Who Delilah & Isobel. What: Kind of a late night game of vampiric hungry hungry hippos. Delilah eats a homeless man, the passerby Isobel gets a little heroic, then abruptly weezy. Where: Cliche 101, a dark alley. When: Tonight. Warnings: Blood.
Seattle was boring. Maybe if Delilah was emotionally invested in the dramatics of her fellow creations, she could get on board with some of the latest happenings. People getting shot should have been exciting. But as it was, Delilah had very little reason to get on the forums and play cybernetic social hour unless it was a means of ignoring her personal problems. Like married politicians. Like hunger.
The nightclub proved a momentary distraction. Some local band played throwback Nirvana while she drank lukewarm bourbon in the shadowy cast of the back row. It didn’t take very long for the heat to start getting to her.. there were too many people crowded into this sardine can of a venue. She could smell them. Their sweat was like gasoline fumes, but somehow beckoned as much as it disgusted. The perfume was heady, some volatile and likely combustive blend of stale cigarettes and flat beer and humanity. She had to get out of there.
Not even drunk, she still weaved in her death-defying heels, hobbling out past a strewn minefield of Heineken bottles and strip club flyers. The hunger was melding into her other wants now.. it just seemed like a knot of absence. It ached like eating nails and out in the spotlight of a Seattle street lamp, she fantasized about what might make it go away.
Steak. She needed a steak. Filet mignon, medium rare-- Rare. Or better yet, seared gently, and still oozing blood like a freshly slit--
"Change?"
"What?" Delilah stirred with a disturbed blink at the man cowering at the entrance of an alley. It took her a moment to focus on him, squinting past her halo of light and into the ominous fall of darkness. He looked like a D.A.R.E. promotional ad, two missing teeth and a mean disposition. Gray tongue moving like a snake between chapped, bloodied lips. Blood. She felt her focus shrinking and couldn’t stop it. Delilah tried to keep her eyes on his face, his eyes, she tried to understand whatever it might have been that he’d just asked her.. and again his lips were moving, she could note that in the periphery or her attention.. but she didn’t hear him. She just saw his stained maw shivering, gnashed teeth peeking past crusty, dark red. White, chapped skin that looked more like scales and a raw, scabbing sore that whispered of life beneath the surface.
Just a small taste..
Revulsion and horror clawed at her with that strange thought, and Delilah tasted bile when she stumbled back a step from the man, who had suddenly snuck quite close.. or was it her that had been advancing? “No.. I don’t have anything, I’m sorry..”
Quite possibly the first time Delilah had ever apologized in her life, the words tasted like panic even before the man crept nearer.
"I know that ain’t true, Park Avenue.." His slum sign language vaguely outlined the direction of her golden Louboutins, her run-free stockings, her primped curls. Darkness enveloped them an inch at a time as Delilah backed into the gaping maw of the alley. The glint of his switchblade reflecting like a molten sugar chaser in her whiskey eyes.
Anyone within a block radius could have heard the scream, the two second beat, the strangled cry.
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Isobel was quite certain Eli’d have a fit if he knew how late she was out, where she was, and what she was doing, but a break from the monotony of books and every day life had been required before she screamed. So she’d found a dress in the back of her closet, something fun and flirty, nothing too risque where she’d get a look for dressing the way she was. And with a bit of cash in her purse, cell phone, and a desire to just have a good time, she headed out for the night.
And what a night it had been. A few drinks. Dancing with the guys she ran into (and even a couple of girls), and it was exactly what she had needed; let loose and have fun. She was getting ready to head on to another bar, music ringing in her head, her cheeks flushed from dancing and alcohol, when the scream met her ears. Almost immediately, she stiffened, wanting to run, to flee, because when people screamed, bad things happened.
But then, without thinking, Isobel ran in the direction of the commotion, only half a block away from the source. Her steps slowed as she approached the alley, almost scared to peek around the corner into the darkness that lurked there. But the fear of someone being hurt pushed her forward, and slowly, heels clicked against the concrete and she peered around the corner, white teeth worrying nervously at painted lips.
“Hello?” she asked, one step taken into the darkness, fingers lingering against the coarse brick wall. “Should I call for help? I...” A pause, a swallow. “Heard a scream?” Her voice cracked at the word, suddenly feeling stupid for even stepping in here.
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Just beyond the rust-eaten corner of a dumpster, the moon cast a sick portrait of this robbery gone awry. The knife lay discarded on the pavement, somewhere between Isobel and the slumped vision of one body atop another. They could have been lovers, caught in the act, really.. but then there was the blood.
It dripped from the brick wall, it dripped from the dumpster, it dripped from the swollen mouth of Delilah when she staggered to her feet. Flustered, erratic, her hands moved like hummingbird wings.. fingers splaying against her stained mouth, her soaked dress front. Alarmed by the interruption of the woman, but moreso panicked by what had just transpired.
It all had happened so fast, really. How she’d gone from wrestling with the knife, to it going into the man's chest, the spray of blood in her face, the taste.. the mindnumbing, empty bliss..
“Accident,” Delilah choked, turning quickly away from the other woman in an effort to wipe her face. As if the evidence wasn't lying there at her feet, the man’s throat ripped wide by some kind of beast.. or just manicured fingers.
He was still alive, blood bubbles sputtered horribly from the wound.
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The coppery smell of blood hit her, making her stumble back one step, a hand rising up to cover her mouth and nose as she stared at the sight in front of her. Little could have prepared her for that scene, the blood dripping from the walls, painting the girl like some macabre version of a child covered in birthday cake. She wanted to wretch, to give in to the nausea plaguing her all of a sudden, but something kept here there; whether it was fear, or something else entirely, Isobel wasn’t sure.
Of course it had been an accident. No one would do this deliberately, and as her gaze tracked down to the man, laying at the girl’s feet, Isobel forced herself to take a step forward. He was breathing. He was still alive. Logically, she knew she should call someone for help, call 911, get an ambulance. But would he even make it that long? Fear and desperation pushed her further forward, her purse dropped to the ground as she knelt beside the man, looking back up towards Delilah. “I can help him,” she said in a hushed voice. “But you can’t tell anyone!”
And then, without waiting for answer, Isobel reached out towards the man, her bare hand covering the gaping wound that made up the man’s throat, closing over the wound. Trembling like a leaf, Isobel tried to concentrate, to heal, to help. The cloying smell of copper still assaulted her, still made her want to wretch, but she pushed forward, tears made up of fear and anxiety sliding down her cheeks.
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Delilah’s nod was a numb thing when she stepped away from the spasming body of her attacker, barely listening to the good Samaritan's insistence that she could help. Barely focusing on the way blondie laid a gentle touch on the flowing gash that had once been the man’s throat. She could see the glint of his spine in the moonlight, somehow so white despite all of the blood. But nausea did not overwhelm Delilah when she swallowed suddenly, the pool of saliva on her tongue signalling something very different than the need to vomit.
Delilah felt incredible. It was like discovering new nerve endings, she should have been able to fly, she should have been able to do anything. She’d just sipped from the fountain of ecstasy, the well of pure splendor, the..
Oh God. Realization fully dawned, and Delilah staggered behind the dumpster to retch and spit. Clawing at the blood that clung still to her lips, she frenzied her way loose from a ruined dress. She came to her senses, evidence needed to be destroyed.
Moving toward a manhole cover that neared the night’s empty street, Delilah wore only a red satin slip.. but the look managed to be effortless and more fresh-from-the-runway than fresh-from-the-killing-fields. And even if her hands were shaking, Delilah pried up the manhole’s heavy iron lid like it was nothing but paper maiche. Down the bloody dress went, to be buried amongst the Seattle’s sewage.
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He wasn’t going to make it. She could feel it beneath her hands, her own energy not near enough to bring life back to the man, and eventually, she had to say that she could do more. Pulling her bloody hands back, Isobel stared down at the man, swallowing past the lump in her throat before she looked away, over towards Delilah where she was tearing at her dress, clawing at her mouth. Rocking backwards, Isobel got up to her feet, bloodied hands held out in front of her, afraid to touch anything, even herself.
“Miss?” she said tentatively, though she halted where she stood when she saw her lift the manhole up with such ease, the first stomach-roll of danger coming over her. “Uhm.” Isobel looked away, feeling awkward, some of the colour draining from her face, a combination of shock at the sight and the drain from trying to help the man. “You... should call someone. Police. You need to call the police.”
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Even considering Delilah’s limited experience with the police, she was fairly certain that calling them was the last thing she wanted to do at a time like this. While a seasoned veteran when it came to leaving the scene of a crime, Delilah had never killed a man before (well, not directly anyway). Still, despite her novicehood, she imagined that disposing of the body was step #1. Of course, this witness complicated things.. and Delilah suddenly pinned her with cooling scrutiny, all previous adrenaline and panic conceding to the cold slap of logic.
The gears were already turning when she stepped forward, noting the way that the man’s body now lay perfectly still beneath a blanket of stars. But this woman had insisted that she could help.. and while that had clearly not been the case, Delilah was struck by the rest of the woman’s earlier words. But you can’t tell anyone! What exactly had the woman done? Closer, Delilah skirted a brief glance to the shivering blond stranger, who looked very near slipping into shock, and then down to the motionless body at her feet. He was quite dead, but that wasn’t what left Delilah staring. Where she could vividly recall seeing the man’s spine only minutes earlier was now healed flesh. He was still a mess by every medical definition, but there was now twice as much of his throat as there had been before. How had..
“How did you do that?” Almondine eyes rolled up from the dead man, and toward the stranger, more cautious than curious.
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As Delilah surveyed the scene with a coldness that scared Isobel to the very core of her being, Isobel was intelligent enough to dart back over to retrieve her purse, bloodied hands staining the fabric to a point where it was likely unsalvagable. And then the question came, the question that she couldn’t rightly answer. Conversations between her and Eli, her and Ray, filtered back, cautions to keep what she could do a secret. It had already gotten her in trouble before and she had no inclination on letting that happen again.
So when the other turned towards her, fixing her with her gaze, Isobel took a step backwards towards the gaping mouth of the alley and the freedom that lay right there. “Do what?” she repeated, trying on a smile that she hoped seemed clueless. “I was just - Just trying to staunch the blood flow until medical people came. That’s all.” The smile grew more and more nervous as time slipped by, another step closer to freedom.
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The girl was lying, that much would have been obvious to the deaf and blind. She had most definitely done something to the body, something that she was either embarrassed by or frightened to admit.
Squinting with a feline’s curiosity, Delilah did not pursue the subject matter and instead cast a quivering, nervous glance to the mouth of the alley where a couple of cars prowled by, blasting rap music. Then back to Isobel, sensing an escape was imminent for both of them.
“Give me that,” a brief gesture to the stranger’s bloodstained purse. “I’ll clean it up.”
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Isobel wasn’t with it enough to even begin to think of her actions, of the stranger’s requests, so when she was asked to hand the purse over for cleaning, Isobel did so wordlessly, moving on auto pilot as her gaze again and again fell to the stranger on the ground of the alley. “We should call someone,” Isobel said again, looking back to Delilah, her eyes bright. “We really need to call someone before...” Before what? Before someone died? Isobel was fairly sure the man was dead.
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Taking the purse, Delilah lifted the woman’s wallet briefly enough to scan over the girl’s ID. Isobel Hughes. Bathos address. The snooping wasn’t even remotely concealed, but those hands moved so fast that it was likely Isobel missed the entirety of the privacy invasion. Handing the (still bloodied)purse back to Isobel, Delilah knelt over the body and checked for a pulse. There wasn’t one, but her eyes betrayed nothing when she glanced up at her accomplice. “I’ll take him to the hospital, but you should get out of here.. in case they ask any questions--” Her fingers hovered discreetly over the man’s unmoving throat, where it was partially healed. Of course, there would be no trip to the hospital, no doctors asking questions. The only hospice-style comfort that this unfortunate man was going to find was going to be at the bottom of a riverbed. But Isobel didn't need to know that.
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Clutching the purse back against her chest, the fact that nothing had been done was lost on her, and instead, she gave a small nod of her head as the woman knelt to see to the man. “Please don’t tell them anything,” she said quietly before she turned, nearly twisting her ankle in her hurry, her head spinning slightly with how fast she had moved.
She needed to get away. To stop somewhere. To breathe. Then to get home. Life was fuzzy in her understanding of it then, and it was doubtful that it would get any better.