Morrigan (withoutachoice) wrote in light_of_may, @ 2010-01-06 02:12:00 |
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Entry tags: | 2009-06-28 |
Darkness
Who: Morrigan and Eric
When: Late Night
Where: A dive bar in Ann Arbor
What: A ghostly witness
She felt trapped. Stuck. Caged. However you wanted to put it, it was how she felt, and there didn’t seem to be any real escape from this cycle of trying to forget that she was trapped, that she felt trapped, and the nearly crushing realization that she was still trapped. Even the word echoed funnily in her head, trapped. Trapped, trapped, trapped. It sounded like a steel cage snapping around her, didn’t it?
She wasn’t trapped by emotion, or society, or some billion and a half reasons that others could be trapped. No, she was trapped for an entirely different reason, a completely different source than anyone she’d ever heard admit to.
Being a siren was a trap.
A beautiful, eternal, trap.
It was something that you were born into, some amalgamation of genetics and magic, twisting your life into something that was both natural and unnatural. Natural, because those like her were born that way, and it didn’t get much natural than the way an individual was born. Unnatural because, well, because a way of life that was continued by death? That was unnatural to the bone.
Thoughts swirled endlessly in her head, each chasing another, when she banished one, six more would arise. Like zombies in some George Romero film. The dress she wore was beautiful, in its way, black and tight on her slim frame. Too high at the bottom, too low at the top, dipping daringly to display the cleavage of her pushed up breasts; it felt as if she was nearly naked, even as the outfit covered everything essential. It even covered the trio of blades sheathed in a strap high up on her right thigh, as ridiculous as the set up had originally seemed to her, but the slight flare of her skirt hid the flash of silver and steel from sight. Until it would be too late.
It was a costume, as if for a play; the costume of a potential victim, when that was never what she truly was. With her flame red hair, pale skin and small stature, she only looked the part of the victim, in this costume she was quite literally a wolf in sheep’s clothing. There was a predator lurking behind her soft brown eyes, as much as she tried to escape that fact, and while she didn’t allow it out all that often, it demanded release every so often.
Seventeen days. It had been seventeen days since her last kill, and she had savored each day of illusionary freedom from the trap that held her. The trap made of her blood calling for the blood of men. There would be no eighteenth day of freedom, not without giving into the bloodlust, although she curbed it and attempted to placate her conscience by having chosen her prey from newspaper articles about a serial rapist who had gotten off on a technicality. It had been easy to find him, nearly too easy, the man whose smug expression and arrogant superiority now marked him as someone that believed he'd 'beaten the system.'
Morrigan knew the moment she had caught the other monster’s eye, felt his gaze as it slid sickly over her bared skin, even when she faced the other way, a drink in her hand. Seated at the bar, her back to him, it took all her will to not rush out, or throw up as she turned and sent him a simmering, flirtatious look that she hoped was cleared of her disgust.
For both him, and for herself.