D12 // DAARIO FEAN [DONE]

Whenever you tell me I'm pretty
That's when the hunger really hits me
You're little heart goes pitter patter
I want your liver on a platter
Use your finger to stir my tea

( B I O G R A P H Y )

He is dangerous. I meet him not two nights ago. I don’t know what to do anymore. I’m so scared, I am so so scared. I’ve been hiding in this building for three days now, living off of the water that pools at the bottoms of the drains. I caught a rat the other day. It was bad, oh it was so bad. But the last time I tried to sleep I almost screamed. I had to hold myself back, biting my lips so hard that I cried. When I try to sleep all I see is his face. Those cold, cold eyes, not a single spark of warmth within them. The worst part about them is the way they flicker, as though the pain that he causes is some big joke. When he broke my arm he laughed, oh how he laughed. It sent chills down my spine; it was on the edge of hysteria. It was horrible, it was so horrible. And his lips, never have I once seen him smile, not even when he laughs. There is no humour in those laughs, they are just dry, dry little things as if he has forgotten to add that touch of lightness to his voice. It is as if he has forgotten how to feel happiness of pleasure and the only way he can make any resemblance to it is by killing and hurting.

I’m scared.

I don’t want to die. I really don’t. But he is coming. I can feel it, I can feel it in the way my broken arm throbs the way my breath turns into short gasps. The way his eyes flicker across my vision. Black hair, slipping past his eyes and it is the only relief you get. Sometimes it slips so low that you can’t see them, that they are covered and your fear slips past. If only for a second. But it is a small hollow relief, because his hair is as dark as his eyes, black, oh so black. I have never seen eyes like them before. I have never seen a person like him before. I heard stories once. That he use to feel, that he use to know what it was like to feel happiness until the devil himself touched him and stole it from him. And ever since that day a dark shadow formed over him and he became some evil spirit that seeks out the one that holds it and keeps it from him so that he might kill them and drag it back into his body.

Some people have laughed at those stories. I have no. I use to, but not anymore. Not when his strong, iron grip latched onto my arm and squeezed and squeezed. Long fingers lacing with each other as I screamed and tried to tear my arm from his hands. But he is far too strong; he is too strong for a simple girl like myself. And I felt the bones crack beneath his hands, the agonising pain and the smirk, the lifeless smirk as I cried. He let go, flicking a blood stained hand in my direction as if whispering that I run. There was that other rumour, put right before me, just then. One I sucked in and believed Daario Fean did not talk. The only sounds he knew was laughter, cold, bitter laughter as though he was playing the biggest joke in the world that only he understood.

That was when I ran, his chilling song of darkness chasing me.

Daario was angry. He was tired and so very angry. Five years, five stupid years he had spent hunting down person after person, hoping and wishing with the might of his black heart that they would be the ones that would release him. He wanted to feel joy once more. He had, but only a few scattered memories of real true pleasure, of feeling a laugh bubble up in his throat as he was happy, as he laughed, delight filled and happy when someone told him a joke. But one day he had woken up depressed. He had woken up unable to understand, but knowing that something had changed. Some part of him had sensed it, had known that something had happened over night. He had spent the entire day puzzling over what it was, but he couldn’t figure it out until he was with his gang. Until he had stood with his brothers and sisters at the edge of the district. Going past the interlocked chains and into the wilderness.

Every day he went there, every day his gang of street rats meet there and every day he would feel a new bit of excitement at the prospect of getting freedom and slipping into the wilderness. It always made him happy enough to laugh to think of those ideas, to share his plans with his ragged group. But he had felt nothing, but sadness, but an aching as if he had a hole where something had once been. He had tried to find it an over the week he had realised what it was. His friends had realised as well and he had grown angry, as though some beast within him had wanted freedom and he grew resentful of the way they laughed, the way they smiled and joked and teased him, trying to draw something from the emotionless boy. He had snapped. He had lashed out at one of them and that, that was unforgivable. They were family and you did not hurt family.

He had instantly been punished, thrown from his throne has leader of the pack and left as nothing more than the lowest. After that he started stepping away from them, he started hurting more people, trying to find someone who would give him back would had been stolen from him. He grew crazed and mad and angry. He craved it, he needed it, and he wanted it so much. It was a sickness people told him; it was a chemical imbalance, some kind of problem that had destroyed that part of his brain. People laughed and sneered at the boy and he grew wilder then ever until he went on a rampage, tearing through the streets, hitting anyone around him. It was at the end of that day when he fell, and he cried. He cried for a good day and night, when the tears dried he vowed to get it back. To kill and plunder, to murder and hurt until it came back to him.

It was a story many people had come to know. Some people waved it off with a careless flick of their hands, laughing and calling it nothing more than a rumour. I knew better, oh how I knew better. I lay cramped, hands wrapped tightly, lips trembling in fear. He was here. He was in the building and he was coming for me. I had laughed at him, I had told people that it was all a lie that he was nothing and that you should not be afraid of a myth and now he was hunting me down and now he was coming and all I could do was cry. He knew no mercy, he knew nothing, but his want for his pleasure back, nothing, but a cold animalistic need to get what was taken from him.

The sound of steps echoes through-out the building. I curl up tighter. Closing my eyes tight and hoping, hoping that it wasn’t him. Stealing myself I scramble to my feet and I start running, I run as fast as I can away from him. In any direction. Then I am skidding across the ground, a dark form materialising in front of me. I scream, unable to hold it back, unable to care because a cold, fear swallows me as he steps forwards a hand reaching out. I try to scramble away, but it grabs me and drags me forwards. His other hand wraps around my throat and I try to scream.

But I can’t.

If you know what's good for you
I think you're hot I think you're cool
You're the kinda guy I'd stalk in school
But now that I'm famous, you're up my anus
Now I'm gonna eat you fool!