matilda trapp is haunted (ghostchannel) wrote in light_of_may, @ 2015-04-09 21:57:00 |
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Her breath was ragged and it ripped past her dried lips and tongue in harsh gasps. Her lungs quivered inside of her chest and let the air escape before it could do her much good. Dark ringlets and curls were matted to the sides of her face with sweat and tears. Matilda’s entire body trembled with spasms. She heaved and lurched forward, clasping onto the toilet in front of her. She knelt against the cool porcelain and lost the contents of her stomach while her eyes squeezed out tears that raced down her cheeks and dripped away from her chin.
Little pig, little pig. Won’t you let me in?
When there was nothing left for her body to expel, Matilda pushed herself away from the toilet. She shook as if was freezing and, save for the sweat, she appeared to be nearly frozen. Her skin was pale and bluish in places and seemed as though it was stretched over her bones. She leaned against the wall, her eyes sliding closed as she brought a hand up to wipe the trail of sick that was trying to fall from her trembling lip. Though she appeared to be frozen, she sat drenched in sweat, the thin tank top and cotton shorts nearly soaked through.
‘Not by the hair on my chinny chin chin.’
His voice scratched down her spine, sending a violent shiver after it. The cruel laughter that accompanied his words curdled her blood and caused her breath to break into a sob. She felt him pull and push at her, like blades and needles of ice threatening to pierce her skin. No matter where she went or what she did, she could not escape his caress and it sickened her. Her skin crawled and she wanted nothing more than to tear it away from her bones. Matilda brought her knees up to her chest, hugging them tightly as she began to rock back and forth. His voice was so strong now. He was there, in the room with her. He was so much more than a shadow in the corner of her eye, more than a passing word between thoughts.
The prickle of ice returned, this time pressing into her left hand and wrist. Matilda’s heart skipped a beat when she felt the sharp sting go much deeper than it had only moments ago. He was stronger and she was weaker. How could she fight him off again? The miracle was that she had lasted so long since meeting the demon in the street; he had shaken her to her core and released confusing thoughts and emotions that completely cracked her resolve.
Little pig, let me in. Or I’ll huff --
“No, please.” Matilda begged, a steady stream of tears flowing from her eyes as her nails clawed into the soft flesh of her legs. Already they were striped with lines that varied from pale pink to brownish scarlet, both new and old injuries. Her voice cracked and was shrill as she slipped into hysterics. “Just stop it.”
And I’ll puff --
The icy burn deepened and traveled up past her elbow. He had more of her now. She could feel it creep towards her shoulder and neck. His touch was death and it consumed her flesh and muscles, caused her very bones to tremble with dread as the nerves became his. His voice was deafening in her mind as the ice swept into her neck and the base of her skull.
And I’ll blow your house in.
Opening her eyes and taking that first breath was always the most luxurious feeling. Just for extra measure, Luke inhaled again, this time a wicked smirk curling the edge of Matilda’s lips. Her body was weak from her struggle. Really, the girl deserved a bit of respect for how long she fought him. He felt his strength return in the night and sought his prize in the midst of her sleep, thinking her unsuspecting and vulnerable. He was right, of course, but he never imagined that she possessed such a fire within her. Perhaps she had more of him in her than she knew.
He laughed. At first the sound was a low chuckle, but it grew and blossomed into a cackle that echoed off of the cheap tile walls of the hotel bathroom. He indulged in the sound of Matilda’s laughter, the light and lilting sound with that element of madness woven through each trill.
Luke pushed her body up from the floor, both relishing and resenting how weak she felt under his control. He stretched her arms upward and let the sinew and muscles release some of their tension all the way from her toes to her fingertips and let out an indulgent groan. The sound also echoed and rang in his ears, causing him to smile yet again. He stepped towards the mirror, a small sort of ritual for every time he regained control.
The color was returning to Matilda’s cheeks and lips, a bit of a rosy hue barely dusted there. Her hair was a mass of wild and tangled raven curls and her eyes, those beautiful green eyes of hers, reflected a rich darkness that could only be described as devilish.
“Now,” he whispered, Matilda’s voice soft. “Where is that demon who was so intrigued by us?”