Title: Fearless
Rating: M for Language, Violence, Grotesquerie, and General Trippiness
Summary: A girl suffers trauma to her temporal lobe. The result: no fear. ~ Squint and turn the screen sideways for romantic subtext. 1000 words per drabble.
Disclaimer & Important Notes:
I don't own Freddy. I don't want to own Freddy. He's a bad, bad man. I do not own Elm Street, either, though once I stole a sign.
None of the poems in this piece are mine. They are a collection of Mother Goose nursery rhymes, poems from children's books and stories, and songs passed down through generations of children and parents to acquaintances who were kind enough to let me use them.
Entry Four, Night Nine: Fruitless
Word Count: 430
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Fruitless
Night 9
He was used to the feel of fear. He could smell it a mile away, he could see it. Fear, for him—other peoples'—was a synesthetic experience. He would roll it between his fingers like a bubble of oil. He'd breathe it in, sticky and acrid: sweat, and burning grease. His victims stood out to him in the landscapes of the dream world like beacons. They were brilliant flares of crimson in the murky, shifting shadows, and he could pick them out a mile away—and then make the mile no longer than a step.
But he was getting nothing from her.
He peeled the skin off her legs—lovely, long legs, flawless and slender and sleek before he'd left the muscles bare and coated in blood. He'd licked her from collarbone to earlobe then, expecting something: the bitter, slippery taste of her terror, perhaps. He'd wanted to feel it sliding over his skin, the heavy weight of it flicking little electric waves of power and energy over him, flashes and sparks that seeped through and recharged him.
But she tasted clean, instead. Her throat was bare of fear, even of perspiration. He scraped his tongue over his teeth, trying to get rid of the faint, chemical-sweet flavor of her soap. He looked down, and her legs, still slick with blood, were whole again.
It wasn't that he didn't hurt her. It wasn't that he couldn't overpower her. It was just that, without her fear, nothing seemed to last. He was certain his attacks weren't even registering in the waking world--not beyond a few faint bruises or pale scratches, at best. And no matter how many times he skimmed the surface of her brain, he couldn't find even a flicker of the key, the fear that would uproot her very soul. He couldn't find a flicker of fear at all.
"Fuck it!" he bellowed, slamming a fist next to her face. The pipes burst open and sprayed them both with scalding steam. He leaned close to her on one forearm, his scarred nose pressing against hers, waiting for her skin to melt. She made a face at his nearness, then raised one eyebrow in boredom. Her hair billowed around them in the clouds of steam.
"Cry!" he hissed through his teeth. "Scream! Beg for mercy, you fucking bitch!"
She looked thoughtful. "I've never tried to make myself cry before," she said, a faint gleam of intrigue in her eyes. "Do you think I could?"
He groaned and rested his forehead against the pipes beside her cheek.
"There, there," she comforted.
A is for Amy who fell down the stairs.
B is for Basil assaulted by bears.
C is for Clara who wasted away.
D is for Desmond thrown out of a sleigh.
E is for Ernest who choked on a peach.
F is for Fanny sucked dry by a leech…
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A few people (not many, mind you!) have voiced the desire via review that I continue this story. I've been considering it--Freddy is fun, after all--and though this will never be more than a series of drabbles, I'm rethinking my limit of eight.
So, here's the game:
If you're interested, click the little donation box below and leave a review with a prompt. I'll keep them on file and choose one to drabble about as the whim takes me (that means yours might not get chosen--but it shouldn't keep you from trying!). Also, if I use your prompt, the drabble will most certainly be dedicated to you at the end. A few rules:
1. Your prompt MUST be in a review (no private messages). If you are leaving feedback as well as a prompt, please put your prompt at the end of the message.
2. Each review may contain up to three prompts.
3. Prompts must be only one word. No long scenarios of what you want to play out...just one word. Understand that the drabble it inspires may not be the drabble you hoped for. It's like the lottery. Your number may not get chosen, and if it is, it might only be for $3.
4. Prompts MUST begin with the letter "F". Think...feather, faith, friction, fuck. All of these are fair game, incidentally.
As a sidenote, I would also love any suggestions for rhymes, songs, and et cetera to end these new drabbles with. If you haven't a prompt, post a poem--it may also earn you a dedication and a drabble. :) I reserve the right to add in my own filler-drabbles when I so desire, and likewise to end this series at any point I choose.
Now who wants to play? :)