Iris / Blythe Collins (element_sky) wrote in monte_logs, @ 2012-09-04 01:00:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | iris, ~complete |
narrative; complete
Characters: Iris/Blythe (element_sky)
Date/Time: Evening of September 3rd
Location: Georgia Street
Rating: R
Warnings: Violence, Language, Assault
Summary: Iris jumps at the chance to be a part of history, but history doesn’t want her there.
They had come marching down the street with their bricks and their banners around five pm, interrupting what was supposed to be an evening of dinner and preparing for classes. Blythe stuck her head out the window at the sounds of the first wave of people making their way down her block and witnessed, shocked, at the sight of bricks and rocks being thrown through the windows of her neighbors. She slammed her window immediately, backing away from the glass. It was good timing, as someone chucked a beer can at the window, the fizzing drink blurring her view of the gathering.
What was going on? Why were these people here? Was it because of Representative Jackson? It had be – there was nothing else she knew that could stir up such a reaction, and she’d been keeping tabs on the social and political reactions to his words – there were people out there who could hate Montenegro this much.
Short on breath, Blythe darted into Zack’s room. He was there, equally panicked, and after some talking between them he decided he couldn’t stay for this. Within a few minutes, Zack was out the back of the building, sprinting off to the forests in his unicorn form. Blythe was alone with a mob outside her door. The thought to call Liron or Cai crossed her mind, but what good would that do? They’d have to come here to get her. And even if they tried to take her away, she wouldn’t leave. She wasn’t afraid. She was exhilarated.
This was history. It had come literally to her doorstep. Someone had thrown a brick through Zack’s bedroom window. Another person had tried to open her front door before she locked it and moved a dresser in front of it. She hoped everyone else was alright, but what mattered most was that the truth was heard. It was imperative.
Running back to her bedroom, Blythe stripped from her bohemian dress and opted for something she never wore – the only pair of jeans in her entire closet. She paired them with a simple tank and then ran into the bathroom, removing all the beads and feathers from her messy bun. The color was stuck there, but she tucked it under a beanie. Topped off with sneakers, Blythe grabbed her handheld recording device and snuck out the back.
Knowing she’d have to hurry – the police would show up soon – she slipped through a side alley and paused, watching the crowds of people trying and failing to set a nearby car on fire. Her fingers started to shake then. She was nervous. Not many people would willingly step into a lion’s den. But it had to be done. If she acted like a “normal” person, nobody would notice. She’d be safe in the heart of her enemy.
Blythe darted into the crowd, falling into the angry cadence quite readily. The most important part of being undercover was to look and sound convincing. So she found a pair of men over by a lamppost, gesturing to the now lit car, and whipped out her recording device. “Jane Collins with the Montenegro News.” She informed them. “Can you tell me a little about what’s going on?”
To say they looked pissed was an understatement. But they responded, yelling over the crowds just how they thought the incarnates were dangerous creatures – abominations, they said – and that they were a danger to the world. It took all of her willpower not to argue back, but she nodded as a reporter would, intent and dedicated. It went on that way for hours as the sun set and the stars lit up the night sky. Police were starting to form barricades; fights were breaking out all around her. People were being arrested.
Knowing this would be the best time to leave, Blythe was left with the fight of returning to her apartment – seven buildings down. A rowdy tussle of men neared her and she backed against the wall as fast as she could, but a flying elbow knocked her in her side, knocking her to the ground. She was momentarily stunned, the red glow of the street light illuminating the rambunctious crowd. Their hatred for incarnates – had it really brought them to this much of a frenzied madness? Blythe released several low breaths, fingers pressed against the sidewalk. The feel of the cold ground beneath her hands prompted the startling revelation that she no longer held the recorder in her hand. Desperately, she gazed around. Where could it have-? Ah! It had tumbled feet away from her, just out of reach. Drained, she lifted herself to her hands and knees, reaching across for it. But just as her fingers graced the rounded edge of the device, a pair of booted feet appeared before her. Blythe watched, stunned, as a large man leaned down and picked the device up. Her heart pounding, she lifted her eyes to the man’s face, which were not on the recorder, but on her. And he looked pissed.
“What’s this?” He asked, his voice low and growly – a threat of a tone, to be sure.
Her entire body froze, the pounding heart now in her throat as she tried to find the words. “My name is Jane Collins, I work for - hey!” At this point, the man had dropped the recorder and stomped on it. She heard the crackling of all of her hard work. “How dare you, that was my work!”
This time the man reached down to grab her by the forearm, pulling the surprised girl to stand. She didn’t know why, but she was expecting a stern talking to or a snarly ‘get lost’, but what she got was a hand at her throat, her back being slammed against the wall of the Laundromat. It hurt – and all at once – but her hands clawed at his arm as he held her tight, graciously granting her just enough room for breathing. What was worse was his grimly lit face, much of it in shadow, dipping in closer to hers. He smelled like cigarettes and sweat. “What was on that recorder?”
“I told you.” She said tightly, struggling for air. “My name is –”
But he pressed harder this time and she could feel herself becoming lightheaded. The world around her was forming into shapes and images that were almost haunting, deafening. He was going to choke her to death. “I’ll say it one more time –”
This was it, if she didn’t do anything now he was going to knock her unconscious. And what followed could mean anything from assault to rape to death. With the last tint of her vision, she stared him hard in the face, her lips curling, and something that didn’t sound human emerged from her mouth as she commanded: “Let me go.”
The giant man dropped her immediately, not by the force of her words but by the sound. As he stumbled back, his hands clasping his ears as what she could only imagine were a thousand screaming voices penetrating his brain, she fell to the floor, coughing and wheezing. Air couldn’t come quickly enough to her lungs, her throat burning and bruised. She was screaming in the back of her head: run. Run for your life. Get up and run. but her legs wouldn’t lift her, her head dizzy and heavy. She tried to push herself up with her hands, gaining an ungainly balance against the wall, but the damage she’d caused was setting in. Others saw the man backing away from her, crying out and on his knees. They all turned to look at her and it was then she realized her other problem: in her commotion of fear and alarm, her hair had turned snow white.
The one nearest to her did them all the favor of pointing out the obvious and announced, “She’s one of them!”
By now she’d made it to her feet, but they came at her, pinning her back against the wall. The one who’d spoken dragged a dry and boney finger along her cheek. “What a beautiful girl.” Blythe tried to turn her head away then, all the thoughts of regret and what a stupid idea infiltrating her mind, but the man took advantage of her haziness and smacked her hard in the face. Again, many sensations erupted at once – her temple striking the wall, the sting of his skin on her face, the splitting of her lip and the seeping of blood. The body-locking fear of being assaulted by these men.
But as she allowed herself to be held up by these men, their speaker now dragging this same idle finger down her throat to her chest, she discovered fear wasn’t the only thing quaking her bones. She had to return to Liron, to Cai, to her home. She had to tell the story. She wasn’t going to just give up.
By now the man had slid well into her comfort zone, his chest pressed against hers, his friends digging their nails into the skin of her wrists until they bled. His hand – oh god, his hand - making its way across her hip, skimming along the flesh of her thigh, the fabric of her jeans feeling like little safety now. And his mouth came centimeters from hers. He smelled no better than the man before.
Blythe parted her lips, her breaths still haggard, but the intent to speak was still there.
“Something you’d like to say, sweetheart?” He jeered as her white hair brushed the tip of his nose.
“Yes.” Blythe glared, voice tired. “You should’ve paid more attention to the other guy.” And so her nightmarish voice returned, this time with a hint of sadistic pleasure: “Get the hell off of me.”
The three men peeled back as the man before them did, one of them howling but decidedly fastened to her wrist. Blythe kicked the man in the gut, his release coming with the sharp release of his nails from her skin. But she turned abruptly, darting down the alleyway. The leader of the group stumbled after her, making headway because the dizziness and suffocation had done its work. He tackled her as she rounded behind the building towards the escape ladder and they both collided with the ground. The scraping of her knees and arms on the dirty concrete were only a new sensation of many she was now speedily becoming familiar with. The man climbed up first and took advantage of his win, kicking her in the stomach. But she twisted her limbs through the pain, swiping her leg to knock him out. As he fell, the other men came to the alley, but Blythe was already towards the ladder.
One reached to grab her, but she kicked him in the face, rendering him unconscious. Every thought and every movement lent her the strength to climb up. Through the fog of pain, disappointment, terror, and shame, she collapsed on the roof of the adjacent building. From here she would have to find a way home. But with the men having given up the chase and safely hidden in the darkness, home was finally a possibility again.