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Post by Clairice-Sarah on Feb 22, 2011 1:46:16 GMT -5
Angeline sat cross legged in front of her easel, Malcolm across from her under a lamp she stole from one of the student lounges. The college's single studio didn't boast much, even in terms of its size and storage. She'd pulled the blinds shut early.
The art department was so small that the studio itself was always empty after suppertime. Too shy to put up a posting for a random model, and not wanting to bother her classmates, she asked Malcolm to meet her at the school and sit still for a few hours so she could get this assignment out of the way. She'd given up a pint or so of blood under worse circumstances.
She paused to stretch and crack her back, before running a hand through her now very short and very chopped off hair. "I can't stare at this paper anymore," she sighed. "But I'm almost done. Probably won't be longer than another forty-five minutes." Angel picked up her water bottle and took a short drink, leaning back to look at what she'd finished so far. This kind of art always felt less fun, but having Malcolm there to talk with, made it easier, and he wasn't exactly unpleasant to sketch...
She swallowed the thought and put the water bottle back down on the table. Since Telfer, Angel didn't even like looking at boys, let alone think about them. They didn't really bring him up, but she didn't go out so much during the day, and never near his street or work ever, if she could avoid it. And hanging out so much with Malcolm did mean forfeiting a lot of her evening rest-time.
Not that she slept a lot when she wasn't out. Her car was fixed now, thank god - her truck was a nice moving fortress on wheels - but trucks and windows weren't out of Telfer's capability to destroy. Mostly, she hated to be alone, but hated even more the worry that she grated on the nerves of all those she clung to to avoid that.
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Post by scribblerrigby on Feb 23, 2011 0:56:32 GMT -5
Malcolm stumbled towards the door, eagerly attempting to simultaneously pull on his shoes and shrug on his jacket. Jeff looked up at the disturbance, bemused and bleary-eyed, from his homework. “Where you going, man?”
“Art studio,” he mumbled, cramming his foot into the second shoe, and fishing in his pockets for his car keys. “Gonna’ go be a model for-“ He stopped. About a half-dozen words too late. Jeff stared at Malcolm’s mortified expression for several very long seconds before bursting into laughter.
“Is that what you’re calling it, these days?!” he choked.
“Dude. DUDE. It’s…it’s just an assignment. It’s…Angel. Just for Angel. ”
“Angel as in the one you’ve been wanting to bone since last year? And modeling as in...artistic-modeling?”
“I…Hey. Hey. No…There are clothes and...I’m giving her space. That’s it.”
“Sure you are. Just, y’know, be safe,” he leered.
Malcolm spluttered, zipped up his jacket, finally said something like ‘forget you, too, Jeff’ and slammed the door.
For a dead man, Malcolm did fidget a lot.
He didn’t get tired, anymore, and didn’t need to move, though a few hours was admittedly a long time to sit still, even for him. But Angel had promised him blood if he’d sit still and let her draw him for a few hours. And though, he would never admit it to her – or anyone – he would’ve done it, anyway.
He didn’t know exactly how to begin, so he had strode in, gently teasing and making light of the situation, striking ridiculous poses, and occasionally making faces over her easel until she told him to knock it off and be serious. So, he ended up in a casual sitting pose under a lamp while Angel finished her assignment.
There were moments when they would chat casually, but there were many more moments when Angel would be totally immersed in working, glancing between him and the paper. Malcolm’s attention would inevitably travel to the scritch-scratching of Angel’s sketching, the rodents scampering in the walls of the studio, then back to linger slightly on her concentrating face.
Angel stretched, recapturing Malcolm’s attention, and ran her fingers through her new hair. Long bangs framed her face, but the rest of her hair had been chopped off. It was a startling change, but he thought he liked it.
"I can't stare at this paper anymore," she sighed. "But I'm almost done. Probably won't be longer than another forty-five minutes."
“Then don’t,” he said, then grinned. “Though I can’t imagine why…I’m worth an A, anyway. Well… A-minus, maybe, but still. In that range. “
“Though seriously, Angel," he added, sobering. "You’ve been at it for hours. Treat yourself. You need a break! I can put myself back when you’re ready. Besides…” he shifted uncomfortably. “I think I need a break too, for a minute."
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Post by Clairice-Sarah on Feb 23, 2011 2:01:25 GMT -5
Angel laughed. "I'm alright with an A," she said, "Go take a walk, I guess? If you just put the door stopper in the door, I won't have to reopen it for you." She rolled up the sleeves of her hoodie, revealing unbandaged wrists, and a distinct lack of red gashes. The newer marks remained thin and pink, while the older, deeper scars blotched whitish lines on her skin. "I'm going to dig out something I've been working on for a while. You'll think it's awesome."
She smiled, excited to find the painting. "It's really big, so I've only been able to work on it at school. I'll look for it in a bit."
Angel cracked her knuckles, rolled her neck, tried to cure the stiffness in her back. Maybe she needed to take a few days off after all these midterm projects were finished. Sleep at a decent hour. Sit with good posture. Eat when she should --that was part of sleeping properly. She pushed the stool back from the easel, to let him see what she'd done so far. Had he ever seen anything besides her horror art? Probably not.
"Look, no blood dripping off the wall or anything," she joked, "Now my portfolio can pretend it's normal, too." She stood back and hooked her thumbs in the belt loops of her jeans.
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Post by scribblerrigby on Feb 23, 2011 3:39:09 GMT -5
“Yeeeaah, I think I’ll go walk around for a while. Go find that soda machine we passed on the way in, grab something caffeinated.” And maybe see if he could find where the rodents were entering the walls, while he was at it. Maybe.
Angel rolled up her sleeves. It was the first time she had done that in front of him in weeks, and for once, his senses weren’t driven up the wall. Her arms had been healing - he couldn’t even remember a time in which she didn’t have the bandages.
"I'm going to dig out something I've been working on for a while. You'll think it's awesome."
He smiled, interest piqued, and unfolded off of his perch, stretching his arms over his head. “Well, now I really want to see this thing. But first - your current masterpiece” He walked over to her side to look at her easel.
"Look, no blood dripping off the wall or anything," she joked, "Now my portfolio can pretend it's normal, too." She stood back and hooked her thumbs in the belt loops of her jeans.
He laughed. “Well…normal until you consider that you’ve technically been drawing a monster the whole evening.” He placed his hand on her shoulder, leaned in with a cheeky smile. “But you don’t have to tell the prof that!
“He hides it well, anyway,” he added, turning back around and indicating the picture appraisingly. “It’s good – it’s, well, it’s great, actually! Like…how do you even do that?” He didn't know what else to say. He didn't know much about art, other than - hey, this looks cool. And this picture definitely did.
He stopped, on the verge of gushing, and drew back. “But yeah. Soda. Right. Be right back.”
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Post by Clairice-Sarah on Feb 28, 2011 1:45:53 GMT -5
"You're not a monster," she said, frowning slightly. But her smile returned as Malcolm complimented the piece and she shrugged her shoulders, tensing slightly when he touched her, though the contact was not unwelcome.
"Thanks...it's not done yet, though. I'll probably do more work on it later...after it's graded you can have it...if you want, that is." But he pulled back, and her shoulders dropped. "Okay, see you in five."
When Malcolm left she walked to one of the smaller rooms in the studio, where she'd left her most recent painting. It wasn't large, at least not compared to past projects, almost finished on a twelve-by-sixteen canvas. She slid it onto one hand to avoid touching the paint as she carried it out to where they'd been sitting. Nothing, not even Hollywood, could ever ruin Silent Hill for her.
Getting the nerve to sit through drawing the janitor, admittedly, had been hard. There weren't many things that made her skin crawl, on film or game, but he'd been one of them. The barbed wire and spine detailing she was the most proud of, and probably, everyone who'd seen the painting probably didn't have any interest in befriending her now.
Angel lost herself in her thoughts, about what needed to be finished and how excited she got thinking about showing Malcolm, that she didn't notice her right hand reacing over to her supply kit. She pulled out her small utility knife and snapped back to reality to the clicking as her thumb shoved the blade out as far as it would go.
"Oh...oh god..." She wanted to move, tried to, but her hands continued of their own accord, and she couldn't will her feet, either. Angel made a sound between a whimper and and a gasp as she - it, her hand, the glowing tattoo - dug the corner of the knife into one of her oldest gashes and carved it open. Red filled her arm in seconds, and she cut herself twice more.
"M-Malcolm!" she called, panicked as the knife was tossed aside in favour of a plain brush. Angel watched, afraid to breathe as she stretched her own wound open and smeared her wrist against the painting. She blended the blood in, feeling tight and tense and breathless and oh god, oh god no. No. This wasn't happening. Was there anyone here? Anything to kill it with? Did this even die in Silent Hill?
She backed away from it, arm dripping on the floor - AGAIN, seriously? - and as the janitor fully pulled itself from the canvas, black and dripping but groaning and hissing all the same, she screamed and took off running, knowing exactly which vending machine Malcolm had in mind. Her small feet pounded on the floor as she ran to get to him before IT got to her, tears of fear and guilt welling in her eyes when she found him.
"M-Malcolm, I'm sorry, I couldn't stop, we need to run, right now," she stammered, "I tried, I really did, I don't know how I'll kill it, oh god, I'm so so so sorry, we...we need to--" she cut off as the groaning and moaning echoed, accompanied with the squishing and slurping of the monster as it crawled in their direction. Angel turned, silent with horror as the squelching noise came nearer, faster, and she only barely managed to clamp her right hand over her scream when it's fingers stuck out past the corner.
Oh god, she'd finally done it, they were going to die.
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Post by scribblerrigby on Mar 1, 2011 2:37:35 GMT -5
The machine was all out of Dr. Pepper and Coke, so he had to settle for a ginger ale.
He leaned against the wall and flicked the can open. Of course he wanted the picture. Angel drew a picture of him. OF HIM. Granted, it was for an assignment, but still. He liked it. And as soon as he finished this can, he'd go back in and see what else she'd been working on. He idly listened around – nothing nearby but rats scampering in the walls. Oh, yeah, they were definitely coming through a hole behind the vending machine. He took a sip of the ginger ale. He’ll get to those later – he was feeling pretty satisfied at the moment.
He heard Angel scream.
The soda was forgotten. He tensed up, fully alert and on edge. Telfer couldn’t have come back, could he?
His stomach turned uncomfortably when he smelled blood.
Angel came tearing down the hall towards him, seconds later. He reached out, attempted to hold her arm, calm her down, get some explanation.
“Angel – what?!”
He pulled back with a panicked hiss and tiny apology when he realized his fingers were in open wounds.
Blood came off, and clung to his hands. He stared at it for a second before reluctantly wiping it on his jeans and re-focusing on the distraught Angel. “What did…oh, sh*t.” His voice was small and his eyes were wide as he looked over the cuts. The now very familiar knife cuts.
"M-Malcolm, I'm sorry, I couldn't stop, we need to run, right now," she stammered, "I tried, I really did, I don't know how I'll kill it, oh god, I'm so so so sorry, we...we need to--"
She cut off abruptly, and turned around, too terrified to even make a sound. And then Malcolm saw it.
The thing came, creeping, pulling itself noisily along the hallway, mouth wide open, gurgling and hissing. It smelled of a nauseating mix of blood, linseed oil and turpentine. Malcolm could only gape.
“That’s…that’s the Janitor. Angel, what the f*ck, that’s COLIN the MOTHER-F*CKING JANITOR.”
He didn’t need to say he would have liked it much better had it stayed put.
The thing was made out of oil, and Malcolm had no idea how to destroy one of these things - especially in the middle of a narrow school hallway.
“Oh, yeah. Yeah, we need to run. We need to run like hell.” He grabbed her undamaged hand, and they did.
They turned sharply around a corner; Malcolm yelled and nearly lost his footing attempting to avoid running into the – real – janitor, who was making his usual rounds of emptying out the garbage cans. The man shouted at them to watch where they were going and let him do his job.
“Oh, my god, dude, forget all of this. Get the HELL out of here. NOW” Malcolm countered with an exasperated snarl.
“…what’s the matter with your – “
“FORGET THAT, OKAY. Garbage can wait. Get out, OR YOU WILL DIE.”
He shoved past the man, who gave Malcolm the kind of look people reserved for hysterical teenagers who plow into janitors while screaming death threats.
Meanwhile, Malcolm started scanning the walls for a fire alarm, or something similarly useful (though he doubted many students would be around this part of the campus, this late), then – finding none around - whirled around, frightened and frustrated, to face Angel. He could hear the thing crawling, relentlessly chasing them, eager for their blood.
“Angel - Do we lure it to your truck, or what? That’s…that’s all I can think of.”
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Post by Clairice-Sarah on Mar 2, 2011 1:25:01 GMT -5
"I KNOW it's Colin," Angel barely managed to keep up with Malcolm, "That's what I wanted to show you! B-but not like that!" Well, there this went. Another friendship gone. She couldn't imagine forgiving herself for this...how would he forgive her? Colin still struggled behind them and Angel forced her thoughts - and their accompanying tears - to the backseat. Lack of focus made this mess to begin with. She sucked in a breath and closed her fingers around Malcolm's hand. Think about it later.
The halls behind them sizzled as if they'd been touched by acid, burnt black as the monster dragged itself down the hall. The problem, Angel realized, was that Colin's canon suggested he couldn't die. And whatever he touched - even under her curse, and him as her creation - was going to be destroyed. She made small blood-blobs all the time for Zelia and Tobias, and they destroyed those well. But she didn't think any vampire could get past THAT, to destroy it anyway...
She bumped into Malcolm as he skidded into the school custodian. "Mister please--!" But she didn't get a chance to plead her case. Malcolm's sense of survival beat out hers. He stopped, finally, and Angel gasped for breath.
"My truck!" Yes that was-- "My truck...my keys are upstairs, sh*t..." Out of instinct her hand came up to cover her mouth, but the afterthought asked her why she cared about being polite NOW of all times. "I'm sorry, I'm so stupid." Angel bit on her lip, then turned. "Is that guy seriously not running--"
Paint-Colin gurgled a shriek as he squelched closer and closer to the school custodian. The man just stared, and moved too late. The monster latched onto the custodian, eroding his leg, and spilling a mixture of sizzling paint and blood from his mouth to expose a black, spasming tongue. It bit into the man's thigh and, with a loud slurp, practically inhaled whatever blood it could. The custodian screamed, tried to run away. Paint-Colin held on.
Angeline's knees shook and she grabbed onto Malcolm, fist tightening into a knot as she latched to the material of his shirt. It looked like a cheap movie effect, as the man's skin and body dried out and folded over onto the floor. "Malcolm," she whispered, "We...we gotta go." She didn't move. "We can't fight that...it killed him..." It resumed it's struggle toward Angel and Malcolm, more directly now, and looking less strained as it moved.
'I wish they'd all just die.' All I did was close my eyes and then I felt that thing sink into me.
'Wish granted.'
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Post by scribblerrigby on Mar 3, 2011 0:46:16 GMT -5
"My truck!" Yes that was-- "My truck...my keys are upstairs, sh*t..."
“It’s fine, it’s fine…” Then he remembered. “F*CK, he doesn’t die in the movie."
He should have been running. He should have probably dragged the man with him, too. But nothing worked - he couldn’t bring himself to move as a new wave of nausea hit him, heralding the approach of Paint Colin. The paint monster lunged at the custodian, latching onto his leg, drinking greedily. The man screamed; Malcolm stiffened, rigid. Stared at the feeding monster. His eyes were strange, his expression blank, unreadable.
The man was now barely a husk, crumpling to the floor. Malcolm shook his head, blinking.
“Malcolm.”
He snapped around to face her.
“We...we gotta go." She didn't move. "We can't fight that...it killed him..."
“Yeah.” He wrapped his arms around her. A hand around her shoulder, one in her hair. Stared at the thing. “Yeah, we need to go.” He didn’t even sound convincing to himself. Where? Where do we go? It’s a school. The monster was not going to run out of food. Eating it was out of the question – too much whatever-the-hell-kind of chemical she used was already making him sick – and probably spoiling it. Even if we do lure it out – into what, traffic?! - how many people would it find between here and the door?
Further down the hall, he saw his professor, books in hand, turn the corner, and nearly drop his books and folder of papers in astonishment. Instead of making noise, or panicking, however, he fumbled in a bag slung over for his shoulder, pulled out a digital camera to snap a picture without flash, then ducked into a nearby, open classroom, and pulled the door nearly closed behind him.
Well, forget him, then. At least he was smart enough to hide.
“You didn’t mean it, Angel,” he murmured, holding her, steadying her, placing himself between the monster and her, swallowing whatever his stomach wanted to bring up. ”You didn’t. But you need to walk with me too, okay?”
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Post by Clairice-Sarah on Mar 3, 2011 18:57:27 GMT -5
They agreed that where they stood remained a poor choice. But neither moved. Angel struggled just to breathe and clung to Malcolm - for what? Protection? She was so useless! - as Colin moved closer to them. She managed to pull back, maybe an inch, but the morbid fascination with the horror in front of them held her in place. Maybe that was what held him still too.
“You didn’t mean it, Angel."
She didn't reply to that. No, she didn't mean it, but that didn't make it a good excuse. The paint-monster's smell hit her all at once, now only twenty-five feet away. It had a sickening, nostalgic quality about it. Blood and paint shouldn't feel normal or remind her of home. Malcolm moved between her and it and her heart pinched. She felt then, absolutely worthless and thought maybe this could have been avoided if one of those other times, she cut to kill.
The monster dragged closer to them, dripping hot paint and some sort of blood-substance on the floor, which burned. It gave an anguished moan - realizing what it wanted lay just out of its reach, and the more it moved, the more Angel's wrist felt hot.
This is my painting. My work. It belongs to me. It's going to kill me. It's going to kill us.
Artwork could be destroyed, past creations proved that. They didn't have anything here. Her eyes flicked up to the dried-out corpose of the custodian then back to the monster, now only fifteen feet away. Angel's eyes brimmed with tears and her stomach tightened.
"Just go away."
The uncharacteristic hiss from the smaller girl barely came over the sound of the monster, but it paused its movement to gape at the two, groaning. The tattoo on her wrist began beating, loudly, with a pulse of it's own. Angel's lip curled in bitterness, and self-loathing. She jumped as it screamed, but didn't move away.
The decay he had spread disappeared, and Colin fell apart into a puddle of cold paint and lukewarm-blood.
Angel stared in silence, for a long time, before she turned her face into Malcolm's side and cried.
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Post by scribblerrigby on Mar 3, 2011 23:58:06 GMT -5
He’d never felt so useless.
Colin was made of blood, but it was also made of other, horrible chemicals. He could practically taste them. Fighting wouldn’t work, because it would only re-form.
“Blood…that shouldn’t even happen…” he muttered, more to himself. He needed to be sick.
Angel – she couldn’t have helped it. It wasn't her fault. She wasn’t moving. He couldn’t bring himself to move. But it wasn’t going to get her. This wasn’t her fault. He remained between the two.
“Recycled blood, you soggy son of a bitch. I hope you choke,” he growled to the thing as it slogged towards them.
"Just go away."
A new pulse, so wild, loud, and close suddenly burst into life; Malcolm jerked back in surprise. It came from around her wrist...was it the tattoo? The monster seemed to acknowledge it. With a scream, Colin dribbled back into a puddle of oily paint and spoiled blood.
What just happened?
A long, heavy silence passed.
“Well. That wasn’t too weird,” he said, attempting to break the tension. His voice broke in a small sob.
Angel turned, and cried into his side. His own eyes shone, wet and very slightly pink, and he stooped slightly, held her tightly, and buried his face in her hair. His fingers traced the tattoo on her wrist, before they brushed back down, interlocking his fingers with hers. It’ll be okay, it’ll all be okay. It wasn’t your fault. Sometimes he whispered it, sometimes he only thought it, but he hoped she’d understand, and listen. He didn’t know what else to say to reassure someone in her situation, someone who felt responsible for the death of another person.
“What was it?”
Malcolm looked up and glared at the new voice. Professor Fleischer had left his room down the hall and was standing over the dead man. His eyes darted curiously between the puddle and the corpse.
“What was it?” he asked again.
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Post by Clairice-Sarah on Mar 4, 2011 0:49:47 GMT -5
As Malcolm held her closer, she tightened the grasp of her fingers in his hand, sobbing harder at his reassurances. She didn't think it could be okay. That man was dead, she...she killed someone. And it was her fault. No one knew this - she didn't ever mention it. But the more she thought about that night, the horrible day leading up to it...she asked for this power, and she got it. Angel hiccuped. And now someone finally died for it.
She didn't know how the monster fell apart or why it listened. Her wrist ached - both of them, actually - and her fingers slowly loosened from Malcolm's hand and shirt. She tried to let them relax, to slow the blood from the left and ease the stiffness on the right. Would she go to jail? Would they lock her up in a hospital? Fleetingly, she considered where they could hide the evidence but felt disgusted at the thought. Angeline considered herself an honest person. To do that...
"What was it?"
Angel froze, didn't breathe. That wasn't Malcolm talking. Oh god. No. She turned her head, just a little, looking at the professor from the corner of her eye. Who is that? She didn't have the strength to ask the question out loud. Influenced by her fear, Angel's right wrist jerked erratically and she pulled from Malcolm just to clamp the fingers of her other hand around it. Breathe deep. Focus.
She stared at Aaron, cheeks tear-stained and hands bloody, which she tried to hold out of his sight.
It was a monster, she wanted to say, didn't you see it? But she couldn't bring the words up. Her stomach twisted and Angel moved closer to Malcolm again. He made her feel safe.
She tensed her shoulders, as if trying to crumple herself more would make this all go away. One only had to follow the spots of ink and blood back to her painting to know...where could they go? Who would this guy tell? Malcolm looked stressed.
This wasn't someone they could trust.
"Я не могу верить что это случается..." Angel bit on her lip again. She didn't know what else to do, but answering this man's questions wasn't going to happen.
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Post by scribblerrigby on Mar 4, 2011 18:46:06 GMT -5
Angel answered in Russian and it took Malcolm all he had not to laugh in surprise. A brief shadow of frustration and fury crossed Aaron’s face when Angel answered. But only briefly.
She’s still bleeding, Malcolm realized. He squeezed his eyes shut, shuddering slightly, reaching for her left hand. No. He couldn’t do that in front of his professor.
"Malcolm, at least you can tell me what happened." He gave Fin a pointed look that implied that his grade might suffer, otherwise.
“She and I...we were just by the vending machine when it started chasing us. I don’t know what it is, and then it just…fell apart. That’s it…sir,” he added, lamely.
Aaron rolled the dead man over to look at his leg, and pocketed the man’s chain of many keys when he found them. He looked from the blood mixed in the pile of paint, to the blood smeared all over Malcolm’s shirt, to the blood all over Angel’s hands.
“Well, like it or not, kids, you have a body on your hands...”
He trailed off and sniffed the leg, slightly. His expression paled, and he jerked away from the leg as if it was a poisonous snake. He stood up, looked at his hands, and looked at Angel again, frowning. Malcolm pulled Angel closer.
“Don’t go anywhere,” Aaron ordered.
“Why? Where are you going?”
“Bandages for her. And getting the oil paint off my hands.” He walked away.
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Post by Clairice-Sarah on Mar 4, 2011 19:21:20 GMT -5
Well no one called her out on it...yet...but the way the professor stared at her, she knew already, sooner than later, he'd bring it up. She kept her lips pursed as he bore into Malcolm. So they knew each other? That made sense, she supposed...she didn't know anyone that worked outside the art department. He inspected the body - touched it - goosebumps rose on her skin thinking about it; this was so far out of the world of movies and novels...
He ordered them to stay. She wanted to protest, had the fleeting idea that maybe they could skulk off while...
But he knew. They'd only incriminate themselves further.
As soon as he turned the corner Angel pulled back enough to look up at Malcolm. "What do we do?" she breathed, voice quivering as she tried to keep it as inaudible as possible. Angel relaxed her grip on her dominant hand. "What if he calls the police? What do we do then?"
She looked down in distraught at her slashed arm and stained hands. Even if they could convince others that tonight's wounds came from the monster, her body was covered in old scars. Not just her arms, but on her ankles, fingers, knuckles...anywhere on her body that was exposed, and close to the painting...
When the man came with bandages, there was no doubt in her mind that he'd have questions about all the cuts, too. What did she know about cutters? Maybe she was recovering? No, what was she thinking? She deserved whatever punishment came, even if this all could have been an accident.
She exhaled slowly, telling herself she needed to stop panicking. Looking over Malcolm, her eyes turned up to him guiltily. On top of everything else...
"I'm sorry," she half-squeaked, "I...I bled on your clothes, again."
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Post by scribblerrigby on Mar 5, 2011 1:35:14 GMT -5
"I'm sorry," she half-squeaked, "I...I bled on your clothes, again."
He stared at his shirt, then at her for a second, the corners of his mouth turning upward, before he burst into strained, manic giggles.
“Yes. Yes, you DID! Because this always…always happens. Every time we try to do anything, the weird crap happens.I mean…even when we met…Like...everyone else is worrying about grades and stuff - I am too- but on top of that, I’m freaked out that I’d flip out and drain some random person, or you’d go off slicing yourself open again, or some demon will randomly swoop in and tear someone's heart out. This…is ridiculous…nobody should worry about this, none of this is normal. And...and I just want to everything be normal. Just a normal night hanging out. With you."
Slightly stained tears were streaming down his face, now. He couldn’t tell whether it was from laughing or crying. He took her arm, and with a small glance for approval, began their usual routine. Then, he hesitated, and gently kissed the inside of her wrist.
“We need to try again, okay?”
It was then that Aaron reappeared, with a wet towel and bandages in his hands. Malcolm quickly wiped his mouth on his sleeve – hey, what the hell, right? Not like it made a difference at this point.
“Give me your arm,” Aaron said to Angel, curtly. He took it, anyway.
“Hey, no, let me do it,” Malcolm said, but Aaron had already wiped it off and begun wrapping. For a moment, he paused and looked at Angel’s right wrist; brow furrowed, but then resumed his wrapping, and spoke to both of them.
“I’ll tell you what. The police would never believe this. But there are other investigators that might catch on to what happened, here. You’re lucky that I’m the only one that has seen this.” He quickly passed a swab over her wrist. “If you give me the body, I can forget all about the picture I took in the hallway, earlier. “
He cut the gauze wrap, taped it off, and shrugged. “It’s a win-win situation, really.”
“What will you do with it?”
“I don’t know. Science. Cadaver dissection. If it’s useless, I know how to get rid of it. People disappear around here all the time. You walk away, completely blameless.”
He stood up.
“Go home, you two. You don’t need to think about this anymore.”
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Post by Clairice-Sarah on Mar 5, 2011 2:18:42 GMT -5
He began laughing, and after a pause - giving up - she did too. It felt completely inappropriate, but also cathartic. Angel paused to hear what he had to say and realized - only very rarely did they hang out without incident.
"I just want to everything be normal. Just a normal night hanging out. With you."
Angel looked up, slowly, and a smile grew on her face. "Yeah...me too..." He took her wrist and she gave a passive nod...she promised this earlier, anyway. She looked away as he did though...the entire process still made her queasy, and she already felt ill from the blood lost between the painting and now. He stopped earlier than she expected. When his lips, and not his teeth, brushed against the inside of her wrist, Angel decided that if she weren't flushed from crying, the burning in her face would be obvious.
She nodded to him, but kept silent as Aaron returned once again. She resisted him at first - didn't want him to touch her or even look at her - but the man yanked her wrist anyway and began dressing it. Her other hand sought Malcolm's, don't let him touch me... She focused on not responding to his questions, so much that she missed the swab.
But...he wanted the body? What kind of sick...
He had a photo.
As soon as Aaron let go of her she shied back, and decided she didn't really need a second invitation to leave. She scuffed her toe a few times against the floor and looked up to Malcolm. What could they do, other than give him what they wanted? Even if he hadn't taken the photo, he still knew. He could still identify them, and she wasn't exactly known as bright or sunny.
At the least they could go back upstairs, pack up the remains of the Colin painting, get her keys...and drive far.
She gave Malcolm's arm a tug. She didn't trust this professor as far as she could throw him (and given her size, not far), but...they were stuck, and in trouble.
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