Fragile Things- (Hersmilewasblack/FaithWynters)

[HerSmileWasBlack]

Stockholm syndrome: a psychological phenomenon in which hostages or victims express empathy, sympathy and/or have positive feelings toward their captor(s), sometimes to the point of defending and identifying with said captor(s).


Is it possible to fall in love with someone who committed a crime?


What if they killed someone?


Kidnapped someone?


What if they didn't feel guilt?


Could you love them?


What if they killed your family, kidnapped you and made it clear you would die?


Of course not you say....how could anyone love someone like that?


Unfortunately, fate is twisted mistress and the mind is such a fragile thing.


Love can be found the darkest of places.


What sinful joys the darkness can bring.


In the place where monsters wear human faces.

 

[HerSmileWasBlack]

The couple is perfect. All American with a nice house, tall and wide with pleasant colored bricks and a yard perfectly speckled with dying leaves. Autumn chills flow through the branches of the large tree in the yard and more leaves join the fray. The car in the driveway is new and shining, the make doesn't matter, not to the man watching. The couple is older, not so old that they don't fit his criteria but older still. Late 40's for both of them and still moving as if they were 20. The woman is beautiful, blond haired and brown eyed, with a nice figure for a woman her age and laugh lines making her face that much more amazing to gaze at. She is the same height as her husband, the only thing that almost made him chose another couple. Oh, but they were just to perfect to pass up. Too perfect. Too perfect. The young man shivers in delight gazing at them from across the lawns of their neighbors. The man is strong looking, though this does not concern him, handsome in the way only old war hero's and black and white sitcom male leads used to be. Classic beauty. He almost moans with delight. Perfection if there ever was.


He has watched them for months. Taking every little thing they do and putting it on a alter to be observed and dissected. He knows when they are gone, knows her gym schedule, knows she gets her nails done on Tuesdays but only if the woman named Marie is working. She likes organic food and adores old movies with drama and long kisses that melt you though the screen. He even knows what she's making for dinner tomorrow.


He knows he goes to work everyday, an hour early, though the wife doesn't know that. Two hours late, she doesn't know that either. Thinks he works long days. He goes for jogs and always stops on the corner for a coffee with hazelnut creamer and milk. No froth. He knows the man hates their neighbor, hates coming home and he got a speeding ticket a week ago. Knows he sneaks red meat when she isn't home, smells her panties and rubs one out to images of women who are not his wife. Not that he blames him, she's a bit of a prude. At least with him, now for the neighbor it's a different story. He's seen her do some pretty nasty things for that young neighbor. All fours facing a mirror, on her back, in the kitchen, in the shower, with the neighbor and his friend who comes over on Fridays. That's what makes them perfect....her perfect really. He's merely a blank necessity for the criteria to be met. If he could he would feel sorry for the poor man, he deserves better.


By the time night falls he has been standing there for hours, just inside the tree line at the end of the street, always watching. He moves when the last light goes out, careful to remain out of sight as he sneaks up the drive way and into the always open garage. With a few silent tools the door is open and he enters the home for the first time. He inhales deeply and re-locks the door. He doesn't wait, he much be fast, just in case there any snags along the way. He enters the room like a ghost, inching along the wall and noting that only he lies in bed, the bathroom door is closed but light peeks from the frame and the man grins. How perfect. Moving quickly he kneels beside the sleeping husband and strokes his face, apologizing softly before swiftly dragging a razor over his throat, his hand clamping over the husbands mouth. It sinks in easily and the husband has only a few seconds to open his eyes, filled with terror not pain, before his blood gushes onto the pale sheets of the bed. The red is so pretty and there isn't even so much as a twitch from the now dead man. They always bleed out so quickly. He moves away, tossing the still clean blanket over the man's head as he slips under the bed.


It takes forever, she must be doing something she shouldn't. When she finally comes out, the night gown she wears is nothing like the one she wears for her lover and he grimaces. How shapeless. He waits for her to lay down, it delights him that she is in bed with a corpse. Amusing to no end and he struggles to keep his giggles inside, at least for now. Another hour of waiting and he is bored, sliding out from under the bed the young man watches her sleep, anger shoots through him....how could she not notice. Whore. He grabs her ankles suddenly and hauls her from the bed. She gasps and he takes advantage of sleepy mind. Climbing on her he laughs as he stabs her, slicing her cheeks and giving her a large frown, her jaw is easy to break and it hangs so prettily. She doesn't die, no he takes hours with her, tearing her apart. Fours hours has passed when he finishes and finally moves away from her. She doesn't have skin anymore. He laughs softly and rolls around in the blood. How wonderful, nothing can take away the high he has. Nothing.

 

[FaithWynters]

Surprises. Her mother never liked them. Maybe it was something pathological. Maybe it was something about the unknown that she found so uncomfortable. One would never be able to see it physically—no—it was the simplest of motions that showed her that Mother was angry. The quick flick of her beautiful blonde hair behind her back was the first sign. It was an instinctual thing that she did when she wasn’t happy with the way things were turning out. If she were walking, the striking of her heels on the hardwood grew the slightest in volume. Passive aggressive insults might dance through the air in one’s direction. It was avoided at all cost—not just by her, but by her father as well. If her mother was unhappy, the house was unhappy.


That was a long time ago. Right now, she doesn’t give a damn what her mother thinks. She’s been sitting in airports, drinking coffee and sleeping on uncomfortable seats for days. Where was she last? Can she even remember? Thailand? India? Japan? Somewhere in Asia, where she has to listen to poor English and talk with her hands more than her lips. The jetlag has her mind in a fuzz. No. It was Indonesia. She flew out of Kalimantan Timur. Something like that. How had she made it from Madrid to Indonesia with as much as she had she wasn’t quite sure. Most nights were lost to the past and the days were blinded away by sunlight.


It had all started with a single lover. San Pedro Sula, Honduras. She would never forget the place. It was great at first. She wanted to find herself. She left soon after she turned eighteen and she never looked back to her parents. Love that once was promised forever soon fades into boredom. That’s how she ended up truly looking for herself in the world. She had been all over the world by now, and each new experience was one that she would only remember for a little while. The people were forgotten. She lived by hopping from coffee shop to coffee shop. She would read as she traveled and she would write reviews when she finished. WiFi was her friend. She made money from book reviews and that little bit is how she survived. It was fun, but there comes a point when fun must end.


All passengers were pressed into the airplane as if she were Spam or Tuna—she couldn’t afford first class. She was forced to enjoy the lovely accommodations of economy between a chunky German tourist and an Asian business man who thought that her bare leg was his arm rest. If she had learned anything from the trip, it would be to not wear a dress on an airplane.


Now, it is the middle of the night. She has spent the last two hours listening to the constant drone of old country on the taxi radio. Any time she stands still or sits, her eyes feel as if they roll into the back of her skull and her head spins. She could not allow herself to sleep. As two flat feet plant themselves on the bristly mat in front of the door, she checks the time on her wrist. The numbers blur so ferociously that she can hardly tell if the number says three or four. It’s late. No more time is spent looking at the time.


She fishes through her beautifully woven bag for the keys that she is sure have long since been lost. It’s been what? A year? A year and a half? She has somehow been able to keep up with the small key that has been connected to a keychain. She can picture the donkey that is imprisoned by the key. Its yellow sombrero and red blanket make it seem much happier than it surely is. Now…if she could only find him.


Darkness wraps around her body like a protective cover. Her pale skin is illuminated by the brilliant moon. It was hard to find anything as her world is cast in shadows. Finally, warm fingers clasp around the cool metal. She is home.


Surprises. It’s something she normally wouldn’t have insisted upon, but it would pleasant. Wouldn’t it? Her parents would rejoice in her return and welcome her with open arms, wouldn’t they? The questions pass through her mind and she walks slowly through the darkness. She pushes the door closed behind her, but does not worry about the noise—it is very well known that her parents are not light sleepers.


She is smiling as she makes her way slowly up the wooden stairs. She has kicked her shoes off and the coolness seeps into her socks. It’s a comforting feeling. It’s one that she remembers from her childhood. Many nights she spent making her way up these stairs in her socks after sneaking out. She is almost to their room. She will awaken them with the smallest of nudges, as not to frighten them. It will be a surprise for the both of them. She is sure they will rejoice in seeing her again.


Their Madeline has come home once again.


The doorknob is cold as she grips it. She wants to be quiet, but her excitement is ever blooming from within her. She can hardly see anything in the darkness as she pushes the door open. It gives a creak as if warning her of the danger. She does not heed the imaginary warning.


All she can see in the darkness is a black sludge that stains the once-ivory carpet. It is a surprise she was not looking to find. She doesn't give herself time to actually examine what hte mess is on the floor. The mind weaves its own nightmares. And all she can do is scream and run.

 

[HerSmileWasBlack]

He freezes in his rejoicing at the distinct sound of the front door closing none too gently. The high of the kill and the smell of blood in the air makes his reaction far more mellow than it would normally be. Not cops, cops would have lights and the small static of a radio. He stands and moves to the closet, peering out through it's slanted blinds. He ponders who could be coming up the stairs. His mind turns over itself before a casual glance to the side makes realization hit him like a truck. There is a picture on the dresser, how had he missed it? A young woman with her mothers eyes and her father's brown hair. He twitches and clenches his jaw, he feels stupid. They have a child. Younger than him by several years but old enough he assumes to put up a fight. He groans softly and goes still when the door opens. He can make out her form and the way her eyes widen at the mess that was once her mother. Her scream grates on his nerves and as soon as her back is turned he erupts from the closet hot her tail. She is fast, but he is faster and as she fumbles to get to the door he tackles her, his momentum slamming her into the wall and pinning he under him against it. He pins her hands with a strength that bruises as the bones of her wrists are painfully squeezed and ground together.


"Shhh, Shhh." He whispers softly, as if calming a wild animal. "If you don't be a good girl I'll tear your jaw apart and make you look like dear sweet momma." the threat is real and he turns her to face him. He isn't what one would expect. A tall young man who looks as if he knows hard work. Broad shouldered and pale skinned. Blond hair that is messy and compliments his blue grey eyes. He would be handsome to some, plain to others. He stares at her for a few moments before suddenly slamming her head against the wall. There is blood and he knows she will be unconscious for a couple hours at the least. Long enough to finish up and make it back home. As he tosses her over his shoulder he wonders if he cleaned up this morning. He didn't know he would have a guest.

 

[FaithWynters]

The house moves past in a flash. A year of walking and running and exploring has been good to her legs. They are strong and she is fast. Suzanne can’t help it; she takes the steps two at a time in hopes of getting away. As she turns, she knows she saw the dark figure. There is no denying that someone is coming from behind fast. She can hear their feet as they slam hard against the wood, breaking the silence that had been so calming only a few minutes before.


She makes it almost to the door, but the footsteps are too close. She cuts the corner sharp; the door is so close. Before it can be stopped, she is on the ground and a rug has been kicked up behind her. Shaking hands force a frightened body off the floor, but before she can get any farther down the hall and escape into the night, she feels the hands on her body.


Her head strikes the wall hard and the world is once again spinning. It’s a harsh feeling to have and another scream escapes from her lips. The grip on her wrists burn like fire as she is ground into the wall. Suzanne fights to get free from the captor, but his weight and power is much greater than hers. Instinct silences her with his threats, but she does not stop fighting. With what little bit of energy she still has left, she pulls at her wrists and she stares—wide-eyed—at the man she is face with. The lack of light carves dark craters into the man’s face where his eyes should be. Nothingness looks back at her. Light skin. Strong hands. The feeling makes her whimper beneath his strength.


His voice is soft in her ears, but the words show his intent. Another whimper escapes her lips. He cannot calm her heart as it races in her chest. She starts to plead for mercy. Her lips part in the slightest to begin speaking. Words never cross her lips. A strike to the head sends her mind in frenzy. It’s like she’s drowning. Slowly, her vision blurs into darkness, and she no longer sees the man. Noise that once was fades to the point where is sounds as if there are cotton balls in her ears. Then, there is no sound at all. She no longer feels, or sees, or hears. Suzanne is trapped helplessly in darkness until her mind is able to recover. She cannot even plead for her own life.