The lights go out and somewhere in the darkness comes a rattle and thump. Those bumps that bang along the floorboards of an empty house. The pitter patter of boots to echo the tremors of your heart as you pray, if there be a God watching, that the being from which those rattling breaths echoed pass by your hiding spot.
Head down.
Head down.
Head down.
"Come out, come out, wherever you are, little piggy."
Your chest would sooner explode with inward held breath lest be found out by the hunter. How you've survived so long within such close proximate to him escapes you.
Be still.
Be still.
Be still.
With a sudden force that sends you squirming deeper into the moth eaten coats of the closet caccooning you, the doors burst open wide and the eyes of enemies lock with the quick silver, silence of untouched water. It was a surface only broken by the slice of white teeth in the full moonlight, the hunter flashed a grin that could have melted black ice, a red scar lit in the grey to run along a powerful jaw line. A fire burned in his eyes for blood. Fresh blood.
My blood.
On his hands.
My family's blood.
With a shriek of determined resilience, or as the neighbors would describe in the police report, "cornered, helplessness," you throw yourself from the confines of the closet into the broad body of the human. If he felt the attack at all he gives no heed to it and instead his laugh echos through the homey filth of the squatters kingdom. How long he had been chasing you. Hunting you. And here you were, tasting blood as his bear paw hand finds its place around your paper throat. You can't breath. Your lips pull back silently from razor sharp teeth but you're already far too weak.
Fight back.
Survive.
Fight back!
In the morning the police would come. They would knock politely on the door and push their way in with flashlights aglow. Rays of light would continue steady into the dust and darkness, locking on a shadowy mass in the far corner by the coat closet. They would call out, making their way with booted feet, sounds far too familiar and fresh for the old, abandoned house, towards the mass, tremors of what they would find.
Who could it be?
"It's another one. I swear- there's something about this house."
They wheel away the body in a box white van. But you don't care. In fact. You're happy to see it go. Your paper lips pull back from razor sharp teeth.
Don't care.
Don't care.
Don't care.
Not from where you watch from the home's attic window.
Head down.
Head down.
Head down.
"Come out, come out, wherever you are, little piggy."
Your chest would sooner explode with inward held breath lest be found out by the hunter. How you've survived so long within such close proximate to him escapes you.
Be still.
Be still.
Be still.
With a sudden force that sends you squirming deeper into the moth eaten coats of the closet caccooning you, the doors burst open wide and the eyes of enemies lock with the quick silver, silence of untouched water. It was a surface only broken by the slice of white teeth in the full moonlight, the hunter flashed a grin that could have melted black ice, a red scar lit in the grey to run along a powerful jaw line. A fire burned in his eyes for blood. Fresh blood.
My blood.
On his hands.
My family's blood.
With a shriek of determined resilience, or as the neighbors would describe in the police report, "cornered, helplessness," you throw yourself from the confines of the closet into the broad body of the human. If he felt the attack at all he gives no heed to it and instead his laugh echos through the homey filth of the squatters kingdom. How long he had been chasing you. Hunting you. And here you were, tasting blood as his bear paw hand finds its place around your paper throat. You can't breath. Your lips pull back silently from razor sharp teeth but you're already far too weak.
Fight back.
Survive.
Fight back!
In the morning the police would come. They would knock politely on the door and push their way in with flashlights aglow. Rays of light would continue steady into the dust and darkness, locking on a shadowy mass in the far corner by the coat closet. They would call out, making their way with booted feet, sounds far too familiar and fresh for the old, abandoned house, towards the mass, tremors of what they would find.
Who could it be?
"It's another one. I swear- there's something about this house."
They wheel away the body in a box white van. But you don't care. In fact. You're happy to see it go. Your paper lips pull back from razor sharp teeth.
Don't care.
Don't care.
Don't care.
Not from where you watch from the home's attic window.
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CHARACTERS OOC: posting.php?mode=edit&f=163&p=2058939
