Ghost Story
Sep. 2nd, 2003 11:08 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
edgI'd planned on using this as the opening vignette for an adventure, but I decided to restructure the adventure and the vignette no longer had a home, so I'm posting it here.
I may have posted this before; I can't remember. Note: this is icky.
"Tell me it will hurt."
James couldn't quite hear the voice, and for a moment he thought it might have come through the wall from the apartment next to his. Then it spoke again, more clearly and definitely in the room with him. "Promise me."
"What?" he said, thinking it might be his girlfriend playing a joke. "Mags?"
"Your mother isn't dead yet." The voice sounded amused.
"No, she isn't," said James, now thoroughly confused. He could hear the shower stop in the background; apparently this wasn't Margaret.
"Just do it," the voice - a female voice - said.
"Do what?" asked James, and then he saw the knife.
It lay on the table next to the couch. It was long, and thin, but it wasn't a stiletto - the blade was too wide. And it wasn't one of James's. He reached over and picked it up. The handle was ivory, so nice that James thought at first that it must be fake - but it felt like real ivory.
"Do it!" she shouted, and James saw her all at once - black hair, pale skin, stark white dress, desperation and pleading in her eyes. She reached for him - for the knife - and he stood up.
"You want me to hurt you?" he asked, and she nodded mutely, her eyes brightening. He stepped toward her, wondering what he was doing, and slid the blade of the knife up her throat and around the angle of her chin. A red trail followed the knife, and although he hadn't slit her throat or cut open any veins or arteries, it still must have stung. The blade moved almost of its own accord, along her cheek, above her lips and below her nose, between her eye and the bridge of her nose. He flicked his wrist when he got to her eyelid, and the top lid leapt almost of its own volition from her face.
She was crying, and the tears obviously made the pain worse where they coursed over the thin red line the knife left. "More," she whispered.
James kissed her, still wondering what he was doing. The knife made its way over her forehead, neatly defining her hairline, and around the other eye. Another flick of the wrist, and her lower eyelid departed. She looked at him, smiling and crying. "I love you," she said. "It's time."
He kissed her once more, a quick press of his lips to hers, and pulled back. With one smooth movement he flipped the knife in his hand and drew it across her throat, the blade biting deeply; before she could even register that she couldn't breathe, he drove the knife to the hilt into the precise center of her forehead. He let it stay for a moment as her body sagged, then dragged it out and let her collapse to the floor.
He eyed the blade. He knew what came next. Except -
"J-James?" shouted Margaret from the doorway, her forgotten towel draped around her ankles. "What the hell are you doing?"
He shook his head. "She asked - we wanted - I promised -" The knife was still in his hand, and he realized that the blade was biting into his wrist. He moved to put it on the table, blood coursing down his hand, and abruptly his chest sprouted a bright red blossom. It occurred to him belatedly that he had heard the shot, but Margaret didn't have a gun. Two more shots rang out in the apartment and his chest grew another pair of spreading red stains. "Mags?" he whispered, blood bubbling around his lips, and he collapsed.
The girl was gone, James lay in a rapidly-gathering pool of blood, and Margaret couldn't do anything but scream.
I may have posted this before; I can't remember. Note: this is icky.
"Tell me it will hurt."
James couldn't quite hear the voice, and for a moment he thought it might have come through the wall from the apartment next to his. Then it spoke again, more clearly and definitely in the room with him. "Promise me."
"What?" he said, thinking it might be his girlfriend playing a joke. "Mags?"
"Your mother isn't dead yet." The voice sounded amused.
"No, she isn't," said James, now thoroughly confused. He could hear the shower stop in the background; apparently this wasn't Margaret.
"Just do it," the voice - a female voice - said.
"Do what?" asked James, and then he saw the knife.
It lay on the table next to the couch. It was long, and thin, but it wasn't a stiletto - the blade was too wide. And it wasn't one of James's. He reached over and picked it up. The handle was ivory, so nice that James thought at first that it must be fake - but it felt like real ivory.
"Do it!" she shouted, and James saw her all at once - black hair, pale skin, stark white dress, desperation and pleading in her eyes. She reached for him - for the knife - and he stood up.
"You want me to hurt you?" he asked, and she nodded mutely, her eyes brightening. He stepped toward her, wondering what he was doing, and slid the blade of the knife up her throat and around the angle of her chin. A red trail followed the knife, and although he hadn't slit her throat or cut open any veins or arteries, it still must have stung. The blade moved almost of its own accord, along her cheek, above her lips and below her nose, between her eye and the bridge of her nose. He flicked his wrist when he got to her eyelid, and the top lid leapt almost of its own volition from her face.
She was crying, and the tears obviously made the pain worse where they coursed over the thin red line the knife left. "More," she whispered.
James kissed her, still wondering what he was doing. The knife made its way over her forehead, neatly defining her hairline, and around the other eye. Another flick of the wrist, and her lower eyelid departed. She looked at him, smiling and crying. "I love you," she said. "It's time."
He kissed her once more, a quick press of his lips to hers, and pulled back. With one smooth movement he flipped the knife in his hand and drew it across her throat, the blade biting deeply; before she could even register that she couldn't breathe, he drove the knife to the hilt into the precise center of her forehead. He let it stay for a moment as her body sagged, then dragged it out and let her collapse to the floor.
He eyed the blade. He knew what came next. Except -
"J-James?" shouted Margaret from the doorway, her forgotten towel draped around her ankles. "What the hell are you doing?"
He shook his head. "She asked - we wanted - I promised -" The knife was still in his hand, and he realized that the blade was biting into his wrist. He moved to put it on the table, blood coursing down his hand, and abruptly his chest sprouted a bright red blossom. It occurred to him belatedly that he had heard the shot, but Margaret didn't have a gun. Two more shots rang out in the apartment and his chest grew another pair of spreading red stains. "Mags?" he whispered, blood bubbling around his lips, and he collapsed.
The girl was gone, James lay in a rapidly-gathering pool of blood, and Margaret couldn't do anything but scream.
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Date: 2003-09-04 02:31 pm (UTC)