Senri Mao (bigmaoth) wrote in repose, @ 2018-04-19 22:33:00 |
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Entry tags: | *narrative, mao senri |
narrative:
Who: Mao Senri.
What: Narrative.
Where: Near the motel.
When: Time fuzzy, a week or so ago. Late night / early morning.
Warnings/Rating: Violence, blood, foul language.
Boots thumped a beat on cracked, crooked sidewalk, broken glass glittering under buzzing street lights. On the way home after a night on the town, fearless, the smell of alcohol on his breath. All was right with the world until a sneering voice came to him. “What a faggot.” An unseen explosion. Something dark let loose. Too much alcohol made it easy. Mao stopped, did a smooth about-face, and presented the sneerer with a cordial smile. There was no warmth in it, though. That smile. It was sweet poison. “What’d you say?” “You heard me.” Dismissive. The man was leaning against the brick at the mouth of an alleyway, smoking and peering at him with beady, hateful eyes. “Yeah, but… I want you to say it to my face.” The boy’s smile widened, grew sweeter, more dangerous. “Up close.” The worm writhed on the hook. Waiting. The man’s lip curled, half disgust, half dull amusement. But. He took a step toward the smiling boy, smiling himself, nasty and mocking. He leaned down to get the boy’s level, the bait swallowed hook, line, and sinker. “Faa--” The slur never made it past the first syllable, cut short by a flying fist and a sudden spray of blood as the man’s lip split like an overripe melon against his teeth. The night was filled with the metallic, coppery smell of bleeding, a scent that made Mao’s heart race. The man staggered clutching his face, but before he could recover a hard kick square in the chest sent him backward, deeper into the alley, hidden by the shadows there where Mao followed. Violence was a snowball down a mountain inside him, it grew bigger, fed itself. Mao pounced, the man lay sprawled on his back, the boy’s knees digging into the soft cushion of his beer gut. He didn’t think beyond a vague desire to ‘teach this guy a lesson’. Hands clutched either side of the man’s head to give it a few slams, keeping his prey docile. The thunk of the skull against pavement was wonderfully satisfying. Mao let out a drunken giggle and did it again. Playing. Toying. A cat with a mouse. It’d be so easy to crack that eggshell skull between his fingers... Spill blood. Make something of yourself. Mao breathed deep, that rich scent made his stomach rumble. The slumbering beast inside him stirred, rolled over it its sleep… “This faggot’s gonna make you his bitch,” a promise hissed into the man’s ear, a hungry grin, and then Mao’s tongue was running through the warm, sticky mess spilling over the man’s chin. The dark part of him, once dormant, now lifted its head, opened its eyes. His eyes..! The dazed man came ‘round, weakly pushing at the boy’s shoulders until he saw those eyes, the way the once dark color brightened to a tawny amber, watched the pupils narrow and stretch into slits before growing fat and round and bright with a green reflective glow. The face hanging above him was that which peered down from hidden corners of countless shrines and temples, leered out from the pages of ancient scrolls. Oni. Yokai. Akuma. That feral, mindless grin, red tongue lolling out from between fanged teeth. The man cried out and began a stream of blubbering and begging. Pathetic. Shameful. Yet, such a display of weakness was somehow… appetizing. Eyes glazed, jaws stretched wide, the boy lowered his head, going in for the kill. But something stopped him. The human part of him, the part that had some semblance of morals and vague knowledge of right and wrong, came to its senses and recoiled. Scrambling to his feet he stood over the whimpering man, panting. This was bad. Not only because of the whole killing another human being and eating their flesh thing, but if Investigation Discovery taught him anything it was that he would get caught. Murder and cannibalism gave him pause, but the thought of jail was simply too much. “Get away from me.” The taste of blood still filled his mouth, coated his tongue. So delicious. So wrong. The man was being too slow, and Mao did not trust this moment of clarity to last very long. “GET. UP. AND. FUCK OFF I SAID!!” The bellowing of the demon was enough to get the man going, fight or flight kicking in. He fled with a clumsy, shuffling run that Mao had to force himself to look away from lest he was triggered to give chase. A feeling of dread descended, and Mao too began to run in an attempt to escape it. He ran home and locked the door to his motel room before sitting down hard on the edge of the bed, breathless, disturbed, different. It wasn’t until hours later when he finally got up to wash the blood from his hands did he realize he had already licked them clean. |