Kayla Michaels lives without guilt (thekappa) wrote in musingslogs, @ 2010-09-19 03:19:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | cinnamon spider |
Who: Kayla
What: The birth of the Kappa (a narrative)
Where: Bathos 603
When: Thursday evening
Warnings: Dark thoughts, semi-sexual imagery, and generally disturbing material.
The apartment had been recently cleaned, the vacuum run and clutter put away. The off-white carpet in the living room was absolutely pristine, clean and sparkling as if taint had never once touched it. Even as she sat in its center, the skin of her thighs pressed into the carpet, Kayla couldn't observe even one speck of decay. The floor was still immaculate, still perfect as the day she had bought it. She moved her legs in a wide scissor motion, the way a child making a snow angel would move, as she dug her nails into the carpet behind her. There was nothing better for the end of a long day than sitting on her carpet in her undergarments, appreciating how soft and still the world within her apartment could be.
Picking up a pencil from her open briefcase, Kayla twisted her blonde hair into a knot that she held in place with the writing instrument, feeling the knot sag slightly as she released its weight. She let her head fall back entirely, blue eyes locked on the ceiling. The seventh floor was above her, the floorspace between this floor and that buzzing with life. She could feel the water in the pipes flowing over her, rushing back and forth with such verve that she could hardly take it. Extending one hand, she stretched her fingers to the ceiling. For a moment, she considered bursting the entire system. She knew that she could do it. She had practiced with straws before, and then with arteries. Pipes were just tubes, that was all. She could stop the flow and then create a mass that grew in size until the pressure was too much.
She could just imagine the torrent of water bursting from the ceiling, flooding her apartment and soaking her pristine carpet. Everything would be ruined – her laptop, her television, her bra. It would all be soaked, destroyed really. A dreamy smile crossed her face, teasing wrinkles around her eyes, and for a moment she almost did it. But then she recalled that she really, really liked her couch. She could have kept the water damage from it, but it would be too much work. So instead, she let her hand drop to her side, posture slackening, as her gaze fell to the scattering of newspapers around her.
Kayla had made sure to collect every copy of the Creations Times ever since it had started publication. The mysterious newspaper with no known author was always on the cutting edge of what was going on in Seattle and catered exclusively to the ragtag immigrants from Musings. Before six months prior, Kayla had never really known about any community for those from Musings. She was sure she’d hate it – after all, she left for a reason. But it was nice to have her fingers on the pulse of Creation life. After discovering that every immigrant possessed some sort of supernatural power, she did her best to stay informed.
Settling cross-legged on the floor, she extended the fingers of her right hand towards a glass of water she had left several feet away. Without looking, she summoned its contents in a slender strand that wrapped itself like a coil around her wrist. The sensation of her homemade cuff was familiar and calming, constantly rotating and writhing as she laid out several copies of the Creations Times in order. The front page articles were, of course, the most eye-catching and dramatic. Her fingers brushed over them as she read the headlines.
“It’s Time to Decide, Seattle,” she whispered, teasing her water coil over her elbow and up to her shoulder. A satisfied smirk twisted her lips as she slid her fingers over to the next issue, nail tracing the “c.” “Children Turned Vigilantes.” A low chuckle rumbled in her chest at that one. What business did children have running about at night? Then again, if they chose to get themselves killed, who were they to stop them? Everyone died. Children weren’t exempt just because they were small and supposedly cute.
Feeling the water band wind around her neck, she flicked a lock of hair from her face. “Behind the Inkblot.” This made her laugh. Oh yes, she remembered the uproar about the man with a black and white face. In her opinion, he had it half right: he just needed to stop being so picky about who he killed. He should change it up a bit, maybe kill off a rape victim or two just to throw people off. It would make the geniuses at the police station scratch their heads, that’s for sure.
As she reached the last issue, time seemed to slow. “Watch Out for Men in Masks,” she said, lips falling open despite the fact that she had finished speaking. It was like being drugged, a heady sensation that filled her from toe to top. Picking up the issue, she twisted around and fell backwards, landing atop the others. The wrinkles of tough newspaper pricked at her back as she stretched out, all leg and curved back, with the first issue held above her. Her water necklace turned into a series of beads that lengthened as she tugged at it with one thumb, forcing it outwards until it was long enough for her to press against her chin.
Rolling one swirling bead between the point of her chin and her lower lip, she scanned the article with devious eyes. Yes, the other Creations were starting to worry about these masked men, and it was actually kind of cute. They seemed to think that squawking and squealing would resolve their fears, when really all it did was the opposite. No, no, writing editorials about how scared they were and how much there was to worry about didn’t keep anyone safe. On the contrary. It raised a white flag.
These people were falling apart, it seemed. Some had been here for hours, some days, and some months or years. But they were all out of their element, in this strange new world. Though Kayla had been here for a full fourteen years, she never considered it her home. Even Musings wasn’t her home. No, this was just a nest. Somewhere to stock up and fortify for some time until she had to move on. But these people were trapped by their own identities, imprisoned by fear. And there wasn’t anything for them to be afraid of, really.
Not yet.
Her tongue snaked out from between her lips, the tip entering one of the many water beads held against her chin. It tasted cool and calm, refreshing and utterly familiar. Eyes falling closed, she let the newspaper descend upon her body, settling like a blanket over her chest and upper thighs. She dropped the necklace, sliding both hands slowly and firmly over the crinkly covering until it was forced to hug every curve of her body. Tilting her head backwards, she felt the necklace draw upwards until it was a large ball beneath her chin, rolling slowly over her lips.
She didn’t need to see the water to know where it was going and where it was meant to be. Lips parting, she felt a drop of water fall into her mouth, a gift that she so desperately craved. As the mass of water passed to her nose, she let out a small moan, right hand gripping her own hip tightly through the newspaper. Her legs shifted, toes curling into the carpet as she writhed over her bed of newspapers. The water began to flatten against the bridge of her nose, fanning out to form a thin mask that covered the upper half of her face, from nose to hairline.
Blue eyes snapped open, fixated sharply on the ceiling. She could feel the rush of blood in her own veins, the constant lub-dub of her heart. It was a constant song that she could only turn off in her dreams, a loud chorus that rolled over her living room. Her right hand dug its heel into her stomach, pressing harshly against her soft organs as it dragged a slow path up to her ribs. Fingers flexing, she brushed the swell of her breast through her newspaper blanket. It was all starting to come together.
Her head fell to the side, lolling against her neck as the cool mask danced and rippled over her skin. It was a gentle tease, a soft touch that set her nerves alight. Her primitive hand climbed the mountain of her breasts, reaching the peak as she dug her hips into the floor. She imagined the sight of all those masks with their eyes burned out, turned into smoldering coals that no longer could emit heat. She wondered what they would look like if she filled them to the brim, water bursting at the seams. Would the human Bat still be able to fly if his belly was swollen and soft? Would the white-faced man be so athletic with his arms and legs puffed out with water retention? Would the Inkblot be so mysterious if she drained the ink from his face and bottled it up just for herself? All the others, the children, would they pickle nicely in a jar?
All these questions caused her heart to race as her palm pressed against her sternum. She could feel her pulse, alive and raging, within her body. Her knees fell to the side, hips twisting and sliding against her bed of newspapers as she contemplated the weight of her water mask. The Creations Times seemed so eager to ask about the distinction between hero and vigilante, but the writers were missing the point entirely. They shouldn’t be concerned about semantics or fine lines. They should be asking where the villains were.
As her hand clasped around her own throat, she could already feel a new life surging through her veins. The nails of her fingers pricked her skin gently, a soft nip rather than a tight grip. Her other arm wound firmly around her waist, holding herself in as if she were about to burst at the seams. Gaze roving over her plain living room, she began to imagine Seattle at night, and how crisp the air must be. She wondered what it would be like to leap from building to building, propelling herself forward with the water in her body, and sometimes land on an unsuspecting pedestrian’s head. She wondered what it would be like to put on another face, to wear another woman’s skin and parade about in a world of squishy bodies and wet blood. She wondered what it would be like to wear bold colors and tights as she plucked the life from undeserving flesh-sacks.
Lips contorted with a wicked smile, she released her throat and reached for her face. Delicate touches felt out the perimeter of her mask, waves rippling across the water skin at the contact. It was a lovely sensation, lush and complete and utterly perfect. Eyes closing again, she let out a wicked laugh that consumed her from within and dumped all of her essence out into the room surrounding her. If she weren’t on her back, she’d be certain that she was vomiting everything about Kayla Michaels and her terribly dull life as a lawyer out into the universe to consume and destroy.
Seattle had its heroes, and its vigilantes. It had women swooning over masks and men bewildered. It had mystery and intrigue and sex and violence all on the six o’clock news. It had the upper crust floating along while the lower crust fought through the pudding center for just one taste of glittering freedom. It had a balance, a strict way of life that nobody questioned despite the fact that it was utterly unfounded. It had everything you could ask for in a city that played home to people from another world that lived on in silence and relative peace.
Now all it needed was a Kappa to take that lovely picture and rip it into a thousand confetti pieces.