Solomon Djaevelen is the Walord Prince of Dhemlan (blackjeweled) wrote in musingslogs, @ 2011-01-23 18:30:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | daemon sadi, rapunzel |
Who: Isobel and the Sadist
What: Paying a visit
Where: Bathos 203
When: Early Monday morning, around 2:30
Warnings: The Sadist plays (with surprisingly little disturbing imagery) with Isobel.
Shortly after two in the morning, Solomon slipped from his room. He moved quietly, sneaking down the hall, passing Cora’s room on the way. He paused outside the door, checking to see if there were lights and if he could hear anything. The room was dark and silent, and so he continued on his way. He went to the fire escape, opening the window and sliding out onto it.
It was cool outside, and he wasn’t dressed for it. He didn’t wear a coat, just his typical black suit. Even though it was thin and didn’t offer much protection against the elements, he knew the suit better than anything else he owned. He knew how much he could get away with while wearing it, and how stealthy it required him to be. He wouldn’t leave anything behind with the suit.
After his conversation with Ms. Isobel Hughes, he had done some searching. It didn’t take much to discover where she lived. Quite conveniently, a few floors below him and Cora. Bathos 203. He reached the window outside 203 and regarded it for a few seconds. A smile worked it’s way across his face and he kicked the fire escape ladder to the ground. Let the police, should she report this, think he entered the building from the ladder. Satisfied with that, he returned to the window and, with two of his phantom hands, shattered the glass.
He slipped carefully into the apartment, sure the woman was awake. He moved with caution, gliding through the apartment with purpose but without any arrogance. Arrogance got a man caught and killed. He had no intention to be forced into either situation. So he paused in the shadows of the kitchen, listening and waiting to see if the woman was awake.
The sound of something metal clattering outside accompanied by the sound of shattering glass had Isobel sitting straight up in bed, heart racing a mile a moment as she looked about her darkened room. Nothing in the shadows seemed to move, but that hardly meant safety, just that whatever had happened wasn’t in her room - yet. Sliding out of bed, she groped around for her robe, pulling it on and knotting it at her waist, fumbling at her nightstand for her cell phone, which wasn’t there. A dull moment of dread settled in her stomach as she remembered tossing it on the kitchen counter after work last night, and it was the only phone she owned; no use of her in there, was it?
Letting out a breath as quietly as she could, Isobel padded towards the door, hyper alert to any other sounds in her apartment, peering around the corner towards the living room and kitchen, pausing there to gauge the atmosphere in the place. “Hello?” she called out tentatively, wondering if she could call a bluff. “I’ve got a gun and I’m not afraid to use it. If you just leave, then we won’t have any trouble, will we?” She fought to keep her voice level and steady, trying to push confidence in the words. There was no telling if she’d succeeded though.
And there the girl was. Her voice sounded vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place it. She was just one in an ever-growing list of women in his life. Her voice could have been anyone else’s.
He slipped out of the kitchen, keeping to the shadows, as he moved quietly toward her room. The hallway offered little cover, but it was dark. She hadn’t turned on any lights. Lights wouldn’t help her.
He reached out with one of his phantom hands and tapped her shoulder from behind. Once she turned, he would be able to get behind her and grab her. A tiny smile slid across his face, and he waited. The tension in the air was delicious, thick and heavy. It tickled down his spine, delighting him, infusing him with energy. He thrived on this energy. It made his blood rush and set his heart beating in a way only sex excited most people.
The silence was maddening as she waited for a response, any sort of sign that she wasn’t alone in the apartment. When it came, that tap on her shoulder that made her jump, an involuntary scream of fright escaping her as she turned, the robe clutched tightly to her chest. The darkness was thick, clinging to every nook and cranny of her apartment, making a usually warm and familiar place dark and foreboding. And where there should have been something, someone there that was responsible for the tap on her shoulder, there was just that inky darkness.
Isobel was sure her heart was pounding hard enough to be heard in the silence, but slowly, slowly, she took one tentative step backwards, eyes forever seeking in the darkness for what lurked there.
When she turned, he slipped up to her back. He stood there, waiting, just to see if she would turn around or react to his physical presence. She didn’t. Instead, she took a step back, almost bumping into him. He set his hands on her waist, fingers curling into the thick robe at her hips. He didn’t speak, knowing that there was the off chance she knew him. If he thought her voice was familiar, there was likely a reason for it. While he might not remember her, there was always the chance she might remember him.
One of his phantom hands curled around her mouth, and he leaned forward, breathing into her ear. “Shh,” he told her, the exhalation hiding his voice. Another hand sought the flesh of her body. One skimmed under the bathrobe’s sleeve and found nothing but skin. His smile grew, and he dipped the fingers of that hand into her flesh, intending to hurt and bruise, but not kill.
It was tempting. Oh, so tempting. One of the hands at her throat found nothing but bare skin there, and he thought about how easy it would be to slid his hand inside her and dig his fingers into her heart. But if he killed her, she wouldn’t be able to cry, wouldn’t be able to tell anyone someone could have. Leaving her alive was a warning, a message. It was mocking the police department and the masks, both good and bad, with whom he could not and would not side. Look how easy, the message he left on her body would say. Look how close I came. Some would argue that a tiny bit of humanity kept him from killing her.
They would be wrong.
The moment she felt hands rest upon her waist, Isobel grew still, her heart skipping a beat as the fears that had been creeping up on her ever since she was startled awake became terrifyingly real. But before she had a chance to utter any sort of exclamation, a hand covered her throat, cold and terrifyingly solid to feel. Her breath grew slightly more shallow and she stared out at the darkness, willing herself to wake up, for this all to have been a horrible nightmare.
But it was real, horribly so, the feeling of fingers skimming along her arm and then doing something that ought to have been impossible making her knees weaken. There had been no initial pain, no sharp cut that spoke of a knife, but yet something was hurt, something was aching. And it was then that she tried to struggle against him, straining against the hands that had placed such a possessive hold on her, pulling at them with both of her own hands in a sudden burst of adrenaline-fueled action.
The Sadist smiled, thoroughly enjoying her struggle. The hands on her waist held tighter as he ignored the hands flailing at him. A directed hit would have deterred him, but her futile swinging did little harm. He was used to blows. He was used to worse than fists on skin.
His phantom hands slid under her robe at her feet, trailing up her thighs in a sensual caress. He slipped them under her nightgown and over her belly, and he pushed the palms into her abdomen. He kept the touch surprisingly gentle; this was delicate work. Too much attention to her stomach and he could puncture organs. Then she would probably die. That would be messy and altogether unnecessary.
A whimper escaped her, coming out more like a whine with the hand over her mouth, trying to plea around those cold fingers. “Please stop please stop please stop,” she whimpered, shaking her head back and forth. But any pleas she was making stopped abruptly as his hands pressed against her stomach - no. Into her stomach. A breath hitched in her chest as she strained away from those fingers, pushing back against him to try and make every effort to ease that pressure. It hurt like nothing else had hurt before.
Another whine, breathing hard against his hand, and she shifted, pressing back and kicking back at him with her heel, trying to gain some freedom through any means she could think of.
The kick took him off guard. He released her, all of his hands recoiling, both real and psychic. He had done enough damage, so he drew the calling card from his pocket, touching only the edges, and he dropped it on the ground for her to find later.
Satisfied with himself, he made his way down the hallway quickly, but quietly, and slipped out the window. He took the ladder to the ground, just to make it more convincing. Once on the ground, he removed the suit jacket, removed the shirt, throwing them into the dumpsters. He removed his shoes, just to be safe, and tossed those as well. Feeling he had done as much as possible to remain anonymous - and the irony of that wasn’t lost on him - he made his way to the front of the building and shuffled in, doing his best to look like he’d been mugged.
The moment those hands left her, Isobel was turning, trying to catch him before he made his escape, but the pain lingered, too sharp to cope with properly. Her hand might have skimmed his jacket as he left, but there was little else as she slid down the wall to the floor, trembling from head to toe.
It was uncertain how long she sat there before curling up on her side, concentrating on breathing in and out while figuring out what she could do now that he had left.