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| The Murderer Behind the Paintbrush | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Oct 11 2009, 09:37 PM (521 Views) | |
| Vaelyis | Oct 11 2009, 09:37 PM Post #1 |
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Brothers to the End
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"You've got it all wrong! Everything. It's all wrong. The birth of the being from you to point A and point B are the strokes of blood splatter on walls. The high and low velocity from the origin when the knife swung through the air and when it entered through the flesh. You are the blade of pure sanguine bleeding trails of crimson rivers, licking the engrossed lives of your victims. What will you be when you grow older? Will you be a psychotic killer? A serial killer behind all motives and tricks? Or a man behind a cape stalking in the dark alleys?" A serial killer painting his colors into grooves of red and clotting vessels known only to clutter ones mind with savage thoughts of cruelty. The screaming voices of suicide and blood bickered between one another as they tried to consume and devour his mind with the novelty of winning the grand prize: Domination. But greater good was it when one of them was going to lead to the other? Suicide would quickly avenge blood as he bled out, the crimson lake of sanguine etching into the tile floors. Blood would easily win over once he falls to his knees, begging for mercy, soon to easily take his life away with one simple blow. The voices spoke in rapid paste, echoing through his mind like an amphitheatre, triumphing the loud screams and crammed monster holding his body against the walls in barbed wire and metal shackled chains. Was it this hard to overthrow the bases of his true mortality and immoral being? There was only one way to find out: Experimentation. Live bodies and flesh blood was the best in his case. The bleeding, skinned and conscious being able to scream to show when he plunged the blade into the flesh, severing the bone and muscle, he was able to predict that the large, scoring rents were not threat to him at all. Just mere gaping wounds spilling out the voice of splattering crimson rivers which pooled before the table, leaking down a drain as the body was hoisted and prompted upon the concrete flat surface. The table in this lair of his own was like no other. A series of jail cells racked side by side down a darkened hall, dried blood of past lives that walked along or were dragged cross the floor have been taken to their very demise, meeting one with the table of immoral and grotesque slaughter. A hole was drilled near the center of the concrete table, which led down a drain, dumping out through a hole that was drilled out from the front, spilling their blood into a drain-like rent in the floor, carrying the blood down the drain and into another, soon to be drained into a lake or river. He cared not of where the blood went, only that it was taken miles away from the origin. Where he camped and savagely and brutally killed his victims with ease, smiling as the blood poured in ounces by the seconds. There was no end to his slaughter, only more suffering as the body count escalated. And as amusing as it was, this was merely child's play. The real deal was behind bars locked away in cages, ready to be used once he went back to the bloody games of slaughter's fowl game. Just a few more and he was ready to take place in the arena of a blood pool. Jumping in waist deep into his own massacre. A drought was to be taken place in centuries for he would soon have to stop his lovely slaughter capade and reside hidden until the time would come again. But who was to say he would hide and allow those he hides from get the best of him? He could easily wipe them all out with a single slice to the throat or even a thrust of the blade through the collated artery of the heart. Blows were simple and easy if you knew where the weakest points of the body were. He knew them like the back of his hand. Studying the human body for years, knowing how each organ works, its task, the function and priority, he knew even the multitudes of the simplest of body works: blood. He was a master of how blood cooperated and how much it was to even loose to kill a man; he knew the truth and lies blood told; he knew where to search the stories; he knew how blood worked; he knew everything about blood. How blood clotted, where to find it, how to use it, when to use it, even how to direct it. He, himself, even knows how to tell the raging sliced scores blood left behind when leaving the body to be sprayed over someones walls, floor, shirt, hands, body—everything—or even to draw out the colorful images of crimson streaks. He knew it all. Blood's ivory, crimson tales of pure truth. They were as clear to him as death when he snatched a helpless victim. Blood stained his hands, caking in dark-crimson mess. A smile bloomed on his face, deepening in depth around the corners of his lips. An oozing apprehension to his for found nature plummeting into surprise. The lurking monster of darkness quenching for hot, liquid blood which dripped from its jaws and caked its teeth, filling in the dent of the lower jaw with pure blood. Its throat dry, but no longer. As the blood ran down its throat, feasting on its thirst, the mere illusion of being thirsty for more was evaporated into nothing more than the quenching fear. The dark monster inside dwelled with no dissolution of missing out the variety of spices jam-packed, waiting upon its rivalry and setting. He concealed the monster well, hiding behind a mask of no worry or emotion; no fear to be untied or the fret of loosing a stroke in spring, or the faintest regret after even exposure. The song of blood played with soft melodies, tunes to lull one to a deep sleep as Death silently curled around waiting to strike the lifeless body of its dreams. Before you go to sleep, there is no caution to where Death lied. Death always slipped through the cracked door or window, resting at the edge of your bed, creeping the icy claws of darkness, your eyes never to open again. Our dark shadowy escorts to our grave and the horror behind a door, waiting to enter the realm of gorging rivers of blood, lakes of fire and streaming lifeless souls never to find a home again. This was the home for the soulless and nameless. The ones with no dark defender to help save their lives from Death's gripping terror. You're just about as dead as dead can get. Blood and suicide's voice batter eachother with words of self fulfilling prophecies, drowning out the screams of suffering and agony. He could only hold it all in, hoping that one wouldn't claim his body and let go once again to watch him collapse and fall, snapping to his very rage. The rage that screamed, "Get off your knees and paint your hands red." Red with blood. The very screaming agony that shouted like a rushed athlete winning his goal. The staring athlete of the game. The team's number one champ. The victor to their goal and golden cup... until Death takes him by surprise. Running at his own full speed, cradling the ball or shooting the winning goal then—ha-ha asshole fooled ya—Death strikes with surprise, taking the champion down. Heart stops, the thumps failing to keep up with the beat, blood circulation slowing down, brain and the entire body systems shutting down. Darkness takes over and Death hoists the newly body over his shoulders, carrying away the new, added body of his collection, singing his tune. The shock and awe leave from their mouths, gasping and gaping, eyes scanning at the lifeless bodies as the EMTs rush in to save the boy's life. But all was too late. He was dead. There was really no end to Death's foul play games and Blood's labyrinth of screaming agony, pain, suffering and rushing cesspools of blood. It was a dead pool. There was no way out of the treachery that lies behind the closed door. They were going to be let in either way. No tricks or quick tips could save you from being mauled down and pile drove from their snickering laughs and chuckling cries of immoral insanity and yelping chitters. It was their way of saying, "You lose." Credibly, the words echoed through the minds of the fallen aspects, ready to plunge into the waters of no tomorrow. Words thickening, etched into the blades in our hands, ready to expunge through the flesh and ripping the life away, the last breath taken through wisps of air, leaving the body dead and motionless, pale like the snow with no aching pain to risen. Death was simple—quick, easy, simple and no regret of ending it so soon. He was a master of all his tricks and little games. Much like blood on her ivory talons meant to grip and dismember with ease, she was bred to bleed through the wounds of our mortal rents. We could never be invulnerable to Death and blood. They sang their songs and danced to their tunes, playing the same over and over again until we dropped to our knees leaving nothing to bind. They were masters at play and victors by sin. They were the Dark Defenders of our holding captives. Lost shadows of their former selves, falling at lengths greater than their own. Who are they to blame? Who are they to fear? No one. No one but themselves. A union between rivalries and allies would soon lead to a clash of titans battling out for the crown or even the kingship of domination. Blood and Death ruled over, casting their envious greed and horror, only to watch their armies fall, only to battle it out against themselves. One would die and one would stand. Lets see who chooses to fall. I Rise, You Fall. Blood soaked her words through his conscience, oozing his rousing impulse. The sudden urge and quaking compulsion. Why wait? Her voice rasp, shrill and cold, much like her envious shroud of lapsed slithering deadly tone. Why let your blade soak with blood and not relish your art? You have the paint, now use it. Create a master piece of your creativity. Create a work of art. Make them fall to the one thing you can do best. Make them seen the true monster behind that paintbrush. You're an artist of murder. See that they understand that your blade is the paintbrush to your very own style of art. You are the Murderer Behind the Paintbrush. "Let them have it." Marcus smiled, holding the hilt of the dagger, feeling his finger tips across the blade's sanguined metal, smearing the very color to his flesh. "I can give it to them. I can give them a master piece. I can give them Art." It was really all he needed. A few more steps into self preservation ad he has the challenging after effects of trying to balance his life and what he does. Murder may be plain and purely simple, but it also takes time, the patience, the care and work ethics. The job can never be done successfully if you bundle and jumble it all up, trying to juggle it all at once. A few items are going to fall off balance and wind up scooting across the floor in exposure. He doesn't want that. No. Not Marcus. Not the Dark Defender of every one's true screams. Being the dead-beat down dad of Dexter, his son, and his daughter, Alma. Juggling a family, plus the wife, Eve... it's more of a play ground of silent slaughter than there is room for even foul play. Let alone Dexter being just much like he is, only possessing Alexithymia (unable to feel emotions or even to understand or know of them) and the dead-down gravity pull of the inability to control his compulsion and impulses. Like father like son. Alma was a different story. Oh, she had it all rough. Unlike Dexter and Marcus on the other hand, Alma was just as right as blood as her dragon, Scrim, could place it. However, Sanguine was a far better gamer in the world of Blood than Scrim was, only as half bitten for the quench, but more loyal to the punch. Jumbling all of this makes him feel more... unusual than others. But, living with a family and having all that is expected of him, Marcus really is living in a camouflage of his own natural being. Hiding behind the state of being a parent and holding up what he could handle. Dexter was the more serious problem. A precious cargo waiting to crack, burst open in flame and expunge the all reality of his true nature. Poor kid, Marcus thought to himself. "What a father am I just standing here waiting for him to crack?" Narrowing his eyes upon the blade that held firmly in his hands, gleaming the crimson blood that caked down the blade. His eyes shifted over to the man on the table pleading for his life in screams... but that was covered with a roll of duct tape or the occasional mouth gag. Shuffling in the chair, Marcus pulled the line of duct tape from the man's mouth, seeing the wide terror of fear opening in his eyes. He sat back down with ease on the chair, seeing the fear grow more and more in the man's eyes. Slapping the tape in his hand, he attuned back to the scared victim. "You have kids?" The man merely nodded. "Pain in the ass right? So much fun, but yet, too much to handle. I take it you can handle everything well? A family? Wife, kids, a home. Food. Supplies, even." Smirking, Marcus shied away from the man for a brief moment, thinking to his own self in his own little world of ridiculous mixed thoughts. "Wouldn't it just feel great just to leave that all behind you? To let it go and not worry about it again?" Marcus asked the man, spinning on his heel, a bright smile gleaming to his face, exposing the pearl-white teeth. Jolting the table with his hands to startle the man (and it did exactly what he had intended), Marcus' piercing sanguine eyes watched with intensity. "Do you? Just get rid of it all? Let loose your life in Death's hands and just feel... alive? It would make sense wouldn't it?" Marcus laughed with a small chuckle. "Do you know why you are here? Why you are looking up at the ceiling lying flat against a table? Strapped down against your will?" Marcus' head and body hovered over his as he tapped his index finger against the man's forehead. "I think you know why," he spoke softly and yet secretly, seeing if the man knew how insane he was and can be. The man obviously knew he was fucked in the head or a little crazy. No. He was psychotic. A sociopath with a deformed reason to kill people. A twisted smile curving the ways of his own maniacal and sinister compulsions. This was him. The murderer that sets everything in motion for him. It was his passion. He couldn't quit now and resume later; he had to do this; he had to kill. It was his reason of venting the rage and anger that consumed him. It was also how he made a living. A model for those who wanted to see what a killer truly is. "You are just fake aspects of your former selves. You only think you are like me." Narrowing his eyes with rage burning its course through the malicious greedy rage, Marcus pushed the table with a hesitant jolt. His grip upon the ledge of the table increased in pressure, denting his fingers further into the metal as his anger grew more volatile, an escalation in severe, lethal anger. The man saw the boiling turmoil in his eyes, this was not a loathing passion. This was his rage screaming at him. "But you're not!" He sneered with a raised voice. "I know I am a monster. You? Oh! You. No. You could never be like me. A sick twisted fiend with no code or reason. There is no motive to you. Just a man with guilty glowing in large bold letters on his chest." Marcus was merely enjoying his torment, seeing as the man hated it from the very start. This was just a game of Jury. This was his jury duty. And he was loving it. "Do you think that I would allow a fake like you go into this world and copy the mere former signatures I leave behind for you to pick up and make of your own? It's like copying the answer off of some one's paper. And yet you still get it right, passing by like the corrupt fake aspect you are. What good is it to cheat when you're going to fall back down again when there is no one around you for leverage to help gain back the jest? Am I right?" Marcus was seemingly demented and depraved at the moment, but who did he care? What did he care? He was making his point. Loud and clear. He wanted this man to see through his eyes that this as no game of foul play. This was his game now and he was going to play by his rules. He entered his court and now, the ball has shifted. "The ball's on my court now. Lucky for you... you get to live through it all!" The twisted smile of a serial killer modified his very being. "I am a Serial Killer. Trust me, I know what I am doing." "You will—" "Oh, no, no, no. My friend. I am sure you know how this will end. See, you don't understand this concept. You're going to die." "I will kill you!" "No, friend. I am afraid it's the other way around. You're not going to kill anyone anymore. I am afraid you're done. I am going to kill you—this time!" Marcus smiled deeply as he rigged up his favorite tool: the dagger. A powerful tool to his collection and one he could use for more of his serial killing years. Why, Dexter will use the same weapon once it is passed down. And through the centuries of the family generation, the same gene of breded murderers and mass serial killers will reign down their line of lineage, never to break the chain. "Good bye." Quickly hefting the dagger parallel to the man's heart, the blade just at the angle, ready to propel its silvery bloodied blade down through the flesh, ripping past bone and muscle, reaching its destination in turn. The heart was only the main objective to the dagger's journey, but behind the man holding the weapon wanted more. He wanted self satisfaction. The true emotion that is let out when released and plunged into the body of a victim, renting all the anger through the very particular choice of killing tool. This was what he was waiting for. For weeks he has been waiting for a fresh kill and a new appeasement to his little twisted world. Good bye was just not enough. He had to see the words flee his mouth to actually get the concept of his life soon ending. Why, this game was merely a sporty ritual to his variations of torment and slaughter. Raising an eye brow with a shifting diabolical smile, twisting in curves around the corners of his lips, Marcus thrust the blade through the air, searing like it was nothing. The blade cracked through the bone, meeting with the flash as it tore through with ease, splitting past arteries, veins, flesh, muscle and skin, severing the main artery in the heart. Blood in thicket pockets oozed through the flesh wound that was scored into the man's flesh, a screaming of dying pain leaving his mouth, scoring his throat with bleeding sores. Marcus smiled, twisted the blade it its rested slant, removing his clamped hands from the hilt of the killer weapon. The man gulped on his own blood accumulating and harvesting in his own throat, streaming out of the corners of his mouth, dripping in sync with the rest of the blood as it reached to the table, traveling down the drain to its long journey across the vast expanses of drainage and water ways. Flick a simple teaser in his eyes, a rippling vast wave of light of pure satisfaction glistening the globules of blood wavering across the sanguinary eyes of pure slaughter. Marcus' eyes, as they say, were set to kill. One close look was looking right into Death's eyes. Mainly due to his innovation, he was blood in a body of a man, harvesting her power to where she could potentially lift his arms and conduct a lethal blow, bleeding their blood on her hands and weapon. She was the art of blood and death put together. Watching intently, cocking a one-sided smile, Marcus drove his eyes down to the deep gash in the man's chest, blood rising above its surface from within the body, streaming in thickets of gushing crimson rivers, leaving the body with no extraction. With one small blink, his eyes were a funnel of drawing rapine. Twisting streams and glowing wine-red vermilion orbs blooming in the sanguinary mess. He was truly the master of blood and slaughter. Where would he be now without it? Chuckling, his response was made clear with a repetitive juncture. "In my own sanity warding off the evil I call the monstrosity of my own nightmare: Me!" A small laugh came from his jarred open mouth, seeing as the man was dead, assumed to be no where near a living, breathing man. Taking a breath in, exhaling, Marcus shook his head with dissapointment. "You should've listened. I bet your own father warned you, too. Didn't take his word much, now did you Ol' Damyon?" Rolling his eyes, Marcus gripped the hilt of his blade, twisting the weapon free from his ribs. Pulling the blade with a violent tug, the dagger soon came free from its prison. "Long time no play, eh?" A devious smile peevishly drew to his face, an idolized complexion. His eyes set scanned amongst the man's body, relishing every bit of his new bound talent. Or old. Which ever served best. Shrugging away his problems, his eyes averted back to the bleeding blade, the globules of crimson dripping in sync, colliding to the floor with a soft pitter-patter. Giving a soft, light smirk, his eyes set back to the body upon the table. His voice, soft, ironic and joking smothered his own pun. "Don't go any where. I'd hate to loose you yet again." Deepening his smile, Marcus turned his back to the dead man, leaving the room with brisk apprehension. This wasn't over. |
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| MatterIntoTheVoid | Oct 12 2009, 08:10 PM Post #2 |
Suicide Missionary
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I like. When do I not? XD It's really good and I'd love to read more of it ^^' |
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| Vaelyis | Oct 12 2009, 10:24 PM Post #3 |
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Brothers to the End
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Really? Wow. I would have never guessed :3 I will really continue with this one. I know for certain I am for this was like... my main one of my life (not really, I am just being dramatic). ^^ Can't wait to get further more into it. This is going to be a major blast. My favorite line so far is this one: "Running at his own full speed, cradling the ball or shooting the winning goal then—ha-ha asshole fooled ya—Death strikes with surprise, taking the champion down." That's priceless! The last seconds your heart is racing, thrumming against your chest with quick beats of pain, thrashing against the rib cage as adrenaline erupts the hormones and speeding blood cells. Your sweating, rushing, quickening paste. Your conscience bolting, telling you to hurry. "Hurry up, time is wasting." You have moments before notice and when all hells goes down. You're caught. Standing in headlights like a struck deer, motionless and shocked, fear quaking in tremors down your body. The only words going through your head is, "You're screwed." Screwed to a wall. Pinned down, shot and caught. Is this the end for you or a whole new story for what is to come? Neither. Your done for. Unless you're one for the books, you're the capillary of your bounding tricks and canaries. Escaping slick through tight hands or even slipping past the faintest of body guards. Just a servant to a shadowy escort. Death waits for you at the door, holding the darkness trenched gateway to Hell for you, rushing you right in. None seem to notice where they are running. Soon you may end up running too far where you trip to a never ending capsule of abyss screening time, darkness gripping a lapsing hold over your body, constriction the life through your hands. Death works in wonder as Blood conducts the mystery in team. Marcus never had that feeling. It was great to have the feeling of not being rushed and pushed into something you're not worth doing. In his case, he was the master of his own art. His eyes lit up with beauty as the blood of the very project—or "experiment" as he called it—gleamed beacons of rippling reflections of light which bounced from wall to wall, to the very floor. The crimson sanguine illuminated his passion. Murder was no crime if you had the crave to end the lives of those who got away. That was merely doing the deed of good, not evil. But where's the sense in that? One would call this a sin. Or he a sinner. Murderer. A devil's spawn. A narrowed look of hate burrowed in his eyes, sponging a grotesque vanity of perplexity against his "crime." You know what they'll do if they find out? Blood's voice, shrill and cold as her metallic voice drove her, prodded at his mind. Marcus surly smiled with an anticipation of his master piece. Marcus grumbled against the thoughts of pillaged forks, burning torches and screaming men and women, the cries of children high above the rest, drowning out the horror. He couldn't bare to see or even witness the cruelty they would do to his family. Poor Ol' Dexter. "But he's too young." Yes, but what do you think they would care? A young child of spawn of his own father? You think they would think twice of letting his go out of their grasps, seeing his revenge upon them for killing you? "Dexter? Dexter is merely a boy. He is not fit at the age of doing what is best. Let alone even having to handle the urges." Child, you are talking about men who rape children for fun. "Which is cruel and unusual punishment." Murder is cruel and unusual punishment. And they pay for it, don't they? By your hands! "That doesn't think of any less than what I do." You do it for a living and to keep that compulsion of yours under control. You are doing this for Dexter, Marcus. Not for them. "What about Alma and Eve?" I never excluded your entire family, now did I? "Mainly Dexter." You seem to care for him more than you do Alma and Eve. "Dexter is special." What makes them any different. "Now you are being a nuisance." Look who is talking. Shrugging away the voice popping inside his head, Marcus hissed silently to a sneer that rapidly closed in. His eyes grew more solemn as the thought raced through his conscience, muttering one name. "Dexter..." Collapsing back into his stool, ignoring the massacre on the table, Marcus' mind drifted into a scene, one he could never allow to happen. "Dexter." Screams of bloody mercy score the mouths of those who are filled with fear and terror, horror binding the name into their flesh. What good was it to watch your very family die right before your eyes? His eyes rose from the sea of people, drifting to the very voice of a calling women. Her pitch-black hair swaying with the wind, fire surging in pulsing infernos around the secluded area. Darkened by night, clouds rolling in over the skies to conceal the very blue speckles of sun light and rays, darkness blanket the lands with streams of claw-like mists. Her screams pierced his ears with solemn, heart racing through his chest to gain what he loved. She could only scream her heart out, watching as the men and women surrounding her and her children draw so near with their weapons that she could almost taste her very death drawing near. His eyes swelled with anger, rage and decimation urging the calling name of Blood. She roared her fury in her name, bulking to her hind legs, shrieking a sound that shattering the sound barrier with one loud crack. Her voice boomed a thundering clap, lightning splitting through the sky with unearthly effects of criss-crossed showers of bloody rain. His reign of cataclysm was merely enough to bring down the entire planet, but how else would he if he couldn't have the ones he held dear? Grasping for the very truth, only to slip through his hands like sand and water. Don't just stand there! her voice roared, Blood's raging fury hammering her calling cry. Get up! Take that blade I molded you and slaughter all those who suffuse your wrath. I did not make you into the monster I wanted you to be so you can lolly around and die! You're the weapon. Just use it. What would Dexter do? Your son? Think of him. He calls for you... Wincing as the dying pain of those screams hurled at him, grabbing the entity and ripping it straight out. Shaking his head with dismay, he couldn't abide by Blood's orders this time. The docility against her crying war screams were fading away into a haze of collective immunity. She was losing him. A man of pure rage and volatile cataclysmic power, and he is standing down against the one of slaughter's name. She raged at him, pushing Marcus down to where he would break. She wanted him to snap. Crack. But there was no upheaval to his rage. Only more dwelling sorrow pulling on the chains, leveling out closer to the bed of spears waiting for his body to drip his blood over in feast. Marcus' eyes gently rose off the dust-smeared ground, seeing the dark shadow present in the swarm of men and women. He was clear to anyone who saw the draped back cape of mists concealing the skeletal body of his true complexion. Standing tall with the scythe in one hand, the shining metal blemishing the shimmering touch with tints of scattered blood caking the very edges of the blade. Piercing red eyes illuminated through the darkness of the hood of his cape, mists expunging above his head, giving the eyes a misty touch of sanguination. His very icy touch could kill a man no more than even his size. He was the ultimatum of spurned delicacy between being mortal and immortal. He was staring straight into Death's eyes. Death stood there amongst the crowd, only eyes gazed upon him. Fixed and locked. Marcus didn't know a way through this manifested labyrinth, seeing that there was no cheat or trick out of here. A high pitched screeched broke through Death's flaming gaped mouth of fiery inferno, hefting his arms in the air, his scythe clamped into one. Marcus winced from the uncanny sound, clamping both hands over his ears. The choice was clear: he was to lose them or lose his life to Death. A bargain. A hidden pact of his life left to be tossed away for eternity, kept with other souls that lost to Death's game. To win or to lose. Death smiled his grim smile, one deadly to a bird's eye. Blood seeped down from the eyes of abyss, his skull stained from the years of massacre he ensured. Marcus was no up to the effortless trying to gain back what he wanted, but if it was for them—Eve, Alma and Dexter—he would have to force himself to do it. Blood was the companion in this rivalry. Do it Marcus! Death has a fear: You. You and I both know it. You can see it in his fiery eyes of Hell. The Grim Reaper can show fear of himself and immoral being that can surpass his own uncanny nature. I throw you down as a puppet and spring you up forth for a man with needs. Die now as who they will remember you as, not the cowardly man who has no backbone. Not a worthless, wretched being with a spine so flimsy he can't even hold the courage that presents him. I don't see a coward. And I certainly don't see a fool. I only see a breded man of my sanguine. My slaughter weapon. Do on to others as what brought on to you. The Slaughter Code. You live by it, you know it and you thrive it. Give you my all. Blood's distinguished words etched into his mind, embedded in rhythmic words to a sentence that prodded a memory worth of no lies. Death's mere appearance was only a shadowy illusion of what his true battle was: a loss for a gain. A dark figure, a silhouette placed to suffuse his mind and conjure one that would suffice the real image. The Dark Defender. The Slaughter Monster. But... he was too late. Lancing strains of pain coursed down in plunging surges, racing from his spine to the tips of his body, the fringing eager agony modifying the points of pain. Pain personified as a merciful women with a dagger bleeding her enemies wounds. He could not bare the surging pain, nor the quickening surge of agonized withering collapse. Before he could even stop it all, he watched as his own blood poured down his arms in stretched streams of crimson rivers which bled from the wound that dawned his near death. Blood was unhappy. She was on the brink of nearing her rage; she was far more than ticked; she was the full auto of pissed-off. A dropped atomic bomb with the nuclear mushroom cloud rising in the plume of dust-filled fiery inferno, the cloud toppling over to form the mushroom look that gave it its name. His blood ignited her fury, bursting in tendrils of turmoil, lancing the sparked fury. Blood was the dead pool of Marcus' very being. A mother to his life. A creator. She goes beyond decimation for the children of her spawn. Marcus was the utter model of her immoral image. A mere specimen of the devastation. Marcus' hands clenched with pain, his blood dripping in globules of crimson droplets, sinking into the dirt, staining his misery. His body collapsed from his hands against the ground, knees fallen in quick instances. He was losing to it all. Death had chosen. He wanted Marcus just as badly as the screaming enraged denizens of the city were. But Death got to him first. Dexter, his eyes fixed and wide with fear, tears welling in his eyes, watched his far collapse to his knees, giving in to the sword that pierced through his back, the blade's point puncturing through the chest, the glistening crimson-covered blade shining its mass glory from a wrecking severed being that was held closely dear to a son that shined on him with utter devotion. Dexter's eyes were a glossy sheen, the dark colors of the death-white forming into the true sanguination of Blood. She had another visitor of a child in her group. Dexter, the son of Marcus. All was not lost in the raging rampage. But, even then, Dexter was too late to save his father... or so they thought. The sword slipped through his chest with ease, piercing the heart and internal organs, shattering his life into pieces. His vision set a haze, dizziness and weary colliding in, drowning out the screaming sounds of terror and fear, rage bordering the many. Marcus' eyes slowly drifted to his running son. Propelling his body through the mass of angry people, Dexter seared through, trying to reached closer and closer to his dying father. Before he could grasp a close hand, Marcus reached out, lending his own. Dexter leaped at his father's hand, but his fingers barely brushed his father's. Marcus screamed in his rage, watching as a man hauled his son away from him, Dexter kicking and screaming his father's name, crying out in plead and mercy. The only words were left in his mind rining.... "Dad! Dad! Dad!..... Don't go. DAD!" Startled, his mind was shattered by his son's crying words as he called out his name with dying plead. Marcus' head went hay wire, confusing the items and bodies in the room with darkness. Blinking once or maybe twice he gain a hold on his vision. He could never let such thing happen to Dexter. You wouldn't let them take Dex from you? Blood spoke in a soft, gentle tone. "No. Dexter is all I have to my name. I would die for my child." Silence. Marcus gave a contented sigh, knowing people would find him psychotic if they caught him talking to himself like this. Who would believe him that he was really talking to Blood? N one, that's for sure. Dexter understood well. His son did the absolute same. A sympathetic smile bloomed on his face. Oh how dear demented Dexter. "I'm coming home, son. Right after I get my dirty work done, that is." Shooting a grumpy look, one that a child would give after his parent's ordering them to clean their room or do the stack of dirty dishes. "Mom always said: Do the work now or suffer with what you had to do later. I guess this is my time now." Slouched over, his back haunched as he sat on the stool, Marcus gave a low grumble before he went off to his dirty work. At home waited a urging son. Dexter was all out prepare for his father's arrival. Marcus wouldn't upset him now. Not at this time of day and surly not to a promise he made that he would come by from "work" to see his own son. One he is proud of having. Dexter, the Dark Defender. Kids, they're always the bundle of fun when needed. But never the intention of bringing in to the world when the unexpected accident to the fun of parental play! |
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| MatterIntoTheVoid | Oct 13 2009, 08:49 PM Post #4 |
Suicide Missionary
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hahah NICE XD I'm workin on a story of when Satherone died- James goes crazy{of course} and then..Sangyne.... but james goes through HELL in a mental hospital Xd killing everything he can though muahahaha..... XD he makes a friend though... And then kills him. Deafly.. Lethal I'm pissed off can you tell?XD |
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3:05 PM Jul 11
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3:05 PM Jul 11