Copyright ©Melanie McCurdie 2013/12/30
The birds in the tall grass startle and ruffle as they take wing in my wake. Scythe is reflective in my hand, still musing I suppose upon the previous night’s experiences and Prey. She hums softly, her voice a quiver in my nerve endings, not ravenous but the niggling of hunger in her tones. It is daylight still, and the rays of light make me hiss. It doesn’t injure my bone cover, or my eyes but it bothers and sets me on edge.
Before me is a trembling figure, his breath curling around his head to drift up against the moons face. The night is frigid cold and his lips are turning blue from the exposure. He is helpless to run, compelled to stay, stand, ankle deep in the deepening chill, eyes mesmerised by the peeking edge of Scythe. She is lovely in the moonlight, Her blade still stained by the kiss of blood I fed her.
Prey raises his eyes to mine, staring frankly and openly into mine, his hands stroking his hardest part with shivering hands. I stare back, head cocked, curious at his reaction. How strange that he would find me arousing. I am Death Maiden, not some tavern wench that would lay with any man, or woman for want of a coin. Nevertheless, his flesh sword was formidable, and I watched with amusement. I drifted forward, leaving no tracks but those of my eyes in the darkening day; dusk was approaching on swift feet, cold mist rising from the ground in tendrils.
His excitement is evident and his hands move faster on his fleshy outcrop, freezing as I grasp his throat with my nails, my other hand around his own. I lean to place my lips upon his, teeth tearing gently at his lips, bringing the sweetest honey to the surface. The only sound was his groan as he continued to stimulate himself. As he reached climax I tore out this throat, the tones of his delight with the gushing of his lifeblood over my hand like dulcet notes in the night.
His body drops, steaming, exposed on the snow, as I taste the last of his existence on my fingers. It was sweet, and warm, tingling with the fading twitches of life, and I sucked it away with delight.
I have been seen by human eyes, and they watch still, not cringing, nor afraid, yet. Scythe sighs in the snow, the scent of fresh blood still tingling on my tongue. I scooped her up, leaving a crimson streak on the snow from the back of my hand. The eyes narrow, as though trying to discern what I was carrying. Scythe would be delighted to meet the acquaintance of one so curious.
Human. Female. Afraid. The most sumptuous scent is Fear, each prey is individual. This one had the scent of white roses, heavy with dew, and cloves, freshly dried. This prey was most strange, staring me down as though she could possibly win, or survive. I wouldn’t deign to pluck her eyes from the sockets. There it stands, hands at its hips, daring much. I turn on my heel, spinning around and lobbing her head off in a swipe of Scythe’s blade. Her long hair catches in the trees above, where it bobs and dangles like a child’s decoration, as her shell slumps to the ground in an untidy heap.
The rooks would make a quick treat of this, and so I drift away towards the sounds that have plagued my ears; Raucous laughter, low and full of insinuation. A gathering of males I determine, probably posturing, slapping each other on the backs as they tell each other lies. The males of the species are most odd creatures and I for one would be pleased to rid the world of their existence.
Ahead a lone woman huddles by a makeshift fire, a most lovely creature, with hair of sunlight and eyes as a giant cat. She watches as I approach, tensing to jolt to her feet and flee…no. This is a true prize, a treasure. Beside her sits a simple weapon; one wouldn’t expect something as this to be capable of killing, but it had been doing its work, and with abandon. A hammer, simple wood handle, its claws wrapped in hair and clotted with old blood. Its head, also much bloodied and resembled a chiselled eye, staring back at me with rapt attention. Scytheis agitated, her handle shivering in my hand, vibrations continuing up my arm.
I sit directly across from her, staring into her eyes, questioning her. There are no words, as we need none. She smiles a most vicious smile, and tilts her head towards the gathering just beyond the copse of trees that was giving us shelter from sight. I will enjoy this creature. She speaks two words and it thrills my soul. Could it be, this was the baby sister of my companion? This pleases me very much, and motion that we should begin.
She picks up her hammer, and we advance towards the next camp, where I could already smell the scent of Devil Grass and fermented fruit. It is most distasteful to my nose, and soured my mouth. My new companion did not seem bothered by this scent and it was curious to me. She was swinging her hammer back and forth, the hair caught in its claws sighing along behind it.
Impetuous thing she is, as she bounds to the nearest prey and swings her arm downward hard, cracking the skull. It made a hollow sound as the hammer hit, and again and again. The rage was the most delicious scent, and made me salivate. Scythe was moaning and desperate to feed. I hesitated a moment, as I watched my companion destroy another two prey in quick succession, their brains leaking and mixing on the ground. One still shivered, hands jittering and dancing on his chest.
I see my Prey. Babysister can kill as many as she wants, but not that one. That one I will claim as my own. I see her stalking up to the small group of men where my Prey stood. She glances over and I shake my head, I will dispatch these myself and she takes another route.
Scythe is now screaming in my heart and I creep closer to this grouping of odd males. They were not simple, why did they not run? Prey stands in the middle of this band of misfits, not cringing and whimpering like a scared puppy. No, this one held my gaze with little more than a shudder, and a hint of a smile on his lips. Scythe’s sharpest point reaches out and settles under the chin of the first cowering meal, his jowls fluttering as he shook. She nuzzles into his throat, slicing the flesh and letting go a glut of blood, spraying its hot warmth on my face, and the ground, bathing Scythe in gore.
The others freeze as deer in the meadow. They could not run if they chose to. Scythe screams her battle cry as she makes quick work of the last two, their heads falling to the hard ground with a hollow thud. Prey simply stands, watching with interest, as one by one his kin and brethren fall, their lights extinguished.
I am most confused by this creature, he does not Fear. There is a sea of death before us; my companion has been most vicious with her love, each body broken and shattered from the force of her weapon and her rage, and she has laid out a feast for the rooks to dine upon.
I snarl deep in my throat, as my attention is then drawn from the bloody painting before me. Prey dares much, his hand upon my throat, the other about my waist, and I dig my talons into his throat, shoving him back from me. Scythe screams her displeasure at this violation, as She falls to the ground. Prey has not let go, instead pulling closer, tightening his grip on my breath tube. He will pay for this, and most viciously too; this thought brings a thrill of pleasure to my skin and I squeeze my hand. Prey drops like a rock at my feet, a heap of fabric and flesh. Babysister has exhausted her supply and smiles most delightfully in my direction. Ah yes, she is truly the blood of my companion. They share the bloodlust and this pleases me.
Before her I count dozens of shells, all oozing life force and grey matter. A great sea of rage not yet abated and it is as beautiful to my eyes as hideous the sound of laughter is to my ears. I motion her forward, as Prey begins to stir on the ground. It is time to play….
The fire burns brightly beside our killing place, a dancing flame with a life of its own, held captive by a ring of stone; it cavorts as an imp from the pits of Hell. Prey has been strung up most delightfully. Yes, she truly is of Marcus Miller’s blood. She has built a delightful contraption and no easy feat as she is much smaller than Prey.
His arms are wrapped in her brother’s barbed metal, from mid arm to wrist. For him to escape he would have to flay his own skin to the bone, provided he had the ability to try. She had also bound his legs, spread to the two closest trees, the bonds biting deeply into the fleshy part of his calves. The chances of escape are nonexistent. I watch Babysister circle Prey, running her hand across his wounded chest. He should not have fought her. Her weapon is most brutal and left large bruises the color of stormy skies. In other places the claw had done its work and large and clotted punctures wounds were plainly evident.
I drift closer to inspect Prey. He is suffering, his bone cover torn and openly leaking, his lifeforce slowly draining into the dark earth beneath his feet. From his destroyed flesh rivulets of blood run free, staining his arms and sliding in lines down his torso. My companion has drifted off to rifle through the camp, presumably looking for a new toy to test on Prey. As she does I step closer, wishing to peer into his eyes and see the suffering there. He stares back at me, pain colouring his eyes with the most delicious light. His death bracelets are most intricate; I run my fingers across the welts and swollen flesh, his blood staining my fingers. He is watching me intently, his eyes tracking my hands as they travel, smearing; I finger-paint red runes on the undamaged flesh of his stomach.
His most intimate parts twitch as my hands travel lower, and I smile. My talons have left scratches down his skin, bloody hands. His lifeforce is darkness and light, the taste of copper and apples, a taste of Autumn, and I devour it as I shine my unnatural blues directly into his. He jolts and leans back, tearing the flesh from his calves and shrieking his agony. There are no blood poppies this time, only great showers of crimson, and I bathe my hands in the warmth, relishing the scream that rents the air, music to my ears.
My companion has returned, a moue twisting her savagely beautiful face. She has also brought a new toy, a sharpened stick that has been used in the fire, its tip currently red with heat. She slinks forward, and touches the ember to his groin, smiling with glee and cruelly digs it deeper. Scythe is whispering in my ear and I drift to her, gathering her to my breast and pressing my lips, still stained from his lifeblood to her blade. She is ravenous and I wish to feed as well.
Prey is now terrified, realizing that his death is imminent, and begins speaking in the strangest of tongues. I presume he is asking for mercy, and this amuses me. Death Maiden does not spare. I glance at my companion, and she is most agitated. I shall give her a gift; she may take his eyes with her pointed weapon, but first, Scythe must feed.
I circle him, swiping with Scythe’s blade at his tenderest parts, leaving gaping tears in the flesh, as a mouth screaming in some cases. Her blade is very sharp, glistening in the moonlight. Steam rises from his body, as I circle and spin, drawing bloody ribbons, and leaving no part untouched. As I flit before him, I crouch, and slice, severing his leg. His pain is too great to scream and so his voice paralyses. Cords stand out on his neck and in the muscles of his body. Delicious.
Babysister makes for the severed limb, cutting it free from the barbed metal restraints and leaving the lower bracelet intact. Just beyond the fire, a pack of dogs, presumably those of the camp, have gathered, snarling and salivating. With her pleasing lips curving into a grim smile, she strides towards the starving pack and tosses Prey’s lower extremity to them. The sounds of competition fill the night and it delights.
Prey is now fading fast. I creep closer to his now ruined shell, flesh mottled and cut. Where his leg once was is now a open space, his Elixir of Life, flowing as a bloody river and drowning the soil. Once in front of him, I tilt his nearly unconscious head so that he may look at me. I motion my companion closer, offering her the eyes of my Prey, as a gift. She darts forward, fleet and fast, and rams the still smoking end of her weapon into his eye, the orb bulging and bursting, leaking ocular fluid down his cheek. The sounds taste most delicious to my ears.
She removes the stick with a yank, feeling it slide free. I cock my head, and stare at Prey. He had dared much, this one, and now I shall give him release. His remaining eye is wide and shocked, barely aware, his body shaking and shivering as Death comes to take his hold. Not yet, for there was one final indignity to be had.
I wrap my arm around Prey, pulling him close and hearing the bones grind in the contraption. He trembles and rasps, his voice still paralysed. With my other hand I grip his throat, talons digging into the flesh surrounded his air tube, and press my lips to his, as I tear and pull. His body gasps, stiffens and releases, his breath flooding into my mouth. It tastes of lemon and alum, bitter and fragrant. His shell is all that remains, hanging in the tree like a defunct holiday toy. Scythe is quiet, as she always is after a feed, and I sigh in my heart.
Glancing around, I find myself alone. It seems the Babysister of my companion has vanished along with the life of my Prey. Perhaps we will meet again on the Path.
The night is silent now, only the wind whistling and the frenzied scurries of the small animals in fright, searching for a safer place to hide. Before me, carnage immeasurable, shells beginning to stiffen in the cool night air, and the scent of lifeblood now soiled in the breeze. The moon has hidden his face, the sun peeking above the horizon. It is time to return to my dwelling, away from the breathtaking horror around me, and I drift, carrying Scythe in my embrace, home.
“The character Marcus is based on Matt Farnsworth’s character The Orphan Killer” All rights reserved”
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