Post by leborddedieu on Jan 5, 2018 0:03:23 GMT -5
The fat man raises his feet with a groan, tired joints protesting the movement. He crosses the feet wearing long black boots at the ankles and they fall to a cherrywood finish table with a clunk. He groans again as he stretches his arms up into the air, the muscles in his back raising their complaint into the air as noisily as his joints a moment before, and settles further into his chair. The large man’s black jacket falls to the floor as he adjusts and brings an old, mottled brown clipboard up from the table and studies the paper held tight by the clip.
“...where did you go?”
His voice is rough, as though his vocal chords have been stretched out and dragged over a rough road. The man’s bearded face matches the voice, the hair’s red and brown nearly half full with grey, and sad blue eyes surrounded by deep cracks. He raises a hand to a shaggy mane of salt and pepper hair and grips it tight for a moment. He shakes his head as the hand comes down and touches the clipboard, hovering over and then pressing against a set of pictures. On the left, a pretty brunette woman with a wide smile that lights up her entire face. On the right, the same brunette, but without the smile and eyes filled with a manic light, her skin pale and filled with lines.
“I’ll find you.”
His eyes scan the document next to the pictures, an internal memo from a newspaper in the North East about a handful of patients escaping in one night from a mental health facility.
“No signs of damage or struggle. No forced escape. Had to be an inside job. But who? Why?”
He shakes his head and turns from the clipboard and looks out a window, drops of rain hitting the pane loudly, followed by the flash of lightning and base call of thunder in the distance. He shakes his head again as he looks out at the storm and issues a sigh.
“I’ll do my job. I’ll do right by him. I’ll find you.”
--------------
“Alouette, gentille alouette”
A scratchy voice. Singing.
“Alouette, je te plumerai.”
A dark room. Lightning strikes in the distance, the flash lighting up the room for a moment by way of a window with a broken pane. Rain sneaks through the cracked glass and falls to a bare cement floor, heavy with dirt. Broken boxes and wooden pallets are scattered throughout and clumsily piled in a corner. A small fire, born of and fueled by wood from those pallets, cracks in the center and does its best to fight to light the room. It does not fight well.
“Je te plumerai la tete...je te plumerai la tete…”
The scratchy voice belongs to a dark haired woman in little more than rags, the frayed material pulled up over her head to fight the cold, while still leaving her arms bare. Sickly pale skin is lined with small scars up and down her arms, some smooth and clean, others jagged and ugly. She rocks slightly as she sings, and a bright white hen lays in her hand, its neck grotesquely skewed to the side, clearly broken. As she sings, she plucks feathers from it with jerking motions, each feather pulling free with the rises and falls of the notes in the old children’s song.
“The head...the head...oh dear alouette...I shall RIP OFF THE HEAD!”
She screams this last part, those dark eyes suddenly violent. Her voice is full of a rich thick accent, even as the English words trade places with the French.
"Oh yes, alouette. I will rip off ALL the heads. Including that of Lukas. Oui! Oui! RIP OFF HER HEAD!"
She hums the children's song to herself as she plucks a handful of feathers off in rapid succession, but then stops with a flash, her eyes filling with glee.
"Why yes, alouette. Yes! Lukas comes to me...she runs at me...she DIVES AT ME...but it does not matter. Cela n'a pas d'importance! No no...non non...everything she brings to bear? It does not matter. What? Why? Why?! WHY, ALOUETTE?!"
She holds the dead chicken by its grotesquely broken neck, shaking it, throttling it.
"BECAUSE! BECAUSE! CAR! I...am...the...Ultraviolet!"
She cackles as she throttles the chicken even harder, the sound of tiny neck bones snapping playing chorus to the drumming of the rain.
"Oh yes...yes...she is special. Yes,she is strong.. Powerful. She is une merveille. Eats worlds and titles, fights giants and shadows. But she is...nothing...nothing...c'est rien...to what I am. After all, petite alouette, she knows nothing of me. Nothing of the Ultraviolet. Nothing of what matters in this world. All she knows? She knows of...fighting weaklings...of fighting…maris.”
She suddenly cackles again, this time hard enough that her body shakes and her rags fall to the cement floor. They reveal dark hair that is streaked with grey which falls to her waist.
“How many times has poor Lukas been la Mariée Méprisée? How many times as poor Lukas been jilted? How many times has her love been scorned...scoured...soured? HOW MANY TIMES?!”
She throws the chicken to the floor in a rage.
“IT MATTERS NOT! CELA N’A PAS D’IMPORTANCE Because I am the TRUE Mariée Méprisée! I am the TRUE Scorned Bride! Oh, she has had her BATTLES with LOVERS! She has FOUGHT the likes of the Prodigy from LOVE to HATE. And now...NOW! MAINTENENT! She has the love of the agent...and the ring of the Bride...but how long? HOW LONG?! Before she is Scorned..again?!”
She suddenly leans forward and pushes her body down, sliding across the floor, so that her face is above the chicken.
“She knows nothing of love, alouette. NONE OF THEM DO! They flit around through the flowers as if they know what they want. But no! NON! It is NOT love they have! It is NOT devotion they have! Their pretty little games, leaping ici et là, from one supposed devotion to another, is NOT what I have. No! I...the Ultraviolet, have TRUE LOVE! I have HIS LOVE!”
Her head snaps up, eyes wide and fill of pure mania.
“HE IS RISEN! HE IS RISEN! IL EST RESSUSCITÉ!”
Her eyes pop open and back down to the chicken.
“They will understand soon, alouette. Oh yes...oh yes...soon. Soon they shall see what HIS LOVE can bring. They shall see what HIS LOVE can accomplish. I have waited...patiently waited...in that box. In that cage! For HIM. For HIS LOVE. And now...now...I am FREE! I am HERE. IL EST RESSUSCITÉ!”
She cackles more as she scoops up the bird and gets to her feet, her fingers plucking feathers again.
“Je te plumerai le bec, je te plumerai le bec.”
She violently rips off the chickens beak and drops it to the floor.
“I WILL RIP OFF HER FACE! I WILL RIP OFF HER HEAD! I WILL RIP!”
She holds the chicken high up above her head.
“She will have NO weapons against me! Pas d'armes! She will have NO HEAD! She will have NO ARMS!”
She grabs the wings and pulls them with a grunt, the left popping out of its socket and hanging limply.
”Je te plumerai les ailes...je te plumerai les AILES!”
She brings the chick into her breast and softly swings her hips in a dance, smirking down at the chicken.
“Oh, petite alouette, she may well fight...dance...with her hips. Oh, her hips! Ses hanches! So well known for her hips. So well known for butts and pats, for circling those hips and smashing them into a face. But not me...NOT ME! Forrrrrrr….IIIIIII…..”
She breaks out into song again as she swings around with the chicken, dancing to the rhythm of the rain.
“I am...oh I am...the BLADE...the EDGE...the KNIFE...of GOD!”
She holds the chicken up, her face suddenly full of love and adoration.
“Oh dear alouette. I am SHE. I am Le bord de Dieu.”
Her lips turn up into a snarl as her hands take each leg in hand and rips one of the legs off.
“Je te plumerai les pattes…”
More cackles.
“No legs...means no hips! No hips, Lukas! No hips...means no LUKAS! NO LUKAS!”
She throws the chicken to the floor and places a food on it. The angle lets her legs be seen, each pale limb covered in the same batch of scars as her arms, some clean, some crude.
“She will have no weapons. Nothing that can defeat me. Nothing that can hurt me. You see, alouette, she comes looking for a rivalry. She comes looking for fortune and glory. For an equal. But she will not find that. No...no no...no no no...she has fought across the world...fought the likes of the sexually confused Tolson and the demoness Maki...she has burned bridges and tossed friends off ravines...and still she searches. She searches. But she will find nothing. Nothing. But pain.”
She smiles down at the chicken and presses with more force.
“Douleur. Douleur. SUCH douleur. She worries about winning...about championships...about honors...but all I worry about...is hurting her. Giving her pain. Grande douleur pour tous! And when she can take no more? When she flies the flag? When she gives up?”
She leans down, the pressure of her foot making small bones crunch under her boot.
“I will cut her. Because I am Le Bord de Dieu, petit alouette. And my pain...MY PAIN...will be shared...by everyone...BY EVERYONE...until HE IS RISEN! So let her come at me, alouette! Let her come with her failed romance! I am the TRUE Scorned Bride...a love EVERLASTING! Let her come at me with her want of an equal. I am the Edge of God! My fury shall cut her to ribbons! Let her come at me with her hips, her weapons. I shall pluck them all!"
She laughs widely in great heaves, tears falling from her eyes and onto the floor in counterpoint to the rain.
“Jusqu'à ce qu'il soit ressuscité!”
The guffaws fall to giggles as she goes back to plucking the bird and preparing her meal.
“...je te plumerai…”
“...where did you go?”
His voice is rough, as though his vocal chords have been stretched out and dragged over a rough road. The man’s bearded face matches the voice, the hair’s red and brown nearly half full with grey, and sad blue eyes surrounded by deep cracks. He raises a hand to a shaggy mane of salt and pepper hair and grips it tight for a moment. He shakes his head as the hand comes down and touches the clipboard, hovering over and then pressing against a set of pictures. On the left, a pretty brunette woman with a wide smile that lights up her entire face. On the right, the same brunette, but without the smile and eyes filled with a manic light, her skin pale and filled with lines.
“I’ll find you.”
His eyes scan the document next to the pictures, an internal memo from a newspaper in the North East about a handful of patients escaping in one night from a mental health facility.
“No signs of damage or struggle. No forced escape. Had to be an inside job. But who? Why?”
He shakes his head and turns from the clipboard and looks out a window, drops of rain hitting the pane loudly, followed by the flash of lightning and base call of thunder in the distance. He shakes his head again as he looks out at the storm and issues a sigh.
“I’ll do my job. I’ll do right by him. I’ll find you.”
--------------
“Alouette, gentille alouette”
A scratchy voice. Singing.
“Alouette, je te plumerai.”
A dark room. Lightning strikes in the distance, the flash lighting up the room for a moment by way of a window with a broken pane. Rain sneaks through the cracked glass and falls to a bare cement floor, heavy with dirt. Broken boxes and wooden pallets are scattered throughout and clumsily piled in a corner. A small fire, born of and fueled by wood from those pallets, cracks in the center and does its best to fight to light the room. It does not fight well.
“Je te plumerai la tete...je te plumerai la tete…”
The scratchy voice belongs to a dark haired woman in little more than rags, the frayed material pulled up over her head to fight the cold, while still leaving her arms bare. Sickly pale skin is lined with small scars up and down her arms, some smooth and clean, others jagged and ugly. She rocks slightly as she sings, and a bright white hen lays in her hand, its neck grotesquely skewed to the side, clearly broken. As she sings, she plucks feathers from it with jerking motions, each feather pulling free with the rises and falls of the notes in the old children’s song.
“The head...the head...oh dear alouette...I shall RIP OFF THE HEAD!”
She screams this last part, those dark eyes suddenly violent. Her voice is full of a rich thick accent, even as the English words trade places with the French.
"Oh yes, alouette. I will rip off ALL the heads. Including that of Lukas. Oui! Oui! RIP OFF HER HEAD!"
She hums the children's song to herself as she plucks a handful of feathers off in rapid succession, but then stops with a flash, her eyes filling with glee.
"Why yes, alouette. Yes! Lukas comes to me...she runs at me...she DIVES AT ME...but it does not matter. Cela n'a pas d'importance! No no...non non...everything she brings to bear? It does not matter. What? Why? Why?! WHY, ALOUETTE?!"
She holds the dead chicken by its grotesquely broken neck, shaking it, throttling it.
"BECAUSE! BECAUSE! CAR! I...am...the...Ultraviolet!"
She cackles as she throttles the chicken even harder, the sound of tiny neck bones snapping playing chorus to the drumming of the rain.
"Oh yes...yes...she is special. Yes,she is strong.. Powerful. She is une merveille. Eats worlds and titles, fights giants and shadows. But she is...nothing...nothing...c'est rien...to what I am. After all, petite alouette, she knows nothing of me. Nothing of the Ultraviolet. Nothing of what matters in this world. All she knows? She knows of...fighting weaklings...of fighting…maris.”
She suddenly cackles again, this time hard enough that her body shakes and her rags fall to the cement floor. They reveal dark hair that is streaked with grey which falls to her waist.
“How many times has poor Lukas been la Mariée Méprisée? How many times as poor Lukas been jilted? How many times has her love been scorned...scoured...soured? HOW MANY TIMES?!”
She throws the chicken to the floor in a rage.
“IT MATTERS NOT! CELA N’A PAS D’IMPORTANCE Because I am the TRUE Mariée Méprisée! I am the TRUE Scorned Bride! Oh, she has had her BATTLES with LOVERS! She has FOUGHT the likes of the Prodigy from LOVE to HATE. And now...NOW! MAINTENENT! She has the love of the agent...and the ring of the Bride...but how long? HOW LONG?! Before she is Scorned..again?!”
She suddenly leans forward and pushes her body down, sliding across the floor, so that her face is above the chicken.
“She knows nothing of love, alouette. NONE OF THEM DO! They flit around through the flowers as if they know what they want. But no! NON! It is NOT love they have! It is NOT devotion they have! Their pretty little games, leaping ici et là, from one supposed devotion to another, is NOT what I have. No! I...the Ultraviolet, have TRUE LOVE! I have HIS LOVE!”
Her head snaps up, eyes wide and fill of pure mania.
“HE IS RISEN! HE IS RISEN! IL EST RESSUSCITÉ!”
Her eyes pop open and back down to the chicken.
“They will understand soon, alouette. Oh yes...oh yes...soon. Soon they shall see what HIS LOVE can bring. They shall see what HIS LOVE can accomplish. I have waited...patiently waited...in that box. In that cage! For HIM. For HIS LOVE. And now...now...I am FREE! I am HERE. IL EST RESSUSCITÉ!”
She cackles more as she scoops up the bird and gets to her feet, her fingers plucking feathers again.
“Je te plumerai le bec, je te plumerai le bec.”
She violently rips off the chickens beak and drops it to the floor.
“I WILL RIP OFF HER FACE! I WILL RIP OFF HER HEAD! I WILL RIP!”
She holds the chicken high up above her head.
“She will have NO weapons against me! Pas d'armes! She will have NO HEAD! She will have NO ARMS!”
She grabs the wings and pulls them with a grunt, the left popping out of its socket and hanging limply.
”Je te plumerai les ailes...je te plumerai les AILES!”
She brings the chick into her breast and softly swings her hips in a dance, smirking down at the chicken.
“Oh, petite alouette, she may well fight...dance...with her hips. Oh, her hips! Ses hanches! So well known for her hips. So well known for butts and pats, for circling those hips and smashing them into a face. But not me...NOT ME! Forrrrrrr….IIIIIII…..”
She breaks out into song again as she swings around with the chicken, dancing to the rhythm of the rain.
“I am...oh I am...the BLADE...the EDGE...the KNIFE...of GOD!”
She holds the chicken up, her face suddenly full of love and adoration.
“Oh dear alouette. I am SHE. I am Le bord de Dieu.”
Her lips turn up into a snarl as her hands take each leg in hand and rips one of the legs off.
“Je te plumerai les pattes…”
More cackles.
“No legs...means no hips! No hips, Lukas! No hips...means no LUKAS! NO LUKAS!”
She throws the chicken to the floor and places a food on it. The angle lets her legs be seen, each pale limb covered in the same batch of scars as her arms, some clean, some crude.
“She will have no weapons. Nothing that can defeat me. Nothing that can hurt me. You see, alouette, she comes looking for a rivalry. She comes looking for fortune and glory. For an equal. But she will not find that. No...no no...no no no...she has fought across the world...fought the likes of the sexually confused Tolson and the demoness Maki...she has burned bridges and tossed friends off ravines...and still she searches. She searches. But she will find nothing. Nothing. But pain.”
She smiles down at the chicken and presses with more force.
“Douleur. Douleur. SUCH douleur. She worries about winning...about championships...about honors...but all I worry about...is hurting her. Giving her pain. Grande douleur pour tous! And when she can take no more? When she flies the flag? When she gives up?”
She leans down, the pressure of her foot making small bones crunch under her boot.
“I will cut her. Because I am Le Bord de Dieu, petit alouette. And my pain...MY PAIN...will be shared...by everyone...BY EVERYONE...until HE IS RISEN! So let her come at me, alouette! Let her come with her failed romance! I am the TRUE Scorned Bride...a love EVERLASTING! Let her come at me with her want of an equal. I am the Edge of God! My fury shall cut her to ribbons! Let her come at me with her hips, her weapons. I shall pluck them all!"
She laughs widely in great heaves, tears falling from her eyes and onto the floor in counterpoint to the rain.
“Jusqu'à ce qu'il soit ressuscité!”
The guffaws fall to giggles as she goes back to plucking the bird and preparing her meal.
“...je te plumerai…”