had not be changed since the moment it had been put on. Its lack of ties showed him the pale skin of her stomach and sternum, her sides sore and red where her arms had been rubbing as they were locked in the restraints; the curve of her breasts above, though mostly hidden by the hanging top, would show similar if not so vivid markings, he was sure. The answer for this was simple and even in his shocked state seemed totally inhumane - the straightjacket had never been removed since the day it had been placed on her.
He would never be sure as to whether or not he had gasped or she had seen him out of the corner of her eye but her face turned towards him and he, paralysed by he knew not what emotion, waited for the skulled visage of death to appear on her face. It never came; her face remained as it had in the moonlight, a thing of beauty. This did nothing to alleviate his fear at her gaze till she, child like, cocked her head to one side and smiled at him. Whether the innocent look, the smile or harmless stance she stood in, he found he was no longer afraid or panicked by her presence; in that moment he was at peace, calm and collected. Then the moment was gone, pulled away, as she returned her gaze back to the high window.
He watched as he posture shifted, legs bracing, arms pulling back, stomach muscles tightening while her fingers spread wide curled and ready. Though he could not see her face behind the tangled curtain of hair, the low savage snarl that rose in her chest warned him of her immanent action; as she launched her self forward he was already moving his eyes to follow her. Even when she leapt upward towards the wall, her hands reached out for a grip on the foam padding that covered it, her actual intent never registered in his shocked state. It was only when the long jagged nails ripped into the fabric that her action began to become clearer though it was still only a murky realization in the back of his mind.
With one hand imbedded her legs scrabbled for a second as they attempted to gain a similar hold before the jagged toenails tore in and caught, holding her aloft. Arms and legs spread wide she threw her free hand upwards, another tearing of fabric and she began to climb lizard like up the wall towards the glowing moonlit window.
He watched her, every movement registering, every twitch of her fingers, and every swing of her hips.
The open top swung out from side to side in opposition to the rocking motions of her climb. It flapped as if it had a life of it's own; as if it to longed for freedom from this place of confinement and insanity. Where it hung from her shoulders, sleeves bunching high on her arms as she stretched upwards towards the light, it became a pair of wings. A flapping thing of white mottled with yellows and faded, flaking brown. Its fluttering motion called out to his memory, reminding him of the doves he used to feed as a child in the park, their feathers flying as they took to the air as he tried to catch one and the day he saw the cat leap and tear one from the air and rip it apart.
The sharp skritching sound of nails scraping across brick recalled him from the nightmare image of his childhood to the scene of the present. She had reached the tiny aperture, a trail of ripped fabric bleeding shredded foam left behind her. Her toes were curled over the tiny ledge of the sill whilst her fingers gripped the rough edge of the brickwork. The glass being set directly into the wall meant that these were the only holds available the padded lining being too weak to support even her slight frame at rest. Thus the tableau remained for a moment; her hanging by the slightest holds, muscles tense though her body was hanging loosely relaxed; him, body damp with a cold sweat, fingers pressed around the tiny handle that open the viewing slot so hard they had turned white, his head thrust forward, eyes wide and staring.
She moved suddenly, causing him to jump in surprise at her action, relieving the tight tension that had gathered in him. She swung out, hair flying across her face as she turned, her previously flapping top pressing close to her body before both it and her long hair swung out and away as she stopped, facing the door, one arm hanging limply. Using only her legs and one arm to grip the sill she hung there swinging gently. After the fast movements of before it was eerily slow and disturbed Greg more than the savage gripping and tearing actions of her climb. Her open hospital top was draped across her back; hung from her shoulders touching the tangled mane that spilled in a mixture of long strands and tight messy curls from her head as it moved; leaving her front exposed to her frozen, one man audience. Her breasts, small white curves of flesh that tantalised and teased his senses to arousal that would not come as his gaze took in the red marks and abrasions revealed fully to his sight for the first time. Her skin, paler under the direct light of the moon from the window made the sore areas of skin stand out, looking larger and fiercer then before; her sides and abdomen carrying the line across her like a belt of red. The undersides of her breasts also carried an area of worried skin on the outside where her wrists would have been held tight against her for however long the straight jacket had held her captive inside its embrace.
His eyes travelled upwards over the slight line that marred her collarbone and throat and over her face.
Her lips were slightly parted and he shivered with some unknown feeling as her tongue came out to wet them as he had seen it do when she cleaned Tomlinsons' blood from them; slow and deliberate, a thing to be seen rather than a thing of necessity. His eyes moved to meet her own fixed upon his the only thing the door allowed her to see of him. He realized suddenly that this was the first time he had truly seen her eyes un-obscured by shadow or the glint of madness; green eyes, slightly amused but containing a deep seriousness all the same. He was transfixed by her stare, unable to look away from it as she looked deep into his own hazel ones.
Her fingernails scraped harder against the stained fabric as a hazy memory of a man leering at her as he undid his flies and pulled down his pants came to her, his face, a mask of terror, as she took him to the floor. Holding him in the coil of her body as her teeth tore through his throat, his arms desperately trying to push her away causing her to bite deeper, the erotic taste of blood on her tongue and its warmth flowing down her throat; orgasmic. Her body shuddered with pleasure as her face twisted in revulsion at the memory of the much needed elixir of life filling her; the elixir of healing. Thought had started to become easier after that, the drugs that they daily forced into her system less effective at keeping her under; she was returning to herself, keeping the animalistic urge to simply hunt, kill and feed within and controlled.
It had taken time but she was now fully herself again, though she kept that secret, escape not release was the answer problems like this. Nails scratched harder, cloth started to give way beneath them. Arms stretched, joints cracking with sounds like gunshots in the silence, and the re-enforced seams began to give way. With a sharp bestial cry of effort, she straightened tearing the straightjacket apart and stood, arms spread wide, under the moons glow.
Greg opened the slot and looked in on the sleeping figure of Justin Joyce, an extreme paranoid schizophrenic, who had first tortured his parents to death then eaten them before calmly walking through his apartment block gutting anyone who he came across, leaving them to die in agony. Though he had no memory of the entire event he relived it every night in his dreams. Greg watched as he thrashed about in the restraints, his face twisting from delight to terror while giggles and laughs escaped his lips; he would never leave the haven.
In fact Greg thought, as he closed the slot, the only ones who would have any chance to get free of this wing were those who died, most likely of old age or some terminal disease. Even then the last thing they saw would be the padded ceiling of their cell; shaking his head at the worlds' self-denial he signed the list and reached for the sliding panel on the next door. As his fingers tightened around the knob ready to pull it back the scream rang out.
It started quietly in the silent corridor, a movement of air felt more than it was heard, like the feeling you got before a storm. The throat that made it could not have been human. Half scream and half lions roar it warped and echoed along the narrow hallway, a creature in its own right. Later he would think it was his training, or shock, or some unknown force that had made him run towards the cry rather than away from it, he was sure that the rational part of his mind had no say in his action.
He dashed down the final fifteen meters to the door, skidding to a halt before it and reaching up with one trembling hand to open the slot. His fingers, clammy with a sudden sweat, gripped the knob so tightly that they turned white. Taking one deep breath he commanded his arm to move, it refused. Taking another deep breath he tried again; the metal slammed back revealing the void, he fixed his eyes to it and thrust his head forward.
She stood in the silver light, a being of ethereal beauty, the straightjacket that should hold people in such a way that they could never place enough force on it to tear the double re- enforced seams even if they had had strength to do that, lying round her feet and hanging in its sections from her neck and out flung arms. Transfixed he watched as she lowered her arms, letting the tattered remains fall to the floor, before raising one hand, gripping and ripping the collar like fragment that hung round her throat free. She glanced at it for a moment before throwing it disdainfully away from her into the darkness. Greg found that he could not move, his own body in deference to his wishes refusing to look away, so he stood and stared, taking in every detail of this girl of his dreams, stalker through nightmares. Her legs encased in the hospital pajamas were longer than he thought they would be, never before seeing her standing. Her top, he knew, was the same as the pajama bottoms but had yellowed and creased, most of the ties were frayed and broken, it looked as though it had not be changed since the moment it had been put on. Its lack of ties showed him the pale skin of her stomach and sternum, her sides sore and red where her arms had been rubbing as they were locked in the restraints; the curve of her breasts above, though mostly hidden by the hanging top, would show similar if not so vivid markings, he was sure. The answer for this was simple and even in his shocked state seemed totally inhumane - the straightjacket had never been removed since the day it had been placed on her.
He would never be sure as to whether or not he had gasped or she had seen him out of the corner of her eye but her face turned towards him and he, paralysed by he knew not what emotion, waited for the skulled visage of death to appear on her face. It never came; her face remained as it had in the moonlight, a thing of beauty. This did nothing to alleviate his fear at her gaze till she, child like, cocked her head to one side and smiled at him. Whether the innocent look, the smile or harmless stance she stood in, he found he was no longer afraid or panicked by her presence; in that moment he was at peace, calm and collected. Then the moment was gone, pulled away, as she returned her gaze back to the high window.
He watched as he posture shifted, legs bracing, arms pulling back, stomach muscles tightening while her fingers spread wide curled and ready. Though he could not see her face behind the tangled curtain of hair, the low savage snarl that rose in her chest warned him of her immanent action; as she launched her self forward he was already moving his eyes to follow her. Even when she leapt upward towards the wall, her hands reached out for a grip on the foam padding that covered it, her actual intent never registered in his shocked state. It was only when the long jagged nails ripped into the fabric that her action began to become clearer though it was still only a murky realization in the back of his mind.
With one hand imbedded her legs scrabbled for a second as they attempted to gain a similar hold before the jagged toenails tore in and caught, holding her aloft. Arms and legs spread wide she threw her free hand upwards, another tearing of fabric and she began to climb lizard like up the wall towards the glowing moonlit window.
He watched her, every movement registering, every twitch of her fingers, and every swing of her hips.
The open top swung out from side to side in opposition to the rocking motions of her climb. It flapped as if it had a life of it's own; as if it to longed for freedom from this place of confinement and insanity. Where it hung from her shoulders, sleeves bunching high on her arms as she stretched upwards towards the light, it became a pair of wings. A flapping thing of white mottled with yellows and faded, flaking brown. Its fluttering motion called out to his memory, reminding him of the doves he used to feed as a child in the park, their feathers flying as they took to the air as he tried to catch one and the day he saw the cat leap and tear one from the air and rip it apart.
The sharp skritching sound of nails scraping across brick recalled him from the nightmare image of his childhood to the scene of the present. She had reached the tiny aperture, a trail of ripped fabric bleeding shredded foam left behind her. Her toes were curled over the tiny ledge of the sill whilst her fingers gripped the rough edge of the brickwork. The glass being set directly into the wall meant that these were the only holds available the padded lining being too weak to support even her slight frame at rest. Thus the tableau remained for a moment; her hanging by the slightest holds, muscles tense though her body was hanging loosely relaxed; him, body damp with a cold sweat, fingers pressed around the tiny handle that open the viewing slot so hard they had turned white, his head thrust forward, eyes wide and staring.
She moved suddenly, causing him to jump in surprise at her action, relieving the tight tension that had gathered in him. She swung out, hair flying across her face as she turned, her previously flapping top pressing close to her body before both it and her long hair swung out and away as she stopped, facing the door, one arm hanging limply. Using only her legs and one arm to grip the sill she hung there swinging gently. After the fast movements of before it was eerily slow and disturbed Greg more than the savage gripping and tearing actions of her climb. Her open hospital top was draped across her back; hung from her shoulders touching the tangled mane that spilled in a mixture of long strands and tight messy curls from her head as it moved; leaving her front exposed to her frozen, one man audience. Her breasts, small white curves of flesh that tantalised and teased his senses to arousal that would not come as his gaze took in the red marks and abrasions revealed fully to his sight for the first time. Her skin, paler under the direct light of the moon from the window made the sore areas of skin stand out, looking larger and fiercer then before; her sides and abdomen carrying the line across her like a belt of red. The undersides of her breasts also carried an area of worried skin on the outside where her wrists would have been held tight against her for however long the straight jacket had held her captive inside its embrace.
His eyes travelled upwards over the slight line that marred her collarbone and throat and over her face.
Her lips were slightly parted and he shivered with some unknown feeling as her tongue came out to wet them as he had seen it do when she cleaned Tomlinsons' blood from them; slow and deliberate, a thing to be seen rather than a thing of necessity. His eyes moved to meet her own fixed upon his the only thing the door allowed her to see of him. He realized suddenly that this was the first time he had truly seen her eyes un-obscured by shadow or the glint of madness; green eyes, slightly amused but containing a deep seriousness all the same. He was transfixed by her stare, unable to look away from it as she looked deep into his own hazel ones.