Post by LACKLAN on Jan 11, 2018 18:02:20 GMT -5
4/17/2017
FLASH
The brightness of the camera’s flash pops and blinds the eye. Slowly, focus forms as the white dissipates and we see a dark room, small in size, with nothing but a small bed crammed into a corner.
FLASH
The white robs us of our sight again. The whirr! of the camera’s motor falls away as the white recedes, granting another look into the room. The walls have chunks missing from them, as if a blunt object had smashed into them and pulled out and away, sending debris to the ground.
FLASH
Flashes of red paint everywhere. The torn walls. The floor. The ceiling. All with the same words written over and again.
Il est ressuscité.
Over and again.
Il est ressuscité.
Walls. Ceiling. Floor.
Il est ressuscité.
FLASH
A wide man waddles into the room, his shaggy hair a mixture of brown and grey, and absently strokes a full beard equally salted. The man is not tall, and seemingly as wide long in width as he was in height, and wore a black leather coat which fell to the floor. In the hand not stroking his beard is a small notepad, thin and black. He flips it up as he reaches into his coat for a pen, the light scratching of writing slipping in between more whirrs and pops of cameras taking pictures.
“Not the first time she has done this.”
The large man’s voice is rough, as if he regularly gargled rocks. He writes more lines men come and go in the small room, their cameras taking pictures of the thrashed and defaced walls, floor, and ceiling.
“But at least no one got hurt this time.”
One of the cameramen pauses in his work. The man, barely more than a boy with soft and smooth cheeks, regards the fat man questioningly. The man in the coat looks at him for a moment with pale blue eyes.
“Five years ago, she escaped from a place on the west coast. They have lighter security there. But there was someone there, someone who tried to stop her. She found a hammer. Then she found his head.”
The cameraman’s eyes go wide and the big man shakes his head slowly.
“You don’t even want to know what happened a couple months later. She came back. With muscle. And gasoline.”
The cameraman’s face turns white and he hurries out of the room.
“Ghost stories?”
The big man turns at the sound of a thin voice. The owner looked as frail as his voice sounded, a thin man with only a touch of white hair atop his head, and a face so thin and bony that it seemed all of the fat had been burned away and the skin stretched out.
“True stories, doc.”
He reaches into his coat again and pulls out a small pack of cigarettes, a brown camel on the top and without filters, and quickly lights one with a surprisingly agile motion, the lighter out, flashed, and gone. Smoke rises in a plume as he waves at the scene before them with the cigarette, the bright tip acting as the conductor’s baton.
“She slipped out of that hospital after spending a week straight raving about some Nazi that she saw on television. Screaming about how all she wanted was to…”
He flips back a few pages on his notepad.
“‘Ride his shaft.’”
He shrugs as he flips back to the front.
“She went crazy after that. Well more crazy, anyway. Her parents had her committed initially for torturing small animals, setting fires, stuff like that. But after she bailed on that place? Hooked up with the dude who made the Nazi look tame.”
He points out the repeated phrase written into the wall.
“Speak French, doc?”
The thin psychiatrist shakes his head.
“No. Would have helped if I did, I imagine.”
The big man chuckles at that.
“I’ll bet. I know it. Kinda had to when I worked for...well...you know.”
Another point at all of the writing.
“‘He is risen.’”
The psychiatrist’s eyebrows pull together in confusion.
“‘He?’’
“Yep. He.”
“She can’t mean...you know. He died yesterday. Andrews confirmed it.”
The big man takes a long draft on his cigarette and shrugs again.
“I know. I saw the body. But...well...looks like she is convinced. About something.”
He sighs as he flicks his cigarette to the stone floor.
“...crazy ass…”
He stomps on the cigarette before turning back to the doctor.
“She say anything different? Or act different? Anything weird? Or, at least, more weird than usual?”
The doctor shakes his head.
“No. Just more of the same as alway for the last two years. Screaming about the Demon Child.”
The large man barks mirthless laughter.
“L'enfant démon. The person who put her here.”
The doctor nods his head.
“Yes. Over and again, as always.” He pauses, looking apprehensive. “Should we tell her?”
“L'enfant démon? No. Not the day after her dad died. Let her grieve.”
The large man heads towards the door of the small room but stops when the doctor raises his small voice again.
“Do you think you can find her?”
“I’m a journalist, Doc. You’d be surprised how similar that is to detective work. If anyone can find her before she hurts someone...it’s me.”
The big man takes one final look at the desecrated room, shakes his head, and leaves.
PRESENT
“Il pleut, il pleut, bergère,
Presse tes blancs moutons”
A scratchy voice sings, the French accent thick, piercing through the darkness of a stormy night.
“Allons sous ma chaumière,
Bergère, vite, allons
The owner of the voice is a woman dressed in rags. Dark hair streaked with grey falls to her shoulders, clinging to her back, soaked in the downpour. Occasional shots of lightning strikes down, allowing a face pale as lace to be seen, dark and sunken eyes looking out left and right.
“J'entends sur le feuillage,
L'eau qui tombe à grand bruit”
Her voice is full of glee as she sings and dances in the rain down the road. Her arms flail as her voice moves up and down the silly children’s song about rain. She stops suddenly and then darts off again, movements with no rhyme or reason. After several dashes, she looks up into the sky, the rain pouring down on her face, and cackles loudly before finishing the song.
“Voici, voici l'orage,
Voilà l'éclair qui luit.”
Her eyes widen as twin lights rise in the distance, headlights dimmed by the rain. She scrambles to the side, falling to her knees and out of sight, as a truck makes its slow way down the street. Sounds of livestock fill the night, sounds of chickens clucking, as it makes its clunky trip. The lights suddenly jump up and down, the truck hitting a bump in the road, and a crate falls from the truck, smashing to the ground with a great crash. But underneath the sound of the rain and thunder, the truck does not notice its lighter payload and continues its trek.
“Why...hello there…”
The girl’s accent is as thick as before as she slips into English. She climbs out of her hiding space and head towards the crate. Flashes of white can be seen as the inhabitants of the crate, three brown and white chickens, fight to gain their freedom.
“Finally!”
She runs towards the crate, her feet slipping on the muddy street, and she cackles wildly as she nearly falls. The chickens shrug free of their cage and begin to run, seeking shelter from the rain, and the girl gives chase.
“I am coming for you, little chickens! Alouette! Alouette! I wish to pluck you!”
One scatters from the other two and slips down off the road, but the other two are unable to escape. The smash into each other and the girl is on them, her feet skidding on the street in front of them.
“I wish to cut you!”
Silver flashes in her hands as two small razor blades fill them. As she brings up her hands, her arms can be seen in the flashes of lightning, both arms full of scars. Some of the scars are neat and clean, others are jagged and ugly. One hand grabs a chicken by its neck, the other by its leg, and she hoists them up into the air with a triumphent laugh.
“Soon! Bientôt! I shall feast!”
She plops down on the ground where she stands, down onto the wet and muddy road, and regards her prizes, letting the razors fall to her lap.
“Oh, petit poulet, how I have MISSED this!”
She shakes one of the chickens, water spraying everywhere off the feathers but lost in the rain.
“Soon! Bientôt! I get to hurt two at a time! Oui! Oui! Two...for the price...of ONE!”
She giggles as she shakes the other chicken.
“World champions...title holders...legends...both...but they are not me. Non! Non! They are not me! They are not ME! I AM THE ULTRAVIOLET!”
She screams at them, the declaration of who she is turning to a wordless keen.
“Pour trop longtemps! I was in that cage. Pour trop longtemps! I was unable to do what I want. Pour trop longtemps! I could not cut...rip...TEAR! Pour trop longtemps!”
She shakes both chickens at once.
“But not now! Not now! Non! L'enfant démon cannot stop me now!”[/i]
She falls into giggles again as she changes her position and places one of the chickens between her legs, then picks up one of the razor blades.
“How shall I cut you, petit poulet? Slow...soft...clean? Or hard? Rough? Do you wish for the pain to sear? Or flash? HOW DO YOU WANT IT?!”
She screams at the chicken again, her dark eyes mad, her tone demanding an answer that cannot come.
“Je choisirai. I will choose. Both. Hard. Soft. Clean. Painful. BOTH! BOTH! TOUS LES DEUX!”
She shakes the chicken violently for a moment, but then suddenly brings it in and holds it in the crook of her arm like a baby. Her face softens and she coos at at.
“I am both, you know. I am not the darkness. I am not the light. I am...both. But neither. I am not Ingalls. I am not Rogan. I am...outside of them. Between them. The edge. I am...the edge...and you know what happens...petit poulet...when you take an edge...and hone it?”
Soft eyes turn hard again.
“It becomes...a blade. I...am...Le Bord de Dieu...I am THE BLADE OF GOD! IL EST RESSUSCITE!!!”
Bones crunch under her fingers as she squeezes the chicken’s neck. The head falls lifeless, lulling to the side and against her hand. She stares at it silently for a moment before smiling again. She looks up, seeing a structure in the distance illuminated by the lightning.
“Come, petit poulet. Let us find shelter...make fire...and prepare to cut.”
She is on her feet in a flash, the dead chicken in her hand, the other scrambling away in unexpected freedom, forgotten by the woman. She begins to sing to herself as she makes her way to the shelter.
“Alouette, gentille alouette”[/font]
FLASH
The brightness of the camera’s flash pops and blinds the eye. Slowly, focus forms as the white dissipates and we see a dark room, small in size, with nothing but a small bed crammed into a corner.
FLASH
The white robs us of our sight again. The whirr! of the camera’s motor falls away as the white recedes, granting another look into the room. The walls have chunks missing from them, as if a blunt object had smashed into them and pulled out and away, sending debris to the ground.
FLASH
Flashes of red paint everywhere. The torn walls. The floor. The ceiling. All with the same words written over and again.
Il est ressuscité.
Over and again.
Il est ressuscité.
Walls. Ceiling. Floor.
Il est ressuscité.
FLASH
A wide man waddles into the room, his shaggy hair a mixture of brown and grey, and absently strokes a full beard equally salted. The man is not tall, and seemingly as wide long in width as he was in height, and wore a black leather coat which fell to the floor. In the hand not stroking his beard is a small notepad, thin and black. He flips it up as he reaches into his coat for a pen, the light scratching of writing slipping in between more whirrs and pops of cameras taking pictures.
“Not the first time she has done this.”
The large man’s voice is rough, as if he regularly gargled rocks. He writes more lines men come and go in the small room, their cameras taking pictures of the thrashed and defaced walls, floor, and ceiling.
“But at least no one got hurt this time.”
One of the cameramen pauses in his work. The man, barely more than a boy with soft and smooth cheeks, regards the fat man questioningly. The man in the coat looks at him for a moment with pale blue eyes.
“Five years ago, she escaped from a place on the west coast. They have lighter security there. But there was someone there, someone who tried to stop her. She found a hammer. Then she found his head.”
The cameraman’s eyes go wide and the big man shakes his head slowly.
“You don’t even want to know what happened a couple months later. She came back. With muscle. And gasoline.”
The cameraman’s face turns white and he hurries out of the room.
“Ghost stories?”
The big man turns at the sound of a thin voice. The owner looked as frail as his voice sounded, a thin man with only a touch of white hair atop his head, and a face so thin and bony that it seemed all of the fat had been burned away and the skin stretched out.
“True stories, doc.”
He reaches into his coat again and pulls out a small pack of cigarettes, a brown camel on the top and without filters, and quickly lights one with a surprisingly agile motion, the lighter out, flashed, and gone. Smoke rises in a plume as he waves at the scene before them with the cigarette, the bright tip acting as the conductor’s baton.
“She slipped out of that hospital after spending a week straight raving about some Nazi that she saw on television. Screaming about how all she wanted was to…”
He flips back a few pages on his notepad.
“‘Ride his shaft.’”
He shrugs as he flips back to the front.
“She went crazy after that. Well more crazy, anyway. Her parents had her committed initially for torturing small animals, setting fires, stuff like that. But after she bailed on that place? Hooked up with the dude who made the Nazi look tame.”
He points out the repeated phrase written into the wall.
“Speak French, doc?”
The thin psychiatrist shakes his head.
“No. Would have helped if I did, I imagine.”
The big man chuckles at that.
“I’ll bet. I know it. Kinda had to when I worked for...well...you know.”
Another point at all of the writing.
“‘He is risen.’”
The psychiatrist’s eyebrows pull together in confusion.
“‘He?’’
“Yep. He.”
“She can’t mean...you know. He died yesterday. Andrews confirmed it.”
The big man takes a long draft on his cigarette and shrugs again.
“I know. I saw the body. But...well...looks like she is convinced. About something.”
He sighs as he flicks his cigarette to the stone floor.
“...crazy ass…”
He stomps on the cigarette before turning back to the doctor.
“She say anything different? Or act different? Anything weird? Or, at least, more weird than usual?”
The doctor shakes his head.
“No. Just more of the same as alway for the last two years. Screaming about the Demon Child.”
The large man barks mirthless laughter.
“L'enfant démon. The person who put her here.”
The doctor nods his head.
“Yes. Over and again, as always.” He pauses, looking apprehensive. “Should we tell her?”
“L'enfant démon? No. Not the day after her dad died. Let her grieve.”
The large man heads towards the door of the small room but stops when the doctor raises his small voice again.
“Do you think you can find her?”
“I’m a journalist, Doc. You’d be surprised how similar that is to detective work. If anyone can find her before she hurts someone...it’s me.”
The big man takes one final look at the desecrated room, shakes his head, and leaves.
PRESENT
“Il pleut, il pleut, bergère,
Presse tes blancs moutons”
A scratchy voice sings, the French accent thick, piercing through the darkness of a stormy night.
“Allons sous ma chaumière,
Bergère, vite, allons
The owner of the voice is a woman dressed in rags. Dark hair streaked with grey falls to her shoulders, clinging to her back, soaked in the downpour. Occasional shots of lightning strikes down, allowing a face pale as lace to be seen, dark and sunken eyes looking out left and right.
“J'entends sur le feuillage,
L'eau qui tombe à grand bruit”
Her voice is full of glee as she sings and dances in the rain down the road. Her arms flail as her voice moves up and down the silly children’s song about rain. She stops suddenly and then darts off again, movements with no rhyme or reason. After several dashes, she looks up into the sky, the rain pouring down on her face, and cackles loudly before finishing the song.
“Voici, voici l'orage,
Voilà l'éclair qui luit.”
Her eyes widen as twin lights rise in the distance, headlights dimmed by the rain. She scrambles to the side, falling to her knees and out of sight, as a truck makes its slow way down the street. Sounds of livestock fill the night, sounds of chickens clucking, as it makes its clunky trip. The lights suddenly jump up and down, the truck hitting a bump in the road, and a crate falls from the truck, smashing to the ground with a great crash. But underneath the sound of the rain and thunder, the truck does not notice its lighter payload and continues its trek.
“Why...hello there…”
The girl’s accent is as thick as before as she slips into English. She climbs out of her hiding space and head towards the crate. Flashes of white can be seen as the inhabitants of the crate, three brown and white chickens, fight to gain their freedom.
“Finally!”
She runs towards the crate, her feet slipping on the muddy street, and she cackles wildly as she nearly falls. The chickens shrug free of their cage and begin to run, seeking shelter from the rain, and the girl gives chase.
“I am coming for you, little chickens! Alouette! Alouette! I wish to pluck you!”
One scatters from the other two and slips down off the road, but the other two are unable to escape. The smash into each other and the girl is on them, her feet skidding on the street in front of them.
“I wish to cut you!”
Silver flashes in her hands as two small razor blades fill them. As she brings up her hands, her arms can be seen in the flashes of lightning, both arms full of scars. Some of the scars are neat and clean, others are jagged and ugly. One hand grabs a chicken by its neck, the other by its leg, and she hoists them up into the air with a triumphent laugh.
“Soon! Bientôt! I shall feast!”
She plops down on the ground where she stands, down onto the wet and muddy road, and regards her prizes, letting the razors fall to her lap.
“Oh, petit poulet, how I have MISSED this!”
She shakes one of the chickens, water spraying everywhere off the feathers but lost in the rain.
“Soon! Bientôt! I get to hurt two at a time! Oui! Oui! Two...for the price...of ONE!”
She giggles as she shakes the other chicken.
“World champions...title holders...legends...both...but they are not me. Non! Non! They are not me! They are not ME! I AM THE ULTRAVIOLET!”
She screams at them, the declaration of who she is turning to a wordless keen.
“Pour trop longtemps! I was in that cage. Pour trop longtemps! I was unable to do what I want. Pour trop longtemps! I could not cut...rip...TEAR! Pour trop longtemps!”
She shakes both chickens at once.
“But not now! Not now! Non! L'enfant démon cannot stop me now!”[/i]
She falls into giggles again as she changes her position and places one of the chickens between her legs, then picks up one of the razor blades.
“How shall I cut you, petit poulet? Slow...soft...clean? Or hard? Rough? Do you wish for the pain to sear? Or flash? HOW DO YOU WANT IT?!”
She screams at the chicken again, her dark eyes mad, her tone demanding an answer that cannot come.
“Je choisirai. I will choose. Both. Hard. Soft. Clean. Painful. BOTH! BOTH! TOUS LES DEUX!”
She shakes the chicken violently for a moment, but then suddenly brings it in and holds it in the crook of her arm like a baby. Her face softens and she coos at at.
“I am both, you know. I am not the darkness. I am not the light. I am...both. But neither. I am not Ingalls. I am not Rogan. I am...outside of them. Between them. The edge. I am...the edge...and you know what happens...petit poulet...when you take an edge...and hone it?”
Soft eyes turn hard again.
“It becomes...a blade. I...am...Le Bord de Dieu...I am THE BLADE OF GOD! IL EST RESSUSCITE!!!”
Bones crunch under her fingers as she squeezes the chicken’s neck. The head falls lifeless, lulling to the side and against her hand. She stares at it silently for a moment before smiling again. She looks up, seeing a structure in the distance illuminated by the lightning.
“Come, petit poulet. Let us find shelter...make fire...and prepare to cut.”
She is on her feet in a flash, the dead chicken in her hand, the other scrambling away in unexpected freedom, forgotten by the woman. She begins to sing to herself as she makes her way to the shelter.
“Alouette, gentille alouette”[/font]
x2
