Thread: The Purpose in This Thread Had Me Call Ahead to Reserve A Cooler Section in Hell.

Writing Samples Forum roleplays are accessible as well. Intro of a RP with Amazoncolor32CD32 color A Heartbeat Away from Death - 1697 Words Dear Diary, After study group, a few my classmates drank an ass-load of vodka. Cheap vodka with a red or brick colored label. really! They called it butt-chugging? It is that common to have a name for it or have they been doing it for so long they decided to come up with one on their own? As they were doing it, in front of me, they told me some story of how some guy in Texas killed himself from it. Said he was a big drinker and had to stop because some sort of mouth condition or something, so he started butt-chugging so the alcohol would absorb through his anal cavity. Whew, the type of people there are in this world. It amazes me. Sometimes there are those people that I would wish to never known existed... but I've just about met them all. Again me, yes, thats proof its really a thing. -Stacey P.S. Happy Birthday, Daddy! P.S.S. Sorry if my future kids find this one day. P.S.S.S. God, please forgive me for this passage. Stacey was not a person who believed in predestines. She did not believe that she was born to cure cancer, or good things came to those who wait, or that if something was meant to be that it would happen. It's a part of the reason she was undecided what it was that she wanted to do in her life. This first came to light when she learned she was the only one in her family who grew up with personal belief of independence. She was mildly rebellious in her teen years, refusing to come out of solitude in her bedroom or often skipped class and stayed out past curfew. Though she never lead a wild life. If anything, she was assertive with her 'innocence'. She wanted to shield it, protect it, and keep it, even if on occasion she had to enforce it stay that way. Anyone frivolous about it or who tried to take advantage of this fact was cut off from her life, wanting absolutely nothing to do with them. She was an emotional, understanding, and a gentle creature to those she cared about. That much was evident in her large, innocent eyes that slash up souls like... a serial killer with a knife. However, she was not one to forgive or forget. The house looked unlike anything it would usually look to Stacey when she got home from classes. What had typically been the mental picture of relaxation and invitation had now gave something that made her feel heavy and as though she were not supposed to be there. The large windows usually open for the natural light of the outside were draped closed, that gave them the color of a black crow, and separated the inside from the outside. The vibrant white panels looked dirty. The abundance of trees had lost leaves, too early than were normal. She stopped on a path right before two single steps to observe the landscape, as though this were the wrong house. Her brother's car was in the drive way. She affirmed with confidence that this was indeed her home. It must just have been the weather. Stacey mounted the brittle cement step that lead a path on a slightly elevated land, when she suddenly lost her footing. She felt a chunk of the step crumble beneath her foot, and then her hands and knees slammed onto the rough ground breaking her fall. Another warning to turn back, perhaps? Something that had taken her off guard had suddenly turned her face to a twist of annoyed anger. She had told her father several times now to patch up the stair before the thing went and gave out one day with her on it. It was just the other day she had even reminded him about it. The ground had been cracking through the pavement on the property for years now. And still, after all these years, no work had been done. She huffed as she stood, furiously accused her father, and ignored the scrapes on her hands and knees as she walked with rapid steps to the house. It was his birthday, so she would show him compassion and be encouraging in speech, but something still had to be said. The brass doorknob was strange, like holding ice, as she held it with her left hand and used her right hand to fish the house-key from her sky-blue cloth shoulder bag. She shoved found it and shoved it in the key hole, twisted, and pushed on the door with her body, expecting it to open. The door knob did not have the sensation of a click when it unlocked, nor had the door let up on resistance. She fidgeted with the placement and tried again. It was still stuck. Again. She got the same result. Last chance. A few more twists and the knob turned. She entered. Her demeanor seemed changed from what it was just a few moments ago. Inside the house, was mostly plain, the base of dcor were large focal pieces shiny or abstract enough to draw the eye from the quantity of dcor. They were displayed between every two sets of windows, a small spotlight hung above the art in the casing to emulate the grandiose quality her mother strived to obtain. The greatest concentration of wealth came from the expensive, high quality, brand-name electronics and household appliances. It was a comfortable living situation. The close of the door did not overpower her voice, I'm home. Happy birthday, again, Dad! Anthony, are you home? Your car is in the drive way. There was even not shred of it in the sweet tone of her voice. She appeared good-natured and smooth, her smile sincere, warm, and cheerful, however she strongly wanted to say something about the steps. Good, right, you better be home. A distant voice spoke implying it were for the best. The father, Richard, yelled again with a ..hey, Thanks absent mindlessly from the living room at the far side of the house, distracted by television. Stacey could hear the speakers from there, referees yelling or something, she assumed it was sports. Yeah! Im upstairs! Her brother, Anthony, called out in an earnest of desire for her to go upstairs. Stacey froze and was conflicted in what she wanted to do. She gazed down the long, vacant hallway and for some unknown reason found herself staring at it for longer than anticipated, forsomething? then looked to the arched frame atop of the stairs. Either have a little chat with the birthday boy or deal with the other boy upstairs. Well, it was their fathers birthday it probably had something to do with that. She was his only sibling and she would have time later to address the stairs issue. A long sigh accompanied her decision and onward she mounted the first beige colored carpet stair, damned stairs, taking two at a time, reaching the top in 8 steps, half the work instead of if she took one at a time. Taking the right hallway, she stopped at the third door to the left. It was brothers room, but he werent in it. She called out his name and walked in. Suddenly, something seized her from behind, grabbed her arm. She would have screamed, she could have panicked, but intuitively she knew it was only her brother. She did impulsively jump from the surprise of it. The annoying snicker gave away that it was indeed Anthony. Look, Im the Triple Goddess Killer! He childishly laughed a stupid, obtuse one that he knew his sister to always hate and bought the nasty side of her out. But, at first, Stacey only looked at him long, hard, and curiously. Anthony turned to his queen-sized bed, which sprawled with newspapers and his open laptop on a News website, and pulled the laptop to balance in one of his hands while he pulled up a tab that read Triple Goddess Killer. The unyielding stare with her unblinking eyes and lack of words made him a little nervous. Finally, she reacted, to show the stupid thing he had done she slid her scraped hand all across the keyboard of his laptop, leaving behind a minuscule amount of blood. Did you think what you did is funny? Do you think this is funny? Blood? cause this she held the palm of her scraped hands very close to his face, he threw the laptop on the bed and shield his face with a few steps back is similar to what happened to those victims. Seriously, Anthony, you are way too old to be making fun of something like that. You know better. Are you going to bring this to church to show everyone?? She was angry, though seemed she was trying to teach him a lesson, not scold him. She was only insulting in the sense that she played up her brothers disgust for wounds. He got defensive, using his arms to speak, Okay, geez, chill! Dad told me about it and I figure its as good any other topic to do for a school report out there. I havent even started reading up on it yet. Chill. It's Dad's birthday. Don't be looking at... that stuff. Put that away. Mom's making dinner and baking Dad a cake. Go... do something better with yourself and see if she needs help or something. She left, dubiously shaking her head, before hearing another word come from his mouth. Further down the hallway there was a bathroom where she went in and closed the door to wash herself up. The strange articles on Anthonys bed, a great amount of people in the town had been gossiping about it, which with a subject as horrible as that one, it is likely to attract attention, especially from smaller towns. The churches prayed and questioned it, even those with different Gods or do not believe in Gods, debated it. Some, like Stacey, found the papers to be a scandal and never spent the time to read them much. But, oh, people talked. Parts of a RP with Amazoncolor32CD32 color That Obscure Object of Desire - 3856 words La Villa Strangiato- Backstage, Prop Room This one kicked the bucket. A man moved to the corpse, atop a loose mound of white, silk drapery. Damn. Its Inga. He crouched by the body, whose evening gown matched her grave, lifted the blondes head and turned the expressionless face from view. God damn it, Chris! The fuck did I tell you bout easing up on that needle?! They aint phoenixs. They dont rise from the ashes. When they die, theyre dead, huh, stupid? The man barked with a natural Italian accent. He was tall, average looking, in his thirties and tanned. There were now exactly two dozen other beautiful ladies. All expertly bound by a thick, hemp rope with their arms behind their back and gagged at the mouth- by now they knew better than to kick. They were sitting or standing absent minded and as though not present at all, unaware the fresh death. Perhaps they simply did not care. And all were dressed in evening gowns of excellence expect one dark haired woman dressed in a tiny little day dress who sat on an oversize crate in the far left corner. The prop room was not large, given the number of people. The stone walled room was relatively empty, only a few wooden crates and piles of assorted fabric. It smelled of lemon cleanser. For events as such, empty rooms were staged for hostages as it made it all the more appropriate some trouble could stir if it was a room was adorned with decorative piece and knick knacks that would never get used anyway. One that was learned half a decade ago the hard way when Anthony and a security guard got clanked out cold with a glass vase from one of the more feisty girls. Aye, Captain. The unconcerned man, Chris, lolled his fat, square head back from injecting a young lady in her arm, needle sticking out. I got this, Anthony. Oh, you got that morphine up your arm, al right. Anthony accepted. Are you hard headed? Get outta here! He stormed over, and with visible restraint, snatched the needle from the womans arm, it was as thin as a stick, and a small bottle filled with a cloudy, clear liquid from Chris. He groaned, Youre lucky if you still have a job after today. I knew I never shoulda took that filthy mans reference. I knew it. You know what you done, huh? Impotence... Impotence Get your ass to work and start lining these girls up back stage. Ill do it myself because I do not trust you to do it, but instruct the men when they bring em out to leave that girl, her, her, and this one gagged. He pointed to each girl then seemed to hesitate, as if he were in thought, like he was forgetting someone. His eyes widened, jabbing two fingers in the air to a duo behind him. Especially these two screamers. Actually. Fuck it. You say nothing. Get the fuck UP ladies!! Its show time. Lets go! If the girls were not responsive they were roughly bought out the door. Anthony gripped the last gowned lady in his large hand, stopped and turned at his heel before exiting. He spoke to the girl in the far left corner of the room, pointing at the lifeless blonde. You dont go making trouble with your little friend. Stay. Then she was left in a room, somewhat alone, only the corpse and the cracked door to focus on. Even if she had the strength to sneak out and evade the mangled bunches of security, she would not. She closed her intense eyes for a moment and breathed in the taste of the tarnished air. It smelled of defeat, but that was a laughable truth. Defeat and victory smelled the same, never to matter which side were considered the right path. The young woman only waited unflinchingly until she heard his voice in the distance. She looked to the doorway. Well, this is just fabulous! If they had any little idea of what goes on back here for the sake of their evening. Fucking Christ! Anthony returned to the Prop Room, calling out CHRIS! to follow. When he crossed the threshold, there was a instant momentous switch that was at once noticeable. He possessively glared at the girl. Natalya! Baby! Natalya looked through him, silent and frowning. She felt uneasy from his scrutinizing gaze. Her inspective eyes had not betrayed her. Everything that happened, Natalya was there as a complete stranger. A prisoner. Although seemingly unconscious, however, she was in a feverish state, sometimes delirious, sometimes half conscious, she'd remember a great deal after any act of forced injection. She made it a priority to put forth such efforts, like, it were her job. I got some bad news. Since there are some screwy fuck ups in the world, and your little friend here is dead, that only leaves twenty-three. It was a specific request order for two dozen. Twenty-four. Exactly a two-four! Anthony went on bitterly. You balance out the order. Its a damn good thing youre almost ready for that just in case factor. Looks like I might not get to keep you after all. But dont worry. Youre rear end last no one will buy you from me. Youre mine. His solid grip squeezed her shoulders together. Her inners became infest with disgust. Theyre all greedy and want something right then and there when they see it. Youll be lucky if anyone still paid attention when you are bought up! Ah. Too busy with what they already got or moving onto the next advances of the evenings line up. Hmmm, Im not sure if Id be willing to let you go that easily. Maybe youd come down with sudden illness and the transaction would cave. Or the bid would swing in my favor. Or maybe, if bought, the man likes to barter. Anthony was a fifthly man made of money, but he wouldnt miss out on a chunk of cash or risk the sake of his business reputation for some woman that could be replaced. Natalya leaned back. His bad news peeked her interests and found it favorable. It was the best news she heard in a long time, in fact. At the moment she wanted to force herself to her feet. The man probably understood little, he could only distinct what he saw, which was a small woman that bore a expressionless gaze. Chris. He snapped lifting Natalya to stand on her own. It took her a few seconds and she swayed, but she did. Quickly, strip the blonde so Natalya can wear the dead girls gown. Chris was a lazy man that lacked conquest and would often spend more time in search of an easier way to do a task than it would take him to actually complete it if he done it with focus. Aw, come on. he protested with heavy eyes. Why can't she go nude? That way it will sell faster and probably for more money too! You should just cattle them out in the nude anyway. What man in their right mind would buy without seeing what's under the hood? I mean, hey, that might be a good side business. Yeahhh. It makes sense that the men get to try 'em a pop, see which one they like best. Case and point. Anthony snorted suggestively. Men with class and taste. You don't think any single person out there can go there and find some tramp for free? This ain't no whore house. I, Anthony Acconi, am held accountable for my standards and taste. and that grabbing the collar of Chriss identical black suit, pointing menacingly to the lifeless blonde, mistake don't happen here too damn often. and shook him angrily. That! That is why I am the man these people come to when they want the cream of the crop. My girls are fucking gorgeous, and to the extent of my knowledge, in good health. They aint got scratched out faces, or skid marks on their bodies. These people know of the high quality of my specimens and fine work. You know what I hear some people had got? Scum of the barrel. Some of these traffickers just pick up any ol thing on the streets! I still remember the look of fear through their beaten in faces. Horrible things. I guess you wouldnt want me to go into too much detail bout what you would get stuck fucking instead then, huh? He laughed, throwing him in front of the deceased blonde. Strip the bitch. The complaining man complied with muttering mocks. Soon she is then instantly rushed outside the prop room to the echoing voice of a professional auctioneer and passed off to a large man in a mute grey suit who sneakily wormed her on stage at the end of a short, few really, string of women most already had been sold and the others being coursed off the stage with their temporarily hired handler. He held her there until two remaining girls were finished up and pushed her forward toward the crowd. The annoying voice of an auctioneer babbled, Natalya Bazin. Natalya is from Moscow, Russia where she attained a B.A. degree at Moscow State University. She had an interest in foreign languages since childhood and has studied English, French, Japanese, and Dutch. From off stage Anthony seethed. That empty brain fucking bitch! You're using the original note card! The wrong note card. The lights blinded Natalya. There was nothing else in the world that she see could now other than the absurd whiteness that devoid the rest of her vision. Vision mattered not, anyway. There was no inclination of inquiring interest to what may be lurking in the darkness. And there would be none. The giant man that escorted her center stage eyed for impending reactions as he slowly untied and removed the mouth gag. Surely, like most of the others, to display the beauty of a face. What might be surprising to a majority, Natalya intentionally helped the man, tilting her head in the proper directions to give him ease in the removal of the restraint. It was done half out of kindness and half out of a longing for crisp oxygen. She inhaled air through her pouty lips, though clouded with the intensity of tobacco smoke, it sufficed. She was an elegant young woman of about twenty-two, slender and petite standing at a raw height of five foot three, with large chocolate brown eyes that could pierce a person with a wide range of emotions, and coffee colored, straightened hair thats shine polished off and reflected from the bright spotlight. She stood there, a way that displayed desirable ease for her fate that she had accepted. Her soul seemed to be kneeling, though her body appeared to be hallowed. But it felt as if she were surrounded by a number of people who wanted to take lure her away someplace else. There was a great deal of discussing about her, or perhaps it was her wondering mind, or the drugs. Difficult to pin point it for certain with the effects from it that numbed her. She recalled her brother's often in these moments. Of how she grew up with domineering brothers that were plumped with a god-like complex due to the prestige of the family name left her with a passive-like personality. though not a commonly used doormat, never that. Despite that, she still knew her self-worth. The bidding opens at five hundred thousand and increases by increments of twenty thousand. The auctioneers voice thrived with impressive speed, almost inhuman, bored from the repetitiveness of the open bids. Natalya Brazin had a deep, dark secret. So well hidden-- or so far gone-- that at times, she even forgot what it was. Assorted voices battled in the distance but for Natayla, time wavered and collapsed. Her mind traced back in time It was before she had got involved with that line of duty. Natalya A male voice with a fierce Russian accent echoed, Natalya! Hello, Sis! Whose face is this? Tell me. It was two of her four older brothers positioned next to one another, across from Natalya, a young man of twenty-five and twenty-nine, pointed to a photo centering another four headshots. The older one held his eyes at a firm gloominess with an expression that strained an expected answer. The younger showed impulsive anger in his sisters hesitation. Ivankovs are the pinnacle of perfection. The younger spoke directly. You got your fancy masters degree and speak how many fucking languages but display no memory to what is most-fucking-important?! He was annoyed and proceeded with a warning tone, For the sake of your life, for the damn sake of the fucking surname Ivankov, Who is this!? The older did not urge any simmer of the younger. The mock tune in his impulsive question was clear she need no reminder of the prestige that appointed her last name Ivankov, and that face in the bustle of photos she had been repetitively shown was well remembered. His prominent features were as sharp and as lasting as a scar. No reminder needed no matter if she was supposed to know who he was or not. But she did. And she thought she had too well to the extent of obligations to feigning a mute response. She knew exactly who this man was. A smile creased to a straight line and Natayla answered, William Hudson? Her memory uttered to the counterpart. Her doe eyes darted sideways, darting the confidence in her response, compensated for her earlier eagerness to attain this man in the pictures name. Thats the Natayla Ivankov I like to see! The older encouraged with a slur of social wisdom. That there is what relates you the Bratva, don't you dare ever forget that. Ya' hear me? She asked fretfully, How long will I be away for? One year, maybe two. Then the older spoke a matter of factly, Once youre in it, youre in it. Suddenly it was the present again, Natayla was at Anthonys side, and her vision was restored of that of backstage strange men in suits and familiar women in gowns, small ice sculptures expedited down to the very last wrinkle of detail, and even exotic animals loose in their wild habit were entertained by a trainer. Mr. Hudson He won her in the auction. The wry smile that shadowed Anthonys face whenever Williams name was bought up since being ushered from the bitter spotlight of the main stage was confirmation enough of the identity of her purchaser. For the first time she was astonished that she felt unexplainably excited to have been bought. Great finds, my good sir. Strangers praised the bitter Anthony, who nastily smiled in response, the sullen in his eyes brewing a storm. He was aloof in his defeat, though accepted the feedback of his fine specimens. Naturally, you fucking idiots. Never expect less from ME. Anthony Acconi! Anthony thought responsively in remark, merely snarling, scornful curls of his upper lips to the submission of his loss. Though he would not betray a smile. He often thought of places he could get away with taking her once more, at the time it was not against any rules, though natural respect was sorely frowned upon to weasel one last fuck to another mans property. If that fucking man had not requested her to be refrained from the use of any more needles, he would have juiced her out cold from morphine and plant his seed inside her so that Mr. fucking Hudson could feel the part of him that thought Natayla was still rightfully his. He summoned, Chris! with a shout and instructed, Clean up that MISTAKE of yours. And growled out of the left side of his mouth. And dont you dare try stickin your lifeless worm to that corpse, you little nasty. Anthony called out and feigned a walk after him with ruthless authority. Chris exuded a condescending glare, filled with both rejection and shame, as he made his way to the prop room to complete his task. Finally, Anthony reluctantly gave way to the instructions of her to a security guard regarded of high reliance and purpose, attired in a thick suit, finely made of black cashmere. Natayla Bazin. He introduced her with a petulant shove of the half-conscience woman toward his direction. And her papers. The documents were stamped with an official seal of authenticityas far as he knew it to be, anyway. Though perceived as true to even the dedicated trained eye, the truth of the matter was they were doctored, expertly so, to had slightly altered the young womans life and most important her last name. A dramatic switch from Ivankov to Bazin one that could ultimately cost her life itself and declare the fall of the Russian Mafia quite possibly the most notorious crime organization of the time period, controlling as much as two-thirds of the Russian economy. Suite 13 The guard had draped her laid on her front across the large, luxurious bed in suite thirteen. He tapped her to check consciousness. Not bad. He mumbled in thought, her glaring response exceeded the expectation of her pale skin. Ive been instructed to bring you to Mr. Hudsons room, number thirteen, without the injection of anymore drugs. So I suggest you play along, like a good little girl, and try to take everything in. I will stay here supervising with my eyes peeled to repel any disobedience. There was a dramatic pause. In that case youll be more use with us. If your new Master decides you set him off within the remainder of his time here Then consider yourself treated to some exercise. Your legs could use some stretching... He grinned nastily. She responded disgusted, with a heavy eyebrow and closed her eyes to pretend he was not present. Conversations of her past served as a distraction and promoted reminders that this chapter of her life would soon be over. The man she oddly felt desire to meet would no longer own her, she would be property of no one but herself, and out of... wherever she was stationed, and back home in Russia with her family whom she missed terribly. Odds were against her about member of her family, as of late. To her dismay, the conversations also dueled as a haunting terror to weigh her distraught mind. Her digits clutched tremendously into a fist, gripping at her palms, though she felt the blunt surface of a cellphone, and in that instant her mind sailed her away to the only thing she had left memories. The scratchy voice of the elder brother from earlier spoke through the mild static of a cellphone, Must you disgrace the family name with all these trifles? She adopted a defensive tone and after composing her thoughts she spoke, I want you to put yourself in my shoes. All alone terrified, surrounded by violent criminals. And not a damn thing anyone or you can do about it. You would feel pretty vulnerable and emotional. sounding as though she should not be vocal. Now that Ive set the scene, excuse me for expressing some feelings. Silence stilled Natayla, which was induced by the response from the cellphones speaker. It was rare that she would permit herself to open up to her narrastic brothers, but she did this one time because they were the closest thing she had and thought they would at least understand, show some empathy or at the worst, shoot her down with a kind Its okay, shut up and deal, Natayla. But this? She did not know what else to say at that point. She had been hurt many times by them it was the story of her life. Though, that was by far the cruelest. How could she ever forgive them? Because of the person she was, she would forgive themas always, and continue with her fateful mission. It was a phone call never to be forgotten, not because of the cruelty, but because she felt a resistance that expanded then snapped at the soul of her heart strings, replaced with nothing. She knew things between them would never be the same. Not a word. Not a single sound, not even a breath trickled from her mouth. She was on a verge of tears that never delivered. Tears represented a cluster of emotion. And at that point, she was far too numb to cry. From the murk, her ally attired in an enemy's monochrome uniform appeared and evidently was urgent in his speech, You wanna get caught do ya? Lets go. Hurry it up. You wanna get caught do ya? Maybe. She could only smile gently and hesitantly drew the phone from her sorrowed face to flip it closed in the midst of utterance summoned from the other end, and apologized, Sorry. stretching the tiny cellular device to the impatient man. He pocketed the phone and hastened them North, toward the direction of the only house for hundreds of miles. You'll be fine.. He muttered what he thought fit from the dreaded impression the phone-call left on her mood. The words of encouragement were much appreciated. She had been maintaining a positive mental attitude, for the most part, though it always felt good to vent her frustrations, even if just to herself. She met some very interesting people on her journey. Most of them were horrible, and while she was congenial in this situation, wish to never see them again. There were the select few however, that over time, she had developed a certain amount of empathy for. Some of whom she planned to offer help to down the road. Then there were the crazies suffice to say that people watching was epic. And harrowing. She was witness to things incapable of being taught in school systems. Natayla just hoped that come the extravagant event shed be moved to a better element. Sometimes she hoped she only been here a month, but that was when the weeks were verging. Every day the same, as if there were something she ought to remember to decode of distant chatter in these dreadful weeks that fused to months. Oh, dont give me that bull. Its time to take responsibility for your duties, Natayla. Act like a lady, an adult experiencing the taste of what the real world has to offer here, princess. You signed up for the ride you pretty much knew what you were getting yourself into. If you ask me or anyone else this is what you wanted. You asked for it. You did this all to your damn self, and the best part is this is not a damned big deal! No one feels bad for you, sis. Only remote time we feel that is when we have to listen to you bitch, moan, and cry well, piss off with it, bitch. Youre going to get abused, drugged, and raped until you love it. A post from a rp with TheLostCastorcolor32CD32 color Dead Memories - 1411 Words He dare accept Ivans challenge? Ivan Ivankov? What a laugh. The more Caillan dared spray the suicide of his own words, strangely the more Ivans smile grew, eerily by fractions of degrees. His smile invited him to speak more dared him, urged him, encouraged him, warned him. It was as though Ivan was pleased with the development. Each second that ticked off from his authentic gold wrist-watch dissolved the seething rage of boiling anger, replaced with an arrogant playfulness that mocked him. Though the hostility only seemed to increased. His face was inked with translucent focus. Anyone this calm in this moment had to have seeded problems. This promised nothing good to come. Ivan slowly rose to his feet, dress shoes sending cracks along the chrome steel floor, chest out in sheer authority. For the first minute, nothing could bypass the cocky aura of Ivan. The chilly cart was drenched in silence. And his prisoner was oblivious to the undying horrors within Ivan that could employ agonies of other worldly elements that one would never wish to experience. With a combined force of that once dead seething raging and this eerily delightfulness, the fist of his free hand rose and unflinchingly rammed his left fist through a glass window at his side. Fragments sparkled and shattered noisily to some unknown space outside the window and uneven pieces at the steels floor. Blood riveted down his pulsating wrist, absorbing in his fine suit as he pulled his hand back to the room. Ivan did not even wince. He only shook his hand one, two, hard times to fling any large shards of glass that were sticking from his tanned flesh. The cavity of the window poured an unbreathable mist of darkness to the volume of the cart. Emily, even the two idiots, jumped, unexpected of the brash tone that possessed Ivan. Oh, wow. Boss. That looks serious. Are you okay? Do you want my handkerchief? One idiot offered. Ivan breathed, as though deaf. The venomous beam in his stare restored as he glared at Caillan, all the more challengingly. He flashed his teeth in a smile, blinked, and then when his eyes opened again they were a show of a wolfish implication on Emily, whom was tense in defense, before darting back to meet his prisoners orbs. A mere look from the vile beast made her skin crawl. Despite the comfort of having someone she knew next to her, some instincts died hard, sometimes never. Ivan chuckled, and unleashed his voice, it boomed with fury, You want to see what this sick fuck wants??! genuinely amused. His face turned red, then to a maddening purple midway through, the vein on his forehead throbbed convulsively. BANG! BANG! BANG! One, two, three, eardrum deflating gun shots rattled the cart. The gun was that of a military strength, designed to cut through even the thickest of steel.. The bullets slipped through the steel floor and ceiling, like silk. Two in the floor, one in the ceiling. BANG! The gun was directed directly between Emily and Caillan, splitting the length of the rope that bound them together no longer. Emily involuntary shrieked in a gasp at the hasty action. She longed to kick the gun directly to his face. All the shots seemed to happen with five seconds, though lasted a life time. Hold the hooligan. Ivan barked aggressively in his order. Emily was viciously yanked from the severed part of the hemp rope. She tried to flee from him, but he clawed after her, No!, raging at her annoying attempt and threw her face near the cavity of the window. She suppressed a yell as the ragged edges of glass cut into her jaw and scratched through her chest with a mix of her own blood and his. The murk of the outside air filled her nostrils. In a sickening, vulgar motion, Ivan pressed his body to the alluring curves of Emilys form and lifted her dress, half exposing the finely toned flesh of her nice ass before he pressed his crotch against that too. His nose dove into Emilys hair, pinning her head where it was, and he audibly whiffed. Prime rape bait, right here. Ivan mocked bemused in a deep, scratchy voice. The gun pointed in her back. Dont! Emily protested in sheer hate and disgust, with an undertone of embarrassment that her high school boyfriend was seeing the way he touched her. Her legs kicked back to harm him, like a wild animal, like a donkey, defying the human in her. It hit and provoked him with a wild growl, and he killed that that instant with a nasty thrust against her backside and knees to the back of her thighs. His bloody hand sullied Emilys dress as his hand explored her form, groping her breasts like he was a fourteen year old boy. Stop! Emily thrashed, but the gun pressed deeper at her back simmered it to a struggle. Well, what is it? Huh? No? Dont? Stop? Or no, dont stop? You gotta be a little more clear here, baby. Ivan grew more animated the more he spoke. His eyes sprouted roots of crimson veins and painfully bulged from their sockets, seeming to have no eyelids. He paused to pull back and unbutton his black dress slacks, and took a moment to bathe in the reactions of Caillian with a grin and click of his tongue in offering, as though mocking his earlier dare. Is it rape if shes saying she wants it? And laughed. Their hell was Ivans heaven. He very much enjoyed long romantic walks to drop people off at the fiery pits of hell. Suddenly, the scene seemed to die simultaneously with the horrible sound of the unzipped fly. Ivan paused to ponder with a inhale through his nose, the end of it going back to take in the scent of Emily. He grabbed a hold of the stub of rope, sat back down, and pulled Emily atop of him on his lap. The gun trailed along from Emilys thighs, through her crotch and the furrow of her cleavage until it nuzzled under her defined jawline. Her legs clamped together nervously, matching the tension of her controlled breathed. Emily had no reservations to remain attentive to the violations. She was fluent at a moments notice to detach herself from any situation. Especially she had learned to do so in fits of Ivans temper. She thought he liked it, sometimes, when she fought back, and only fueled his desires to be more rough with her, it sated him, and others it angered him. Cut fuck face loose. Hook, take out your extra gun. One at her, one at him. He demanded. Ivan glowered devilishly at Caillan, Youre going to be a good boy and do what I say. Or youre going to watch the girl here get gaped from more than just all three of our cocks for your viewing pleasure cause we will make new, warm holes in her, and rape those ones when you watch her die. You may think youre tough shit, dont care bout your miserable life, but thats exactly it. You ARE shit. And you get treated the way you act. To make it even better, to make this situion more appealing, if you disobey, baby here will get toted around and you get to watch the show all. Over. Again. Got it, bitch? You are going to be calm, and not do anything stupid when you are untied. You are going to stand calmly. You are going to ripped Emilys dress off, and use the tattered parts to clean the your nsty spit off my damn shoe. Worth more than any fucking thing you ever had. Then you get to be creative here, the nice guy that I Is, you see, and youre going to come right next to where she is by my face and spit in her face. Say something nasty. Then kiss her. And then slap her clear across the face. She did not move, her eyes cold at the smoke from the bullet holes in the floor. Greasy blood drizzled down her slender neck and flowed to the dip of her cleavage, running cold from the fresh wounds at her jaw. Then she flicked her hard gaze to Caillan, the intensity in the contact was elastic ready to detach, ready to engage, and anything in between. Fear was there. A post from a rp with TheLostCastorcolor32CD32 color What Makes A Killer? More posts interactive from this RP can be found here . - 887 words Misery loves company. Jessica intuitively watched between the spaces in his footing, but said nothing. Her eyes would dart to check for signs of impending movement toward her. The razor shifted between the fingers of her clasped hand ready at an angle in case he were to trail, as she shrunk away from the way his enticing muscles bulked with each movement. She could just simply feel his hungry eyes devouring her entire figure without having to see with her own eyes. He was raping her with his eyes and it took visible resistance to keep her arms from bracing her body. The squirming reflected her emotional and mental torment. But she would not submit, her stance remained strong. A sick smile settled on her face when he obeyed her, as if she had done something easy and playful. It was meant to mock him. But she knew better than to think that he would cease his vile advances all together. This was just one meaningless battle in a war. What to call a war that will never accomplish peace? She wondered. There would never be peace, she would never allow it. He did not deserve to get to know the bountiful kindness she had to offer. Especially with him giving her permission to speak that made her hold air in her lungs with contempt. She didn't think she'd get this far and had nothing in particular in mind to say. She wanted to start off spewing something nasty, or fixating on accusatory behavior asking what the fuck is wrong with him. That needed to get suppressed because Jessica knew that would not get him to listen to her. No. To coax him into even penetrating her voice deep enough that he would truly muse over her words she has to appeal to his interests. That will catch his attention, which is something of importance to make this display of stalling the inevitable worth anything other than temporary peace of mind though, probably just a demented game of cat and mouse to him. She had to humanize herself or humanize him to himself. In truth, Jessica really did not desire to speak with him either. What a horrible thing to propose. Treating him as if he were something other than what he truly is a monster, displeased her soul. Though she supposed it was better than getting raped. But was it really? Yes! It still needed to get questioned to distinct the toll of confliction to herself. There wasnt a variety of options she had to work with here, so she had to take what she could get and squeeze the advantage dry. A incredibility disguised monster he was Strong and remarkably handsome, deceivingly so. She would never admit that, even to herself. And here he was residing in a upscale house and a safe neighborhood well, somewhat safe, there was a vicious killer living there after all. Look She took a deep breath and went on baring a sympathetic tone, I imagine youve killed a lot of people... paused, as if her mind elicited images that portrayed the very words she spoke. Damaged families beyond repair caused a number of pounds with bloodshed. And I dont understand what could possess someone to have a desire to do such things to want to hurt people. I doubt that youll believe me, but I can kind of relate to that state of mind. The subtly of relish when someone is taken by surprise. A curious fascination of darkness by violence, weapons, injury, or torture. Treating someone harshly and getting away with it. The savored satisfaction from when someone obeys you. Kind of like that sick smile you just had? Its similar to how I feel about you. Everyone has bad thoughts that cross their mind. Do they? That doesnt make me a bad person though. Doesnt it, though? Because I only have these urges to harm you for what you didare still doing to me. I can admit your pain and suffering amuses me. Oh, thats normal? Her eyes were smoldering with a charge as she flicked them to focus on his face to watch his reaction. That leads me to believe that someone has hurt you, pretty badly if youve come to be what you are. I know you probably dislike the thought of having nobody around. And theres got to be someone out there for you, but I can tell you right now that is not me. Someone to make you feel- really feel. Or maybe Im just foolishly pooling this from some other dimension in space and youre completely and irrevocably mentally fucked. Do you like placing people in a state of abject misery? They say you are what you surround yourself with. Perhaps you would have a far greater benefit if you just seek out happy things instead. If you start looking for the good in life more often, you will find more of it. Studying his surroundings, she remembered his offensive stance need be reason to worry. In her hand was the razor. Her concentration strengthened, and she could feel the flesh of her knuckles stretched and they whitened. Now it's your turn to properly speak. She reminded him, Do not come near me. with a tinge of a threat in her voice. Intro for a RP with Amazoncolor32CD32 color Disasterpiece, Victorian London version - 2338 words 1888 - London, England Nobody knew that Jessica Dennehy killed John Chapman, torturing him and smashing the thick blade against his jaw with a butcher knife Jessica called her implement from hell. Of all the accomplishments she had achieved in her life thus far she never thought being responsible of a persons final breath would have made it to the list. One she noted of the highest value, at that. The urge to speak of the brutal crime brimmed at her surface. It was not because she wanted to confess her sins, nor release any guilt that may have been building up there was no remorse. It was because she would rather gloat about what she had done, to have a good laugh in remembrance as she described the uncontrolled change of infliction in Johns bone chilling screams, being controlled by her. How the blood sprouted from a freshly inflicted wound when he was sitting compared to the dribbling mess when he was on his side. Since she glorified this crime and had not been able to receive praise as she would with any of her other accomplishments, Jessica felt a sense of numbing loss, which was natural after achieving victories. She learned. But this time was unlike any of the others. No matter what she done to substitute for lack of acknowledgement of her accomplishment, her crime performing a new song on the piano sporting the latest womens fashion, or even things she much detest such as, charity display there was still that consuming void unable to fill. Jessica wanted people to know what she had done, to fear her, realize just how cruel and clever she was in her head, though, that did not outweigh the desire to keep killing. And to do that she knew secrecy was uncompromising. Jessica often wondered if her family had any inkling to the darkness that constantly loomed over her. Though, she realized how that simply could not be. She was the type of person who masked sadness with detachment, fear with anger, much rather come off as a cold-hearted bitch- or mouse- than allow anyone to view her as weak. This gave her a magnetic charm. She's proud and totally confident holding the noble name Dennehy, one would have to be. The family was fame ridden being traced with nobility back from the late 1600's. Today, Dennehy maintained such difficult to obtain power and wealth through a string of doctors history within the family. Her father, Collin Dennehy, was a 59 year old doctor that was hardly ever home in his younger years he spent his time traveling to offer his practice to those in need, and was around more often now in his old age. Her mother, Abbie Dennehy, was 46 and the traditional Victorian woman being a good wife to her husband. Her brother, Caleb Dennehy, was five years older than her at 28, in and out of home, studying under the best in the footsteps of father. Money was never issue. It was never a question, it was always there with abundance and never ceased. She had grown up being taught that the family had immunity to near everything, and so she thought herself to be just that, always to get what she wanted. When she was a child the other children played what she wanted to play, exactly how she wanted to play it, and when she wanted to play it. The only connection her family could have that linked to her darker side was when she was a child, and children are often silly and overbearing in behaviorisms anyway, common to grow out of it with age. She was a bossy little girl. Things had not changed much over the years. The only difference was that it was an unspoken obligation than vocal direction of demand. It was long ago that she had learned it better to hold her tongue and let the sea of words cycle in her mind. Once someone had tried to cheat her in a Chess match and out of obvious agitated anger she claimed she would hack his throat open and tear his tongue out through the hole. Words can be perceived as fickle, but the deadly intent in her unflinching gaze said otherwise. She got quiet after that. One might think that Jessica's silence was more worrisome than sharp, direct words unleashed from her mouth. If she stared in silence at someone long enough she noticed they would get possessed with squirming and drown in the imprisonment of their own stupidity. John Chapman, that was his name the very person of Jessica's first kill. She was not a woman to tolerate disrespect, and her spiteful nature was angry and powerful enough to carry this grudge for half a decade. That was not why she killed him though. It was not a petty revenge murder. In part it was the darkness inside her glimpsing the light of the surface. She wanted to know if she could do it. If she could really kill a person, watch as she permitted an innocent familys destruction. It was a question she had asked herself for some time could she really kill a person? At times she thought it not possible, and banished the idea from her thoughts, only to start thinking about it again, like torture. Still, she told herself she could not do it. But then why did it keep cycling back to her thoughts? She had always retained a sick fascination with pain and torture, and blood, so be it through the carnival of Freak Shows, public hangings, and the hidden detail in the painting of her art work or music and others. Truly beautiful art it was to her, all of it. She showed herself she could do it, that she could kill and enjoy a pleasant breakfast with her family the following morning. But kicking Johns bucket was not enough. That seemed too long ago, and she was itching to attack her next victim. Would she want the family name destroyed on account of her pretenses? Would it make her more mentally ill if she wanted people to know it was her, not allowing some other name to hog the glory of her thought out and prized handy work? Hell, would she even be willing to swallow her pride and admit that she is anything other than little Miss Perfect? That she was a murderer? Only time would tell. Jessica was passionately at work in learning pieces new to her of Mozart, piano music when she found out John Chapmans murder had become known to the public. It was 2 oclock on a Wednesday. A maid had entered the music room, and with a nod of consent from Jessica the maid proceeded toward Jessica whom had killed her fingers right there at the ivory keys and supplied her with Londons Daily Gazette and a cup of steaming tea. Jessica took the newspaper with her left hand and reached over to her glass of cabernet atop the piano, pulling it to her lips at equal speed she raised the paper to her classical beauty face. The maid placed the cup of tea at a table adjacent to the piano tea cup and plate were white with pink and red floral dcor, vibrant green vines as stem and accented the gold trimming at the rims and handle. Bring me some more wine, would you? Her deep brown orbs found capital lettering of the newspaper and to her twisted delight of shock and excitement saw the headline Another Dreadful Murder. The maid was apprehensive in her speech, Yes, of course. What kind? she inquired. Jessica breathed evenly, It matters not. It all tastes the same anyway. Though I do have a strong preference for red. Splitting herself in two. Its not my place, Miss, but as I have love and concern for you, I would just like to respectfully point out that you have been indulging in drink every day since the weekend, Miss. Your parents have spoken of you old enough to take on a husband. Again, none of my business, but in case it had gone unnoticed by the Miss, I thought I would be helping to do so, Miss. At once the maid bowed and obediently did Jessicas bidding. Only a pretend smile of compassion creased Jessicas lips, eyes staring at her, awaiting the maids departure. Largely, she yearned to read this passage alone and partly was too nervous to allow anyone to watch her read it, frightful of the grim expressions that might pull on her face. When she left, in an anxious adjustment, she eagerly read it, grinning impulsively. Intro for a RP with Amazoncolor32CD32 Three Months Later The cooling period started to simmer for Jessica Dennehy. And so it was in the heavy fog of the dark night she was in another fork in the road venturing back to a path she had turned down on long ago. It would be precisely ten weeks later that she scaled the side of an elegant house. It belonged to her next unfortunate victim, Charles Emmanuel Ward. As per orderly fashion, the victims had to have something in common. So what did he have in common with John Chapman? Aside from the lingering urge to make them greatly suffer, both were too cocky for their own damn good. They shared a unashamed sexuality, which Jessica found disgustingly distasteful. Yet both always seemed to be maintaining appearances, with rooted reason most would not notice, too good at talking, too good at being liked, and too good at being hated. Regretfully, she often found herself to swing in Charles favor among the gossip and fleeting sights of him. Regardless of that... what horse shit. Jessica knew, better than anyone, that there had to be a reason why these appearances were so well kempt. She had no concrete evidence to support her whole idea, but something inside her told her they deserved a cold butchery. Charles fucking Ward would have been first on her list, had she not needed her first victim to her first murder weaker John was so easy to subdue. He always had a crush on her and she knew him, which was a beneficial advantage all in its own. Jessica marveled at the ease of Johns dumb submission as she crept in the dark of the night to a window she observed in her spying was always cracked, and silently tip toed in, without even so much as a breath of air. She was as quiet as a corpse. There was no challenge in the conquest of Chapman. He was a weak vessel, which at the time was perfect. Charles was a weak, old man, she thought that if nothing else he should thank her for choosing this path for him. The challenges of this were in the art of surprise and conquer. Jessica tried to devoid the occasional creaks of the wooden floorboards. Each one combined forces like thunderbolts of destruction. That was silly. That racket was all in Jessicas alert head. The wood was old and would make sounds of their own accord anyway, still no matter the confidence Jessica held that the man not knows an intruder in his house remained unshaken. She spaced her footing to test out each step in defense. She pictured her victim lounging about helplessly clueless to the dread planned out for him tonight. And that greatly amused her, as well as induced her predatory nature. On a night like tonight, Jessica was dressed head to the tip of her toes in a midnight black laced dress, full coverage and loose at the bottom for room and two slits up to her mid-thigh on both side of her to ensure unencumbered movements. She was careful to maintain semi-casual attire, on the off chance a hiccup was made and she had somehow been recognized or spotted by him or even a stranger on her creep to this house. No one had seen her outside of the house, perfect it was all fluent the way she imagined. Finally, she touched the bronzed-brushed knob to the room she crept through and the door was kept motionless as she bypassed the dark, wood frame, the dull rays of hall light pouring in. Thick strands of her coffee brown hair swept her forehead, followed by wide, brown eyes whose polished pupils reflected the hall light back on them. She leaned against the door frame, blocking the opening. Her heart shaped face peered over, earing for any signs of movement in the house. Her face was innocent not that of a murderer, if anything, she would engage in the pantomime of some made up story- so long as she kept the bulge of the steel knife hidden in beneath her dress. The house smelt of fresh lilacs as she successfully made it against the wall, behind a tier of storage and lavish curtains of an empty dining room, seemingly undetected. It was difficult to construct such a scene or convey with known words the feelings that came sneaking upon her sharpened mind. She sat there for an hour, or several, or maybe even days, she did not know. Neither minutes, nor years could deduct the anticipation of this interval. This revealed a stripped, spellbound state that coaxed her from the ark corner that she hid until she was certain she heard a noise that indicated he was very home. As soon as she was sure of it, she adopted extreme caution of her footsteps and hearing, utterly focused in her quest for invisibility as she snaked her way down the halls. With her petite height of five foot four to five foot five, she was able to easily take cover behind shelling units randomly decor through out, no doubt to display self-involved nick knacks only he found meaningful. Wrote this in high school, old short story Time - 542 Words The dusty grandfather clock in the corner reads midnight. The old man groans, turns over and pushes his head into his age-yellowed pillow, trying to block out the never ending sounds his own mind creates. He pulls his scraggly blanket over his head, willing them to stop. Suddenly, heart racing, he whips the blanket away and sits straight up. Paranoia is getting to him, surely, that wasn't someone coming up the stairs. His stairs. He lives alone in a lighthouse, he always has. He is as old as time, and he will continue to live there for infinity. Reality is thin there. Sometimes things appear, and disappear the next day, or hour. It doesn't really matter since time is just an illusion, smashed to pieces. He is time. He gets up, cautiously, being careful not to step on the creaky floorboards of his old home. He reaches over to his side table and strikes a match, lighting a candle, exposing grimy walls, dirty floors, boarded up windows and giant spider webs. The room is in flickering shadow. It smells of decay and of ocean air and age. He creeps over to a sloppily covered window and peers out, rubbing his old nightgown against the filth. The ocean crashes against the giant cliff the old lighthouse rested on. Such a long way to fall, into the anger of the sea and sharp rocks. He sighs, knowing that it is not just tricks of his mind, and rests for a few eons in the sanctuary that is his mind before bending down carefully, for he is old, and weak. He pulls a loop of rope hidden in the cracks of the rough wooden floor and opens up a trap door. He has planned for this. He took one last look around, and suddenly remembers something. He quickly takes a locket from some hidden place and holds it tight before descending the damp stone stairs, candle in hand. He closes the trap door and continues down, not looking back. Slowly he goes, the fire making shadows and lighting the passage eerily. Four, five, six turns down the spiral staircase, then down below ground three more. The pounding waves, always cycling with the moon, became more apparent. Finally, he steps outside onto an outcropping of rock, halfway down the cliff. He has been here before, decades ago. Time wavers, and collapses. It is 27 years in the past, and he watches his younger self, an unnoticed observer, horrified because of the scene about to replay. His self comes almost tumbling down the passage and runs perilously close to the edge of the precipice. He stops just in time and searches with his eyes down the rocks, leaning down and sticking his head over the side, staring into the hate, anger and malice that was the ocean. He doesn't see anything and slowly gets up and turns around, staring directly into the blue-grey eyes of his young daughter. She pushes by him and jumps. It is the present again. The old man looks up at the sky and relives the moment over and over again. He could have saved her. He jumps. The police looking for the deranged mental hospital escapee searched the lighthouse and found nothing. A RP with Norwegian One Designed for Punishment Partner from Elliquiy Prime example of DESCRIPTION AND DETAIL.