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Facing Demons (18+)

 
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Zver
Young Wyrm
Young Wyrm


Joined: 25 Sep 2015
Posts: 110
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Can Be Found: You probably don't want to.
477.28 Silver Crowns

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PostPosted: Mon Apr 17, 2017 7:15 am    Post subject: Facing Demons (18+) Reply with quote

4.15.17


Zver’s slumbering form was sprawled across the couch cushions, face down with his cheek making a soft dent in the fabric. One arm dangled over the edge, the backs of his knuckles dusting the carpet as one leg was teetering dangerously off the ledge. Flashes of light cut through his eyelids and danced across his vision as he started to ebb closer to consciousness. Lashes fluttered as his brows dove downward, lids narrowing to slits at the television screen that was the only source of light in the room. His cheeks puffed in retaliation to the brightness of the images, his mind not registering any bit of it as he let out a low grumble and lifted his head.


Eyes squinted, his head turned from side to side. Must’ve passed out watching tv again. His face scrunched as his hand pressed to the floor, the teetering leg sliding off the couch finally to aid in his climb to stand up. He grunted, feeling the stiffness in his back from sleeping in a strange position as he reached the true potential of his height then went beyond with a yawning stretch, his arms reaching for the ceiling before dropping heavily to his sides. The yawn was the last to go, his cheeks crinkling with the effort as a sleep-ridden expression had him eyeing the rest of the room.


His mouth snapped shut with a sputtering raspberry of lips, his hand coming up to swipe at his face. “M’not ready,” he mumbled, most likely about being awake. His lids felt like lead. Deciding to take his scrawny ass upstairs, he reached for the remote to click off the television. His index pressed the button, and the whole room went dark and silent aside from the moonlight filtering in through the sliding glass door and his own muttered grumbling.


Turning for the stairs, he rounded the couch from pure muscle memory of the living room’s layout. His feet were sluggish in their venture and he hadn’t noticed the mound of white fur sprawled a few feet away from the couch. His foot caught on the white wolf, his eyes widening as he started to pitch forward, his arms waving almost frantically until his dexterity saved both their asses. One leg came stomping forward to catch him, spread wide to not step on the wolf as he let out a grunt and managed to upright himself. Wide eyes turned with a swivel of his head first, then his body when he found his balance. “***, Zim. I didn’t ***’ see you there, I’m--”


He paused, his head tilting slowly as his brows sloped downward. That didn’t feel right. Where was the bitching? The guilt trip? That little bitch would use the moment to bribe me into a late night steak buffet right about now. And yet, she remained motionless, laid on her side without a sound coming from her.


His heart jolted as his voice lowered, legs bending to accommodate a crouch. “...Zim?” Through the filtered light from the doorway and his closeness to the presumed slumbering wolf, he could see the white fur wasn’t as pure as it usually was -- with few exception. Matted with something dark, his face scrunched as he reached his fingers out to the nearly black spot on her fur on her chest. “Did you get out and go for a hunt? Food coma?” Though he’d tried for a joke, it felt forced. There was a subtle quiver to his voice as he whispered a hiss, “Zimushka…


Reaching still, the tips of his fingers brushed the cooled hardness of the fur, caked with something dark and somewhat sticky at this point. “Zim.” More firmly now, there was a touch of panic to his voice as the wolf still wasn’t moving, not even her belly to hint to breathing. Denial hit first as his fingers pressed harder to the fur, nudging his fingertips to her chest but there was no denying the stiffness to her body. “No..” His head shook, even knowing the truth now. Like watching a car accident, he couldn’t look away or pull away as his hand sought the wound that was the cause for the dried blood in her fur. Throa-- “No, nonono, Zim,” his voice cracked as he pitched backward, his backside hitting the floor for a moment as he stared at the form on the floor. It took no more than two seconds for realization to set in. Someone -- something -- killed her.


His eyes snapped wide in sheer panic as his heart sunk into his chest, his legs and arms frantic in their scramble as he pushed to his feet. “Ko!” He yelped, nearly stumbling tenfold as he lurched toward the stairs, just to pause. Gun, where’s my gun? His legs rushed toward the office, the one place he knew Dorian wouldn’t even look to take his guns away -- the Nighteater’s very own office.


His hands slapped against the door frame of the office as he all but charged the bookcase set against the wall. The thickest volume on the shelf, the Holy Bible. He’d cut out space in the pages in his own form of irony and a joke, cut to fit a Desert Eagle pistol. It’s not like anyone in this *** house will open the book anyways. Why Dorian even had it, he didn’t know. Alas, as the black leather cover was peeled back, his pistol was nestled safely between the cut pages.


He fished it out with trembling hands, letting the book drop to the floor with a fluttering thud before he bolted from the room again. The metal of the pistol was held in his palm, but not as cold as the sweat that was layering his forehead from panic or the pit in his stomach threatening to punch a hole through. He rounded the stair railing, climbing the steps at a steady pace as he clutched his old friend tightly.


Blood rushed his ears from his pounding heart rate, making a thump against his eardrums that both aided to the panic settled in his chest and was as steady as a war drum. His mouth felt dry as he climbed those steps, slowing as he reached the top. Hazel eyes flicked to Dorian’s open doorway, his mouth feeling dry at the realization that there was no way the Nighteater’s couldn’t have heard something unless.. Why didn’t you? How could Zim be dead two feet from you without you *** knowing it? You went soft, and they’re dead because you didn’t hear it. It’s your fa-- His head shook as he ignored the demons inside of his head telling him those wicked words. Now wasn’t the time, Ko could be in danger. Or is she?... No. Lisa or not.. She couldn’t do that. Not to Zim.


Last edited by Zver on Mon Apr 17, 2017 7:24 am; edited 1 time in total
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Zver
Young Wyrm
Young Wyrm


Joined: 25 Sep 2015
Posts: 110
See this user's pet
Can Be Found: You probably don't want to.
477.28 Silver Crowns

Items

PostPosted: Mon Apr 17, 2017 7:17 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

He glanced to the doorway of Dorian’s room again, stretching in a lean as something caught his eye. Shoe prints. Dark against the carpet, just like it had been against Zim’s chest. He knew, Dorian was dead. Possibly Freya, too. It wasn’t only the lack of want to see what had been done to them that had him staring at his and Ko’s bedroom door, made his heart nearly stop and make bile rise in the back of his throat.


The footprints lead to the bedroom door that was cracked open.


“No,” he whispered, the fear quickly turning to anger as his jaw muscle ticked. His hands gripped the butt of the pistol more firmly as he started for the door without hesitation, or caution. His hands rose, cupping the firearm with purpose as he moved.


A sweeping shadow across the floor caught his eye, forced them to flick downward before lifting back up as he’d paused in front of the doorway. A narrow of eyes, his knuckles bumped into the wood as he gave it a nudge open, stepping through as his top lip turned into a snarl. “What are you---”


What he saw had him floored.


Not only the gruesome sight of the woman he admittedly loved more than anything a wretched mess sprawled across the bed, splattered with the same dark liquid that had coated Zim and the floor leading to the bedroom. He fought back the bile that threatened to climb up his throat from the smearing of her blood across the walls, the smell of her insides that were nearly gutted from her.


Collecting himself, he swallowed hard as the end of the gun aimed to the figure standing in front of the bed. His thumb lifting to knock back the hammer of his pistol as he looked at… Why does he seem so familiar?... A growl tore from his teeth as he spat the words with all the animosity and anger of someone who’d just lost everything in the blink of an eye. “Turn around. I want to see the face of the *** bastard I’m going to put a bullet into,” or a full clip.


The figure didn’t seem to notice him until that moment, or didn’t care. From behind, all he could see was a tall and lanky man. His hair was a wild mane of curls that hung nearly to his shoulders. A simple tee shirt. A simple pair of tattered jeans. A simple pair of sneakers. All splattered with blood.


The moment Zver had spoken was when the figure turned, flooring the man in the doorway and forced his mouth to hang wide open at who he saw.


Himself. Youthful. No more than sixteen years old. With rounder features and more brown than hazel eyes, that wild mane that he’d left often unkempt back in the day. A face too sweet for the monster he’d been, he’d seemed too innocent for the awful things he’d done. Almost cherubic in it’s softer, rounder features of his youth before booze, drugs and a lifetime of crime had shaped him into the man he was today.





Even the smile was the same. A feature that cut the cherubic illusion like the slice of a knife, a Joker-like grin that went from sweet to maniac in a matter of moments. The flash of malicious intent was in those warm eyes that crinkled at the edges with that smile, showing an even set of pearly teeth. The image staring back at Zver lifted his brows, a feign of shock that rivaled his own smart-assery.


“Aren’t you proud of me? I did her in, I did them all in like you would’ve when you were my age.” His head tilted as he turned, staring Zver face to face and fearlessly down the barrel of the gun. “I only wanted to be just like you…. Dad…”



---------------------------


Zver woke with a gasp, the maniacal laughter of the dreamed psychopath claiming to be his son still ringing in his ears. His eyes were wide and bloodshot from only having been asleep for a few hours. The wall he stared at in his position on his belly was of the bedroom shared with his woman, and not of the living room.


His forehead was coated with a sheen of cold sweat as his heart pounded away in his chest, nearly breathless as his head lifted from the pillow. His head turned to eye the woman curled up next to him. Still very much alive, still breathing and still pregnant. His eyes fell to the rounded belly that housed his son… son.. As he swallowed hard with the slowly receding memories of his dream.

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This is my chance, this is my curse
We all know it'll only get worse
My hell is a terrible case
But I'll give you all hell first.
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