Title: Fearless
Rating: M for Language, Violence, Grotesquerie, and General Trippiness
Summary: A girl suffers trauma to her temporal lobe. The result: no fear. ~ Uh, I guess you don't have to squint for romance anymore. 1000 words per drabble.
Disclaimer & Important Notes: Don't own Freddy; don't own the rhymes. You know the drill.
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Face-Off
(Night 125)
For Marcus Jacobs, the world is nothing but pain. He only knows two things for certain—at least, he only knows two things consistently:
The snow falls softly down, and
The devil wears a hat.
He isn't sure when it started (maybe before he was born) and he has no idea when it will end (maybe it's hell, maybe it's eternity). All he knows is that he sees the world through a haze of red, his eyelashes are matted with blood, and when he looks up he can see his own gore spotting the snow (looks up which is down because this whole world is twisted).
He is hanging from his ankles and it's snowing: fluffy flakes of blue in the dark, clear night. Everything is made from crystals (even his breath, which is shuddering and puffing out of his lungs now, misted with red), and they coat the tree branches with slick, clear ice on every branch and twig.
"You know what I like about ice?" the man says, circling around him. Marcus Jacobs thinks maybe the man is scarred (or he's the devil); he can't really remember. All he knows is that soon there will be nothing left inside him to keep him alive. "It's so damn refreshing, don't you think? It doesn't hide anything." The devil reaches up with his claw (that claw like a thing from a movie a demon-hand he has a demon-hand oh god) and carefully touches one cluster of crystallized branches. The metal chimes cheerfully against the ice. "There's something so fucking pure about it, you know?" He flicks his fingers, amputating the branches and they fall into his leather paw.
His voice lowers. It's almost gentle now, and all Marcus Jacobs can think of is a shrill whine to God.
"You wanted a piece of ice, didn't you, M-M-Marcus J-Jacobs? You wanted to take a piece of what's mine." He grins (his teeth are so sharp and pointed, jesuschrist) and Marcus Jacobs pisses himself. It's the first sad bit of warmth he's felt since (since whenever, since ever, first thing other than blood, his own blood, and now that is freezing too).
"These fingers," the devilsays musingly, his twisted face splitting in a grin. "These fingers did what mine haven't had a chance to." He hisses. "They bruised her." Metal scrapes, and Marcus Jacobs is sure his forefingers have frozen (except there they are oh god in the snow).
"That Ash," the devil grins, "she used to have nightmares about a girl who got her hands cut off and replaced by little twiggies. Did you know that? Of course you didn't. You have no fucking clue who or what she is." Another snip, another soft thump-thump, and two more fingers fall to the snow. Marcus Jacobs tries to shriek but he chokes on his own blood and gags. "Maybe I'll do the same thing to you," the devil says. "Make sure these hands of yours are useless when it comes to touching another piece of pussy. Useless twiggies and branches. What do you think, piglet?"
(piglet piglet like a thing to be butchered oh christ
hanging on a goddamn meathook
thump-thump)
"Or the tongue. She mentioned the tongue too. Should I cut out yours? Cut out the slimy slithering tongue that wriggled into her mouth like a leech?"
The snow falls softly down. Marcus Jacobs is crying and drowning in snot and blood, and his tears are freezing on his forehead.
"After all, if I can't use her fear on her, I might as well give it you, huh? M-M-Marcus J-Jacobs?" The devil grins, and his voice is so gentle (oh god, so gentle, so tender, ohgod ohgod). "But before that," he says, snickering as though about to tell a dirty joke, "I'm going to cut off your testicles and feed them to you. What do you think, Marcus Jacobs? A fucking delicacy, am I right?"
And suddenly the devil is scowling into Marcus Jacobs' face, and all the humor and gentleness is gone (which is first kind of a relief, and then really, really not).
"Here's the thing, piglet," the devil snarls, and his spit lands all over Marcus Jacobs' face, who doesn't really care by now. "You have no fucking idea how long I've been waiting to leave even one pretty bruise on her skin—and you manhandle her like she's your personal fucking whore, and how do you think that makes me feel, little piggy? That skin is mine. Those first bruises were meant to be mine, once I fucking figured out how. I was gonna leave them all over her—and why stop at bruises? But you—greedy little cocksucker—"
Marcus Jacobs sniffles and chokes. The snow falls softly down.
"I think I'll take your face first," the devil says, drawing back, and all Marcus Jacobs can see is his glowing eyes (the devil wears a hat, the devil wears a hat, an old worn-out fedora). "The one that was making eyes at my girl. The one that mashed its dirty pig-lips onto her mouth. Do you understand me?" He leans in again (he smells like gunfire and brimstone) and his voice is ferocious, so ferocious that Marcus Jacobs is certain, once again, that this is (the devil) a monster:
"Ash. Kindwall. Do you fucking understand me, you fucking piece of shit?"
The words come through the pain slowly, and Marcus Jacobs vaguely recalls a pretty, wide-eyed girl with a small solemn face and an expression that betrays no fear. The picture of her makes him want to kill her (no, to hurt her, to violate her a hundred different ways and make her beg for death) and he knows, Marcus Jacobs knows, that this is why he is being punished (this is why he is in hell).
Marcus Jacobs nods mutely through the pain, and when the demon-claw begins slowly peeling away his face, his wounded howl is beyond the range of human hearing.
Alouette, gentille Alouette
(skylark, nice skylark)
Alouette, je te plumerai
(skylark, I shall pluck you)
Je te plumerai la tête
(I shall pluck your head)
Je te plumerai la tête
(I shall pluck your head)
Et la tête
(and your head)
Et la tête
(and your head)
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This drabble is dedicated to nlech16 for the prompt, "Face-Off."
It is 1,000 words. Yes, it hits the limit squarely.
Honorable mentions to psychadelicious and Mad Bertha, both of whom consecutively suggested "faceless." The word would probably be more fitting for this particular drabble, rather than "face-off," which generally connotes a sort of mano-a-mano combat, but it was "face-off" that inspired me, quite literally, to have Freddy take the damn boy's face. off. It's written in present tense for the immediacy factor; likely the final drabble will be, as well. And by the way, has anyone else actually looked at the lyrics for Alouette? Holy crap. Plucking a poor skylark body-part by body-part….even Freddy would say that that's messed up.
Maybe not.
One more drabble left: an epilogue, of sorts. I have known exactly how this ends ever since Drabble #4, when I first decided to extend this bad boy thanks to your urgings. I knew the exact lines I would use for the closing, and I have to say I am excited for this to be complete. Drabbling was an experiment for me, something I've never done before, and I have enjoyed exercising my brain to keep up with your awesome prompts.
Thanks to nlech16 one more time, for the serious awesomeness of both starting and ending the series of prompts. :)