Well, sometime between working about four jobs, scheduling for college, being turned down by an agent for the first time and making an appointment to get my wisdom teeth out I finally found time to write something! Yay! It's not much, and there might be a few mistakes (oops, but don't be afraid to let me know please!) but at least it's something until things calm down a bit.
Warning: this is maybe a little violent? I mean it is listed as horror, but let me know if you think I should bump up the rating.
Standard disclaimers apply.
The entire lair smells of death.
At first he attributes this to the thing, the … the baby. But rationally he knows the scent is far too strong and too fresh to linger from that, even if the loss still burns what remains of his heart. Nevertheless, something is wrong, and when he thinks of Christine, left here alone and unsupervised … his breath catches in his throat.
Then he notices the blood.
It's more spread out this time, soaking her sleeve, splashed across her cheek. The knife from the kitchen is still clenched in her stiff fingers, liquid dripping from the dull tip down to a growing puddle on the floor. It's darker, too, already mostly dried despite the cool underground air.
And sure enough, the body slumped at her feet is already turning blue.
Her eyes are wide, and they are not like the eyes of any killer he's ever known. They are filled with remorse and sorrow and fear. She chokes back a sob, flings the knife from her grip, wraps her arms around herself again. Her grip leaves bloody handprints on the fabric of her dress.
"I tried to run," she whispers. "He followed me. He saw — saw the entrance, and I couldn't let him – There was nothing I could–" She shakes her head, overcome with silent tears.
He eyes the corpse on the ground. It's no more than a boy, really, with a head full of unruly hair and a sticklike figure that are not entirely unfamiliar. He's sure he'd seen him around the opera house before. Taking care not to touch the gaping wounds in his throat, he uses his foot to turn the boy's head away. He didn't like the way the dead eyes were staring directly into his own.
"He was one of the less imbecilic stagehands," he murmurs, shaking his head with a touch of regret. "I never had to waste time intimidating him."
Christine lets out a little noise, flinches back when he reaches for her. "I'm sorry," she pleads, seemingly possessed by a mad desire to defend herself to him. "I thought you'd left me again, I didn't check if the cellar was empty before I emerged, and when I found myself in his company I didn't know what to do—"
"You shouldn't even be out of bed," he says, and though his voice is gentle there's a new measure of distance in the tone. He's not sure who it's meant to protect — her, or himself. He could never leave her again, certainly not now … but he perhaps he hasn't exactly made that clear to her. He can only imagine how it seemed when he stormed away.
"Of course," she says a little nervously, sniffling. "Now that you're back, I'll just return, then—"
"You should change out of these clothes first," he says, catching her arm as she turns to go. His fingers move to the buttons of her dress, and she leans into his touch. They both stop, however. Their new friend is still staring dully off into the distance.
"And what about him?" she asks softly. "How will we ever–"
"This I can deal with," he says, perhaps a bit to easily.
"Of course," she says again, more flatly this time. He doesn't miss the little shiver that travels along her frame in understanding of his words, or the way she inches away a fraction and then makes for her room again. But this time, he's not the one with blood on his hands. And he likes that no more than she does.
"Christine?" She turns back to him, eyes dull, but he falters. How can he even begin to lecture her? Torture chamber designer, murder consultant, intimidator, ghost — he certainly has no room to criticize.
"Yes?" she whispers, eyes dry now. There's a new hardness behind them that he's sure he doesn't like, wants to say something to soften. But he doesn't. He can't.
"Rest," he murmurs instead. "I'll join you when I've taken care of … this."
Reviews are confidence boosters and certainly would be appreciated right now.
Much love,
KnightNight