Presley (sanguinates) wrote in repose, @ 2019-12-30 13:45:00 |
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Bam! That was the sound of Hazel's phone violently hitting the wall. It laid on the floor glowing shattered glass and shattered words. Tarot cards circled the bed haphazardly; upright, upside down, slanted, their judgmental ink stared her down. She tried. It was always the same. People were the worst. She hated them. She hated them right then with a fire so intense it scorched her heart. It was a moment though. Hazel was filled with them and they'd come then go and come again when the wrong chord was struck. The scars on her wrists burned in sympathy with her rage. It reminded her of what people had done. "Fuck!" She shrieked, burying her face onto the comforter, her body twisting and writhing--because on top of the frustration, the complete and total fury for strangers on the ether she was ravenous. So much so, and not the sort that stirred from the stomach, but from her soul, from the very core of who she was. It was decay. It was spiritual death manifesting in the physical realm. She was dying. Her screams continued, savagery muffled by decadent satin. She curled up, she stretched, she clawed, she cried. Hungry, hungry, hungry---so hateful. The curtains of her room flapped though there was no wind, her bed trembled beneath her as if the floor was alive. Memories were an avalanche, cold eyes, blood, dead bodies hitting the ground as their lives filled her own-- "Miss Hawthorne," the familiar voice that interrupted her chaos momentarily stunned and stilled her. Hazel gulped sobs as she looked up from a mop of chestnut hair, stormy blue eyes were shining under the dim light from outside. She could see his silhouette within the frame of the door. It was black, inky, lanky, and there was only flash of color--the faded auburn of his hair. "No!" Hannah bellowed. "No, I don't want it! I don't!" Hungry. "You need to, Miss Hawthorne. It has been nearly two weeks, you cannot keep pushing it off or else--" Hazel threw a pillow at him, he didn't even budge as it fell to the floor soundlessly. The man stepped forward, pale amber eyes were unamused and unmoved. Hungry. "Why do you care?!" She hissed like a caged animal drawing her knees up and wrapping her arms around her legs. Her scars burned deep. So hungry. "I don't care, Miss Hawthorne, however I am employed by you family. Paid to watch over you and be sure you are well supplied, and so long as I am compensated I will do just that." He was beside her bed now. Early forties, lines had begun to form at the corners of his eyes, but not from smiling, and a touch of silver was unfolding from the temple of his scalp through the locks of his hair. Hazel sneered at his words, at his stupid paisley vest, at his long fingers which pinched and hurt when they held her down. "I hate you, Frederick." She snarled. "I wish you were dead!" "Mm, not today I'm afraid. Besides so, I don't care. Now. Are you going to do this the hard way or easy? I don't mind either, so long as it stops your ridiculous screaming." His cold eyes drifted to the phone laying broken on the floor. "I will have to get you another phone, I see." His jaw tightened. "I fucking hate you!" Hazel raised her right fist to strike out at him. "Get away from me--!" Starving. He caught her arm with ease, the nail of his thumb pressed deeply into her rough scar, blood sluggishly oozing around the crescent dig of his finger. "So, it is to be the hard way." He sighed, clearly put out. With his free hand he took her chin, jerking her mouth open, Hazel's jaw clicked and she felt her blood run cold, the hunger inside of her wailing as Frederick's paper thin thin open lips hovered over her own, not touching, never touching. Ravenous. The transference was always a shock to the system, like jumping into ice cold water while with fever. The energy was a light, a beacon, Frederick's was a pale grey-white and it always tasted like smoke and ash. Hazel hated it, the flavor of his being would suffocate her senses, flood her being; she could smell, taste, feel, see and hear everything that he was--but--the hunger? The hunger adored it. The smoke and ash was it's favorite meal because it was being sated, it would partake in it, bathe in it, roll in it. It slipped through her veins becoming part of her, calming the beastly creature within. She clenched her eyes shut until she finally felt a sense of calm settling over her, only opening them when Frederick pulled away. The wild, charged magic in the air died. He looked tired, bruises under his eyes--they'd be gone in a day or two, he shifted his own jaw, clicking his teeth shut, running his fingers over the speckled hairs on his chin. "As fun as that was," he lamented for himself more so than her. "I do hope you choose the easy way soon." "...fuck you," Hazel was tired, even though the hunger felt like a preening cat right now, Chesire smiles and happily going to its corner until demanding its next meal. Tomorrow? Two days from now? A week? It was a onerous creature. It was her. The energy would come back in full after sleep. "Not I, Miss Hawthorne, and not likely anyone else either." She caught a faint sneer on Frederick's face, barely detected in the shadows. She knew, she knew part of him delighted in cruelties as much as her family did---they wouldn't have hired him if he hadn't. As he turned to leave her room, exhausted but upright, she took comfort in imagining his body falling onto the floor shriveled. One day she'd pay him back ten fold. But for now she let blackness take her away from the glow of a busted phone and into deep, deep sleep. |