Post by Cassandra Salvatore on Sept 17, 2007 15:46:45 GMT -5
She feels it coming down the corridor, though it glides silent like silk over glass. Her heart begins to race, and she is giddy, like a little girl awaiting Christmas morning, eager to open up a present wrapped with a shiny red bow.
"Bad girl, bad girl..."
Slick fingers pressing onto cold iron, she raises up slowly, stretched up like a sinner towards some promised salvation. The tattered remains of wool brush against her dry skin, and she whimpers in abandon as it draws nearer.
“Come to me, yes, come...” she whispers, and her dark hair hangs in her face and she laughs, and it feels like glass cutting her throat but she likes it.
"They think I'm mad for laughing, don't they, when the Dementor comes...oh, but they don't understand, do they...we're the same, we are. Like calls to like..."
She twirls around, up on her toes, skeletal arms raised in a parody of a dancer's graceful pirouette. Beneath her bare feet the dirt slides against her skin and she's giddy, now, because she can see the shape of it as it nears her cell.
She feels the mad want swirling inside of her, a sickness that she can taste and swallow, and she wants more of it, and she nearly gasped now as it finally ceased its implacable march to stare at her, waiting.
"You want all the happy memories, all the things that make my blood sing. You shall have them, then. A picnic, if you will."
She submerges herself into shining memories of delight that make her thin, chapped lips curve up in a painful smile, smeared with red. Her lips are bleeding; she can feel the hot rush of blood trickle down her chin, and her tongue licks out to capture it, tangy-sweet candy.
The creature makes a soft, sibilant noise—is that longing she hears in its death-rattle hiss...and leans closer, as if it wants nothing more than to devour her in one long, deadly embrace.
Of course that is what it wants. It wants all that is inside you, Cassandra...
So she thinks of torture, a cacophony of screams, drenching images of pain laced with the bright red beauty of her chosen curse. She remembers the pleas for mercy that she never granted, she remembers the sight of blood spilled on crisp white sheets. Sobs, like the sweetest of symphonies, echo in her fevered mind.
The Dementor presses closer, she can smell its fetid breath, feel it ghost across the caress starved skin stretched like paper over the bones of her face.
"I used to be beautiful. I bet you think I'm beautiful, now. You'd be the only one, anymore."
Cassandra reaches one hand out, slowly, white-bone fingers outstretched, like a plea.
"Take it, what I give to you. The horror and the happiness. Feed from it, beautiful thing, and remember me, won't you?"
There is a moment when she thinks she sees the creature incline its shrouded head, and she feels a dreadful delight as it does so. It has fed from her, just as she wanted. Her precious memories of doing her lord's bidding bring her pleasure, bring pleasure to the creatures that will surely serve her once more when she is liberated, so where is the harm?
"There is only a massacre, where my soul should be. We are alike, you and I. You take souls from those who are deemed too evil to keep them. I take lives from those deemed too inferior to have them."
"Kindred."
Cassandra reposes in perfect peace, her face pressed to the dank earth, feeling the multitude of things that live beneath the soil and feed on death. She feels at home in these moments, after the Dementor has fed. She too thrives on death, she too feeds on decay.
"Kindred."
The sounds of screams sing her into slumber
"Bad girl, bad girl..."
Slick fingers pressing onto cold iron, she raises up slowly, stretched up like a sinner towards some promised salvation. The tattered remains of wool brush against her dry skin, and she whimpers in abandon as it draws nearer.
“Come to me, yes, come...” she whispers, and her dark hair hangs in her face and she laughs, and it feels like glass cutting her throat but she likes it.
"They think I'm mad for laughing, don't they, when the Dementor comes...oh, but they don't understand, do they...we're the same, we are. Like calls to like..."
She twirls around, up on her toes, skeletal arms raised in a parody of a dancer's graceful pirouette. Beneath her bare feet the dirt slides against her skin and she's giddy, now, because she can see the shape of it as it nears her cell.
She feels the mad want swirling inside of her, a sickness that she can taste and swallow, and she wants more of it, and she nearly gasped now as it finally ceased its implacable march to stare at her, waiting.
"You want all the happy memories, all the things that make my blood sing. You shall have them, then. A picnic, if you will."
She submerges herself into shining memories of delight that make her thin, chapped lips curve up in a painful smile, smeared with red. Her lips are bleeding; she can feel the hot rush of blood trickle down her chin, and her tongue licks out to capture it, tangy-sweet candy.
The creature makes a soft, sibilant noise—is that longing she hears in its death-rattle hiss...and leans closer, as if it wants nothing more than to devour her in one long, deadly embrace.
Of course that is what it wants. It wants all that is inside you, Cassandra...
So she thinks of torture, a cacophony of screams, drenching images of pain laced with the bright red beauty of her chosen curse. She remembers the pleas for mercy that she never granted, she remembers the sight of blood spilled on crisp white sheets. Sobs, like the sweetest of symphonies, echo in her fevered mind.
The Dementor presses closer, she can smell its fetid breath, feel it ghost across the caress starved skin stretched like paper over the bones of her face.
"I used to be beautiful. I bet you think I'm beautiful, now. You'd be the only one, anymore."
Cassandra reaches one hand out, slowly, white-bone fingers outstretched, like a plea.
"Take it, what I give to you. The horror and the happiness. Feed from it, beautiful thing, and remember me, won't you?"
There is a moment when she thinks she sees the creature incline its shrouded head, and she feels a dreadful delight as it does so. It has fed from her, just as she wanted. Her precious memories of doing her lord's bidding bring her pleasure, bring pleasure to the creatures that will surely serve her once more when she is liberated, so where is the harm?
"There is only a massacre, where my soul should be. We are alike, you and I. You take souls from those who are deemed too evil to keep them. I take lives from those deemed too inferior to have them."
"Kindred."
Cassandra reposes in perfect peace, her face pressed to the dank earth, feeling the multitude of things that live beneath the soil and feed on death. She feels at home in these moments, after the Dementor has fed. She too thrives on death, she too feeds on decay.
"Kindred."
The sounds of screams sing her into slumber