{for anna for her wonderful comments and support}
TO HIM, only three things were ever constant: the screams, the blood, and the distinct scent of death.
The screams were unceasing, beautiful music to his ears – though, sometimes he preferred the deafening ballads of the moans.
He was known to love the metallic taste of blood. He would drink it like wine – three times a day, a glass with every meal.
Death was his perfume; he was always cloaked in it, the smell of rotting flesh and a deteriorating soul.
His shoes were of thick leather and he walked with heavy steps, the sound of his brisk parole echoing in the damp hallways. For those with traces of sanity left, his footsteps were a signal. A single, wet echo of shoes against brick would silence their scream. He loved that. A scream caught in the throat of a patient always turned to a strangled cry and then he'd halt, whip around, his long cloak slicing through the air with a whoosh! He'd take a few quick, precise steps, jangle his keys to notify the patient of his intentions, then – after turning the key in the lock, after the familiar click – he'd pause.
Then, a laugh would build, beginning in the very pit of his gut as a low, dark rumble, slowly, then, it'd slither up his throat into his mouth, just under his tongue, pressing against his teeth before slipping between his parted lips and erupting like a volcano. His laughter would spill from him – eerie and dark and booming. But rather than let it die out, almost as soon as the sound escaped him, he'd cease it as crisply as cutting a wire. Then he'd open the door and the screaming would resume.
On this day, however, he had a specific purpose. So his steps were designated and intense as he walked deeper into the labyrinth of hallways until coming to the correct cell.
She was cowering in the corner muttering the same words.
Always, first:
"Oh, we shall be too late!"
Followed by a rapid fire of "Too late!"s in quick succession, rising in pitch and intensity until climaxing in one earsplitting shriek of "Too late!".
She was by far his favorite.
The cloth she wore was tattered and thin, doing nothing to cover her flesh – of which she had very little. She was entirely bone, her ribs fine enough to pick his teeth. He watched as her teeth chattered, clashing harshly against each other and occasionally clamping down on her tongue. She didn't seem to notice, her shivering undeterred by any pain. He salivated at the sight of the blood on her chapped lips, he wanted desperately to lick it from her flesh but he made no move to do so.
He took two strides to her, wrapped his fingers tightly around her arms, digging his fingers into her bones, and heaved her up. As he dragged her down the halls, he smiled. An echo trailed in their wake.
"Too late!"
° ° °
The women were laid identically on aligned cots, strapped down at the shoulders, hips and ankles, hair splayed across the table, lips chapped and bloodied but parted in a scream, eyes rolled back, unseeing. He began with the small one.
She was different, her skin a tinted shade and her hair as dark as her cell. The syringe was long and crusted with blood. He smiled as he felt it plunge into her skin before pulling it out and moving on to the next one. He refilled the tool with a dark liquid and then inserted it into her throat. Satisfied, he moved on. He had saved the best for last.
First he felt her neck, pressing into it and feeling the thud of her pulse. His fingers inched lower, to the base of her throat where he pressed, hard. It drew a whimper from her and, pleased, he moved lower. Her breasts were small and round and his calloused fingers squeezed them roughly until, satisfied, he moved on. He poked and prodded; drawing gasps and whimpers but her eyes remained thoroughly emotionless. Finally, he stuck her with the needle.
There was a certain pleasure to be found in watching her writhe and scream. Her body convulsed as blood dripped from her nose – a common part of this practice. Yet he would not be completely satisfied until she pleased him. He pulled her gown up and when a drop of blood landed on her stomach he growled. He positioned himself above her. As her body shook with pain, so did his with pleasure.
At the end of it all he surveyed the young woman. He could recall the first time. She'd been young and mad and always rambled of nonsense. She was still young and mad, but he'd broken her.
He'd broken all of them.
° ° °
He pulled his gloves off, finger by finger, and replaced the tools back in the shelves. There was a square piece of fabric on the table beside the syringes for wiping off the blood. He glanced at it briefly before strolling carefully to one of the tables. The girls were silenced, their chests barely rising and falling.
He had stopped at the table of his favorite one. The blood on her lips was still fresh and he took a finger, wiped it delicately across the fleshy part of her mouth before bringing it to his mouth. The taste was ambrosial.
It was like a sweet addiction and eventually he'd tasted all of her blood.
He left the girls on the table; he'd return for them in the morning.
His shoes were of thick leather and his steps were heavy as he walked. The soles of his feet were blood red.
They'd not always been this color.
° ° °
When he returned in the morning, the girls had all vanished.
kinda/half-assed edited so i apologize for this atrocity but also ok so this was obviously v dark and kinda odd but thats basically what this novel will be so heads up
that said the majority of this book will not be in his pov itll be in alices so next part takes us to the infamous wonderland (whos excited????? pls tell me im not the only one)
PLEASE ACTUALLY READ THIS OK BC ITS IMPORTANT TO ME
i thrive on feedback so plsplspleeeeeease comment your thoughts but to help u here r some questions
1. What do you think of this guy?
2. How do you think my writing was? Ok? Great? Absolutely awful and how dare I even call this writing??? idk let me know pls
3. What do you think wonderland will be like?
xx julia
