![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ReinaWIP snippet
Mar. 12th, 2004 07:39 pm(Note: Pakhet is Reina's new kitten)
The light was on when I opened the door. I frowned. Had I been so upset the last time I'd been here that I'd forgotten to turn the light off before leaving with Longan? It was unusual for me. I chalked it up to the stress of that day, until I stepped through the doorway and got my first full glimpse of the room.
Pakhet yowled and hissed. I didn't have to wonder why. The contents of my bookcase had been torn from the shelves and scattered about the room. The sheets had been torn from my bed and the mattress ripped open with long, parallel gouges, revealing the springs within. Papers were littered across the floor, some pages torn from books, some old homework assignments or class handouts. Someone had been here--and someone was here.
A boy hung from my ceiling fan, probably a little older than me, his wrists bound together and tied to the fan. He moved in slow circles as the fan revolved. He was naked except for a blue, black and green kilt fastened around his waist. His skin was pale; the pigment in his lips and freckles stood out in stark contrast to the cold white of his flesh. His hair was bright red, a sharp contrast. Fire and ice, I thought. There was something large and dark staining his chest, an intricate pattern of narrow black lines that I couldn't make out as he spun. His throat and the insides of his wrists were riddled with holes--after my experience with Longan, I recognized fang marks when I saw them. I wanted to stop the fan, to cut him down and cover him up. He was nearly naked, and vulnerable with his wrists tied. He was dead, but he still deserved a little modesty. I almost hit the light switch to turn the fan off -- then realized that the switch probably bore the fingerprints of whoever had brought him here. The police would want them; I shouldn't cover them up with my own.
I couldn't take him down, and I couldn't bear to keep looking at him. I turned away.
Out of reflex, I'd closed the room's door behind me. If I hadn't, I might not have noticed the writing scrawled across the back of the door in large, broad strokes. Noir di-chuimhnich. I didn't know what it meant, but I knew enough to recognize that it had been written in blood.
My stomach spasmed. I could suddenly smell and taste blood with each breath, and I didn't know if it was real or imagined. I pulled Pakhet off of my shoulder and rushed out of the room. I curled into a ball against the far wall and once again hid my face in Pakhet's fur.
"Why?" I whispered. "Lord Christ and Lady Bast, when will it end?"
The light was on when I opened the door. I frowned. Had I been so upset the last time I'd been here that I'd forgotten to turn the light off before leaving with Longan? It was unusual for me. I chalked it up to the stress of that day, until I stepped through the doorway and got my first full glimpse of the room.
Pakhet yowled and hissed. I didn't have to wonder why. The contents of my bookcase had been torn from the shelves and scattered about the room. The sheets had been torn from my bed and the mattress ripped open with long, parallel gouges, revealing the springs within. Papers were littered across the floor, some pages torn from books, some old homework assignments or class handouts. Someone had been here--and someone was here.
A boy hung from my ceiling fan, probably a little older than me, his wrists bound together and tied to the fan. He moved in slow circles as the fan revolved. He was naked except for a blue, black and green kilt fastened around his waist. His skin was pale; the pigment in his lips and freckles stood out in stark contrast to the cold white of his flesh. His hair was bright red, a sharp contrast. Fire and ice, I thought. There was something large and dark staining his chest, an intricate pattern of narrow black lines that I couldn't make out as he spun. His throat and the insides of his wrists were riddled with holes--after my experience with Longan, I recognized fang marks when I saw them. I wanted to stop the fan, to cut him down and cover him up. He was nearly naked, and vulnerable with his wrists tied. He was dead, but he still deserved a little modesty. I almost hit the light switch to turn the fan off -- then realized that the switch probably bore the fingerprints of whoever had brought him here. The police would want them; I shouldn't cover them up with my own.
I couldn't take him down, and I couldn't bear to keep looking at him. I turned away.
Out of reflex, I'd closed the room's door behind me. If I hadn't, I might not have noticed the writing scrawled across the back of the door in large, broad strokes. Noir di-chuimhnich. I didn't know what it meant, but I knew enough to recognize that it had been written in blood.
My stomach spasmed. I could suddenly smell and taste blood with each breath, and I didn't know if it was real or imagined. I pulled Pakhet off of my shoulder and rushed out of the room. I curled into a ball against the far wall and once again hid my face in Pakhet's fur.
"Why?" I whispered. "Lord Christ and Lady Bast, when will it end?"
