A Cut Above The Rest [Kaelen]
Feb 26, 2013 21:21:18 GMT -5
Post by Jimmeh! on Feb 26, 2013 21:21:18 GMT -5
elspeth anastasia moreno
Sometimes, you just have to indulge yourself in the little things.. It just happens that the 'little things' I like, are generally to most other people, quite big things. Like scaring people witless. Taking their sanity. Their lives... Trivial little things to me, but they seem to mean something to them. Inconsiderate, I know, clinging to something I so desperately want. A bit like people locking the doors to the shop that has that pair of heels that are to die for. Just so selfish. Still, what was life without a little challenge, right? I crouch down in front of the locked service door, towards the back of the building, tapping my chin with the butterfly knife in my hand, cocking head left and right, violet strands sweeping across my face, unrestrained, untamed. Examining the lock. An eyebrow quirked upwards, scar tissue over the left eye warping, the parting gift from Ella Dahl. The bitch who still has my knife...
The unyielding, sharpened steel, moves away from my chin, licking the tip, before jamming the blade into the door frame, snatching a short length of steel pipe from the bag I'd brought with me, placing it over the lock mechanism. A deadweight mallet followed, before a dull thump, once, twice, three times I swing, short, powerful collisions, then the fourth followed by a sharp, metallic ping, echoing through the night, the whole mechanism sliding forward with a slight grinding noise. A devilish smirk crosses my now scarred features, before pushing the broken remains of the lock through the hole it now leaves behind. A metaphor for the holes that ought to be being punched through my soul perhaps? That was the problem with these rotation locks. So flimsy... Not designed to keep a true shoe-a-holic from claiming her dues. I ease the blade from it's wooden sheathe, before jimmying the remnant of the bolt from the ruined lock, descending to the floor with a resonant clink. The rest was elementary, slide the knife down, pull the catch, and push the door open.
It swings open, my face lighting up in a satisfied smile, though twisted by the lines that have been torn across my face, deep gouges in my neck, down my cheek, left side mirroring the damaged and gnarled creature I truly am, and that I love to be. The pipe and mallet are stowed back in the bag, as I saunter leisurely into the shop floor, flicking the lightswitch up with a graceful flick of the knife which rests so easily in my hand, a delicate grip for an elegant weapon. A brief sigh falls from my lips, somehow unmarked by Ella's ravaging nails, the smile on my face one of simple, pure pleasure at the sight of my prize. Shoes. Some would think me hedonistic to break into a shop simply for a pair of shoes, and in one small part, they are right. Except with so many to choose from, why settle for just a single pair? The knife flutters through my fingers like it's namesake, free hand running across the displays, the faintest of caresses across polished, no, bulled leather, among countless other materials that are the latest 'in thing' Capitol side. All for the taking, but which?
All is silent but for the dull thrum of an air conditioning fan, an almost soothing backdrop to my browsing, my almost gluttonous want of something as simple as footwear. My eye, once again, is caught by the crimson pair of four inch heels that I was so vividly picturing myself in earlier, watching myself, in my own magnificent resplendence. I am, for want of a better word gorgeous. The knife stills in my hand, clacking shut with a metallic clack, setting her replacement knife down upon the side picking the sleek, classically inspired beauties up, and with an un-nervingly for someone as black-hearted and warped as I... girlish giggle, lope over to the mirror, sliding out of my sneakers what an apt name... and into the little darlings. One of the fortunate things about my feet? They fit into the display sizes used by this very store. I stare with open admiration at myself, tilting my feet this way and that, beaming at my own reflection. Vain? Moi? Certainement pas...