Shane Marion (wolfishane) wrote in bellumlogs, @ 2010-04-18 22:45:00 |
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Entry tags: | big bad wolf |
Who: Shane Marion (closed, narrative)
What: Relapse. Oh come on, it's a Shane narrative, they are pretty much guaranteed to be depressing and emo %100 of the time.
Where: Outside Bellum.
When: After this.
Warnings: Death and bloodiness. Viewer discretion is advised.
Relapses were to be expected on the road out of any addiction. Not that it was much of a comfort to Shane.
He'd killed three men with his bare hands tonight, a trio of ex-convicts who had all gone in on rape charges and come out friends. They'd all moved in together after getting out of prison, pleased to find a place where they could settle down within their housing restrictions, far from any schools or day care centers, out along the outskirts of the city. Some concerned citizen had called the police to let them know about the predators living in their midst, and they'd done nothing. All three had been multiple offenders let off early for cooperating with police in helping them solve various other crimes. They'd all run with nasty crowds, nasty enough to give them plenty of dirt for the cops. The fact that they'd found one another in prison, swapped stories, become friends, moved in together--it was almost sweet. Serendipitous.
Cards were scattered on the living room table, speckled with drops of blood. The floor and walls were a Pollock all in red, puddles and spray and fine mist. One was slumped over the table with a hole in his chest. One had his head hanging from his neck by ragged threads of skin and tendon. One no longer had eyes.
Shane was standing by the table, surveying the bodies and the carnage, head tipped up as he caught his breath, panting through long, sharp teeth, bone white in the dark. His dark clothes were stained darker with blood. Before he left the bodies would be disguised, their wounds altered to be a little more ordinary, a little more run of the mill. He couldn't afford to have an M.O anymore. Too many people looking into the murders in the area. So he'd gone further afield, brought a knife to give the wounds a little more comforting normalcy for the police. It would go down as a revenge killing by one of the victims' family members, or a vigilante act by a member of the community who couldn't stand the men's presence there for another second.
One of the men had pulled a knife, leaving a gash along his collarbone. The knife was in his pocket now, harmlessly contained. He had a change of clothes in a duffle bag outside, and he could dress the wound when he got home, walked back into Bellum spotlessly clean.
His claws clicked as they settled on the table, and he leaned over to check the hand one of the dead men had dropped on the table. Full house.
empty house. He moved toward the back door. The screaming had been quickly muffled, and no one had come to investigate. If the people in the surrounding houses had heard, they weren't rushing to help their neighbors.
Someone had raped Boyd. They'd either plied her with drugs or they'd waited until she took them, trying to numb the pain of whatever it was Vaughn had done, and then they'd taken advantage of her. Now she was in the hospital, somewhere, and he couldn't even see her, verify that she was alright.
Someone had hurt her as profoundly as she could be hurt and he'd done nothing. He hadn't even been there.
Fucking good for nothing. A monster who couldn't even defend the people he cared about, just cause pain, just tear things down. Wolf.
The fact that he was sated brought him no consolation. There was only cold comfort to find here, now, more guilt in the aftermath, more doubt about the innocence of men and his right to execute them.
Then again, maybe this was all he was good for.