bitter and { s i c k } // wander
Apr 24, 2014 21:55:08 GMT -5
Post by Stare on Apr 24, 2014 21:55:08 GMT -5
The night was quiet as I trail along the streets, running a hand along the grimy buildings and watching out of the corner of my eye for anyone who might be lurking in the shadows. My feet are as silent as smoke drifting over the pavement and yet my ears remain hypersensitive, listening for anything out of place. I've been paranoid lately and I know better than to blame it on lack of sleep or my imagination - things are shifting in District One, down in the underworld where Daddy rules. I can tell by the way the corner of his mouth tightens at the dinner table, by the way he locks his door at night. He is not one to be spooked easily and even now he retains a calm, cool composure, but beneath I can sense a growing impatience with... something. Not me, though. Never me.
There are other reasons for me to suspect, of course. The growing list he hands me each month is proof of that, and I never fail to thoroughly investigate each and every name marked down in ink that reminds me of dried blood. Not tonight, though. Tonight is the eye of the storm, a breath between battle cries. I'm a creature of instinct, falling back often on the most primal of instincts, and so I can never truly relax. But I can skip training, as I did this morning, and I can ignore my responsibilities to Daddy, as I am right now. I pass by an alleyway and tense at the sound of something scratching against stone, but when I kick a stone into the darkness I hear the familiar scuttle of a rat's claws against the ground. My eyebrows lower into a frown and I sweep away from the filth toward a nearby bar, where a different kind of rat awaits me.
No one notices when I enter the room that reeks of cigarette smoke and stale beer. Half the people are too drunk to care, but the other half wouldn't recognize me if they wanted to. I made sure of that by utilizing the black hoodie in my closet, shoving my hands into the pockets as I approach the counter cautiously. When I take a seat in the stool the bartender (a tall, greasy man with dark eyes to match his ever-present smirk) juts his chin toward the door. "Out. We don't serve kids."
My lip curls up into a half snarl. Filthy swine. He's hoping I'll try to bribe him, that I'll beg like so many before me have. The world is filled with arrogant young men like him, people who think themselves too good for the world. They are the kings of the slums and they pretend it is a worthy kingdom. Fools. My father is ruler of a far greater empire. I raise my face to him, pulling my hood back slightly so that the dim light falls on my flashing eyes, my red hair. The recognition is instantaneous. A Hayes. The hood falls back into place and I smile. "Give me something strong."
He obeys.
While I wait I pick at the darkness that's crusted beneath my nails (not dirt. i'd never be so low as to have filth beneath my nails), drawing the attention of the barkeeper for a split second before he lowers his gaze. He knows. Everyone knows.
One day I will inherit Daddy's throne, and there will be no hiding from the hell I unleash.
There are other reasons for me to suspect, of course. The growing list he hands me each month is proof of that, and I never fail to thoroughly investigate each and every name marked down in ink that reminds me of dried blood. Not tonight, though. Tonight is the eye of the storm, a breath between battle cries. I'm a creature of instinct, falling back often on the most primal of instincts, and so I can never truly relax. But I can skip training, as I did this morning, and I can ignore my responsibilities to Daddy, as I am right now. I pass by an alleyway and tense at the sound of something scratching against stone, but when I kick a stone into the darkness I hear the familiar scuttle of a rat's claws against the ground. My eyebrows lower into a frown and I sweep away from the filth toward a nearby bar, where a different kind of rat awaits me.
No one notices when I enter the room that reeks of cigarette smoke and stale beer. Half the people are too drunk to care, but the other half wouldn't recognize me if they wanted to. I made sure of that by utilizing the black hoodie in my closet, shoving my hands into the pockets as I approach the counter cautiously. When I take a seat in the stool the bartender (a tall, greasy man with dark eyes to match his ever-present smirk) juts his chin toward the door. "Out. We don't serve kids."
My lip curls up into a half snarl. Filthy swine. He's hoping I'll try to bribe him, that I'll beg like so many before me have. The world is filled with arrogant young men like him, people who think themselves too good for the world. They are the kings of the slums and they pretend it is a worthy kingdom. Fools. My father is ruler of a far greater empire. I raise my face to him, pulling my hood back slightly so that the dim light falls on my flashing eyes, my red hair. The recognition is instantaneous. A Hayes. The hood falls back into place and I smile. "Give me something strong."
He obeys.
While I wait I pick at the darkness that's crusted beneath my nails (not dirt. i'd never be so low as to have filth beneath my nails), drawing the attention of the barkeeper for a split second before he lowers his gaze. He knows. Everyone knows.
One day I will inherit Daddy's throne, and there will be no hiding from the hell I unleash.
A I N E
H A Y E S
