The $Price$ of {Happiness} [Python]

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arx
Retired Staff

2,429 POSTS

Pronouns: she/her
last seen May 11, 2024 18:35:17 GMT -5

literally so gay, doing so many crimes

The $Price$ of {Happiness} [Python] Apr 9, 2013 22:52:45 GMT -5

Post by arx on Apr 9, 2013 22:52:45 GMT -5

ＤｅｘｔｅｒＭａｇｍａ

we all bleed red, all taste rain,
all fall down, lose our way,
we all say words we regret,
we all cry tears, we all bleed red.

I hate the nightmares that I have to endure every time I close my eyes. So I don't. Instead I only stare into the dark of night, sitting in a chair worth more than everything I have ever owned, just watching people pass by, walking as if the world were a perfect place. My eyes droop but I cannot shut them. The fear has built up inside me, the fear of reliving it all over and over and over as I sleep. The whip against my back, the sound of the gun shot ringing in my ears, the begging and whimpering and pleading of everyone I meet outside the house ... I stare outside at the smiling people, arms linked, ready for a night filled with too much to drink and kissing in the back alleyways. And then my knife glints from where it sits on the window sill. The tip of that blade cuts through their perfect little world as I hold it to a throat. I run my hand through my hair, leaning forward to grab the knife in my other hand, twirling it around and around in the dim light that shines through the window. It fractures the light and sends it shooting across the room, slicing through the growing darkness. It isn't like the flickering fire dancing across the ceiling, filling you with warmth. No, this is a horrible kind of light that slices and dices through the air, searching for something to cut - searching for blood and life. I toss it away, letting it skitter across the floorboards. I hate holding it in my hand. It makes me feel dirty. It makes me feel like a monster. But it's not me that's the monster, really. What I am, what I do - I am only the product of a monster. Tricked and then laughed at for being so naive. Wearing a shock color, waiting and waiting and waiting for the electric jolt when I don't pay up at the end of the month. Or rather, waiting for him to pull the trigger on the pistol that's pointed at my head.

I sit and stare out the window until the sun sinks behind the buildings and the street lights and neon flicker on in the streets. If I opened the window I know I would hear a dog barking in the distance, some laughter, a few gunshots. I would smell cigarette smoke mixed with the smell of wet pavement. I can see the flickering of TV screens of the rich, the starving people in the streets, the bad men wandering around in the dark, and the girls in high heels giggling in groups. But those are only the first of the sights and smells and sounds. The pleasant ones. When you get closer you can feel the fear, see the fear, smell the fear. Hell, you can even taste the fear. In my line of "work" all you can find throughout the night is fear. Fear that I may just let the knife dig a little too deep into the throat or that I may not quit hitting them or that I will forget to unclasp my hand from around their neck. My victims fear me. Yet with every move I make is filled with fear. They fear for their lives yet my fear seems so much greater than theirs. For what seems like the hundredth time this month, I think that maybe I will just stay in tonight. I can stay inside the confines of this pretty cage I live in and pretend that nothing is wrong. Pretend that I am in control and that I own the house and that my family isn't broken apart but only waiting for me downstairs. But I need the money. I am already behind - already my savings are dwindling.

I push myself to my feet with a sigh, bending to pick my knife up off the ground. It gets harder and harder to move as I throw on a pair of jeans, my hoodie, my shoes, clicking my knife back into a sheathed position before shoving it in my sweatshirt pocket. I stop at the door with my hand fisting around the knob. And suddenly my grip is tightening, my knuckles turning white. I can only picture my hand clamping over Magnus Nox's throat, watching him squirm and beg for his life. Me laughing and him feeling like the idiot. And then I am twisting the knob and walking down the hall, flexing my fingers to get the blood flowing again. I walk past Kris's door, remembering the night I stopped, remembering sleeping on the rug in front of the fire downstairs. The memory is so much sweeter than the ones engraved in my brain that I almost forced around on my heels and knocking at her door again. But odds are she isn't there. She's already off getting more bruises and meeting more horrible men. I clench my jaw and keep going, ignoring the pulsing in my temple and the way my fists have clenched into tight knots. Just one more reason to want Magnus Nox dead. The house is quiet, no doubt most of the rooms that are normally occupied during the day are already empty. Drug dealers, poker players, thieves - it honestly sounds like I live in the Detention Center among my own kind. Only instead of being whipped every time I move, I am forced to hold a knife to someone's throat. And all for what? Some stupid slips of paper that only have value to the rich? A shiny diamond ring and a gold necklace? I threaten to kill for petty material items. Why? Why do I do it? What's the point? They will never bring back my sister. They will never take away my years of suffering.

The air outside is cool and crisp. A glow washes upon the pavement and the buildings and gives everything the regular eerie glow. I pull the hood of my sweatshirt down a bit further, making sure shadows are cast upon my face before begin my journey. My hunt. It's really an art how someone as big as I am can hide so well, hidden in the shadows and draped in darkness. It's really all just a game I play. Granted a sick game, but a game all the same. The mighty lion preys on the defenseless antelope. The cowardly monster preys on an innocent, naive ~~idiots~~ people. I don't much like playing the game, maybe sometimes I get the idea in my head that I am the king on the chess board, my actions determining the entire game. But then I realize that even if I am the king, that makes the Magnus the one pushing me from square to square, set on placing me in a position where even if he loses the game - I go down with him. But I play the game anyway, as if there is some way for me to win. As if it isn't inevitable that I will lose.

My heart pounds in my chest as I make my way further and further away from ~~home~~ my pretty cage, the alleyways and tunnels and sewers all linking together into one giant map that has become engraved in my brain. I know every place to hide, I know the fastest way to get from one side of the district to the other, and I know exactly where everyone wanders through the back alleys alone. You'd think these people have read enough books or watched enough horror movies to know that walking alone is like an act of suicide - but still they do it. Lucky for me. I round a corner, passing under a street lamp before ducking behind a dumpster in one of the best alleyways to sit around. You would think Peacekeepers would stay on a regular patrol of this specific area, considering how often I am here, but it turns out they must not care too much about the citizen's complaints. So I press my back against the brick of the building, noticing a stash of pills hidden beneath the dumpster. I'm not usually into making noise but I make sure to throw the bottles as far down the alley as I can where the clatter and roll along the pavement, startling a cat from where it was curled up in a cardboard box. Never again do I want to see a bottle of pills. Never. ~~I'll leave that shit to Tiberius.~~ And then it all grows quiet again as I wait for the tell tale sound of clicking heels or shuffling sneakers.

After a few minutes of waiting I hear it. Click, click, click, click, click. Just one set of shoes, no other sound. I swallow hard and shift silently to my feet, keeping hidden in the shadows, grasping my knife and pulling it from my pocket. Female. Thin. Most likely my age if she is stupid enough to walk around alone. Rich? - If she is wearing heels and not just walking around barefoot she obviously has money. (Sad how I can determine all of this with just the sound of her shoes, huh?) I grind my teeth together, washing the guilt and regret out of my mind, waiting for her to pass by, not letting my eyes meet her face before silently approaching her from behind, one hand wrapping over her mouth and the other holding the knife to her her skin. They always struggle and try to make noise or run or something but as usual, I am too big, too strong. I press my mouth to her ear and practically growl, "Keep quiet and give me all your money and jewelry or you may just find this knife pressing a little bit harder." I shift it a bit on her neck to make sure she knows I am serious ~~who the hell am I kidding here really?~~ before I remove my hand from her mouth cautiously, the knife in my hand daring her to scream for help. "Go ahead now," I say, pushing her onto her knees, moving the knife to press into the back of her neck now. "All of it. Your purse, your earrings, rings, necklace, diamond studded bra, everything. Put it all in your purse and then give it to me. Scream and I push the knife through your neck. Try to run and I kick you until you can't breathe." I bend down and whisper close to her ear again. "Got it?"

sometimes we’re strong, sometimes we’re weak;
sometimes we’re hurt, it cuts deep;
we live this life breath to breath;
we’re all the same

"I run on the road, long before I dance under the lights."

Python
Head Librarian

4,515 POSTS

Pronouns: She/Her
last seen May 11, 2024 0:54:18 GMT -5

The $Price$ of {Happiness} [Python] Apr 13, 2013 23:08:33 GMT -5

Post by Python on Apr 13, 2013 23:08:33 GMT -5

Valencia’s skull was pounding.

The lights are too bright, the music is too loud, I can’t breathe. The evening’s crisp air was a relief to her flushed cheeks as she escaped the sweaty atmosphere that reeked of alcohol, drugs, and sex. Even from a distance, the blaring music was enough to make her ribcage vibrate, and the faint glimmer of flashing strobe lights were visible past the drawn curtains of the large house. Valencia had never been the partying type - in fact, she always hesitated at the mere site of a glass of wine when offered one by her maids and servants. Attending a real house party with hormonal teenagers, alcoholics, and risk-takers had been a step too far out of her comfort zone, yet she had done so in a desperate attempt to conform. ”You should go to a night party, Val. That’s where the real fun’s happening.” Her father had insisted upon her meeting with friends of the fellow upper class, though if he knew who they truly were he would have them banished from Valencia’s life permanently. That’s why it had been such a difficult decision. ”My father would kill me.”

From there, the conflict had escalated. ”So? Just sneak out! He won’t know, and you can pay your maids off to keep quiet about it. Come on, Val, haven’t you ever tried taking a few risks?” There answer was no, she had never considered sacrificing her well-being for the sake of alcohol and dancing. That’s why I’m a coward. They can see right through me. And in a feeble attempt to protect the “Nox pride” (if such nonsense existed), she had hesitantly complied and agreed to sneak out of her home to attend the upcoming party. It wasn’t an easy decision, nor had she felt comfortable with it afterward. She had spent hours in her room, pacing and panicking before she had gathered enough courage to actually climb out of her window. After fastening a few thick scarves together to form a rope, she had tied it to the edge of her balcony and carefully slid down the fabric until her heels had dug well into the groomed back yard. From there, she had cautiously slipped around the house, ducking under windows to avoid detection, and left before anybody could notice her absence. It was a mission success, and for once, Valencia had felt her heart flutter in confidence.

It had taken less than an hour for the pampered princess to realize that partying was not her forte. The dancing, the drinking, the incessant beats of the music and melodies of laughter were overwhelming. She felt like a rabbit locked in a cage with hounds and foxes, completely vulnerable and confused and helpless. She had tried socializing with the boys and girls she knew by surname, but they had seemed bent on wrapping themselves in other people’s arms and swapping spit in the corners of the room, where the shadows barely concealed them from view. She was almost positive she had walked in on a couple fornicating in the guest bedroom, where she had hoped to escape and take a breather. It was all extremely awkward and too stressful to handle for daddy’s little doll. With nowhere to hide and nobody to interact with (other than the strange boys approaching her with suspicious drinks) she had decided to leave the party altogether, and wandered outside into the cool air, where the evening was young and the skies were calm. The stars were not out tonight, to her dismay, as the clouds of pollution were once again shielding them from her view. But she would prefer this to storm clouds anytime, especially tonight. If she planned to walk home in the middle of the night, the last thing she wanted was the pouring rain to inflict her with a case of the sniffles.

There was just one problem with that, however. The quickest way home is the sketchiest place in the district. Drug-dealers, maniacs, who knows what could be lurking in the shadows of those alley ways? The idea made her nervous, but if she didn’t take that path she would only be exposed to the darkness for a longer period of time. Honestly, there really was no safe place to wander in the middle of the night in district three, she just happened to be choosing the worst of them, since it was a easiest route to take. Still, she felt compelled to hurry back inside and ask for someone to escort her. But how childish would that sound to them? They will just call me a coward. She was sick of having such a weak heart; she needed to build it up, make it study with bravery and experience. The path home would be a dangerous one, but what were the actual chances that she would be attacked? Don’t think about it. Inhaling a deep breath of crisp air, she abandoned the party and vanished into the winding alleys of district three.

The loud clicking of her heels were the only sounds that echoed across the barren walls of district three’s most dangerous passageways. She kept her hands in the pockets of her coat and her purse dangling over her right arm, head hung low and eyes focused only on the path ahead of her. Her steps were hasty, but her heart was content. So far there had been not a single soul sharing the narrow spaces with her, and if there were any threats prowling in the darkness she would be completely oblivious to them. She was trying to be swift without running and drawing unwanted attention, so far she was about halfway through this last path, so close to reaching the end. She could spot it from a distance, the sidewalk. Another thirty seconds or so and she would be able to take to the sidewalks and return home safely to a toasty bed, free of any assaults or threats--Did that shadow just move?

She screamed when a hand clamped tight over her jaws, but the high-pitched noise was muffled by an iron grip. She felt something sharp kiss the front of her neck, something that glinted silver beneath faded moonlight. A knife. She immediately stood frozen at the stranger’s mercy with her mouth shut firmly, small whimpers escaping as she felt his large form behind her, threatening her with unsurpassable strength. Keep quiet and give me all your money and jewelry or you may just find this knife pressing a little bit harder." She could feel the dragon’s breath singing her ear as he growled, and she responded only with a quivering body and several panicked gasps. She desperately wanted to cry for help and wriggle herself out of his arms before he slit her throat and spilled her blood against the concrete (I’m not ready to die. I haven’t even lived), but she choked on her words. Go ahead now.” She dared not make a sound when he took his hand from her mouth and pressed the blade deeper against her skin, threatening to draw a thin ribbon of blood. She merely sniffled quietly and tried to blink away the tears that were leaking from her eyes, even as he forced her to her knees and demanded that she empty her purse.

Why do I have to regret every decision I make? She had warned herself that criminals always stalked through the night like predators, especially in this area of the district, so why had she ignored her own instinct? Why did she left herself wander into this danger zone and be captured by somebody who could easily kill her without remorse? Without a second thought? Just do what he says. You’re rich, and he knows it. Just let him have everything. Trying to swallow her own sobs, she slipped her purse from her arm and opened to view its contents. She had a wallet full of money and a diamond necklace inside, both of which she pulled out and placed on the ground beside her before pushing the bag away entirely. She then took off her earrings, necklace, bracelets, and rings. One ring in particular, though, she hesitated to remove. It was a silver ring molded in the shape of a cursive “N” for “Nox“. It was the family symbol, a symbol that was at the front gate of her home and in other pieces of jewelry she owned as well. Her father had an identical ring. He wouldn’t be too happy to discover that she had lost it to some stranger, but it was either the ring or her life. So, she bit her lip and set the ring down by his feet. ”Y-You can have it all… She managed to stutter between sniffles and teary gasps. ”Just…just don’t k-kill me. Please.” She wiped the tears away from her eyes and closed them, wishing she were anywhere but here.

”Please.”[/blockquote][/justify]

Last Edit: Apr 13, 2013 23:09:59 GMT -5 by Python

arx
Retired Staff

2,429 POSTS

Pronouns: she/her
last seen May 11, 2024 18:35:17 GMT -5

literally so gay, doing so many crimes

The $Price$ of {Happiness} [Python] Apr 23, 2013 19:51:02 GMT -5

Post by arx on Apr 23, 2013 19:51:02 GMT -5

ＤｅｘｔｅｒＭａｇｍａ

we all bleed red, all taste rain,
all fall down, lose our way,
we all say words we regret,
we all cry tears we all bleed red.

I didn't ever want to be the guy I am. Honestly, I don't understand how my life stooped to such a low level. Wait - yeah I do. His name is Damion. And I can't wait to kill him. Thanks to that little shit, I am here, doing the dirty work of the district, going against every fiber of my being, just to keep myself from getting killed. I have deep scars that refuse to fade criss-crossing my back, the constant reminder of my weakest moments. Of pain. I have the memory of signing my name below the red words, promising money in return for a life of luxury and simplicity - only it isn't all that simple to go against all your morals and become a criminal. And every day, as I stare at my bedroom ceiling, my eyes refusing to close, my mind drifts to the memory of my brother. The gun trembling in his hand, the anger flashing in his eyes (and then the horror immediately after, I suppose.), his coat jacket fluttering as he ran and ran and ran while I lay on the ground next to our dying sister. Crying and crying and crying until I was dragged away like a criminal. Sad isn't it? I went into the Detention Center innocent and came out a criminal. But I guess that is my case. Fucked up, life flipped inside out, staring at a ceiling to avoid it all. But I can't avoid any of it. I'm reminded every night when I roam the streets with a knife in my pocket and the thought of jewels and money in my head that somewhere along the line, I took a step down the wrong path and tried to turn around much too late. And got stuck.

I think it's when I signed my name.

I remember when I still went to school, sitting in rows and rows of kids my age, practicing our handwriting. The teachers were always telling me I needed to be neater about it. "Watch the girls write." they said. "They can show you how to do it." But of course my handwriting never got any better than some very illegible scribbles. The teachers sometimes just gave me zeroes on my homework because they didn't want to try and decipher it. For years so many people complained about the puzzles I seemed to create for them. No one ever wanted me to write on the board or write them a love letter. Everyone complained about it - everyone except Magnus Nox. I can still hear his voice in my head, asking for my signature. "Just sign here." My nasty scribbles sealing my fate. I didn't even read the contract before I signed. All I did was listen to the bull shit that spewed from Magnus' mouth, painting the picture of a better life in my head without reading the words that the story actually created. A fancy cage where desperate children come in a hope to change their lives. And it does change - but certainly not in the way we want it to.

And now here I am, watching some girl hand over everything of value, crying on her knees as I press a knife to her skin. You'd think that after doing it so often that I would grow numb to it, that it wouldn't bother me so much to do it. Just another night at work, right? Seen so many cry and beg for their lives that it doesn't mean anything anymore? Wrong. I've murdered monsters and not even flinched away from the blood as it spatters on my face. But I scare the innocent and my brain feels like it might explode. Do they know I don't want to do this? That I was forced into this to save my own life? I swallow, feeling sweat drip down my spine even though the air is cool and crisp. My hand shakes a bit, the weight of the knife seeming to triple within seconds. I look over my shoulder to distract myself, scanning the still empty alleyway, my ears training hard on the distant noises rather than the crying girl in front of me. Part of me - the part that has atrophied within me - wants someone to walk around the corner right now. To see me and make me run before I can get away with anything at all. But the other part of me, that part that grows bigger and stronger everyday, is making sure that no one sees. "Hurry up." I mutter, turning back to her, watching put her wallet and necklace on the ground. She pulls the bracelets from her wrists, takes off her earrings, and slides her rings off her fingers, setting all of it on the ground in front of her. The diamonds and silver and gold all shimmer in the dim light from the buzzing street lamps and my eyes light up. It looks like enough to quit working for a whole week - if not more. I watch her hesitate for a moment, staring down at one last thing she still possesses. A ring from her dead grandmother? A necklace from her boyfriend? A special pair of earrings from her a friend? So many people have this pause, one thing they just don't - can't - give up. "All of it." I say, but most of the threat has fallen from my voice. I can never manage to keep it there for long. Remorse always manages to make it's way in.

She sets down the last thing she has at my feet and I swear I can hear it tearing from her body, the loss of it already pulling at her heart. Or maybe she is just crying over lost money like all the rich do? I clench my jaw as a flood of hatred rushes over me again. She is just like the rest of them. Spoiled and heartless and wretched. She isn't crying over sentiment, she is crying for her lost jewels and money. ”Y-You can have it all... Her voice is strained and it must take all the composure she has just to get the words out. I press my knife a bit harder to the back of her neck, not worrying if blood is drawn anymore. ”Just…just don’t k-kill me. Please.” She wipes away the tears that I can't see from where I stand. I try to ignore it as I bend to pick up everything off the ground, shoving the necklace and wallet and purse and everything else into my pocket, still holding the knife at her. ”Please.”

"Shut up or I will shut you up myself." But on cue, I find that the piece of me that just wants this to be over without the situation getting worse grumbling at me. But I don't have a choice. They have to think I will kill them to get this to work. I swallow back the apology that nearly escapes my lips and pull the knife away from her neck, bending to pick up the last of her possessions. I hold the ring in my hand and my knife in the other. "Now, count to 100. Even if you scream for help or run now, I will be long gone, so you may as well just keep quiet. Dare to move before the 100 is up and I will know about it. And I will find you." I force her head back and hold the knife to her throat again. "And I will kill you." And then I'm pulling the knife away and throwing it in my pocket, glad to have it out of my grasp. I find myself running fast enough that I completely forget about the ring in my hand until it is falling to the ground, bouncing and rolling to a halt somewhere behind me. My shoes scrape against the pavement as I skid to turn around, searching the shadows for the ring. I finally find it, looking at it for the first time since picking it up. At first I only glance at it, seeing an curly "N" shaped in silver. I start to run again but then I find myself slowing, glancing at the ring a few more times before completely stopping as the shape pricks at my mind. I've seen this before ... I hold the ring between my fingers, my eyebrows scrunching in frustration.

And all at once I see the gate of my fancy prison cell. My heart starts to race with a different sort of adrenaline as I turn around, back in the direction I came. Something else is moving my feet now. It isn't motivation or the need for money or the thrill of the crime. No. It's fear. And before I know it, I am skidding back around the corner to the girl I just robbed in the streets. The girl I just threatened to kill if she dared to move. The daughter of my boss and greatest nightmare. I come to halt where she is, my voice not much more than a whisper, my eyes still shielded by the hood on my head. But I can see her face now. It is definitely her. And for a second, I almost pull my knife again. Maybe my life would be a little better. Maybe all our lives would be a little bit better without her. But the moment passes as I start to panic. I can't run, not when I have to go home to the same house as her. I can't just give back all her things and leave again because I still have to go home to the same house as her. There really is no option for me now. I am going to go home, and I am going to die. I toss the ring in her direction before swiping my hands over my face. "Shit." I spin around with my hands on my head, a mix of fear and anger possessing me. "Fuck." I shake my head a bit as my arms start to shake and my knees get weak. I could kill her now. Just kill her and leave her here in the street and Magnus wold never find out that it was me. It would be so easy. Just pull my knife now and stab her. Let her bleed out, no one ever no knowing who did it except me. I turn to her and pull my knife. I hesitated for a moment before throwing it over her head where it skitters down the alleyway. I look at her, hoping with all my might that I'm wrong. That it isn't her. But I know it is. It has to be. But it comes out as a question anyway, a little ray of hope still shooting through me.

"Valencia?"

sometimes we’re strong, sometimes we’re weak;
sometimes we’re hurt, it cuts deep;
we live this life breath to breath;
we’re all the same

"I run on the road, long before I dance under the lights."

Python
Head Librarian

4,515 POSTS

Pronouns: She/Her
last seen May 11, 2024 0:54:18 GMT -5

The $Price$ of {Happiness} [Python] May 3, 2013 0:28:57 GMT -5

Post by Python on May 3, 2013 0:28:57 GMT -5

Danger was the stain in her family name. Her father’s legacy was rotten to the core with mold black as his heart, and there was no remedy for his infection of excessive pride and sinful wrath. The angelic light in his life had been smothered years ago by the reaper’s lethal silver, leaving Valencia in the crossfire of his “war” with those he victimized. He claimed to shelter her for her own protection, to keep her imprisoned within the walls of their mansion and limiting her contact with the outside world. He thought it was justified after what happened to their mother, but after creating his special “contract” he unintentionally invited the danger into his home to corner his precious “jewel” of a daughter. Of all the new residents in her hollow home there were only two that could tolerate the sight of her. The others pierced her with glares like hot daggers, treating her as if she were the prey of a merciless hunter. She was an animal waiting for a bullet, and she knew it, too. She just didn’t understand why. She was evil’s daughter, yes, but had she ever harmed them in any way? Had she ever insulted them, stood in their way, expressed even a hint of hostility? No, she hadn’t, but they were channeling their anger for her father to her, because he was too dangerous to torment while Valencia was a walking, breathing target.

She was infested with a severe case of the jitters, her bones quaking between every gasp. The monster was still behind her, snatching her belongings and pressing the knife to her throat. ”Shut up or I will shut you up myself.” She instantly bit down on her lower lip and tried to battle the sobs that erupted in her throat. She would believe every word, even if it was a bluff, even if all he was after was her money. Death was making an appearance and she did not plan on toying with its patience. She remained frozen like an icicle as the edge of the knife released the ribbon of red on her throat, and watched the blurs that were his shadow shift while he bent to steal the last of her things, including the ring that she had once held so dear to her despite its origins. ”Now, count to 100. Even if you scream for help or run now, I will be long gone..” She would never scream. The temptation was powerful, but deaths icy grip was stronger. She wouldn’t risk it. She was a stranger to the true meaning of pain and death, but she was no fool, not when her life was dangling by a thread. Running or screaming would only tempt the fates. ”..so you may as well just keep quiet. Dare to move before the 100 is up and I will know about it. And I will find you.” She didn’t doubt him for a second. He was obviously no rookie to the art of theft and intimidation. ”And I will kill you.” She gasped as the knife found its way to her throat again. One last reminder of his brutality.

She heard his footsteps fade. They were harsh echoes that shattered her concentration when she began to count as sluggishly as possible.

One, two, three. She would not twitch a single muscle until she reached one hundred, just like he ordered her to. Criminals were not people to play games with, and if one demanded that she do something then she would do it for the sake of her own meaningless life. Father has been trying to protect me, but he was doing a terrible job of it, the naïve tyrant - though it was her own fault that she was lying here on her knees, bathed in the shadows where the demons lurked. She had been the one to disobey her father’s wishes, but did it make a shred of a difference with those tormented souls living in her home, trapped like animals in a zoo? Any moment they could lose their profit and swim with the ghosts in the graveyard. They would join Royce, the poor boy who was shot. Her father had tried to muffle the sounds of gunfire and keep the burial a secret, but she knew. They all knew, and they were all waiting to either claim their prize or join the slaughtered. Valencia was merely an object of their hatred, perhaps a target to suffer if any of them grew vicious enough. Then what? She would be unprotected inside and outside of her home, and she would die like the rest in a horrible, gruesome mess of liquid crimson.

Fifity. She suddenly heard the echoes of footsteps returning, and her heart leapt painfully into the inside of her ribcage. She felt her stomach drop as the dreadful sounds grew louder. She hadn’t moved an inch. Had he returned to check up on her? Was there something he had forgotten? Is he here to kill me? She swallowed the imaginary lump in her throat and pursed her lips, trying conceal the mass of fear building in the back of her throat. She closed her eyes as she felt the air brush her left cheek, his form rushing by to stand in front of her. Any moment now I’ll feel it; a sharp sting on my neck. He’ll slit my throat, and I’ll choke to death. I’ll die. But there was no pain, no sudden movements. Just the gentle ringing of metal against concrete. She opened her eyes and spotted the silver glisten by her knees: her ring. ”Shit,” the man cursed, whirling around and clamping his hands over his head as if he were guilty. But how? Was he having second thoughts about mugging an innocent girl? No, that couldn’t be right. That’s not how criminals functioned. ”Fuck.” His rugged voice was laced with fury, and she failed to comprehend the situation. Then, he turned around and withdrew his knife. She felt her insides turn to ice. I’m dead. After all this time, he’s still going to kill me. A feeble whimper escaped her as she eyed the knife in dreaded anticipation. He brought his hand back without taking a step forward, and she flinched. But instead of the knife piercing her through her chest, it soared over her head and bounced across the concrete. She felt the knot in her chest loosen as she glanced back, puzzled at the fallen weapon and the unknown motives of its wielder.

”Valencia?”

She jumped at the sound of her name. How-? She grabbed for the ring and clutched it to her chest, searching desperately for something familiar in the face of the criminal that somehow knew her identity and caved at the idea of it. It took only a second for her to find him; the golden hairs, the hateful blue eyes, the cheek bones - ”Dexter!” She couldn’t believe it. The man that had just finished mugging her was the man that shared a home with her. What were the odds? ”What..” She slipped the ring back on her finger and slowly climbed to her feet, careful not to provoke the distressed criminal, even if it was Dexter. He hates me as much as the rest of them do, after all. She wouldn’t be surprised if he retrieved his blade and gouged her heart out right then and there. If he was a criminal, he would know how to erase off his fingerprints. He could kill her, abandon her body here, perhaps even hide it, and when a civilian or a Peacekeeper found her they would tell her father, and there would be nothing he could do to help her. She wasn’t sure what he would do afterward, but that wouldn’t matter to her. Not if she was dead.

”Is this how you pay my father?” Her question was but a soft mutter, barely audible even in the silence. The fact that it was Dexter in front of her was comforting, but not comforting enough. ”By…mugging people?” she didn’t want to sound accusing, just curious. Sympathetic. The things they do for him. It’s wrong, so wrong. She felt sorry for him, for all of them. It wasn’t fair that they had to risk their lives just to save them.. If only there was a way to stop it, but you already know there isn’t, Valencia. You’ve tried. And naturally, she had failed.[/justify][/blockquote][/size]

Last Edit: May 19, 2013 17:16:47 GMT -5 by Python

arx
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literally so gay, doing so many crimes

The $Price$ of {Happiness} [Python] May 18, 2013 0:14:37 GMT -5

Post by arx on May 18, 2013 0:14:37 GMT -5

ＤｅｘｔｅｒＭａｇｍａ

we all bleed red, all taste rain,
all fall down, lose our way,
we all say words we regret,
we all cry tears we all bleed red.

For me, it's always about being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Well, it's either that or have the worst luck of anyone in all of Panem ... (except maybe those who get Reaped.) But either way, it always happens to me. I didn't have to follow my brother out into the dark of the night. But I did. I was worried about him and thought that maybe if I followed him I could stop him from whatever the hell he was planning to do. I could've stopped when I caught my sister sneaking along behind me, could've forced her to go home, could've curled up on the couch and just waited until the sun stretched across the living room and learned about the robbery when everyone else did. But my shit luck didn't let any of that happen. So the whole ordeal ended up with me crying over my little sister's dead body, only to be dragged away to the Detention Center where every Peacekeeper in all of Panem would ensure that as long as I was there, my life would be a living hell. And I got the scars to prove that they did their job correctly. And as if that weren't enough, as if my luck couldn't get any worse, I get out and stumble straight into life without money. A whole year of digging through the garbage and wrapping up in a thin blanket near a vent of some building that could afford heat. I was garbage for over a year ... before I became a slave.

I'm not sure which was better really. That year after I got out was ... hell. But now, living in the Nox's house, doing what I do ... It has given me nightmares that I doubt I will ever escape from. I thought maybe that my worst days would be over after I signed my name. I figured that anything was better than living a dirty, starving, homeless mess in the streets. But I was wrong. Now, instead of living in a world where I am the one in pain, I get to cause the pain. I get to inflict pain and horror on others instead of having to bear it all myself. And although some might find the life I have now a better one than the other one I had for over three years, I hate it. And each month I stand in front of Magnus Nox and hand over more money, I don't understand how I could have ever been mesmerized by dollar signs. But when you are young and stupid and think that life couldn't possibly get any worse and you get ideas put in your mind by a very powerful and persuasive man, you really don't think there is much of another choice.

But as a week or so went by and I had grown used to taking a shower twice a day and sleeping in a bed that I could call mine and basically feeling like the richest person in the world, it all finally got through my thick skull that I had no way of getting money. So much money that I just didn't have. No job, no friends, no money hidden around somewhere or family to run to for help. I was completely alone and completely broke, watching the red words at the bottom of the contract finally registering in my head, burning a scar on the inside of my eyelids to make sure I wouldn't forget. ”If, at any moment in time, the lifeline balance of a client should reach $0, the contract and client shall be terminated and executed.” And I don't know what made me pick what I picked. I could've done anything and I chose something much more horrible than everyone else did. Gambling is nothing but playing the cards right and I can barely count my fingers. Selling drugs was just so far out of the question for me that I wouldn't even consider it. Being a thief would be hard for a guy as big as I am. I don't have any talent at all so I street performing is way, way out. And a male prostitute? Not much would've been in the market for me there. But a big guy as menacing as me? Lived on the streets for a whole year on my own? I thought the choice made sense. And I guess it does make sense, even if it does hurt to do it every night. I'm not dead yet, right?

Yet. That is until now.

”Dexter!” And as I am sure her heart had leaped into her throat when I said her name, mine just leaped into my throat at the sound of my own. And for a second, I can't move. I just stand there, rigid, watching her put her ring back on, the N recognizable from the front gate back at the house and pretty much every other piece of Nox merchandise. I watch her get to her feet, confused, cautious, and I still can't move. I can't breathe. After trying so hard, after being so careful, after all of this, I'm still going to die. Bitch Queen here is going to run home and tell her daddy and I am a dead man. It's that simple - And I just can't move. She looks at me and I think I might throw up. I can see the cut from the blade of my knife at her throat and I can see that her face is flushed, can see the place where tears fell down her cheeks. And as much as I hate this girl, looking at her like this, fear still in her stance and a trace of terror in her eyes, it makes me sick to know that this is my fault. Mine. All of this is my fault and I have no one else I can blame.

”Is this how you pay my father? By...mugging people?” And it's only a whisper, but somehow it seems like she is screaming at me. Because everything that comes out of her mouth is a lie. A whisper is not even a whisper when it comes to the Nox's. That's just who they are. Lying, deceitful, cold, cruel, manipulative, menacing murderers. Magnus put a pistol to Royce Hawkes head and shot him. And what did his daughter do? What did this selfish brat right here in front of me do while daddy was playing his games? That's right, nothing. He will give her anything in the world, anything she could ever want, and she couldn't tell him to stop. And to my knowledge, didn't even attempt. She probably sat up in her room, curling her hair or caking on make-up or picking the shiniest diamond earrings to wear for the day. And yet here I stand, feeling sorry for her. Everyone back at the house would be so disappointed in me for not killing her right now. God damn it all, why am I not killing her right now?

And I unfreeze in that moment, taking a few steps closer to her until I am standing no more than a foot away from her. "How the hell else do you expect me to pay him? Unlike you, I can't afford to just sit around and wait for everything to be handed to me on a silver platter." I speak through my teeth, anger replacing the fear so fast that the thought of dying only two seconds ago seems foreign. I grab her wrist roughly and turn her hand so it's palm up, digging in my pockets and pulling out every piece of jewelry I had taken from her and putting them in her hand. Rings, earrings, necklaces - all of it - before dropping her purse to the ground at our feet. "And take back your filthy jewelry. Just remember that I payed for them and that sometimes I have to wash the blood off of the diamonds and gold before I hand them over to your father." And then I turn on my heels, and I begin to walk away, back towards my cage.

sometimes we’re strong, sometimes we’re weak;
sometimes we’re hurt, it cuts deep;
we live this life breath to breath;
we’re all the same

Last Edit: May 18, 2013 6:53:03 GMT -5 by arx

"I run on the road, long before I dance under the lights."

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The $Price$ of {Happiness} [Python] Jun 1, 2013 15:14:52 GMT -5

Post by Python on Jun 1, 2013 15:14:52 GMT -5

The mistake tasted bitter on her slippery tongue, like a pepper laced with rat poison. It scorched the back of her throat until her breath was hitched in her windpipe and unable to free itself from constriction. As soon as her inquiry surfaced she realized what she must’ve sounded like through his perspective: insensitive, shocked, perhaps naïve. The naivety she could not deny, but after years of bearing her father’s malevolence toward the lower class with complete knowledge of his audacious intentions and violent capabilities, shock was not something that registered in her system. Empathy was a possibility, but her adjustment to the housemates’ hazardous lives wouldn’t allow her to feel even a drop of astonishment at this new discovery. Drace was a deceitful gambler, Damea was a conniving thief, Krisondra was what she suspected to be a prostitute (the poor dear), and the Tiberius-Shadow duo shared a connection with drug sales. Mugging in the youth of the evening was yet another illegal method she had not yet considered, and felt foolish for not doing so. How could she have not recognized the signs? Dexter always sneaking out when the moon was at its high peak, face always concealed beneath a hood, hand always shielding something protectively in his pockets (it must’ve been the knife); it was all making sense now. She just didn’t know what to do with this new information.

Her words apparently struck tension, for as soon as she resealed her lips in regret he took a bold step forward and invaded her personal space. Everything about his posture, his expression, and his eyes screamed malice, but Valencia knew better than to flee now of all moments. ”How the hell do you expect me to pay him?” He started, the rage evident in his venomous tone. She could not answer that question. She knew that each and every ‘guest’ (victim, more like) in her home used unorthodox means to satisfy her father’s contract, but that did not necessarily mean she would know every detail about their second lives. Truthfully, she could see no other way for Dexter and the others to pay the debts owed to her tyrant of a father, and that was the horror of it. ”Unlike you, I can’t afford to just sit around and wait for everything to be handed to me on a silver platter.” She resisted the urge to flinch at his words, not wishing to take his accusations to heart. The truth in his statement was painful, and she couldn’t help feeling guilty about it. Yes, her father spoiled her like she was an angel from Heaven while he treated the others like dirt off of the streets, and she could not deny how excruciatingly simple and easy her life was because of this. This did not mean, however, that everything was sunshine and peachy. The death of her mother had wrecked what little sanity her father could carry, and as a result he rekindled his old ways of taking pleasure in others' misery. This was how the contract was born, and how it twisted Valencia’s life into something atrocious.

She was not happy, after all. Despite the wealth, the grandeur, and the simplicity she could not bask in this "glorious" life. She had not inherited her father’s malignity, and could not merely turn a blind eye from the suffering souls in their home. She was agonizingly aware of how terrible they had it, what crucial things were at stake, and what they were forced to abandon and inherit in order to please her ruthless father. Valencia, in heart and spirit, was closer to her mother; she was compassionate, gentle, forgiving, and sympathetic. Watching the bodies in her home boil under her father’s sinister stare was like watching a horror film in the dead of night, waiting for the climax and the character death - except this was all real, and she was the helpless supporting character who could not stop the monster from killing.

Maybe I will be one of the characters that dies. She was brutally reminded of her odds when Dexter sharply grabbed her wrist and twisted until her palm was facing the sky. She gasped instinctively, having never been physically treated like this, but dared not struggle as Dexter began dumping the previous contents of her purse into her hand, jewelry and all. ”And take back your filthy jewelry,” he spat. She winced at the ferocity in his words. There was no doubt in her mind that he despised her, and the sooner she could flee the better. But was she really going to just let this go?

”Just remember that I paid for them and that sometimes I have to wash the blood off of the diamonds and gold before I hand them over to your father.” She faintly wondered what her father did with Dexter’s earnings. Did he sell them for personal profit, or did he truly hand them over to Valencia as precious ‘gifts’? Was she wearing the jewelry of those who spilled their blood for the sake of her father’s twisted entertainment? No, not all of her jewelry could have come from this sick game; a few pairs of earrings, maybe a necklace too. The thought made her cheeks pale with nausea. Another terror to add to her nightmares. ”Wait,” she cried feebly, hoping to recapture his attention despite her inner desire to run away as quickly as she could. He had turned and walked away from her, either to return home and forget this little incident or to continue his quest to steal more precious jewelry and money. She didn’t favor either of those outcomes, and she certainly didn’t want him to end up empty-handed by the end of this evening. He deserved something out of this, especially since this was her fault for disobeying her father and sneaking out to attend a party she had ended up hating. ”Wait!” she called louder this time, but not loud enough to disturb the peace of the night or the citizens sleeping in their homes. She just wanted him to stop and hear her out.

She decided on a whim to pick up her purse sprint on her heels to catch up with him after returning her jewelry and money to their rightful places. She paused in front of him and whirled to face him, hoping to stall him momentarily while she sifted through the contents of her purse and retrieved her diamond necklace. ”At least take this.” She held up the silver necklace and extended her hand, her body still shaken from anxiety and panic. She wanted this to be over with already, but she just couldn’t let him leave without something. Handing over one measly necklace was the least she could do after being so useless. ”I-I know you don’t like me, and you’d probably want to hurt me rather than accept my help, but..” She didn’t know where she was going with this. She had good reason for wanting to help him, but how could she describe it to somebody who looked at her through a lens of hatred? It probably wouldn’t make sense to him at all. He might think she was trying to deceive him, but really - why would she bother chasing after him unless her intentions were pure? He had the potential to kill her right here, right now, and yet here she was still pursuing him. She either had to be stupid or desperate to help - maybe a mixture of both. ”I just want you to have it. I wasted your time, and you deserve to get something out of it.” She prayed that he would accept the truth in her words.[/justify][/blockquote]

Last Edit: Jun 1, 2013 15:28:05 GMT -5 by Python

arx
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literally so gay, doing so many crimes

The $Price$ of {Happiness} [Python] Jun 8, 2013 19:26:58 GMT -5

Post by arx on Jun 8, 2013 19:26:58 GMT -5

ＤｅｘｔｅｒＭａｇｍａ

we all bleed red, all taste rain,
all fall down, lose our way,
we all say words we regret,
we all cry tears we all bleed red.

I really am a cruel person, aren't I? I like to think that I'm not as menacing and terribly judgmental as I am, but when you get right down to the bones and see myself raw and whole, I am a pretty cruel person. I don't think I was always that way. I can remember a time when I was younger and I could sympathize and feel sorry for anyone - even the bad guys - but now a days, I can only manage a shred of sympathy for the victims. I've killed people and I still don't feel any guilt. Granted they were the scum of the District, cheating on their wife and ~~sending Kris home with bruises~~ buying prostitutes to replace them ... Yeah I've killed those guys. And to this very day, I am still 100% guilt free. I deserve horrible things for thinking and feeling that way. I deserve to be back in the Detention Center and getting whipped and beaten to a pulp again, I know. But how could anyone feel sympathy for those kind of men? They are filthy and horrible and deserve what they get. (~~What are you then Dexter?~~) The people I meet every night, they don't always deserve it though. Some do - the scum of the streets that rapes and murders and steals for no good reason at all (and yes, my reason is a justifiable reason) should get what's coming when I yank them to the ground and tell them to give me everything they own. Sometimes I strip them naked and tie them to a post for the Peacekeepers to get in the morning. And that isn't cruel, that is justice. But it's hard for anyone else to see it that way when I am the one also holding a knife to innocent, stupid girls who walk alone at night.

But I do feel something for them. I regret having to take from them, especially when they aren't the rich ones and have next to nothing to give me to begin with. They are always so scared that I'm going to hurt them, and every single time I make them think that I will, when in reality, the idea of killing someone so scared, defenseless, and innocent makes me sick. But that's part of the process, making them believe that I will slide the knife across their neck and I will watch them bleed out right in front of me if they don't do exactly what I tell them to do. It's all one big lie. That isn't who I am. This person who prowls the streets at night as a predator would much rather live out his life as a gentle giant than a monstrous beast, but life just won't allow it. Life allows me to be good at it. It's a curse really, how I can get enough jewels and money and watches in a month to get $2000 is truly a curse. A miraculous curse, that's for sure, but a curse all the same. And only the darkest and coldest of men could hand out such a curse that makes me a putty in his hands, molding to fit his needs, giving him what he needs because if I don't I will have to pay the ultimate price.

And yet here I am, walking back into the darkness, blaming and fuming over a girl who has never actually committed a wrong against me. Is that fair? No. I know it's not fair, but who else am I supposed to take it out on? Magnus Nox is off limits, but the next best thing sure isn't, and how could she be that much different from her father? And the air about her - so arrogant and acting like she is better than the rest of us, flaunting her necklaces and rings in our faces. ~~But does she really do that? Does she really act like that?~~

”Wait!” I grumble and start forward a little faster, my head aching and my whole night pretty much shot to hell already without yet another distraction to slow me down. Especially this particular distraction. I just want to go home. But then again maybe there is no point, now that Miss Queen-Of-Everything will no doubt run home to daddy and tell him all about how, "Dexter tried to kill me!" and then where will I be? Maybe I should just run now ... I have to stop dead in my tracks when she shoots ahead of me and whirls around to face me. I scoff and shake my head. "You know, talking to you isn't exactly the picture perfect night for me s-"

”At least take this.” I have to stop abruptly in my sentence as she extends her hand, a necklace in her open palm. She is still shaking and I let the air out of my lungs as that gnawing feeling of guilt creeps back into my system. ”I-I know you don’t like me, and you’d probably want to hurt me rather than accept my help, but.. I just want you to have it. I wasted your time, and you deserve to get something out of it.” I was prepared not to listen. In fact I was so ready for some crude or snide comment about how 'dead' I was when she told her father about this that when an offer to help me comes out of her mouth I can do nothing but stare. I try to say something (maybe an insult, I don't know) but the words get lost before I can get them out. I look down at the sparkling necklace in her hand and then look back to her. There has to be something in this for her ... Something. But for the life of me I can't find a single thing that she could gain from giving me this. A smile creeps on my face and it turns to laughter as it all sort of sinks in. The girl who I have always hated, always thought was so horrible and greedy, wants to help me. This must be a dream. I must've finally fallen asleep and I am dreaming. Because there is no way this is real. But when I look back to her, the smile falls from my face and the laughter disappears - this is real.

My gut instinct tells me to tell her to go to hell where she belongs. I don't need her help, I have done everything my whole life by myself and I certainly don't need help from the likes of her now. But the silver and the diamonds and - I could quit going out at night for the rest of the month with that. But to accept help from her, that's like accepting help from the enemy. Is she the enemy? I shake my head and shove my hands in my pockets, looking away from the necklace in what feels like despair. "Look," I start, picturing everyone else back at the house wanting to back hand me. "I know that you are trying to help, and it's really ..." I swallow because the next word gets caught in my throat. I have never in my entire time at her house, ever talked to her. And now here I am, full sentences and even - compliments.

"Thoughtful, of you but - I'm not going to fall for this." I finish, shifting my eyes to hers. I can't be the one to take the chance, this leap of faith so to speak. I can't lose it all by trusting her. I don't know if I will regret this or if this decision will save my life, but I know it's the one I have to make. It's the safest choice. "Sorry," I say, walking past her again. "I'm not Drace. I won't fall for that. Just go home before some real killer finds you, okay?"

sometimes we’re strong, sometimes we’re weak;
sometimes we’re hurt, it cuts deep;
we live this life breath to breath;
we’re all the same

"I run on the road, long before I dance under the lights."

Python
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The $Price$ of {Happiness} [Python] Jun 15, 2013 22:31:16 GMT -5

Post by Python on Jun 15, 2013 22:31:16 GMT -5

She watched a stoic expression dissolve to one of bitter humor -

why is he laughing at me? Had he mistaken her offer for a joke? Was it the laugh of a madman who couldn’t handle the prospect of a hated enemy extending a helping hand? She didn’t see him as mad, but she knew how blinding hatred could be; it blinds my father every day. His vision was dyed red with her heart in its field, but she continued to plead silently for his acceptance despite the shared contempt between himself and the other residents of her home. Hope was dwindling rapidly as the laughter faded into an eerie silence suited for the treacherous evening. Her arm was still extended, the diamond still dangling and twinkling and twirling in a dance of seduction beneath broken, flickering streetlamps. She couldn’t read his expression - was that a flash of disbelief she caught, or was it her imagination? She dreaded rejection, but she also hoped for reception and forgiveness for the actions she had not even committed. It isn’t me, but it might as well be. I’m supposed to be his heir.

”Look,” he began, and by the waver of his voice she knew in what direction he was heading. She felt dejected even before the words escaped him. ”I know you are trying to help and it’s really…thoughtful, of you, but - I’m not going to fall for this.” Offended was not the proper way to describe the sensation that followed like a blunt blow to the abdomen. Disappointment, rejection, hurt? Hurt. It was a bee string straight to the heart. She had always been aware of Dexter’s distaste - it was difficult not to notice, especially when his hard expressions blended with the others’. Of the seven victims suffering under the heel of her father’s boot, only two displayed any form of kindness or sincerity toward her. Shadow was naturally warm to the core despite his direct connection with the drug-infected subdivision of district three, and Drace was an odd exception. They took time out of their stressful scrambles for money to befriend her and delve into the mind of a tyrant’s daughter and give her a chance rather than the cold shoulder. She never understood why they made these efforts. She could only see the reasoning behind contempt (my blood, their misery), but this didn’t stop her from flinching at Dexter’s words.

He thought she was deceitful, like her father. He thought this was a trick, an act of malice rather than kindness. She asked herself, why can’t he trust me? Doesn’t he see who I am? The answer was already clear, she just didn’t want to acknowledge it because it was always, always exactly like this. It’s because of my father, it’s always because of him. Who would take the time to notice her true nature when her veins ran hot with Nox blood? After all he did to them - all he was still doing to them - why risk trusting the daughter? She could be a double agent, his personal servant of evil. She could be trying to sabotage them. ”Sorry, I’m not Drace. I won’t fall for that. Just go home before some real killer finds you, okay?” Fall for what? Drace had not fallen, he was ahead of the game. He had the highest amount of money collected so far, but he might not know that. Of course he didn’t, unless Drace had told him. Only Valencia and Magnus had full access to their records. She would always keep tabs on them to examine their progress. So far, safety was within their criminal fingers, but for how long?

”Wait!” she said it again, though she knew he wouldn’t want to hear her out again. Not after all of this. ”I-I’m not lying to you, Dexter. There’s nothing to fall for.” She followed him and ensured a safe distance. She felt he would lose his patience if she dared obstruct his path again. ”I’ve helped Drace before. He has the most money out of everybody right now. I’m only trying to help you, I don’t want to see my father bury another body.” Our mother was buried, then Royce. It was under different circumstances that they died (her mother of sickness, Royce of failure and unfortunate ties to her father and his cursed contract), but in her eyes death was an equal tragedy. One death could not surpass another, and all were terrible to witness. She never saw the life leave her mother’s eyes, but she had known her mother’s last words; just like she had never witnessed the bullet penetrate Royce’s heart, yet she heard the gunshot and felt the floor quake beneath her bare feet. They were engraved memories that she wished she could somehow erase. I don’t want to see more bodies. I already saw my mother, pale and withered. And Royce coated in blood, his eyelids glued open in a frozen stare of terror. I don’t want to help dig Dexter’s grave next. There had to be a way to convince him. Just one token, that’s all she wanted to give him. It would save him hours worth of slaving and hurting, and perhaps it would save a life or a girl’s frail sanity. It could help a handful of people, she realized. She couldn’t give up on this. She had to be stubborn, like her father.

”I can sell the necklace and give you the money. You won’t have to go out like this for the rest of the month.” Her tone was pleading, desperate. Just one chance, that’s all she needed. ”You won’t have to hurt anyone.”[/blockquote][/justify]

arx
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literally so gay, doing so many crimes

The $Price$ of {Happiness} [Python] Jun 20, 2013 7:13:44 GMT -5

Post by arx on Jun 20, 2013 7:13:44 GMT -5

ＤｅｘｔｅｒＭａｇｍａ

we all bleed red, all taste rain,
all fall down, lose our way,
we all say words we regret,
we all cry tears we all bleed red.

I try to ignore it. It's impossible but I try anyway. I thought that maybe I could walk away and I would be able to forget it or convince myself that it was all just a trick of the light, but I can't. It's stuck in my head - that look. Her eyes twinkling in the light, matching the way the diamond sparkled in her outstretched hand. It looked like I had hurt her. Like a baby might look if you stole it's candy or a puppy does when it's scolded. Like I had extended my hand to her with a smile for a handshake and then reached up and slapped her across the face instead. I thought I would be laughing. I thought that the first time I saw that look on her face - that when I saw her hurting like that rest of us - I would be rolling on the ground, laughing until my sides ached and my throat was rubbed raw. I was so certain that I wanted to see this and I wanted to have been the one to put that look on her face. But the truth is, that look is just not for her. Sometimes people deserve it, to have that look forced into their eyes and to be thrown to the ground and torn to tiny bits and pieces and scattered across the District after being spat on and made to piss their pants. The scumbags, the perverts, the sick and crazy sleaze of the District - they deserve what's coming to them. But Valencia, no matter how hard I try to deny it, is not any of those things. For so long I have looked at her and seen her father. They share the same blood so why shouldn't I? I have been glaring daggers at the wrong person for a very long time. But she has never wronged me. It's easy to tell myself that she is evil - like her father, she lives in the house where so many people suffer and does nothing about it, she walks around with her precious jewels, flaunting them in our faces, and with her blonde hair and seemingly perfect everything, she easily fits into the "rich bitch" stereotype. But in reality, she is nothing like her father. I know that now. Now that I have this memory of her holding out her necklace to me and putting that injured look on her face, I'm sure I will see her as one of my victims now and not the daughter of a horrible man.

”Wait!” she says again and I know she is following me again as her footsteps sound behind me. ”I-I’m not lying to you, Dexter.” I keep walking, pulling the hood further over my head, shoving my hands deeper into my pocket, making my strides just a little bit longer. I'm done talking for the night. She may not be her father and I may see her forever as an injured puppy in the streets, but I don't want to talk to her. I can't let myself accept the fact that she has won. ”There’s nothing to fall for.” And I just want her to leave me alone. Why is she this determined to help me? I have never been anything but horrible to her, walking around the house scowling at her when I see her, completely ignoring her presence most times, talking about her with Kris on those long nights when I couldn't get myself to leave the house, dreaming of the day I got to hurt her like ~~she~~ her father has been hurting the rest of us for years now. She owes me nothing. I held a knife to her throat and she extended a friendly hand to me. I've walked away once and still she persists. ”I’ve helped Drace before. He has the most money out of everybody right now.” Of course he does. He's the only one that revolves around her like she is the world and he is the moon. I've told him so many times to keep away, that it was a stupid idea to talk to her let alone enjoy her company. She's been giving him money ... ? ”I’m only trying to help you, I don’t want to see my father bury another body.” She thinks I need help now. She thinks I can't do this on my own, that I need her to save me just like Drace obviously does.

"I don't need your help." I say over my shoulder, not bothering to turn and look at her. Maybe she will leave me alone if I force her to thr ground again. ”I can sell the necklace and give you the money. You won’t have to go out like this for the rest of the month.” I keep walking, my eyes focused on the dark space in front of me and not so much on the voice behind me. Could this night get any worse?

”You won’t have to hurt anyone.” And my feet scuffle to a halt and my lungs stop letting me breathe. She is pleading, begging for me to stop throwing those words at me. It's like a sweet poison, those words entering my ears. It may kill me, but it's too damn wonderful to care. I knew exactly what the necklace meant from the very beginning. I knew that when I took everything she had it was worth a fortune and I knew what I was giving up when I gave it back. I knew it would take hurting more people and acquiring more victims and staying out longer but I knew I had to give it all back. Her father owned me, I wasn't allowed to steal from her. I wasn't allowed, and not only that, but I don't even want to. I never really want to. I slowly turn again, back to her where she stands a little ways behind me. ”You won’t have to hurt anyone.” How does she know I dread doing this every night? Why does she expect me to be anything but evil and hate filled and a monster? Why does she want to help me so badly? I pull the hood off of my head and take a few steps closer to her. She says she doesn't want to watch her father bury another body. That she doesn't want any more headstones popping out of the ground and she doesn't want to be able to recognize the name carved into the stone. I have two names that I can put a face with. How many is it for her?

"You'd do that for me?" I ask, looking down on her with as fierce a gaze I can manage at this point. "Why?" I ask, my voice lower now. "I have been nothing but horrible to you. Ignored you, glared at you, talked about you like you were your father, and I just held a knife to your throat. Tell me, why exactly are you doing this?" I keep my voice lose despite my rising frustration that I can't find a logical explanation to the question either. I don't even think there is one. "I don't need your help, and I know you know that because I'm certain I have the most money behind Drace, so don't try and tell me that you think I need your help because I don't need it and you know it." I take another step closer, whispering. "What makes you think that I don't like hurting people? What makes you think I'm not a monster who wants to be out here prowling the streets?" And I still can't find a reason. If she says she only wants to help, that she has helped, that this isn't a cruel trick and her father has nothing to do with it, then what? No one - not one human being - is that kind, forgiving, and helpful ... and still alive in this world.

sometimes we’re strong, sometimes we’re weak;
sometimes we’re hurt, it cuts deep;
we live this life breath to breath;
we’re all the same