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Laisse tomber les filles; non je ne pleurerai pas
Topic Started: Feb 6 2011, 11:37 PM (3,716 Views)
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[ *  *  *  *  *  * ]
((Rhory Anne Broderick continued from from the tit to the bone. Posted with staff permission.))

She kept her eyes fixed on the ferris wheel. Each step astern was slow, laborious. She realized as she lumbered backwardly along that this terrain was not meant for the blind. Still, she did not let her vision sway from the point where the gilded spokes met in the center. She kept her sight firmly at sky-level even as she half-stumbled over what she told herself was a rock, of course it was just a rock, and even as the top of the heavy thing she was dragging along banged painfully and repeatedly against her groin. It was unsettlingly stiff and surprisingly unwieldy. It felt unnatural in her arms. She could almost pretend it wasn’t a person as long as she didn’t look down. Just as she had identified the various debris that she flung from the scattered bags as Things, not Possessions, she acknowledged these forms as Meat (and while People had Possessions, Meat only had Things). But the various Meat-Things had amounted to nothing useful. Whether it had been a butcher here or just a vulture, they’d picked the bones clean. Rhory would have to search more thoroughly for her desperate re-supply.

Grave robbing (no not people, Meat) had turned out to be something difficult to do in the increasingly revealing early-morning light. It was wrong and made her feel vulnerable. She needed dark. And so there she was, shuffling sickly along with a surreal sense of paranoid guilt and a pretty blonde little slab of Meat dashing against her thighs, scaring the flies off it each time it hit and she tripped over rocks and Meat-rocks until finally, mercifully, painfully, her ankles smashed into the low steel ledge that marked the entrance to the hall. She took a breath.

She closed her eyes fully as she dragged It over the small step. There was a tearing sound as fabric (just fabric please just fabric) caught itself on the lip and ripped away. It began to resist more strongly. She felt her way around It blindly until finally there were rubbery thuds and they were moving back again. She kept her eyelids closed as she shuffled into what the thin pane jamming into her left shoulder on the way in told her was the first of the mirrors. She continued until her back hit sharply against some flimsy surface and took that as a sign to continue rightwards, inch by inch, switching directions each time she hit an obstacle and mentally recording her path, until finally she assessed the light pressing into her eyeballs as bearably minimal. She stopped and spread her legs wide, sliding the sack of Meat between them slowly until its neck lay contorted at the base of a mirror that contorted it further into a phantasmic parody Francis Bacon would admire. She noticed it had more freckles than she remembered, and that its eyes looked softer without make-up and she saw a trio of black flies conventing in her right nostril and before she registered what she was doing she had thrown her denim jacket over its face.

Fuck.

Her hand hovered trembling first over the sickly sticky-brown torso. She searched for a wound, but the whole thing was a mess of long dead vitality too thick to see through. Her eyes darted around nervously for a cleaner cavity. She noticed the right pocket of its jeans, with a ragged ring of lumpy brown-red edging just into the opening and a visible silhouette pressing its way through the soiled fabric.

She bit her lip.

She reached.

Her fingertips brushed against a viscous glob and she groaned as she pressed determinedly past it. She pushed vigorously, harder than she intended and her nails dug into hard skin and tensed muscle and her fingers ran down it over the thin cotton innards for a full eternal second before the nauseous electricity hit and she flew ungracefully back into the mirror opposite Head VII and choked back gags for several minutes as she laid pitifully against the steel floor.

This, she thought, wasn’t going to work so great after all.
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Rhory could feel a globule of blood-gum spread between her fingers as they squirmed their way back into the pocket’s maw. She let in a weak gasp when she met the gruesome resistance again. It was a wooden feeling, hard and hollow, but unmistakably flesh. She could feel the stony contours of the muscle as her fingers delicately struggled downward. She remembered seeing the girl (no, it, meat) in those ridiculous cheer uniforms, flashing these very thighs, flexing and writhing under now unmalleable skin, now just this little blonde hunk of rot, and her hand was in to her knuckles now, and she noticed the smell for the first time and to her horror it wasn’t so revolting, just familiar now, putrescine and cadaverine soaked into her nails and hair and skin as a stench that would follow her even if (when) she gets out of this and her fingertips finally touched something, something solid, smooth, something-

She ripped her hand out from the girl’s jeans as the voice boomed from outside, tearing the pocket and sliding more putty blood onto her right hand. Her left was clutching at her hair, elbow covering her face in some half-assed defense. Her breath came back shaky and shallow. She grabbed on to the edge of a mirror pane with a slippery hand and stumbled upwards. As she managed to finally ease her trembling legs (don’t try to tell yourself it’s lack of food, honey, it’s lack of balls) she carefully stretched over the corpse and treaded lightly down the hall, twisted her way out of her blind mental path towards the brighter halls, trying to find a mirror that reflected her new menace. She inched silently, her chest constricting at the slightest misstep or sound. She peered intently at every mirror, hoping for an opportune angle. Most only granted her deformed self-portraits. Even the disfiguring funhouse glass could show her how pathetic she looked, flat against the opposite walls, spraying foggy breath all over the mirrors her right cheek was pressed towards. Finally, one close to the entrance offered a view. Though seriously warped she could make out a blonde-mopped wall of a figure just outside the entrance, holding something long and gray out towards the hall.

It was a very, very large gun.

Rhory threw herself back against the mirror-wall, breath absent again. She was paralyzed for several taffy-stretched moments. Terrified that he might have heard or seen or otherwise sensed her presence. How did he know she was here? Her bag was out there, that she knew, but the entrance was littered with the pilfered possessions of three Meats anyway. There was no way he could be able to tell if the trail her little tryst with Evelyn Reed left was fresh, right? Of course not. There was no way he knew for sure she was in here. He was bluffing, being overcautious or overzealous or overeager. Maybe spouting cop-drama clichés at air made him feel better about his tiny prick.

But he had a gun. A big, big fucking gun. She hadn’t stayed alive for the past week by dicking around with people that had big guns. She needed out, and fast, before he decided to come find her himself or before her legs collapsed under their fear-weight. There had to be a back door. At the very least, there had a corner to hide in until He-Man became bored of the hunt. She’d become accustomed to dark corners, anyway. They were turning out to be her field of expertise.

She gulped air as quietly as she could manage. Carefully, deliberately, she began to retrace her steps to the darker reach of the hall.
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Rhory held herself tightly to the pane of a concave mirror as she listened to the two blurred reflections. She was the killer, they said. The killer? How fucking stupid could they be? Why would she, the big bad goddamn killer, stay with the bodies for what the decomposing Meat-mounds clearly showed was for at least a day, and then just start dragging them about? How did they come to that shitty conclusion? How did that make sense? But the last week had taught her sense was useless here. Would she have been graverobbing if things made sense, and doing an awful job of it at that? Would she have dragged a dead body through a funhouse just because she hadn’t wanted to see what she was doing? As she thought on that, she realized her own actions truly did not make any sense to her. None whatsoever. What had she been thinking? Maybe she was just a psycho, finally broken and twisted by the game. At least she wasn’t the kind of psycho who went on witch-hunts on a whim like Rocky Horror and his new sidekick out there. She briefly considered that this was karma for her pathetic attempt at desecration. She made a brief mental prayer to God and the Baby Jesus and Saint Jude (the only saint she could remember). She promised to stop groping dead cheerleaders, for good. She realized with a flash of frantic dismay as the figures in the reflection grew larger that her prayers would not be answered.

She made a less-than-graceful dash into a new section of the hall and clumsily threaded her way around the disorienting maze from there. There had to be another exit somewhere, a fire exit, or maybe she could out-maneuver her pursuers and loop back towards the entrance. Both seemed useless, especially with how slow she needed to go to keep her footsteps silent. Even then, her sneakers made the occasional awful squeak that caused her to wince and her breath to catch. She felt her heart volleying the inside of her chest and thought it a miracle that they couldn’t hear that. She nearly brained herself on a mirror she hadn’t quite noticed. She fought back tears of desperation and frustration as she turned another corner. Adrenaline had her every muscle panic-light and her whole body trembled whenever she stopped. She needed out. She needed out. Out. Out. Out. Where the fuck was the way ou-

She emptied out of the latest stretch of mirror and turned into the next and caught a brief glimpse of an indistinct figure scurrying past the closest junction. She stopped dead. Even her frantic thoughts withered instantly, as if she were afraid they would leak out into the tense silence and give her away. She slowly backed herself away from the direction the shadow had flown in. Step. Step. Toe to heel, being sure to keep the noisy rubber soles as quiet as possible. Step. Step. How much farther did she have to go to find an escape? She glanced over her shoulder. Step. Step. StCRRRRRACK.

Her heel met resistance and a fleshy pop erupted into the air. She fell sideways towards the obstacle and her left side met it with a sickly squelch. She brought up her right arm to claw herself up, but instead clenched at denim fabric that pulled away under her grasp. She turned and her eyes met a second pair of duller ones. She was elbow-deep in the pile of gore that was once pretty little Bayview cheerleader Evelyn Reed. She couldn’t quite suppress a scream.
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Rhory shrank from the boy as he extended his hand, at first trying frantically to crawl back by her elbows. A loud and defiant squelch from the ex-cheerleader’s abdomen stopped her short. She let out something between a sob and a gag.

Her eyes darted to the stick in the boy’s other hand. Not Pygar with the gun. Just the sidekick. Was it a trap? Why not just start going at her now? It’s not like she could go anywhere. She was stuck in this narrow hall, arm tangled in a stew of sickly flesh and oh god her arm sank deeper as she shifted making godawful noises and the stench attacked her and she felt hot vomit and hysteria rising in her throat and she grabbed desperately at the boy’s forearm, flecking both of them with rancid blood and gore and nearly pulling him down into the bloody swamp with her and her legs slid across the floor, panic-flailing across streaks of red-brown

and when the noise started behind her she felt her limbs lurch into motion before she even had the chance to think.
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Rhory wasn’t sure when she’d started screaming. It must have been somewhere between grabbing clawfuls of the front of the dead boy’s jacket and burying her shoulders and head into his chest. She thought briefly of Kurt and doing the same to him on his bed. Fully clothed, entirely drunk. Inhaling sweat and cologne then when now she only choked on the dull sulfur and heavy copper that came with the first shot.

The boy rattled against her but she pushed against the impact. He shuddered a second time. She was dully aware of mirror shattering above her head and tearing into the back of her neck. A third jolt and something wet and hot smacked the top of her scalp. She felt the boy’s weight start to pull against her grip. She released him and he spun, giving her a full view of his twisted expression and then the knotted gore on his back before she turned and ran.

She felt her heel slam down into a thick and pulpy mass that she only registered as Evelyn when an errant shot sprayed whatever of the girl’s corpse she’d missed on the backs of her legs. Was she still screaming? She couldn’t tell. For all she knew and felt her vocal cords could have torn themselves out and shot from her throat and she couldn’t have even seen them in the storm of glass splinters and gore that she stumbled through. Her arms covered her face, blinding her so the shards wouldn’t, and she felt her way down the hall as yet another shot ripped through the wall of glass she’d been against just moments ago. For a delirious half-second she imagined herself as Rita Hayworth in The Lady from Shanghai. She leapt to the side and slammed her left shoulder into one of the mirrors. She felt it crack under her weight and a nauseating ache shot through her. She stumbled further through her pain-haze, barely registering a yell from behind her as she threw herself through a gap and began to sprint recklessly towards a metal stairwell at the center of this new antechamber.

There was a bit of flesh still stuck to her shoe as she stomped down on the first step and it sent her flying forward into the rest. She caught herself at the last second and began frantically climbing up on all fours. She barely had time to comprehend the wreckage of the second floor before she heard the footsteps and yells roaring up behind her. In the center of her vision here the twisted ruins of a dividing wall of mirrors, flecked with dried bits of what the last few minutes told her could only be one thing. She made a rabid dash for the twisted supports. The layer of discarded mirror made a continuous thunderous crunching as she dove through into the mauled skeleton, balling herself into a pitch-dark alcove and making herself invisible.

She stopped breathing. She waited.
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Rhory would have screamed at the girl if she could find her voice. Instead, Marion Summers (sophomore year, Computer Applications with Mrs. Rosenberg, make-up garish then but completely absent now) whisked herself out from some unknown corner and haughtily confronted The Murderer while Rhory sat scared and silent. She knew by the way he held his gun that Marion was full of shit. There was ammo to spare, and it was all meant for Rhory. But not for Marion. Why was she dicking around with this lunatic? She needed to run. Why wasn’t she running? Get the fuck out, Rhory managed to stop herself from shouting, get the fuck-

The girl stood rigid for several fractions of a second before falling in slow motion. Broken mirror crackled under her dead weight. Shot number eight. The head lolled towards Rhory and she could see it was already dead. The second one to take the shots meant for her.

She saw the killer turn his back to her.

It might have been then that she inflicted the first gash on her right palm. She wouldn’t have felt it. She couldn’t even recall picking up the wicked-looking piece of glass, or silently crawling out of her wreckage cave until she was close enough to the new corpse to smell the blood and shit and piss. Close enough, too, to the corpse's maker. She was present enough in her trance to look at the camera’s lens and see the reflection of the boy’s face. She saw his accomplished expression. She felt something burst behind her eyes.

She realized she could scream again as she leapt at the boy’s back and drove the shard around into his throat.
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Her screaming did little to cover the sounds of unzipping skin. She gripped the shard tightly as she drove it in and dully felt it ruin her own palm. Her skin came more undone with every push. She only pushed harder. She pushed until the glass found absolute resistance. It wasn’t enough. She wanted to cut deeper. She wanted to tear his throat out with her teeth. She wanted to break his skull between her thighs and to rip his spine out. She wanted to fucking devour him.

She twisted the glass as she pulled it out. The tip broke off, lodged in something hard and wet. She felt a viscid flood run against the back of her hand. She brought the shard down again. It caught fabric but ripped through it easily, slashing through intact neck-flesh and widening the ragged maw that was vomiting thick blood out of Bill’s throat. His screams became awful and wet as his flailing became heavier. He pushed against her and slipped through her arms, collapsing hard on a sheet of glass debris. A scythe of it made a damp sucking sound as it sliced through his back. He gurgle-screamed. Blood flecked across the barrel of his gun. She thought of jamming it in his mouth and splashing his head across the room as she slowly crushed over the littered floor towards him.

The boy made sloshing gasps as he right-handedly fumbled in his dampening hoodie. His left side cradled the shotgun. To their right, a recently-opened Marion was still churning out dead blood from the holes that gun had made. She kicked at the boy’s side. He groaned, but it wasn’t the sopping, defeated sound she thirsted for. She watched him lift the gun. She let him reload, reversing towards his head as she watched him struggle pathetically with the shells. She watched his face. Blood babbled out from the corners of his mouth as he stretched it open. She savored it for a moment.

His cheekbone surrendered easily against her heel. The crack was satisfying. She wanted more. He needed to scream louder.

She nearly brought her leg up for a second descent before she noticed the sheath of blood that now covered the back of it.

Any appetite she’d had was suddenly replaced by shock. Then, nausea. Blood fountained cartoonishly from the meaty crevice in his neck. The front of his collar edged into the wound and rocked slightly against the spewing pressure. The sight was ridiculous. He brought the neckline of his hoodie against the erupting cleave and desperately tried to push against the flow. His legs kicked and dragged against the floor, grinding the scattered mirror under them to a harsh snow. The sounds of ripping wet garbage filled the room from his flooding mouth.

Rhory took slow steps backwards. A flail of his arm sent the blood-dotted gun skittering across the floor. Her back stopped against an intact mirror pane and she slid rigidly down it as she watched the boy’s body cast itself in its own blood. She clutched her bleeding hand to her sweater. Hour-long minutes of pulpy groans passed.

The room filled with a coppery fog.
She began to notice her own sick sobs as the body’s noise stopped.
She wondered how long she’d been crying.

Her sobbing slowly melted to heavy breaths. She stared dimly past the two sopping piles of meat. She was still for hours or minutes. The difference didn’t seem to matter. The only thing to mark the time was the slow invasion of flies






and a spreading feeling of warmth at her side.

Blood from her hand saturated the thin fistful of her sweater and began to moisten her skin inside. A weak jolt of adrenaline focused her eyes. Creeping panic formed in her chest. She moved her hand away. Peeling thin clots and a flap of palm and worsening the bleeding. Her ring finger clung helplessly to the fabric as she tried and failed to move it. She brought a shaky left hand up to the blood-soaked crippled digit. Tried to press it against the palm. It crumpled against it. She couldn’t feel it. She stared at her mangled half-numb hand until her blood began to drum against the floor. There was so much. So bright, so fast. She needed to keep it in. She desperately whirled her eyes around the flotsam. Looking for a dam.

She looked across the room and swallowed hard.




The straps of her pilfered property swung against her shoulder as she stepped over Logan. She expected some feeling of regret, some sting of guilt. She had killed him. She had put him in front of a gun. All that came as her other foot reached across his gutted back was a distant sense of nausea.

The air was heavier there. The top floor had been humid with fresh gore, moist and somehow light. It was a more solid stench down here. Flies caked every edible surface. They had wormed their way in through passages light failed to reach. A family of them sucked at the blood hardening her ruined jacket. She knelt by them. A heavily bandaged hand irritated them as it dug into a pocket. It gingerly extracted a pack of Camel Lights and a small black Zippo lighter. The flies resumed their feasting as she lit the tip of one of the cigarettes with her unbutchered hand. The rest went into a back pocket as she lifted herself. She caught her reflection. She stared at it for several long moments. She took a long drag and blew smoke out at the mirror.

She adjusted the straps that weren’t hers and placed the cigarette back between her lips and made slow steps forward.

((Rhory Anne Broderick continued in ))
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