Decked

Horatio felt his head hit the cold floor with a deafening crack, pain burning his lower jaw and temple. He tasted blood. He felt his form shaking, laughter rising suddenly within, unable (or unwilling) to stop it, he laughed for all he was worth, until it was all he could hear, all he could feel, till it was simply everything he knew. She’d decked him, the little whore! He smirked to himself; she had moxie.

Good.

A toy is always more fun when it fights back.                                                                                                     

Groaning, he stiffly righted himself, his head hanging on his chest. Peeking out from underneath his tangled mess of hair, he noticed, with some relish, that she was shaking, eyes wide and fearful. Also, there was something else, something darker flashing in those icy blues, and it was that, that darkness he’d need to latch onto, to nurture, to create the sister he never had.

“Oh! You little minx, you got Me.” He extended his arms fully, a mocking gesture of peace. Pulling his legs underneath him, he slowly rose from his perch; head bowed; turning slightly as he went. Tabatha was starting to wonder whether he ever fully righted it, that maybe it was his corruption, his darkness that forced his neck to be perpetually bent…or maybe just that his mother had dropped him as a babe. She had to stifle a giggle. The mere thought that this thing; this creature, could ever have been human, nearly made her laugh outright.

“Something amuses you, dear?” he asked, turning to face her sideways, his neck twisted at a sickening angle, his body facing the far wall. Unable to answer, Tabatha backed up a few steps, hands behind her back, outstretched; searching for wall. With a grin Horatio took a step forward. Again she stepped back. And again Horatio matched this. A step backwards. A step forwards. Backwards and Forwards. A toxic game of cat and mouse. As she reached the wall, fingers groping the harsh covering, He seemed to stop, head to one side, staring, examining. Stupidly she felt suddenly self conscious. He didn’t seem to mind her staring back though, studying him herself. He was lithe, whipcord lean, his loose shirt and trousers hanging limply on his frame, there was barely any fat on him. His long mahogany hair hung damply down his back and over his shoulders and face, framing large eyes of jade, flashing and dancing in the pale light. His hands were large, adorned by long, piano player like digits, a shiver ran through her as she envisioned those long, dexterous fingers wrapped tightly around her throat.

“My dear, you shiver. Is something the matter?” his features seemed to soften, arms held loosely by his sides, gently outstretched, imploring. Shaking her head suddenly, she eyed him suspiciously. A growl sounded in his throat, his lips curly into a savage snarl.

“Don’t you lie to me now, girl, that’s the one thing I won’t tolerate. Not even from a cherub such as yourself!” with a growl he lunged forward with amazing agility. Gripping her tightly by the upper arm and jaw, he forced her against the wall, his face inches from her own; his breath hot against her flesh.

“Do, You, Under, Stand?”Each word held such poison, and was uttered with such force, all Tabatha could do was nod meekly in an answer. All her confidence and strength from before melted as she faced the reality of the situation. This creature, this man, cared very little whether she lived, or died, be it from his own hands or the malice of another.

The only reason he hadn’t killed her right then and there, she realized, was that he found her interesting, something new, like a child with a toy. And such like a toy was she that when she’d done her distance, so to speak, he’d throw her away and move onto the next craze, the next item that held his interest. And that’s what she needed to do, was hold his attentions till she was able to dispatch him herself. However long that was and whatever it took, she’d endure. Playing his little games, becoming what he needed or wanted her to be, she’d do it. She’d become him, his puppet, his little wild flower growing in the darkness. She’d do it.

by wavinghello