Danielle Holdridge {D6} Fin
Oct 20, 2019 23:53:52 GMT -5
Post by Arrows on Oct 20, 2019 23:53:52 GMT -5
tw; violence(murder), drug abuse
Danielle Holdridge
Dani Phantom
17
Dani Phantom
17
Snow, its cold edges of frost fall against her pale figure. Her breath is like dragon fire dancing on the winter winds. Small hands search the slush for signs of treasure, a child's imagination infected with euphoria. Every ounce of her is alight with fascination as she sits alone within the night. She dreams of a frozen crown and a scepter of diamonds. She sees an army of shimmering soldiers and a palace of marble. In this world of winter, she sits as Queen while happiness follows the call of her name. This world is so far from the walls behind her where voices of shrill shrieking spew forth from the ends of needles. Too bad the needles always win.
She swims now, seventeen years old, as a shark through the pool of her knife with silent steps. Grey eyes stare numbly at the sloshing surface of scarlet while she travels through what once was someone's home. Despite the chaos, every action is calculated and done with precision. It's part of her signature, one she's crafted over the years. Every home, every apartment, every place she enters she leaves exactly as it was. No forced entry, no shattered jars, no pieces out of place. All she leaves is another body and two silver painted rose petals on her victim's eyes. The fallen of the Phantom Killer.
Her hands take hold of the traitor's hidden treasure, money she's certain he wishes he had paid. What the little girl who's fingers sifted through slosh would think of herself and her treasure now. She stares at that girl in the bathroom mirror, above the tile she just removed from the floor. She's become exactly what her parents always waited to come forth from the walls of their warping minds, an entity of death. A ghost who delivers fresh souls to the Reaper's feast. Her once black hair is now the color of the snow she used to shiver in and the color of nothingness. Her porcelain paleness now shines even more starkly as it radiates beneath her white suit stained with several splashes of blood. And yet on the face of this phantom, a smirk as sinister as the one which drove the needles one last time into her parents' arms.
She slips out with her skeleton key into the early beams of sunrise. She finds her way through the sewers with ease, a native rat never forgets where they were born. Who should be surprised that the daughter of addicted drug dealers would find her place in the same routes as her parents? Passing the same manhole they used to supply the runners at, avoiding the old abandoned camp of the gang her parents once pissed off. She lives in what was once their world, but she knows there is one clear difference.
She's stone cold sober.
Her high comes from the perfection of the kill.
Pulling a bag from beneath a make shift grate, the Phantom changes from her veil of white into a track suit of grey. She emerges from the sewers while the final remnants of her most recent suit burn into embers below. Along the alleys of the upper world, she trickles down a set of stone stairs and into a place as dark and dismal as her heart. A woman with hair as white as her own greets her with a smirk and a hand. A coin is exchanged for a ritual. When she finally returns to the streets, bandages cover the newest addition to her ribs. Another new feather of ink for the reborn Phantom Phoenix.
The next doors she steps through are different, she wears a mask of black now beneath her hood of grey. Every set of eyes angle towards the girl who's name they all know, but who's face is reserved for the dead. She leaves them staring to stand before the one who saved her from the sewers, the one who saw beauty in her scarlet stained steel. The Boss welcomes her back with a smile and the money with a laugh.
"Exceptional work. As I would expect."
She radiates beneath her mask at the praise. The Boss welcomes her art and sees her devotion to the craft she's chosen. The Boss is the only one who truly knows what lies beneath her small stature and silent coldness. She's unlike any of the other bloodhounds, she's an artist. A master of signature and a servant to her instincts to make everything she does as perfect as possible. Instincts she knows would engulf without this prescribed form of release. And for one to know while the rest of the world is riddled with mystery, it fulfills her every desire.
On the way back toward the doors, she stops for a second to see how the selling is operating. After a moment of looking over numbers at a table she continues on. However, just before leaving she catches the words of whispers trailing behind her.
"Who is she?"
"Look, rookie. As far as you're concerned she's a ghost."
Laughter lurches from behind her mask and she leaves it echoing through the space as the doors shut. She removes the mask from her face and lowers it back into her sweatshirt's pocket.
"Actually,"
She whispers quietly to herself as she slips into a passing crowd on a nearby street.
"I'm a Phantom."
She swims now, seventeen years old, as a shark through the pool of her knife with silent steps. Grey eyes stare numbly at the sloshing surface of scarlet while she travels through what once was someone's home. Despite the chaos, every action is calculated and done with precision. It's part of her signature, one she's crafted over the years. Every home, every apartment, every place she enters she leaves exactly as it was. No forced entry, no shattered jars, no pieces out of place. All she leaves is another body and two silver painted rose petals on her victim's eyes. The fallen of the Phantom Killer.
Her hands take hold of the traitor's hidden treasure, money she's certain he wishes he had paid. What the little girl who's fingers sifted through slosh would think of herself and her treasure now. She stares at that girl in the bathroom mirror, above the tile she just removed from the floor. She's become exactly what her parents always waited to come forth from the walls of their warping minds, an entity of death. A ghost who delivers fresh souls to the Reaper's feast. Her once black hair is now the color of the snow she used to shiver in and the color of nothingness. Her porcelain paleness now shines even more starkly as it radiates beneath her white suit stained with several splashes of blood. And yet on the face of this phantom, a smirk as sinister as the one which drove the needles one last time into her parents' arms.
She slips out with her skeleton key into the early beams of sunrise. She finds her way through the sewers with ease, a native rat never forgets where they were born. Who should be surprised that the daughter of addicted drug dealers would find her place in the same routes as her parents? Passing the same manhole they used to supply the runners at, avoiding the old abandoned camp of the gang her parents once pissed off. She lives in what was once their world, but she knows there is one clear difference.
She's stone cold sober.
Her high comes from the perfection of the kill.
Pulling a bag from beneath a make shift grate, the Phantom changes from her veil of white into a track suit of grey. She emerges from the sewers while the final remnants of her most recent suit burn into embers below. Along the alleys of the upper world, she trickles down a set of stone stairs and into a place as dark and dismal as her heart. A woman with hair as white as her own greets her with a smirk and a hand. A coin is exchanged for a ritual. When she finally returns to the streets, bandages cover the newest addition to her ribs. Another new feather of ink for the reborn Phantom Phoenix.
The next doors she steps through are different, she wears a mask of black now beneath her hood of grey. Every set of eyes angle towards the girl who's name they all know, but who's face is reserved for the dead. She leaves them staring to stand before the one who saved her from the sewers, the one who saw beauty in her scarlet stained steel. The Boss welcomes her back with a smile and the money with a laugh.
"Exceptional work. As I would expect."
She radiates beneath her mask at the praise. The Boss welcomes her art and sees her devotion to the craft she's chosen. The Boss is the only one who truly knows what lies beneath her small stature and silent coldness. She's unlike any of the other bloodhounds, she's an artist. A master of signature and a servant to her instincts to make everything she does as perfect as possible. Instincts she knows would engulf without this prescribed form of release. And for one to know while the rest of the world is riddled with mystery, it fulfills her every desire.
On the way back toward the doors, she stops for a second to see how the selling is operating. After a moment of looking over numbers at a table she continues on. However, just before leaving she catches the words of whispers trailing behind her.
"Who is she?"
"Look, rookie. As far as you're concerned she's a ghost."
Laughter lurches from behind her mask and she leaves it echoing through the space as the doors shut. She removes the mask from her face and lowers it back into her sweatshirt's pocket.
"Actually,"
She whispers quietly to herself as she slips into a passing crowd on a nearby street.
"I'm a Phantom."
