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ldn-dahliamonroe-blog · 7 years

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Losing you has ripped the color from my world and I have become the unwilling Queen of grey. Tied to a throne of self-destruction.

Text: I really am on my way this time. Like lacing up my shoes and about to rush out the door. So be prepared, because I’m totally ready to rage.

That was the last text message I’d managed to send before my front door burst open. Cheap ass fucking door with its cheap ass fucking worthless chain lock. I never locked the deadbolt when I was home. I made a mental note to start doing that. I stood there, ire and bewilderment present upon my face watching as the door swung from the force it was kicked open and smashed into the wall. The doorknob left a dent in the wall from the Impact. Two goons stepped in through the doorway, the first one around 6’4 built like a prized fighter, kinda cute with the nerdy meets MIB vibe he had going on. Glasses, neatly pressed suit that fit as if it was made specifically to be worn by him and only him. The second was shorter, not nearly as pale as the first, tattooed arms showed off by the rolled up sleeves of his white button down shirt. Dark hair, cocky smirk kinda squinty eyes. Both screamed bad news. Neither screamed it enough to scare me. Took a whole lot more than that to scare me.

I remained where I stood, phone in my hand, gaze set on the big one that had kicked in the door. “You gonna pay for that?” I inquired, brow arched, managing to look entirely unbothered by the whole dramatic entrance. Big guy laughed. Squinty eyes scoffed. I did my best to keep their attention while trying to type another text to Cage. “You know you really could have just knocked. I’d probably have passed on whatever the fuck it is you boys are selling, but you’d have saved me the time of going shopping for a new door.” While I thought I was pretty entertaining. Entertaining enough to distract them from the slow and deliberate typing on my phone screen, they were not quite as big and dumb as I had thought.

Text: S.O.S

As a matter of fact, Big Guy was very perceptive and pretty damn fast too. As quickly as I could I hit send. Never did see if it fully sent or not before giant nerd reached me. My dad had always said if I was ever in a jam where the odds were not in my favor and I was outnumbered, don’t fight. Give the assholes whatever the hell they wanted and then get the fuck out of there. Unfortunately, they were blocking my only exit and they weren’t making any demands. The big one grasped my wrist so hard squeezing until I dropped my phone. I gasped, released, and he stomped on it smashing my phone completely.

“What the hell, ya fuckin’ Gorilla. That’s a new phone and a new door you owe me now. Are you assholes going to make your demands or just keep breaking my shit? You’re going to rack up a hefty bill if you keep that shit up.” Squinty eyes laughed this time, stepping further into my house until he was standing in front of me. Big guy didn’t let up on my wrist much. I tried not to let it show just how much it hurt. “Looks like we’ve got the right girl, Zane. She sounds just like Dex, doesn’t she?” Squinty didn’t even look at the other man as he spoke, mostly because his words were meant more for me than they were for him. “Yeah, she does D.j. Looks just like him too.” I didn’t even have a chance to tell the two dipshits that they could shove whatever vendetta they had against my dad because someone else had beat them to the punch years ago. The second I had opened my mouth Zane’s large gorilla hand slapped over it keeping me from saying anything. The size is his hand keeping me from breathing. I kicked, bit, scratched, whatever I could get my hands on. I gave it my all right up until the moment I passed out.

#narrative #tw: kidnapping #continued via cage

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ldn-dahliamonroe-blog · 7 years

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Name: Dahlia “Dolly” Monroe

Age: 23

Occupation: Piercer at Thrill Ink

Birthplace: Atlanta, Georgia

Ethnicity: Ukrainian and Caucasian

Marital Status: Single

If there is one thing that my Daddy taught me it was that Good girls get praised and Bad girls get punished. Now, If I tell you that I am definitely not talking about my father, I bet you can guess that being a good girl has never been my thing. My Mother knew from the very beginning that she was in for hell when I was born.

“Sometimes I look at you and think you were a blessing from above. Then you open that foul mouth of yours and I realize you were tossed straight outta hell.” - Elmira Monroe (My mother)

Satan’s child, she would call me whenever I managed to get myself into trouble. Not the typical trouble a child would get into. I got bored easily. Coloring on the walls, tying shoe laces together, neglecting to pick my toys up off the stairs so I could pretend to not be amused when someone tripped over them and toppled down the stairs. Little shit like that grew boring. So I got a little more creative. Daring.

There were the minor incidents - “accidentally” knocking things off the table, “forgetting” that hamsters had to be fed, tossing Tigger our cat down the stairs to see how many times he’d land on his feet. And then, there was the major incident - There was this annoying little asshole who lived down the street from us when I was 13, for the most part I tolerated his existence until one particularly wet day when it had been pouring the entire night before he came tearing by on his bike. This was a regular occurrence except this time that fucker went riding straight through a puddle just off the curb to the sidewalk I was standing on. I got drenched and then I got mad. Livid. I stomped off toward the house to go change, all the while listening to that jerk laughing like a goddamned hyena. I had almost made it inside when I saw it. The key to my revenge on the heckling shit for brains. A thick fallen branch lying across the walkway to my front door. It was perfect. I held it in my hands like a bat, wielding it like a weapon as I approached the sidewalk again. Shit for brains laughed when he saw me. “What are you gonna do? hit me? Go ahead. Try it.” and then he was riding on his bike again, back and forth, taunting me. I humored him at first, pretending I was trying to swing the branch at him purposely missing as he swerved away from me. When the time was right I thrust the stick in the spokes of his back tire and then watched the magic that followed. Laughed as he was thrown over his handlebars. Laughed at the loud crack when one of the bones in his arm snapped from the hard landing. Laughed even harder as he cried out in pain. To me, this was fucking hilarious. To my mother, this was the work of the devil.

“You’re just like your father, maybe you should go live with him. You two can be horrible hell creatures together, but I will not have that in my house. I will not be the mother to a child of Satan.” - Elmira Monroe

Up until that point in my life, I hadn’t ever known my father beyond a few emails and phone calls on birthday’s and Holidays. Now I was going to be shipped off to the United Kingdom to live with him. To tell the truth, I only milked it and acted like I was heart broken at my mother’s abandonment to make her feel bad. I was thrilled with the idea of going to some foreign land, to meet my father and learn more about the Ukrainian side of my family. Being raised by the superstitious woman that my mother was, I never blamed my father for leaving. I had just always wished he’d have waited until I had been born and had taken me with him.

The cool thing about my dad was that he thought the things my mother found to be terrifying to be hilarious. He laughed so hard when I told him about shit for brains that I thought he might have pissed himself. He became my biggest fan and my best friend. Never an overbearing parental figure, he encouraged my behavior that others frowned upon. I just wish I’d have had him in my life for longer than 4 years. My father shared my love for chaos, always creating havoc wherever he went. Sometimes I was lucky enough to come along for the ride just to sit back and watch the master at work. Swindling his way through each and every town we were in. Charming the pants off of anyone he came into contact with. The one time I decided I was going to sit out on one of his adventures was the one that got him killed. I don’t want to get into that. But I’ll tell you it was the worst fucking day of my life.

I knew right away that I wanted to follow in his footsteps, I wanted to be as great as my father was. I wanted to have that no fucks given attitude with such an ease. I wanted to be just like him. My father was my Idol and I quickly realized that I didn’t need to try to be anything like him because I already was just like him. Even then, I felt like I was missing something. Like my life wasn’t and never would be complete without my dad. I guess this is what they’d say was when the “Daddy issues” began. I’d look for men with traits like my father, traits like myself. Cunning, manipulative, egotistical, vain, determined, impulsive yet strategical. He didn’t have to be all those things, just a few and attractive or at least wealthy. I’d milk them for what they were worth, getting whatever I’d want from them. They’d become my “Daddy”’s. They grew boring. The next quicker than the last. Mundane and bland. I’d toss them aside and move on to the next.

That’s what led me to London, not so much the search for the next man that would never live up to my expectations, but more so boredom. I was looking for a thrill. Something to keep me entertained, even if only for a little while. Thrill Ink if the name wasn’t a sign that I had wandered to the right place then I don’t know what else it could have been. I had wandered into get my first tattoo, maybe a piercing or two. The men working there were like walking works of art. The stunning blonde behind the counter greeted me instantly, she was sweet, but you could almost see behind those round blue eyes of hers that she had a little darkness in her. I liked that.

The door behind me chimed signaling the arrival of another customer or maybe even another employee. I had begun to ask her about the help wanted sign in the window when I felt it. Maybe it’s cliche to say that you can sense someone’s soul, but I swear I could. My own tarnished and tainted soul inside of me was crying out for me to turn around. Telling me that I needed to at least bless it with a glance in the direction of the energy that called to me. So, I did and in that moment I thanked whatever higher being, or maybe lower being, that was watching out for me. There he was. My next Daddy.

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