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hazelmariewrites · 6 years ago

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The Inside Story

San Francisco, 1973 Lorraine Weston has had it with not being taken seriously as a journalist. When her boss turns down her idea for an undercover look into the cults following the Manson trials, she decides to pursue the story on her own. Will her tenacity lead to the perfect piece, or will it put her in grave danger?

TW: Violence, Murder

Word Count: 6,827

San Francisco, 1973

Now is not the time to take risks.

Lorraine Weston laughed and threw the fortune, along with the now broken cookie, into the trash bin next to her desk. She had never been one for superstition, so she wasn’t going to let some silly fortune cookie stop her plans to confront her boss. Lorraine had been writing for the San Francisco Chronicle for two years. She had just graduated from the University of California with a degree in journalism when the job was offered to her, and she eagerly accepted. She regretted the decision as soon as she received her first assignment—“Ten Lesser Known Uses for Crisco”.

The assignments never became any less demeaning, but Lorraine refused to give up. During this radical time for feminism, she took pride in her everyday fights against male chauvinism. Rather than quit her job and look for something better, she wanted to prove herself. The person to prove herself to was Bob Haney.

Lorraine had just finished clearing away her lunch when Bob stormed through the front doors and stomped his way down the crowded hall where the journalists worked. Bob was a short, plump man, but he had a way of making people overlook this with his big actions. He took long strides, swinging his arms hard back and forth with each step. A cloud of cigarette smoke followed him everywhere he went. He was loud, as well. He demonstrated this as he called across the hall, “Lunch break’s over, folks! Back to work!”

Lorraine saw past Bob’s façade. She was able to ignore his act and see instead the little things he missed, like his undone pants zipper and his nervous, erratic breathing. She wasn’t afraid of him like most of her colleagues. It was with confidence that she rose from her chair and followed him into his office.

It was a small room, which Bob had seemed to fill with as much unnecessary furniture as he could. His desk was far too big, even for him. Two red velvet chairs sat facing it, with an orange sofa against the wall next to it, hardly used. Bookshelves, potted plants, and floor lamps were scattered throughout the rest of the room.

“Hello, Mr. Haney,”

Bob spun around, startled by Lorraine’s presence. “Christ, Lorraine,” he said, “Don’t call me that. You know I like to keep things cool around here. I’m just Bob.”

“Absolutely, Bob,” Lorraine replied with a warm smile. “I was wondering if I could have just a moment of your time.” Bob sighed, sitting down behind his desk. Lorraine pretended not to notice the way his chair creaked beneath him. “I suppose,” Bob replied, putting out the last bit of his cigarette in a glass ashtray, “but please make it quick. I’m a very busy man.” He gestured for Lorraine to sit in one of the velvet chairs, but she did not.

“Maybe you already know this,” Lorraine began, “but I’ve been working for your newspaper for two years now, Bob. I’ve given you all I could in regards to the best dishes to serve at Christmas dinner, and which household cleaning techniques are timeless. I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me, but I’m not living up to my potential.”

She paced the room as she spoke, maintaining eye contact with Bob, who seemed to be growing more uncomfortable the longer she spoke. He shifted in his seat, which cried out for help.

“I’m done writing these puff pieces,” Lorraine concluded. “I’d like the opportunity to show you what I’m capable of.”

Bob pulled out another cigarette and lit it. “What do you want? Watergate?” he asked, the tone in his voice making it clear that he wasn’t offering. “I can’t put just anyone on Watergate,

Lorraine. It’s a big deal. History in the making. We need the facts.”

“I can give you the facts,” Lorraine shot back at him. “But I don’t want Watergate. I have my own idea in mind.”

Bob raised his eyebrows as if to say, Let’s hear it.

“Cultists.”

“Manson’s old news, man!” Bob laughed. He took a drag from his cigarette and blew out smoke as he spoke. “No one cares anymore.”

Lorraine shook her head. “That’s not true. There have been reports of several copycat crimes in San Francisco, as well as other cult activities that seem to be unrelated to The Family. There is a subculture growing right under our noses, and I think our readers need to be warned. I want to show them how these people think. I want to go undercover.”

Bob choked on his smoke. “No way,” he said once he finally caught his breath. “That is way too dangerous. Can’t risk it.”

“If it were a man bringing you this idea you wouldn’t think twice about it.”

“Oh, don’t give me that feminist bullshit!”

Lorraine stood directly in front of Bob and placed both hands on his desk, leaning down so that she was eye level with him. “I can do this,” she said. “You’ll see.”

She spun around and left his office, ignoring him as he called out for her.

Lorraine began visiting local clubs and bars in hopes of finding her way in. She guessed that she wouldn’t have a lot of luck at the discos, so she mostly stuck to hole-in-the-wall places.

It took almost a month, but her persistence paid off.

She took notice of the young man because of the upside down cross scratched into his upper arm. She knew from her research that it was common for cultists to carve symbols into their skin. This, along with his long black hair and dark clothing, gave her hope.

“Battle scar?” she asked, taking a seat next to him at the bar.

He turned to her with indifference. “Something like that,” he replied.

“My name’s Sheila,” Lorraine lied, extending her hand. The young man looked at it, but didn’t shake it.

“Jeremy,” he said.

“Nice to meet you,” Lorraine said, retracting her hand. She looked down at her striped turtleneck and blue jeans and wished she had worn something that might have impressed him. “So, what’s your story?”

Jeremy sighed and took a long swig from his drink. “It’s a drag,” he replied. “I doubt you’d be able to make it through the whole thing.

“Try me,” Lorraine said.

Jeremy shook his head and laughed in a way that lacked humor. Lorraine knew she was about to miss her shot, so she called the bartender over. If there was one thing she’d learned about men in her lifetime, it was that nothing sweetened their moods better than alcohol. Before the bartender made it over, however, Jeremy stood up from his seat.

“I’m getting out of here,” he said, grabbing his jacket. “It was nice meeting you, Sherry.”

Lorraine tried to stop him, but failed. She was pretty sure he’d said her name wrong on purpose, which stung even when it wasn’t her real name. She ordered a drink for herself and had just taken her first sip when Jeremy’s abandoned seat was filled.

“He looked like a total loser anyway.”

Lorraine looked over and saw a petite girl with long blonde hair and a floral print dress. She made Lorraine feel a little less out of place.

“Oh, yeah, I guess,” Lorraine said.

“My name’s Amy,” the petite girl said.

“I’m Sheila,” Lorraine said. Even if Amy wasn’t a part of Lorraine’s story, she didn’t want her real name getting around that particular scene.

“So, Sheila,” Amy said, “what exactly attracted you to that guy? Was it the eyeliner?”

Lorraine laughed and quickly thought of a lie. “I just got out of a relationship, and I guess I just liked the fact that he’s nothing like my ex-boyfriend.”

Lorraine expected sympathy from Amy, but instead she rolled her eyes and groaned. “Men are pigs, Sheila! They’re disgusting, they’re stupid, and they’re entitled.”

Amy’s outburst took Lorraine by surprise. She let out a startled laugh.

“Why are you laughing?” Amy asked. “You know I’m right.

Have you ever heard of Margaret Hamilton?” Lorraine shook her head.

“Of course you haven’t. Margaret wrote the code that was used on Apollo. She put humanity on the moon, dude! But who gets all the glory? Those stupid assholes they sent out there!”

“Wow,” Lorraine said, “I can’t believe I never knew that. Is that really true?”

“Of course it is! Sheila, baby, there’s a whole world out there that men have hidden away to keep this illusion that they’re more powerful than we are.”

Lorraine thought about this. She was ashamed that she didn’t know about Margaret Hamilton. She considered herself quite educated, and she genuinely did care about women’s rights.

How had she let herself be fooled?

“I can see the disappointment on your face,” Amy said, placing her hand comfortingly on Lorraine’s back. “It’s okay. I was like you once. But then I met a group of women who changed me.”

“Who are they?” Lorraine asked. Something about Amy’s intensity made her wonder if she was on the right track after all.

“I like you, Sheila,” Amy laughed. “You’re very driven. I can take you to the girls and introduce you, but I can’t promise they’ll like you.”

Lorraine decided go with Amy, although she had no clue where it might lead.

Lorraine wasn’t expecting an hour and a half ride in Amy’s station wagon, but that was what she got. The drive was filled with Joni Mitchell’s music and Amy’s ranting. Lorraine remained uncharacteristically quiet until Amy pulled over and stopped the car.

“Do you guys always hang out in the middle of nowhere?” Lorraine asked.

“We like privacy,” Amy responded. She reached over into the glove compartment and pulled out a silk, paisley printed scarf.

“Tie this around your eyes.”

“Excuse me?”

“I can’t let you know where this place is until the girls have accepted you.”

Lorraine took a deep breath and followed Amy’s order. She wondered if she’d trusted this stranger too quickly.

“I’ll lead you, don’t worry,” Amy said. She got out of the car and went around to Lorraine’s door. Lorraine took her hand and followed nervously behind her into the woods. She stumbled along, feeling twigs snapping and rocks rolling beneath her feet. As they walked further she smelled the rich smoke of a large fire, and could begin to feel the heat as well. Then, she noticed voices.

“Hey, it’s Amy!” came a soft female voice once they’d gotten closer.

“I’m back,” she confirmed, “and I’ve brought someone with me.”

Amy removed Lorraine’s blindfold, revealing the scene in front of her. She saw a small cabin, in front of it the large bonfire she had smelled, surrounded by two women and, surprisingly, one young man. One of the girls had short brown hair and wore a plaid button up with blue jeans. The other girl was olive skinned with long black hair in tight curls. She wore a knee length, lilac colored dress. The man was bare chested and wore a pair of blue jeans. None of them were wearing shoes.

“Sheila, these are my sisters, Alice and Katherine,” Alice said, pointing to the dark skinned girl and the brunette, respectively. “Tim over there is an honorary member of our group. A special friend.” She winked after the last comment.

Lorraine said hello, hoping that her anxiety was passing as excitement. She was beyond thrilled to have lucked into the very situation she was searching for, but now that she was there she couldn’t help but get nervous. What if she messed it up? The door to the cabin opened, and out walked the most beautiful woman Lorraine had ever seen. She was tall, with dark red hair that fell down in soft waves to her waist, which was curved like a pear. She wore a long white gown and, like the others, no shoes. Lorraine thought that the woman’s feet looked more clean that everyone else’s.

“Welcome home, Amy,” the woman said with a voice that was somehow both soft and compelling. “Who is your friend?”

“Her name is Sheila,” Alice answered. “She’s seen the truth and is ready to learn more of her power as a woman.”

Lorraine hoped the group didn’t notice how profusely she’d begun to sweat. She needed to impress them so she could learn more.

“Hello Sheila,” the woman said. “My name is Veronica.

I’m pleased that you’re able to join us.”

“Th-thank you,” Lorraine stuttered, blood rushing to color her face.

“As you can see, we’re a very selective group of people. We worship our mother goddess, Athena, and make sure to exclude the unworthy from our practices. She deserves only the most devoted. Do you think you could devote yourself entirely to the mother goddess?”

Lorraine’s heart pounded. She’d been imagining this scenario for weeks, but she still felt unprepared. She was about to join a real cult—but she knew it would be worth it.

“Yes. . . Yes, of course I could.”

Veronica smiled. “Alice, Katherine,” she said, “take Tim into the cabin. Amy and I need a moment alone with our new friend.” The girls complied, draping themselves over Tim in a way that made Lorraine consider the meaning of ‘special friend’.

“Come, let’s sit by the fire,” Veronica suggested. She took the sole chair, leaving Amy and Lorraine to sit on the ground.

“Tell us about yourself, Sheila,” Veronica said.

Lorraine thought about whether or not she should tell the truth. She didn’t want them to know too much about her, but this was also her first time going undercover and she didn’t want to get caught in a lie.

“Well, I’m twenty-three years old. No husband. No kids.” “That’s good!” Amy said. “You’re a smart woman. You’re independent.”

“What do you do for a living?” Veronica asked.

“I’m. . . a writer.”

“A writer? What do you write?”

“Oh, um. . . Just silly things.”

“Silly according to whom?” Veronica’s mouth pursed into a look of

disapproval. “You should take pride in your work, no matter what it may be.”

Lorraine knew she had to lie at this point, obviously. There was no telling what they would do to her if they knew she was a journalist.

“I write children’s books,” she said. “But I haven’t had much luck getting published, so I waitress to pay the bills.”

“Children’s books?” Amy said with a scoff. “You can’t do better than that? You’re proving everyone right who says women are just here to nurture!”

“Amy,” Veronica hissed, glaring at her underling. Amy’s eyes widened for a moment before she hung her head sullenly. “There’s nothing wrong with what you do,” Veronica continued, reaching down to run her hand softly over Lorraine’s hair. Lorraine loved the feeling. “You’re a creative woman fighting to make ends meet because you refuse to give up on your passion. It’s commendable. Amy just gets a little too excited sometimes.”

“Oh, that’s okay,” Lorraine said. “She was just speaking her mind. That’s good, right?”

Veronica glanced at Amy over her shoulder. “Around here we like to use our brains first. Right, Amy?”

Amy nodded quietly. The interaction didn’t sit well with Lorraine. She hoped that she would be able to deal with Veronica’s icy exterior if it were ever directed at her.

Veronica smiled, and it was like a switch had been flipped, changing her persona back to the warm, inviting one she’d begun with. “Let’s go inside, shall we?” she suggested. “We can show Sheila where she’ll be sleeping.”

Lorraine followed Veronica and Amy to the cabin, noting that Amy seemed to be slowly cheering back up. The cabin seemed bigger from the inside, mostly because there was very little furniture. There was a black leather couch and matching armchair in what Lorraine supposed was the living room, and a small card table in the adjoining kitchen. The place reeked of pot and there was quite a bit of garbage strewn everywhere.

Veronica and Amy led Lorraine through the room to a small hallway with two doors. Upon opening one they found Alice,

Katherine, and Tim mostly naked on one of four twin sized beds. Lorraine realized that her earlier assumption about Tim’s role in the group was right. He grabbed his jeans and fumbled to get them back on as Alice laughed and Katherine pouted.

“Man, things were just getting started,” Katherine whined.

“There will be plenty of time for that later,” Veronica assured her, patting Tim on the head. “Right, Timothy?”

Tim’s mouth opened and closed a few times, wordless, before he nodded quietly. Alice, still wearing nothing but her white cotton panties, rose from the bed and put an arm around Lorraine’s shoulders.

“So, are we getting a new sister?” she asked. Lorraine was about to embrace her undercover alias and confirm enthusiastically, but Veronica spoke first.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” she said. “Sheila has to prove herself, just like everyone else did.”

Lorraine’s stomach dropped. “What do I have to do?” she asked.

“We’ll discuss that later,” Veronica replied. “You must be exhausted. You can sleep in Tim’s bed tonight, and one of the girl’s will share her bed with him.”

“I’ll do it!” Katherine volunteered cheerfully.

Amy stomped over to where Tim was sitting and yanked him off the bed forcefully. “I’m the only one who hasn’t had him tonight,” she said. “It’s only fair that he sleeps with me.”

Katherine rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. As everyone took to their beds Lorraine realized with dread that Tim’s was the bed they had just been using.

“Okay everyone, be sure to thank your mother goddess before you fall asleep,” Veronica said as she was about to turn out the light.

“Wait, can I use the restroom?” Lorraine asked. “Unfortunately, there is only one bathroom in the cabin, and I don’t share it,” Veronica said. “Everyone else goes outside at the edge of the woods. There’s a flashlight by the door.”

Lorraine thanked her and headed through the cabin, grabbing the flashlight on her way. She marched quickly out to the woods and made sure no one had followed her before pulling out the small notebook and pencil she’d been keeping in her pocket. She placed her flashlight on the ground so she could write.

October 5, 1973

After weeks of searching, I’ve finally found the subjects of my story. There are five of them—Veronica, Amy, Alice, Katherine, and Tim—and they live in a cabin in God-knows-where. I’m going to have a hell of a time getting out of here when this is all over. Veronica is obviously the Manson of the group. Everyone else grovels at her feet. She has her own bedroom and bathroom while everyone else must share a room and use the bathroom in the woods— and they all seem happy to let her have these privileges! I need to find out how long this has been going on, and why Veronica has so much power.

Lorraine put her notes away and headed back to the cabin, anxious about what would happen in the following days but sure that she needed to follow through with what she had started.

The next morning Lorraine woke up to a crushing blow to the ribs. All the air was knocked from her lungs and she struggled to refill them as Amy squirmed around on top of her.

“Good morning, new sister!” she shouted, raising her arms in the air to expose her unshaved armpits. Lorraine tried not to stare at them—or at her breasts, as she was not fully clothed.

“You heard what Veronica said,” Alice reminded her, rolling over in her bed to face them.

“Oh please, getting accepted is the easiest thing,” Amy said, finally sliding off of Lorraine’s chest. Lorraine took a deep breath before tossing her blanket aside.

Amy let out a loud, monosyllabic laugh. “You slept in your clothes?”

“Well, I didn’t have anything else,” Lorraine replied. She watched in surprise as Alice yawned and sat up, revealing that she was completely nude. Lorraine felt her face heating up as she looked over at Amy’s bed and realized that Tim was naked as well.

Amy reached into a drawer and pulled out a white ball of fabric. “Here,” she said, tossing it to Lorraine. “You need to get comfortable.”

Lorraine held it up to see that it was a cotton dress that was very much see-through. She reluctantly stood up and changed, turning her back to everyone as if they wouldn’t be able to see her body through the dress once she got it on. She hid her pencil and notes in the waistband of her underwear while Amy, Alice, and Tim took turns going to the dresser and getting their own clothes.

“So where is Katherine?” Lorraine asked, suddenly noticing her absence.

“It’s her turn to make breakfast,” Alice replied, opening the bedroom door. She inhaled deeply through her nose. “Smells like waffles!”

Lorraine followed everyone into the kitchen where Katherine was indeed making waffles.

“Good morning!” Amy said, kissing Katherine hard on the cheek. She was definitely the most cheerful of the group.

Katherine turned around and shushed her. “Chill out, Veronica’s still asleep. You’ll wake her.”

Lorraine took a seat at the small card table with everyone else. “So, what’s next for me?” she asked.

“That’s up to Veronica,” Katherine said, laying out a plate stacked high with waffles before taking the final seat. “She’ll find a way for you to prove your loyalty.”

“What did she make you guys do?” Lorraine asked, waiting for everyone else to fill their plates before she grabbed a couple of waffles for herself. Amy passed around a bottle of syrup.

“Oh, we can’t tell you that,” Alice said. “At least, not until you’re officially one of us.”

“Well, what about your history? How did you all come together?”

The girls all looked around at each other and Tim stared down at his waffles as he chewed slowly. Lorraine worried that she might be asking too many questions, but finally Alice spoke up.

“Well, Veronica started it all,” she said. “She was married to a fascist pig who beat her a lot. Finally she got sick of it and left him to live out here on her own.”

“She’s so brave,” Amy said, and everyone nodded in agreement. “She has such a strong, powerful mind. She came out here and she had all these brilliant breakthroughs about male-dominated societies and how if more women could just get out here like she did, away from it all, they would realize that we’re the true leaders and we’ve been suppressed all along because men are so afraid of losing their control over us.”

“She found me first,” Katherine said. “It must have been about two years ago. I was in such a bad place. I was selling myself on the streets to buy dope. I was fucked up, man. But then Veronica found me and brought me here. She helped me come down from the drugs through meditation. It was tough, but she got me through it. Now I just do psychedelics—pot and shrooms, you know? It was just us for a little while, until I found Alice.”

Alice smiled and took Katherine’s hand. “Katherine overheard me getting torn into by my boss at the park one day,” she said. “I was a nanny for his little boy, who was just as rotten as he was. I turned my back for only a moment and the kid had fallen off the swings and smacked his head on the ground. I couldn’t take it, so I yelled right back at the son of a bitch and he fired me. I guess Katherine liked my spirit. Then a few months later I brought Amy home.”

“I’m so grateful that she did,” Amy cut in. “I was living with my parents and it was such a drag. They thought that because I was only sixteen that they should get to control my whole life. Especially my dad. He never let me go anywhere except for church and school because he thought I was going to come home stoned or knocked up. Lucky for me he wasn’t very smart so I was able to sneak out when he was asleep. I was going to concerts every weekend, and that’s how I met Alice. I’ve been here for about five months, so it was my turn to go out and find a new sister!”

Amy grinned at Lorraine before taking a huge bite of her waffles. Lorraine swallowed hard, fighting to hide her shock at Amy’s story. She was very energetic, but Lorraine never would have thought that she was so young. The poor girl was kidnapped and didn’t even know it.

“What about you, Tim?” Lorraine asked. He hadn’t said a single word the whole time Lorraine had been with them, and she was starting to suspect that he wasn’t allowed to. He looked up at her with wide eyes.

“After Alice came along we decided that we needed to practice our dominance,” Katherine answered for him. “Plus, we needed to embrace our sexuality. We brought a few guys out here but we only wanted to keep one, at least for now.”

Alice leaned in close to Lorraine. “Tim had the biggest cock, that’s why we chose him.”

Tim’s face turned red as he choked on his food. The girls all laughed.

“If you’re trying to practice being dominant, why do you have a leader?” Lorraine asked, immediately regretting it as the girls all gave her the same cold stare.

“What do you mean?” Katherine asked, her voice stern. “Well, it just seems like Veronica treats you all the same way the men in your lives did.”

No one moved or spoke. With all the girls still watching her, Lorraine felt pressed to continue.

“Why should anyone be dominant, anyway? Why can’t we all just be in control of ourselves and no one else?”

“Veronica isn’t dominating us,” Katherine snapped. “She’s guiding us. She’s earned her place as the head of the household, and we respect her because of it.”

There was a creak in the floor and as she turned, Lorraine realized that Veronica had been listening—and she had no idea for how long. She struggled to find words, but Veronica spoke first.

“Come, Sheila. Follow me.”

Lorraine nervously rose from the table and followed

Veronica out of the cabin. She was led to the opposite end of the woods as she’d gone the night before, and not far into the trees there was a small shrine.

“It’s okay to be curious about our intentions,” Veronica said once they reached the shrine. “I understand why you think that equality should be our goal, but I think that if you spend some time with our mother goddess you’ll realize that women are naturally superior and that we’ve been held back long enough.” Veronica knelt in front of the shrine, so Lorraine did the same. There was a one foot tall statue of Athena surrounded by various candles and crystals. Veronica struck a match and lit the candles.

“I’ll let you be alone,” she said, standing back up. “Come join us inside when you’ve decided if you think you belong here.”

Lorraine waited until Veronica was back inside the cabin before pulling out her notebook and pencil.

October 6, 1973

Well, I got some answers. It seems that Veronica started seeking out followers after leaving an abusive husband. What surprises me the most is that she started out doing something good—she helped Katherine give up dope. Or maybe Katherine was just easy pickings because she was so drugged up. I can see why these girls were brainwashed so easily. Katherine was shooting dope, Alice had just lost her job, and Amy was only sixteen!

Somewhere out there her parents are going mad looking for her. Hopefully I can track them down after I leave this place. I’m still not sure how Tim got dragged into this mess, but I’m sure the promise of endless sex had something to do with it. Now I have to go back inside and convince them that I’m on board so that I can find out what it takes to become one of them. Then, hopefully, I’ll have my story.

Lorraine tucked away her notes and blew out the candles before going back to the cabin. Inside everyone sat at the table, waiting.

“Well, did the mother goddess speak to you?” Veronica asked.

“Yes, she did,” Lorraine answered, standing before them. “I see now that I was wrong, and I’m ashamed that I’ve let myself be put down by the man for so long. I have so much potential, as all women do. If you’ll have me, I would love the opportunity to learn from you.”

Lorraine hoped that she sounded genuine. Katherine, Amy, Alice, and Tim all watched Veronica, waiting along with Lorraine for her response. Finally, she stood and walked over to Lorraine.

She placed her hands on Lorraine’s shoulders.

“You have so much to learn,” she said. “You’re lucky you found us.”

The girls all cheered. Lorraine’s shoulders sagged with relief.

“Thank you. Thank you so much,” she said. “Just tell me what I have to do.”

“You’ll find out tonight,” Veronica said. “I wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise. Alice, will you go and get what we need?”

Alice hopped up from the table. “Of course,” she said, and then she left the cabin.

“I don’t expect her back until late,” Veronica said. “Until then you can help the others with the chores. I’ll be in my room, meditating to prepare for tonight.”

As Lorraine helped clean the dishes she hoped that she could do what they asked of her, and that it would make a good story.

Lorraine ran her hands down the black silk dress she’d been given to wear during the ceremony. Night had fallen, and Alice was expected back at any moment, so everyone was busy preparing. Lorraine’s dress clung to her body, so she decided to hide her notes—which she’d been adding to all day—under Tim’s mattress.

“How’s it going?” Amy asked as she entered the room. A smile quickly spread across her face. “Man, that dress was made for you!”

Lorraine smiled at the compliment. She’d spent her whole life trying to be seen as a strong, powerful woman, so she rarely wore dresses. If there was one thing she would personally take away from her experience, it would be that she could still be strong while allowing herself to be a bit more feminine.

“You’re going to do great,” Amy said. “I can feel it. There’s this energy radiating from you, and I can tell that you’ll do anything to get what you want. This trial will be a piece of cake.”

As if on cue, Alice arrived in the doorway. “Alright, everything’s ready,” she said, taking Lorraine’s hand. She placed a pill in her palm. “This’ll take the edge off, make what you’re about to do a little easier. Just remember that you’re taking back what’s rightfully yours.”

Lorraine had no idea what the pill was. She popped it into her mouth but didn’t swallow. She followed Alice and Amy outside, where the bonfire was burning bright again. While no one was looking, she let the pill fall out of her mouth and onto the ground.

Once they got closer to the fire she saw that Veronica and Katherine were waiting, but Tim wasn’t there. She thought that he must be excluded because he’s not an official member. She made a mental note of this for her story.

“Welcome,” Veronica said, holding out her arms. She was wearing the same gown as Lorraine, but in red. “Let us begin.”

Amy and Alice joined Katherine at Veronica’s side, leaving Lorraine to stand alone, facing them. Veronica began with a general prayer to Athena, and then spoke about Lorraine.

“Mother Goddess, this young woman has come to us in need of guidance. She has much to learn, but much potential. Reach out to her, and if she is worthy, let her show us through her actions here tonight.”

She stopped and remained silent for a moment. Lorraine was beginning to wonder if she was supposed to say something next when she heard a sound from the woods. She couldn’t quite make it out at first, but as it got closer she clearly recognized the sound of muffled screaming. She turned and saw Tim emerge from the trees, dragging a body behind him. Lorraine’s heart sped up.

“Sheila, Amy tells me you’ve met this young man,”

Veronica said. As Tim pulled the man closer, Lorraine realized that it was Jeremy—the man from the bar. Amy smiled next to Veronica, but her eyes looked worried and frightened as if she hadn’t known this was the plan.

“Uh, yes,” Lorraine said, “I mean—sort of.”

Tim let go of Jeremy, but his hands and feet were tied so that he couldn’t get up. He thrashed around wildly.

“You approached him and he rejected you, correct?” Veronica asked.

Lorraine nodded, staring down at Jeremy in horror. She had no idea it would come this far. Technically Amy was kidnapped, but she’d come here of her own free will. This was so much worse. Why had they brought him here? How could she help him without compromising the story?

“Sounds like he needs to learn his place,” Veronica continued. “Tim has been a good boy, but with you joining us I’m afraid there won’t be enough of him to go around. So, tonight you’re going to help us welcome Jeremy to our home.”

She reached down and picked up a long stick, then lit it with the bonfire. She handed it to Lorraine. “Burn him. Not enough to kill him, but enough that really hurts. We have to break his spirit.”

Everyone watched and waited. Lorraine looked down at Jeremy, who was looking back at her with pleading eyes. His face was covered in sweat and dirt. It felt surreal to see him like this, so different than he’d been the night before. It occurred to Lorraine that if she had swallowed the pill she’d been given, its effect might have tempted her to go through with it. The sense of power was overwhelming. But her mind was clear, and she was strong.

“I can’t do that,” she said, throwing the stick into the fire. Amy gasped, Alice shut her eyes in disappointment, and Katherine glared through Lorraine. Veronica tilted her chin upward.

“I thought you wanted to take control,” she said. “This is how you do that.”

“No, it’s not,” Lorraine argued. “If I do this, I’m giving up control to you. I don’t care about having control over some random guy—an innocent man. I care about having control over myself.”

Veronica smiled sadly and turned around, her movements hidden by the shadows of the fire. “You heard her, Tim.”

Tim quickly grabbed Lorraine’s arms and held them behind her back. Veronica turned back around, wielding a large knife. Lorraine immediately started fighting to free herself, but Tim was much stronger than her.

“Wait, maybe we can talk to her,” Amy said, grabbing

Veronica’s arm. Veronica pushed her off, slicing Amy’s hand in the process. Amy cried out and fell to the ground.

“She’s made her decision, and so has Athena,” Veronica replied. Katherine and Alice stood behind her quietly as she moved toward Lorraine.

As Lorraine fought against Tim’s hold on her, she felt his sweaty hands losing their grip. She slammed her head back against his face as hard as she could and he stumbled backward, finally losing her completely.

Veronica screamed and lunged at Lorraine, but Lorraine jumped out of the way. Her victory was short lived, though, as Katherine and Alice pinned her to the ground in the next moment.

“Stop, please, I won’t tell anyone,” Lorraine screamed, knowing that it was hopeless. She tried to think of a way out, but she couldn’t move and Veronica had gotten up and was standing over her with the knife. Her hair was messy and her dress was covered in dirt—her perfect image gone.

“This is for Athena,” she said, raising the knife. Lorraine wanted to shut her eyes, but she couldn’t. She watched helplessly, screaming desperately—but before Veronica could plunge the knife into her, Tim came up from behind and struck her in the head with a rock.

Veronica crumpled to the ground and Tim jumped straight to Alice. “You fucking bitches!” he shouted, his hands tight around

Alice’s throat. “I can’t take this anymore!”

Katherine jumped up to help Alice, freeing Lorraine.

Lorraine grabbed Veronica’s knife and stood on wobbly legs. Katherine looked up at her and screamed in anger. She abandoned Alice to attack Lorraine, and the knife slid into Katherine’s abdomen. She fell to the ground next to Veronica.

Lorraine looked over at Tim, who stood over Alice’s dead body—her neck snapped. They watched each other silently for a moment before Tim darted off into the woods. Lorraine looked back down at Katherine. She wasn’t dead, but she would be.

Jeremy’s muffled screams caught Lorraine’s attention again. She knelt down and pulled the tape off his mouth and then used the knife to cut him free. “There’s still one more!” he cried, pointing behind Lorraine. Lorraine turned around to see Amy curled up on the ground, sobbing.

“I’m so sorry,” she cried. Lorraine rushed over and pulled her to her feet. In her frightened state Amy seemed much more her age.

“It’s okay Amy, I’m going to get you home,” Lorraine said.

“Where are the keys to the car?”

“In Veronica’s room,” Amy answered, her body still shaking. “I’m so sorry, I never knew they would do something like this. When I joined they made me kill a rabbit, that’s it!”

“It’s okay, just wait here,” Lorraine told her before turning back to Jeremy. “Watch her, I’ll be right back.”

Jeremy seemed hesitant, but he didn’t argue. Lorraine ran into the cabin and through it to Veronica’s bedroom. There was a queen sized bed and a television set, which didn’t particularly surprise Lorraine. She spotted the car keys on the bedside table and grabbed them, then rushed to the other bedroom. She grabbed her notes from under Tim’s mattress and considered changing out of the ripped, filthy dress, but Jeremy and Amy were waiting for her so she didn’t. She met them outside and they made the walk to the highway where the car was still sitting.

“Can you drive?” Lorraine asked, tossing Jeremy the keys. “I don’t even know where the fuck we are,” he said, climbing into the driver’s seat.

“Neither do I,” Lorraine said. She got into the back seat with Amy so that she could console her. “Just follow the signs back to the city and go straight to the police station.”

Ten minutes later Amy had cried herself to sleep. Lorraine pulled out her notes and wrote as fast as she could, filling up most of book with the story of this twisted group of girls and their warped sense of women’s empowerment. When they reached the city the sun was coming up and everyone was beginning their work days.

“Wait, can we make a stop first?” Lorraine asked. Jeremy looked back at her like she was insane. “It’ll be quick, I promise,” she said.

He let her out in front of the Chronicle’s front doors and she assured him again that she would be right out before rushing upstairs. The hall was already bustling with busy workers trying to get the next issue. Lorraine was about halfway across the hall when everything started slowing down. She could feel everyone’s eyes on her, and she’d caught a glimpse of her reflection in the window as she’d entered so she couldn’t blame them. She reached Bob’s door and stormed through it without knocking.

“What the fuck,” Bob yelled, spinning around in his chair. He was on the phone, a cigarette hanging from his mouth. He looked Lorraine up and down and quickly put the cigarette out. “I’m going to have to call you back later, man,” he said, hanging up his phone. “Lorraine, baby, what the hell happened to you?”

Lorraine walked up to his desk and slammed her notes down.

“Just read it,” she said. “I’m going to be tied up for a while, but you can get someone else to tidy up any errors. The content is there, and it’s good.”

“What exactly am I reading?” he asked wearily, picking up the notes.

“The inside story,” she answered.

#stories #short story #historical fiction #thriller #horror #psychological horror #rachel greenwood #cult #manson #writeblr #writeblr community #the inside story

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ultrahygieneservices · 2 years ago

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Website : https://www.uhsmold.com/

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momentia · 2 years ago

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2x01 is the only time we see mike weston’s house. it’s a cute little house in virginia, near d.c.! honestly bigger than a single man who travels constantly needs, which makes me think... even at this young age baby mikey was planning for a happier future than the one he gets :’)

so trying to pay more attention to these three or four shots this time, i noticed something i haven’t seen in the six years i’ve been annually or so rewatching this show

mike, who never even bothered to bolt his damn mirror to the wall (you know it’s slid out at least once and knocked stuff off the dresser), carried that giant old tv and vcr up to his bedroom

pretty sure those are blank vhs tapes, not like commercial box art. (that’s just a vague memory of the 90s talking, i can’t pinpoint the coloring on the box and match it to a brand or anything, and considering he’s eating kids brand cereal downstairs that is just trix with fake box art, i doubt they’re something exact and real anyway.) the obvious joke here is that they’re sex tapes and/or pornography, but this is mike weston so no. they’re family movies. he’s spent his time during suspension watching family movies because he starts season two newly estranged from his friends and also his father :’)

the rusty tool above the door. what is that all about. if anyone scrolling past this recognizes it help me out. i want to know what kind of pretentious rustic decor that is, so that i can assign it a weston family backstory that explains why it’s there. because he gets a pass on all the ancient antique furniture because that at least creates a vibe, but that little pickaxe is just a precariously balanced future emergency room visit

anyway my boy has been sleeping on his couch in front of his (better) tv, like you do when your anxiety is so bad that you can’t sleep any other way

also aside but i love when tv set designers are like “ah yes we will show his depression with two soda cans and a beer bottle and some dvds he didn’t put back in the cabinet” but meanwhile let me tell ya what a real depression living room looks like and it’s not spotless hardwood floors and clean windows

#food cw #alcohol cw #obligatory posting about #the following #for the year hahahhaa

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omahahs · 3 years ago

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lnkhauler · 3 years ago

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Handyman Jobs Employment: Maintenance Technician Remodeler Contractors Construction Labor Wanted In Lincoln Ne! Earn Up To $15-45 Per Hour Paid Daily more information is at: https://junkremovallincoln.org/maintenance-technician-remodeler-contractors-near-me/

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a1besthandymanremodelingomaha · 3 years ago

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Best Bathroom Remodeling Services Near Omaha Nebraska | A1 Best Handyman & Remodeling Omaha More information is at: https://omaharemodelingservice.com/bathroom-remodeling-near-me/

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a1cleaningofomaha · 3 years ago

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Best Deep Cleaning Service Near Omaha NE | A1 Cleaning Of Omaha More information is at: https://cleaningcompanyomahane.com/deep-cleaning-service-near-me/

Are you searching for Deep Cleaning Services Near Omaha NE? A1 Cleaning Of Omaha is offering Deep Cleaning Services near Omaha NE and surrounding area. Cost of Deep Cleaning Services. Call us now for Professional Deep Cleaning Services In Omaha NE.

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OUR SISTER COMPANIES NEAR OMAHA NE

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favoritesfacesthings · 4 years ago

Text

Lost at Green Sea

Summary: A short story about a boy named Henry and a mysterious forest.

Words: 7383

Thorns.

Little, sharp, curved blades on dark emerald stalks hidden in an ocean of blooming rose flowers. Those rose bushes were the pride and joy of Margaret Weston living in Stone Hill, Vermont. Among all the other prize winning arrangements of greenery adorning the colorful, 19th-century architecture in the neighborhood not having luscious, perfectly groomed bushes of flowers would make a front lawn stick out like a sore thumb. But now the plants seem to have parted like the red sea for Margaret's son Henry.

Thorns.

That's all Henry thought about while trying to get up.

Stupid, prickly, little thorns.

When he finally managed to crawl out, getting quite a few cuts on his hands and legs in the process, there was a horrifying carnage of broken off petals, leaves and stalks left in his wake. Margaret felt needles of hurt poke at her heart but instead of focusing on the frustration welling up inside, she quickly ran up to Henry patting him all over and making sure he's alright. It was his birthday after all, and she just wanted him to have a good day. She knew it wasn't easy for him to be around this many people.

- Henry! Are you okay?

- Yeah I-

- Why did you do that? Oh look at your hands!

- I was just-

- Come on, let's get you cleaned up. - Margaret placed her hands on the boy's shoulders and directed him towards the house.

- But I- but I was playing- Mom we’re playing catch. - Henry mumbled out making Margaret turn to follow his gaze and see the group of kids standing behind them waiting to continue their game.

- Oh, right, go play then Hen. - She quickly let go of his arms and watched as the kids dispersed across the yard.

- He’ll live with a few cuts, Marge. - Tom, Margaret’s husband and Henry’s dad, came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist resting his head in the crook of her neck.

- Yeah, he’s always been tougher than you are. - Said Margaret with a smirk on her face alluding to a recent accident involving Tom and peeling potatoes.

- Hey! That was a real injury, almost cut my finger clean off! - Tom hunched over with his legs bent and dramatically raised his left pointer finger up like a newborn baby for a baptism.

They both started laughing, Marge gave Tom a quick peck on the cheek and they went their separate ways to talk to guests like proper accommodating hosts of a birthday party would.

The cake was already eaten and most parents gathered in groups standing by the house with wine and beer talking mostly about plans for the upcoming summer break.

- Henry! Here! - The kids were playing catch, stretched across the yard with the ball flying around between chairs and tables that were set up on the side lawn.

Henry Weston was an average looking fifteen year old, with dark brown hair that got in his baby blue eyes, if he didn’t comb it back. He had soft features and a privilege of having an average body type. Henry liked sports, mostly tennis and swimming, and clay sculpting was his artistic outlet. None of his hobbies were very serious. He didn’t go to any classes nor took part in any competitions. He didn’t handle pressure or people very well. A highly sensitive person is what his mom called him.

A pussy is what some kids at school call me.

It’s not that he didn’t like people but there were just a lot of moments when people got overwhelming. It could be a mean comment, demanding tone of voice, peer pressure on the playground or just a loud crowd and Henry would suddenly feel the whole world crashing down on him. Sweaty palms and a fast heart rate are a fairly normal thing for any teenager or adult alike in a situation they would rather not be in, but for Henry it was always a little bit more than that and it happened a little bit more often than it should. While someone else wouldn’t think twice about an interaction, he would feel a bucket of cold water being dropped on his head, ringing in his ears, tears in his eyes and trembling of his muscles. But he didn’t tell that much to his parents, only that he got upset and they would ride it off as being sensitive. But on this particular day everything was perfect.

- Mary, catch! - The ball sored over the food table, earning a few disquieted looks from parents, to safely land in the girl’s hands.

After something like two hours when the afternoon had turned into evening and all the kids were worn out everyone said their goodbyes and the birthday party ended. Henry helped his parents clean up and after they all snuggled on the couch equipped with snacks and ready to watch a movie. They watched Henry's favorite, which is The Mask and then it was time for bed. Fourteen is said to be the last year of early teens and a threshold to becoming an angsty, know-it-all teenager all parents complain about. That thought was running through Henry’s head as he was now in bed trying to fall asleep on the last hour of his fourteenth birthday, pondering if he really would change perspective on his parents whom he thought the world of thus far.

Summer.

A week after Henry’s birthday he was driving with his parents in their Chevrolet minivan for an out of state vacation in western rural Massachusetts. It was a short, four hour drive which the boy spent looking out the window listening to his parents’ road trip playlists of chillout music. In the cities he watched people out and about in their summer outfits and sunglasses, eating ice cream, talking on the phone, walking home with full shopping bags.

It’s a really nice summer.

Everyone seemed to be walking with a pep in their step, many people smiling, content with the change in the weather from brisk spring air to the soft warmth of the summer sun. When they got into the rural area Henry too appreciated the sun beaming down on him warming his face. The boy dozed off before they arrived and woke up to the car doors opening.

- Wake up, Hen. - Said Tom walking by the back door to the trunk to start unpacking.

He handed Henry his backpack as the boy got out of the car. The cottage they rented was particularly eccentric. It looked straight out of a kitschy postcard, the kind that Henry often got from his grandmas on his birthdays or on Christmas. The walls a glossy, almost black wood, yellow window frames and a tall, red tiled roof encircled on all sides by overgrown greenery. Henry watched his dad grab some bags himself and they followed Margaret to the house. The front porch windows had turned dull. Inside there were two old, worn out, yellow armchairs with a floral print facing the front door and a long, rough wooden bench before them. It was hot and stuffy but it was no match to how it was inside the house. When Margaret unlocked the front door she took a step back and waved at sudden the wave of heat. There was very little space though the cottage seemed big on the outside. Walking in you were greeted by a wall in front of you, a crammed, curving staircase on the left and a little corridor to the kitchen on the right. Henry skipped on the stairs dragging his backpack behind.

Dad will have to walk sideways to fit through these stairs.

He giggled at the thought reaching the second floor of the cabin. There were two rooms on either side and after checking both of them, the left one turned out to be the “kid room”. Henry threw his backpack on the single bed and began scouting the area. The room was full of big, heavy, wooden furniture and boxes of toys left by the owners for the Wi-Fi deprived youth that would come here on family retreats.

I’m gonna dig through that later.

Coming down Henry grabbed the wooden railing on the staircase and hopped down five stairs at a time almost running into the wall on the landings.

- Can I go look around? - He asked, finding his parents unpacking groceries in the kitchen.

- Sure. - Tom answered without even turning to the boy, preoccupied with checking the appliances.

I hope the backyard is cool enough to play in or I’ll have nothing to do around here.

Henry went out the front door, turned the corner close to the cottage and ran his hand on the wood checking if it would actually be as oil slick as it looked.

It’s not.

The wood was dry and old. It was very corrugated and if he dragged his hand over it long enough he would probably get splinters in all of his fingers. The back wall of the house was overgrown with woodbine. The arching vines seemed to be slithering like thin, green snakes in all directions.

The area to which they came for their vacation was a vast plain, sparse with houses that were separated with either large fields of grain or fruit orchards. Their cottage was located on a slight hill and behind the property laid a beautiful dense, green apple orchard.

That looks cool.

Henry made his way between the short trimmed trees and admired the small fruitlets. Walking for a while on one of the paths he could not see how big the orchard was as the path curved far in front and there were trees everywhere as far in as he could look in. Instead of going further Henry walked up to one of the old, rusty smudge pots, it had a large round base with a chimney coming out of the middle, he looked inside and found it disappointingly empty but behind it he saw something laying on the ground. He came up around and crouched next to it.

Dead bird.

Henry was a sensitive boy and death of any creature, big or small, didn’t bring him satisfaction. In fact he oftentimes refused to watch animal documentaries with his parents for the fear of seeing predators capturing their prey and mauling it on screen. But with the crow clearly dead for some time Henry’s curiosity got the better of him and he wanted to investigate. He got up and from a tree next to him broke off a small twig. He bent down again and looked at the bird closely. The feathers black like ink in the full sun looked multichrome, shifting from purple to blue with hints of green. They didn’t seem to lose any of their shine and vibrancy even so long after the bird's death. Henry knew it must have been a while because of the head. The eye sockets were empty and the skin lost all of its small feathers and was now dry and peeling from the base of the beak. The body was visibly flat and when Henry turned it over with the twig he felt it was also very light. He prodded and moved the corpse around, lifting the wings and bending the small feet, until his curiosity was quenched.

Should I bury it?

Henry pondered the idea for a couple minutes but decided against it. The ground was hard and covered in grass. Besides, the bird somehow seemed to be at peace here, hidden behind the pot, slowly disappearing back into nature. Instead the boy plucked a single, long, black feather from the raven and got up with his knees uncomfortably stinging from the squat he’s been in for so long.

Goodbye.

When he got back, he quickly skipped up the stairs to put away the feather. He didn't want to put it in any of the drawers or in his backpack, not wanting it to get mangled and ruined by accident. Instead he opted to put it somewhere on display. The bed was wooden just as the rest of the furniture in the room and its headrest was a thick, tall frame. The feather laid now safely on top of it as Henry ate dinner on the front porch with his parents. They spent the rest of the day on the porch playing cards and board games that were left in the cottage by the owners. When it got dark and Henry started yawning progressively more often Tom and Margaret sent him to get ready for bed. As he was getting in bed Marge came in to check on him.

- What’s that? - She pointed to the long black feather laying above Henry’s head.

- I found it in the orchard. - Henry answered excitedly looking up at his beautiful keepsake.

- Mhmm. - The mom hummed, smiling softly, as she pulled up his cover.

She then kissed Henry’s forehead and walked to the door to leave.

- I’m gonna lock your door, okay Hen? Don’t want you tripping on these stairs.. they’re scary to walk on awake let alone sleeping.

- Okay Mom. - Henry was a sleepwalker and when in a new place, his parents would often lock his room door to prevent him from accidentally wandering and getting lost or hurt in the process.

- Goodnight Hen.

- Goodnight. - Henry heard the door lock and then closed his eyes ready to wake up tomorrow for another great summer day.

Margaret came downstairs and through the kitchen into the dimly lit living room as Tom was making himself something at the bar and she turned her attention to him.

- Can you make me something? - She called out.

Tom turned on his heel to face her with his head tilted and a mischievous smile plastered on his face. She sat down and crossed her arms over the back of the sofa propping her chin on her fist to comfortably watch his mixology skills. Tom turned back for a second doing something on his phone and then Marvin Gaye started blaring from speakers, he reached for a cabinet and pulled out a baking apron, he put it on slowly while swaying his hips and it made Margaret break out in laughter. He started pulling different bottles from the bar flipping and juggling them like a showoff bartender would, only ten times more ineptly. After cleaning up he brought over two drinks and handing one to Margaret he lightly kissed her on the forehead.

- I love you.

- Love you too. - She replied.

Forest.

It must have been fresh after a light shower which gave the forest a saturated look with leaves and moss shining neon green contrasting the dark brown trunks and ground, on any other day Henry would marvel at the sight and enjoy getting lost in the magical heaviness of the humid air and sounds of hundreds leftover droplets lazily falling from the leaves but right now he was coming to the realization that last he remembered he was lying in bed falling asleep and not anywhere near a forest.

Where am I? How did I get here?

They call it having a pit in your stomach but it feels more like a boulder, it hits you in a split second, all of your organs were holding it up in place this whole time but now they gave out and it dropped almost bringing Henry to his knees. He now knew if anyone ever asks him how well he does in stress situations he would just say he doesn't. Unable to form a single thought about what to do, he couldn’t move a muscle, frozen in his place and just stared straight ahead not focusing his gaze, which made the forest look like a contemporary abstract painting made by swinging a bucket of paint over a canvas.

How did I get here?

It's one thing to get lost in a neighborhood you don't know or even a forest you go on walks in from time to time but Henry had no idea if this was a forest he walked in before. Yes it would be very different if he at least knew how he got here.

- Helloooo! Helloooo?

Along with yelling Henry subconsciously started pacing around but with no path visible he just zigzagged through the trees occasionally stumbling on roots or uneven terrain. Walking on the undergrowth of the forest with every step he felt a cruel contrast between the green blanket of moss and the broken off pine twigs, needles and cones scattered on the ground. He was still wearing the last thing he put on which was a two tone, long sleeved shirt and sweats. His feet were bare and he wondered if from now on he would put on socks and shoes to bed.

That is if I ever get back home.

The thought made him start shivering and hyperventilating. The green sea of trees before him started spinning and Henry sunk to his knees on the damp earth. He had no idea what was going on and how to deal with this situation. He scrambled himself on hands and knees up under the nearest tree and bringing his legs close to his chest he buried his face in them and let out long, muffled sobs. When finally his tears dried and his breathing calmed down he adjusted himself to be more comfortable and just listened to the wind stirring trees around him. The bark his back was resting on was rough with deep ridges that swirled in all directions forming a fingerprint like pattern. It wasn’t much but it provided Henry with a sliver of comfort and security, like leaning against a wall in a crowded place so that people can’t come up behind your back. In this instant it would be an animal coming up behind the boy’s back and undoubtedly it wouldn’t be just to chat about the weather. With that bit of safety acquired any thought of trying to look for help or clues as to where he was dissipated from Henry's mind. It seemed too scary and too unpredictable to leave now as the forest grew darker nearing dusk. Instead he balled up tighter in between the exposed tree roots. He began staining his eyes to see as the color of wet ash veiled what little of the sky he saw over the treetops. In the utter blackness of nighttime in the woods, the wind’s harsh bite made Henry's body shiver much like the countless leaves in the forest. The wind brought with it the type of coldness that reaches into your bones and muscles making even the smallest movement a chilling wave of pain. But every snap of a twig or a howl of the wind still made him snap his head in the direction allowing the wind to quickly slide under his collar and along his shaking body. The understory of the forest consisted mainly of different kinds of tall grass and ferns but there were no shrubs to obscure vision into the distance and the needle leaf trees grew tall and thick but dispersed. Suddenly as if called into existence by Henry’s expectant ears loud, thrashing sounds came from the right. They were not as regular as to be footsteps but clearly there was something moving nearby. A primal self-defense instinct made Henry point his hands in the direction of the noise as if he had a weapon ready to jab any animal or thing coming around for a midnight snack but his hands empty before him, squeezing an imaginary knife, were a sad realization of his hopelessness. The boy shot his head up to see if there were any branches low enough for him to break off but the pine was towering over him with branches from the crown ending high above him. The shuffling sounds consistently moved to the left and were now somewhere in front of Henry. His eyes were dry, unwilling to blink, fixed on locating the moving creature but to no avail. With no weapon to protect him and no fire to scare it off the boy was certain of an upcoming attack.

I’m gonna die. I’m gonna die. I’m gonna die. I’m gonna die.

The sounds continued in fits and starts but the creature never came closer and was still moving to the left of Henry. Eventually the sounds faded completely. Henry didn’t feel himself peeing and had not realized it until a stronger gust of wind blew across his pants. A wave of shock and embarrassment hit him and for a second he was glad to be alone.

Stupid. That’s not true. I would rather have the whole school here laughing at me than to be alone lost not knowing where. I’m so stupid.

Henry bit his lip trying to stop his sobs scared of making his presence known to the creature nearby. His heart was beating out of his chest for a long time. His hair was stuck on his face drenched in sweat. But there was nothing. The creature left and no other came. Sitting there balled up under the tree Henry’s tiredness inescapably caught up to him intensified by the adrenal crash. His thoughts slowly melted away and his mind drifted to his imaginary happy place. The sloshing sound of water filled his brain. Ears submerged and the corners of his eyes wet from the tiny waves created by his body floating. Legs bent and dangling as if from a ledge. There was nothing on the horizon, deep royal blue stretching into infinity. The water was cool on his body but his face warmed by the sun beaming from the clear sky. Suspended in the strong embrace of his personal ocean Henry started drifting into sleep.

Aliens.

Henry woke up from his uneasy drowse with the sun just coming up above the horizon. The question of how he got to an unknown location, seemingly sometime after he went to sleep, on the first night of vacation with his parents in a rented cottage in the countryside started circling around in his mind like a stubborn fly that manages to sit on your face through a flurry of pats, claps and slaps. He started to come up with different explanations, each one crazier than the last.

It’s all a dream. I’m in a coma. Or in a different dimension. Somehow I opened my door and sleepwalked here. Or I can teleport.

Dismissing the impossible explanations for his predicament, the boy decided to look around once more. He was curled up under the tree for many hours and standing up turned out to be quite a challenge. Henry’s brain, very well accustomed to the motion of standing up, didn't expect the resistance his numb legs and stiff knees gave. A piercing pain bolted up his body and a shocked scream escaped the boy’s mouth. His shoulders straining back to hold him up against the tree, he slowly straightened up feeling his leg tendons stretch and regain their length. Letting go of the tree he tried to keep his balance but a sudden involuntary spasm of his overworked muscles brought him to his knees. Bursts of pain in his calves made Henry squeal and writhe falling from his knees to his side. His pained, growling screams echoed quietly up to the treetops accompanied by occasional birdsong. After a while the pain subsided enough for Henry to touch his legs and gently massage out the tension. In that time the sun had already made its way high onto the sky. He slowly sat up keeping his legs relaxed and looked around in all directions.

Trees. Duh.

The thought of sitting in place waiting for some kind of rescue and the fresh memory of what that could do to his body made Henry decide to get up and start walking. The direction seemed inconsequential so the way Henry was seated on the ground was the way he started his march. His thoughts briefly returned to his circumstance.

Maybe it’s something supernatural. A demon sent me here. Or an angel?

Henry was never much interested in the supernatural or the occult. Except maybe once when he tried to reenact the story of the Jangly man with his dog Darwin, a Kerry blue terrier that Henry loved more than anything. Henry’s grandmother was staying in their house during the vacation and they left Darwin with her for company. Tears started welling up in his eyes at the thought of his big furry friend.

I wish he was with me right now.

Clutching his fists tightly and letting tears flow down his face, he just kept moving forward. One of the tears rolled into the corner of his mouth and spilled over his parched bottom lip. A scar on the right side of his lip now became more apparent than usual with his lips swollen and cracked. Henry got the scar about a year ago and walking now with nothing to look at except trees and nothing to hear except their ruffling noise his mind started drifting and with both horror and nostalgia half consciously he started reminiscing about the day he got it.

He was dreading the appointment the whole week but his teeth moved on from being sensitive and only occasionally aching in the evenings to an unbearable prickling pain for most of the time in a day and all of the night.

The blood.

It was three rotting holes in his teeth that were the culprits of his pain which was more than his parents and his dentist Mr. Wilkinson hoped it would be and far too few than what it had felt like for Henry.

There was so much blood.

They were in the right bottom row of his mouth and the injection to desensitize all of them took a full minute of a needle poking in and out his gums.

I only realized when it tickled on my hand.

Henry came out of the office all stiff from sitting tensed up for so long and told his mom he wanted a soda. Giggling she called him Rambo and handed him a water bottle from her purse. He understood her nickname only after seeing himself trying to take a sip of the water in their car. His face made a grimace he'd never seen before. When opening his mouth his right eye shut almost completely closed and it looked like all the skin from his under eye to his lower lip was being pulled by some invisible, sticky tape. Before he could stop the action he began his arm twisted the bottle and half of what came out landed on his shirt and lap.

I should've known after that not to try to eat so soon.

When they got home it was almost noon and his mom had to go to work which she took some hours off of just to take him to the appointment. She made him a club sandwich and with her signature kiss and wave goodbye she was out the door. He turned on the tv and sat on the couch to eat. Even with his best efforts his mouth wouldn't open very much, being completely sedated in the front and hurting from strain in the back of the jaw but he managed to stuff a corner of the sesame sprinkled bread in and began chewing. He took bite after bite engrossed in the action of an old western movie in which he didn't know any of the actors nor the name of the movie.

It was Comes a Horseman. I watched a re-run later.

But when he looked down to take another bite, the movie faded out and all he heard was high pitched ringing in his ears. The bread was soaked red and there was red liquid dripping rather streaming down on his hands. He raised his shaking hand to his mouth and felt something soft and mushy hanging slightly below his lower lip.

It was my lower lip.

And running to the mirror in the hallway I left a trail of bright red dots behind me. The sandwich desperately wanted to come back up from my stomach when I saw myself so I had to look away to stop it from doing so. I bit through the whole girth of my lip and then munched on some of it along with the bread, tomato and cheese. If my mom saw me then she might have thought for a second that I tried one of her lipsticks on. She would probably have to critique my application though because apart from my lips my whole chin, neck and right hand were crimson as well. The iron taste made the sandwich make another attempt at escaping my digestive system so I had to keep my mouth open and my head bent forward.

Margaret answered the phone with impatience seeping through her tone of voice when he called but it quickly changed to a panicked concern. The call lasted less than 30 seconds and she hung up with instructions to use toilet paper as a cover to stop the bleeding and an assurance that she's on her way. They went to the hospital and the doctor did a great job, with 20 stitches he made Henry's lip look like it had only lost a fight to a sharp, butter knife instead of a mouthful of teeth of a hungry, teenage boy.

Henry kept on walking and throughout the day recalled things that had happened in his life. Unexpectedly quickly it became night again. The second night in a dark, mysterious forest. As the colors around him dimmed Henry searched for shelter around the nearest trees. He had hoped for a fallen tree to hide beneath or an unoccupied den to curl up in but he had to settle for another night sitting between roots of a tall pine. This time though he made sure to stretch his legs out and let them properly rest. It was not a calm sleep but the next morning he woke up feeling well enough to start walking as soon as he stood.

Fire iron.

After some hours of marching Henry started walking unusually slowly, almost robotically, as if his brain was struggling to tell each foot to take the next step. It was because his stomach went from growling loudly to a silence filled with gnawing pain, it felt like a wormhole sucking itself and everything around in. Stumbling over his own feet Henry had to bend every couple of seconds from the pain. As if that wasn’t enough the ground started cascading in long slopes. Many times he lost his footing and almost fell.

It feels like my stomach is on fire and someone is moving the coal around with a fire poker. Just jabbing me in the side. Over. And. Over. Again. There’s nothing to eat. No berries. No mushrooms. Nothing.

Henry tried to appease his wrathful stomach by chewing on some leaves of a small, green plant but his mouth quickly filled with an insufferable bitter taste. He quickly spat out the leaves but the damage was done and the swallowed spit left him with a foul aftertaste along with nausea and some dry-heaves. What was nice for a change was actually producing spit. It was now his third day without water and he almost forgot what it was like to feel moisture in his mouth. There was a burn in his throat that didn't go away, but instead grew steadily stronger and harder to ignore as the day went on, he felt it yesterday too but nowhere near as intense. Every swallow began to feel like broken glass down his throat.

It’s worse now. I made it worse.

He felt the sadness, the quiver of his lip, the irregularity of his breath; all accompanying signs of crying except his eyes were dry.

And burning.

Henry kept on forward, now perpetually bent, hugging his nagging stomach. About his feet were only the browned remnants of branches and needles that must have fallen in high winds. He tried to look out for anything that would ease his thirst or hunger but with no luck.

At least the ground leveled out again.

The day grew old with him still pressing on as if in a trance, somewhere in his subconscious knowing that if he stopped he might never start up again. The sun was sinking down beneath the tops of the pines casting long shadows beneath his feet. Unanticipatedly the boy was halted to a stop by a loud cry. Panic quickly set in until he recognized the sound as an ordinary raven’s caw. Henry straightened up and saw the bird on the tree just before him. It sat on one of the few branches in the lower part of the pine. The raven on the branch moved its head from side to side, every turn rapid, almost too fast to see. But in the moments it was still Henry could see the glossy, black eyes set in the plumage so dark it looked more like a shadow. Only when the swaying canopy allowed the setting sun to cast its rays upon the raven and illuminate the feathers could the true, shining beauty of it be seen. After a few, restful moments it spread its wings and ascended to the tree tops and out of view. The boy looked after the bird for a while, trying to glimpse it in the multitude of branches covered with dark green needles. Staring up at the vibrant canopy Henry noticed black spots in his vision. He quickly turned his head in different directions but the spots followed. The sudden movement made him dizzy and he felt a dull ache and pressure in his head. He tried to gather himself and move on but instead of his legs moving in an orderly fashion he fell flat on his face. Henry realized his body would not move and it refused to go any further that day. The boy was exhausted. The fall didn’t hurt as much as Henry would expect and in fact he felt relief in not having to keep his body upright. With that newfound comfort his body relaxed and his eyes closed. As soon as they did he was fast asleep. He dreamt of flowing water. It came as a river that floated across the air like wind. It swirled around raising him from the ground and cooling his aching body.

Henry woke up gradually from a growing discomfort in his right leg. As he got more aware he looked down to realize he was scratching his shin in his sleep. It took great effort to sit up. He was very weak; his breaths were deep and slow. The skin on his whole body felt dry and itchy and he rolled up his right pant leg to reveal a palm sized bruise with bloody scratch marks. His dehydration was severe and after an insect bit his leg the irritation on his ailing skin must have caused him to pick at the area for the whole night. As he got up the leg started throbbing and Henry had to skip to the nearest tree to slowly acclimate. He knew he was weak and the leg would only get worse as time went on.

I have to keep going.

Moving forward somehow seemed like the only salvation. If he had stayed his body would surely give up then and there. So bent and limping he started walking again. The black spots from before didn’t leave and were now obscuring his vision making him stumble over roots and saplings in his way. There were so many things that Henry’s body was going through that he slowly became numbed to them. He walked for a long time with a blank mind looking down on his feet. The crunch of dried bracken underfoot gradually changed to almost silent steps on fresh grass and stems of herbs. In front a field of ferns enveloped the ground beneath them, their fronds a myriad of hands reaching up to grab any sunlight that peeked through the thick canopy. Looking up from the green sea Henry saw a glimpse of something in the distance, it was hard to make out in the shaded forest but it definitely didn’t belong.

Grey. Some kind of rock. Or concrete. Is it a building? Too small for a building. A bunker?

Henry slowly approached the structure. His slow pace partly dictated by caution but mostly by the depleted strength of his legs.

A staircase. Just a staircase.

His thoughts became loud and incoherent. Distorted, they reverberated in his mind.

Staircase In the woods Concrete Staircase In the woods Staircase

He felt short of breath, staggered and his head lunged forward without his consent. His extremely exhausted body short circuited from the sudden agitation.

When Henry came to and opened his eyes it was already night. He flipped onto his back and looked at the clear, starry sky.

The Big Dipper. Cassiopeia. Hercules.

His eyes automatically searched for familiar constellations and for a moment he felt good admiring the faraway stars and feeling the chilly air on his face. But after that moment the exhaustion with all of its symptoms came back as strong as before. The dizziness made Henry reach for his head finding a cut clotted with blood. He felt nauseous but with a completely empty stomach all his body could do was dry-heave. The muscle spasms made him sit up and after they stopped he mustered up all of his strength to stand up. When he got up and felt steady enough he lifted his gaze up and once again saw the mysterious staircase. He made his way over to the construction. The moonlight bleached the concrete before him transforming the steps into an icy, frozen waterfall. He touched the side of the staircase and the comparison seemed even more fitting for the cement was truly as cold as ice. The steps were wide and tall, each its own block of stone. With weak legs and a slow, heavy step Henry sluggishly climbed the first stair. He kept his hands tight on his thighs to help lift his body weight up. After the first step the boy saw the staircase up to its end.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.

Ten steps. Henry didn’t question the feeling of necessity to get to the top of the staircase even though it seemed impossible to climb all of the steps with the little energy he had. But as he got up the first stair, he managed to get up another and then another. The feeling of rough concrete was terrible and quickly turned painful as Henry's feet got cold standing on the treads.

Five. Six.

His breathing turned into loud wheezing, his arms having a bit more strength in them than his legs helped to push him up after each step.

Seven. Eight.

Walking up and looking down at the gray stone beneath, the black spots in Henry’s vision slowly turned into bigger smudges, his lungs started to burn and his whole body trembled.

Nine.

As his foot touched the last step the boy closed his eyes and with a lunge forward he made it to the top.

Ten.

I’m back.

Henry’s eyes were wide open and he was now standing on the staircase of the rented countryside cottage he arrived at four days ago. He didn’t hear or feel any change but from the top of a staircase in the forest he suddenly appeared inside the house he desperately wanted to get back to for the past few days. Grabbing the rail to steady himself, he frantically looked around unable to believe his nightmare was over. His head was throbbing and he slowly lost his eyesight completely as if someone was turning the light off with a remote dimmer until it was pitch black. In a daze, looking straight ahead, he took a step up the stairs. The wooden rail was gripped so tightly in his palm it let out loud creaks.

The first evening in the cottage passed in uneventful enjoyment, Margaret and Tom flipped through the channels on the old TV sipping on their drinks and planning activities for the week. Around midnight Margaret got up and went to bed for the night with Tom still watching something on the TV. She was already fast asleep, lying at an angle on her back with one arm loosely draped over her waist and the other spread next to her head with her hand to forehead, when Tom came upstairs twenty minutes later. He laid down next to her so gently she only woke up when he took her arm from her waist and placed it on his own. He rested his head over her other arm and was now enveloped in an embrace by his own making. Margaret hid her palm in his hair and took a deep breath. She always loved his scent, he smelled like clean fresh laundry with light notes of jasmine and bergamot. His body next to her created pleasant warmth and she let herself quickly drift back into sleep. But as the night went on Margaret stirred in her sleep. She tossed and turned and a restful dreamless sleep soon turned into one filled with nightmares. She dreamt of walking in the dark. The air around her was cold and heavy. Fear and loneliness slowly grew in her mind as she wandered aimlessly. Suddenly the darkness beneath her gave way and swallowed her. Exhale. Inhale. The subconscious action suddenly became impossible. Where her lungs should be filled with air Margaret felt nothing. She was suffocating. Her chest started burning like a chunk of wood thrown in a lit fireplace and with that feeling she woke up jolting into a seat. Outside, the sky was slowly filling with heavy slate clouds. Sitting quietly she could hear the growling sounds of faraway thunder. After the startling awakening she wasn’t ready to try and get back to sleep so instead she got up and peered out the window sitting on her feet in a big, white, linen armchair that was beside the bed. The rain hasn’t reached the cabin yet but she could see it in the distance along with a vast blanket of clouds and occasional lightning. The first creak of the staircase Margarets ears dismissed as part of the storm coming but then she heard it again and recognized it as a noise inside the house. She got up from the chair and listening in she inched closer to the door. Standing there for a moment she clearly heard creaks and footsteps so she opened the door and came out into the corridor. Without windows the corridor was veiled in darkness and Margaret had to feel around for the switch. When light illuminated the room she stepped closer towards the staircase.

A pale and measly vision of her son stood on the middle landing. With eyes bright red and puffy, small lips a lump of white dried skin and bloody cracks. A dirty cut on the forehead with dried clots of blood trailing down. Dust and dirt covering his sweats and bare feet. Ghostlike moving slowly up the stairs, unaware of Margaret's presence at first. The woman stood horrified by the state of the boy and his unexplained appearance. He reached the top of the stairs and the boy looked right at her but his expression remained vacant, he opened his mouth several times like a gulping fish but no sound came out. Instead Henry’s eyes rolled back into his head as his hands left their support of the railing and the wall.

- Henry! - Margaret screamed, rushing forward with her hands desperately stretched out as her son collapsed before her like a lifeless marionette cut from its strings.

#shortstory #short story #mystery #writers on tumblr #novelette #thriller #forest #horror #countryside #cottage #teen #story #fiction #fic

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directofficesolutions · 4 years ago

Text

Tips For Buying An Executive Desk In Palm Beach And Boca Raton, FL

Moving into a new office can be a wonderful experience. One needs to make sure that it is equipped perfectly to become operational. Besides, the employees handle multiple responsibilities and cannot be clubbed together to form a single group. The ones holding superior positions may need ergonomic and comfortable furniture to enhance their productivity too. While there is no shortage of good quality office furniture today, it makes sense to check every single chair and a matching executive desk in Palm Beach and Boca Raton, FL, to make the office truly functional and aesthetically appealing.

Sure, advanced technology has reached the humble office, too, converting into a comfortable haven that drives individuals to work. However, desks remain a ubiquitous part of office decor and functionality even today. The variety of desks merely is astounding, and the administration and purchase Department needs to be well versed with the dos and don'ts when the time comes for sourcing the best furniture for an office.

Large offices with plenty of spare rooms often have the top executive utilizing an entire room. It is most useful to move an executive desk with a flat working surface and a double pedestal style. Additional paper and office stationery, along with correspondence received as hard copies, can be stored safely within the box-like drawers attached on the sides. No worries if the working surface is not enough, however. Many offices have an additional L shaped or U shaped desk moved inside to help the busy executive work correctly without frequently going out of the room.

· Size- The size matters when an office is being equipped with desks for the workforce. It is essential to check the available space and calculate the size of each item of furniture before beginning to source each. Desks are available in every size and shape at present, but the office management would have to measure the space in each room, preferably in square feet, to fit the maximum number of desks needed. It is an excellent idea to retain at least 2 feet of space around the desk to ensure each employee's privacy.

· Material – Sure, an executive desk is the right fit for the boss's cabin, but natural wood may not be cost-effective for every office today. The best alternative that mimics the look is found by using wood veneers available at a much-reduced price. True, the raw material used here is particleboard, but there is always a thin layer of real wood atop it. This makes the best cabin in the office look classy and elegant. Corporate offices may settle for traditional wood with heavy desks and perfect designs. A fashion house or executive's office in a gallery prefer glass tables that are easy to clean and attractive

Buying office furniture in Weston and Palm Beach, FL, need not be a hassle. It is best to check the available styles and prices in advance before approaching the seller.

#executive desk in Palm Beach and Boca Raton FL #office furniture in Weston and Palm Beach FL

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rrrawrf-writes · 7 years ago

Note

22 & 67 for the drabble ask if u do not mind

okay so look

this is painfully long

because i am an idiot

who thought “let’s do one thing for each prompt” because i couldn’t figure out how to put the two of them together

so uh

i apologize. i’m so sorry this took so long, and is so long.

battle buddies for the first one! don’t worry, something (probably???) nice happens to rhiot this time o3o

22. “Did you just hiss at me?”

“What’s down there?” Rhiot asked, yawning as he stumbled downstairs. Loula was already down the hall and at the top of the stairs leading into the basement. Mercado, Hunt, and Parker all crowded the area, glaring down into the darkness.

“We don’t know,” Mercado huffed. “But I’m giving it three seconds to get out before I get my guns!”

She raised her voice to shout downstairs, while Parker gave Rhiot a crooked grin.

“No guns in the clubhouse, Mercy,” he told her. “Since you’re the last one up, Archer, you can go downstairs.”

“What?” Rhiot said, his sleep-fuddled mind still trying to play catch-up. “What for?”

“You gotta see what it is,” Hunt put in helpfully. He moved aside to give Rhiot access. Mercado crouched down on her haunches, her usually straight brown hair now a wild mess. “Parker says he thought he heard someone crying.”

“It’s your house, Parker, you go look,” Rhiot muttered.

“As ranking officer and your host for the week -”

Rhiot waved a hand at him to shut him up. “Yeah, all right, fine, I’ll go. C’mon, Loula.”

He was five steps into the basement when he realized that Loula still waited at the top of the stairs. Rhiot paused, looking back up at her, and she gave an apologetic, mental sort of shrug, lying down.

“Traitor,” Rhiot complained. He could hear the rest of his unit snickering as he clomped down the rest of the stairs, running his hand over the wall to look for a light switch. When he found it, he flicked it a couple times, and was completely unsurprised to find that it didn’t work.

“If this’s some kinda joke, I’m tying you all in to Dixon’s dreams again,” he called upstairs. “Change your lightbulbs, Parker, honestly.”

“Oh, gross, Archer,” Mercado complained. “I’d take your nightmares over Dixon’s fantasies any day.”

“Seriously,” Hunt muttered.

“It’s a toss-up for me,” Parker admitted with a chuckle. “Archer dreams up some pretty horrific things.”

“So does Dixon,” Mercy said. Rhiot shunted their conversation to the back of his mind as he waited for his eyes to adjust. Parker didn’t stay very much at his house, and it showed - furniture and storage totes crowded the basement, and Rhiot banged his shins three different times as he made his way towards the darker corner of the room.

“Hello?”

He paused in what he felt was the center of the room, but he honestly had no idea. He could barely make out the shapes of all the junk Parker had stored down here. After a moment, he heard scuffling coming from a corner, and slowly moved his way over.

Loula padded down the stairs, a moment later, with a flashlight in her mouth. Rhiot accepted it gratefully, and waved her back to stay near the stairs as he clicked it on.

He saw a flash of eyes, and then a flurry of movement as something - someone? - squeaked and dove behind a mattress wrapped in plastic, slanted against the wall. Rhiot sighed, then with more exasperation than bravery, squatted down at the opening of the little nook, shining the flashlight on a small child, curled up into a tight ball at the very back of the narrow space.

They made an incredibly cat-like noise.

“Did you just hiss at me?” Rhiot asked, bemused.

“Hey, Archie, what is it?” Mercy called downstairs. Rhiot ignored her and set the flashlight down.

“Hey, come on out, it’s all right,” he told the child. There was something wrong with her - his? - ears. They were far too long and pointy, and their skin was a completely wrong color.

It took nearly ten minutes of coaxing and shouting upstairs for the others to shut up, before Rhiot sighed and sat back. Loula immediately stuck her nose into the hidey-hole, and the child gasped.

Instead of trying to curl themselves into an ever-tighter ball of anxiety, they immediately crawled towards Loula. She backed up, huffing gently, and Rhiot scooted to the side so he inadvertently wouldn’t frighten the child again.

In the brighter beam of the flashlight, it was clear to see what was so off-putting about the child. They were covered in short, calico-patterned fur, and wore nothing but an overlong nightshirt, with a tail - a tail - swishing from underneath. They were bare-foot, with short-cropped hair and cat ears. Cat ears.

Rhiot bit down on his tongue. Instead of screaming ‘what’s wrong with you!’ like he wanted, he said, in a somewhat strangled voice, “Are - Are you all right?”

The child ignored him. Instead, they wrapped their arms around Loula, digging their fingers into her fur. Rhiot tensed up at the secondhand sensation of hands pressing against his back and shoulder. As he watched, the little kid changed.

Their fur grew longer, a bit shaggier, taking on the brindling of Loula’s fur, and the tail likewise went from sleek to bushy and thick. Their ears lengthened, and twitched when they heard Parker’s heavy footsteps thumping down the stairs.

“Hey, Archer, you get ‘em out - oh, what the hell -”

Rhiot glanced up at his commanding officer. “I think they’re a shapeshifter.”

and now we’re back to rembrandt being a terrible person to winn. this happens directly after rembrant shooting winn in the leg.

67. “You’re bleeding all over my carpet.”

Rembrandt didn’t know why he was surprised when he came back to the penthouse, and found Huntington on top of Winn, slamming a fist into the smaller man’s face.

Rolling his eyes, Rembrandt flipped on the lights and said, “Don’t kill him, Mr. Huntington.”

Huntington just grunted. It wasn’t until Rembrandt had moved into the kitchen that Huntington finally let their prisoner up. Winn coughed and threw a few meager curses at the both of them.

“I thought I told you to shoot him if he tried anything.” Rembrandt leaned against the wall where the kitchen fed into the living room, a glass of water in his hand.

“You left the moron without a bloody gun,” Winn mumbled thickly from the floor.

Rembrandt watched Winn pick himself slowly off the floor, like an infant trying to learn how to walk, then frowned. “You’re bleeding all over my carpet.”

Winn pressed a hand to his mouth; it and his nose both bled. A few drops had already spattered to the floor.

“Thought you said this —— eyesore was a fake,” Winn groused. His eyes darted to the window, but Huntington had stationed himself near it. Rembrandt knew someone was just outside the door to the hall, and he himself stood between Winn and any exits from the back of the penthouse. Rembrandt smiled into his glass, enjoying the resignation settling onto Winn’s face.

“It is,” Rembrandt conceded, and pointed his glass at Winn’s feet, now removed from said eyesore. “But you’re standing on my white carpet, not the rug.”

Droplets of red stood out starkly against the carpet. Rembrandt had brought out the rug specifically to keep Winn’s mess from getting all over his apartment. He should have known better. Rembrandt would have to remind Huntington to be more careful next time.

Winn stared at him for a moment. Then he cupped a hand over his split lip and bleeding nose. Winn brought it away a few seconds later; staring Rembrandt dead in the face, Winn flicked his wrist, sprinkling fresh blood onto the carpet.

Closing his eyes, Rembrandt resisted the urge to smash his glass into Winn’s face. “Come with me,” he said instead.

To his surprise and satisfaction, Winn limped after Rembrandt, clearly too exhausted to resist. Huntington walked right behind Winn, breathing down his neck. Reaching the door several yards ahead of Winn, Rembrandt watched the ex-con brace himself against the wall every few steps, favoring his wounded leg. As much as Rembrandt would have loved to leave Winn in that sort of pain, another visit from Weston might be necessary - Rembrandt needed to get the codes first. Then he could cripple Winn any way he liked.

The back room had an enormous window and balcony. Rembrandt glanced to Winn as they entered, but the ex-con ignored the view - he must have finally learned to stop telegraphing his intentions. Too bad for Winn - Rembrandt wasn’t stupid. He tilted his head for Huntington to, once again, lurk near the window.

There was nothing in the room Winn could use. The bed had been stripped of blankets and sheets; besides a small bundle of clothes on top of it, there was nothing else in the room. Rembrandt nodded to the clothes. “Go ahead and change.”

“Mind giving a man some privacy?”

Rembrandt snorted a laugh. “‘A man’,” he repeated, and smiled blandly at Winn. He didn’t move. Winn scoffed and reached over to pick up the clothes.

Rembrandt made Winn stop mid-change after he had stripped off every inch of clothing, forcing Winn to show his open hands. While Winn pulled on a clean set of boxers, Rembrandt went through the pockets of his torn and bloodied jeans.

Winn had a mess of items in his pockets; besides an inordinate amount of change and dollar bills, the most interesting acquisition was three different pocket knives (one of which Huntington claimed with a glower). The hem of Winn’s sweater turned out to be more interesting: Rembrandt found three slim lockpicking wires tucked into the lining.

“Still using Miss Ryder’s old tricks, are we?” Rembrandt asked. Winn had his back to them as he pulled a pair of too-big jeans over his narrow hips, but Rembrandt could see his ears and the back of his neck turn bright pink.

“Screw* you,” Winn muttered savagely. He reached for the shirt on the bed, but Rembrandt stopped him.

“What’s on your back?” Rembrandt asked, tilting his head to the side to try and get a better look. The glance Winn shot him was a picture: rage, humiliation, and shame, all at once.

“Nothing.”

“Show me.”

“Screw.* You.”

Rembrandt rocked back on his heels, eyebrows arched, and then carefully began to unbutton his suit coat. Winn must have understood the motion, and the implied threat; Rembrandt preferred to keep his revolver underneath his jacket, and it was freshly-loaded.

With a sigh of disgust - at himself, Rembrandt thought - Winn dropped the shirt and put his back to Rembrandt.

Scars covered Winn’s back, slightly raised, in a pattern that was far from random. Wings spread out across his skin, a pattern that was surprisingly intricate for the usual scarification process - and beyond that, it had healed perfectly, without a single blemish that Rembrandt could see. A few feathers trailed across Winn’s shoulders and down either arm. The ex-con held one elbow, shoulders hunched, like he was embarrassed by the work of art branded into the skin of his back.

Rembrandt stepped closer and reached out to brush his fingers over the upraised scars. Winn flinched away, and half-turned to - presumably - curse or cry or otherwise waste the perfectly good air he breathed in. Before Winn could more than turn his head, though, Rembrandt grabbed the back of his neck and his arm, and shoved Winn face-first into the wall.

Rembrandt stretched Winn’s arm out. An old burn scar - a harsh one - ran down the side of his forearm. Whoever had etched those wings into Winn’s back had worked here, as well: thin white lines outlined the burn scar in a sort of bracer effect, reminiscent of celtic knotwork.

He let go of Winn’s arm, but only reached for the other one, transferring his left hand to Winn’s neck. A similar effect had been wrought on Winn’s other arm, but instead of encompassing a burn scar, the scarification patterns wrapped around something more jagged and random - they almost looked like bite marks. “This is Ripper’s work, isn’t it?”

Winn turned his head against the wall to shoot Rembrandt a glare. “Get off me.”

Rembrandt did not let go. He could practically feel the fury and humiliation radiating from Winn’s reddened face as he leaned forward, until Rembrandt’s forehead rested against the wall right next to Winn’s. He gave the younger man a sly smile.

“I have a friend in the PCC,” Rembrandt said conversationally. “I was just so concerned when you were sentenced your whole five years of prison that I got in touch with him, asked him to watch over you. Take good care of you.”

Winn ground his teeth so hard Rembrandt could hear his jaw creak.

“An appointment with Ripper - that must’ve been one hell of a favor, Winn,” Rembrandt said. “It’s beautiful.”

Rembrandt let go of Winn and stepped back - and right on cue, the ex-con whirled around, furious and red-faced - and was he crying again?

“It was —— torture!” Winn yelled. He lunged for Rembrandt - who stepped easily to the side, did a quick mental calculation, and punched Winn in the thigh.

He hadn’t thought he’d hit the bullet wound, but Rembrandt must have gotten close enough, because Winn’s face went ghost-pale, and he collapsed to the floor with a sob. Huntington, always a moment too late, thundered over to glower down at Winn, curled up on the floor.

Rembrandt dropped the spare shirt on top of Winn. “Get dressed,” he told him, “and then get into the closet.”

Winn pulled the shirt off his face, rolling over onto his side. He spewed a litany of foul language instead, which completely unimpressed Rembrandt. Glancing over to Huntington, Rembrandt nodded towards the walk-in closet in question.

“Get off me,” Winn snarled, as Huntington reached down and grabbed him by the arms. Rembrandt tucked his hands in his pocket and leaned back against the wall, enjoying the fear and anger that flashed onto Winn’s face. “Don’t - Don’t put me in there -”

“It’s not that much smaller than your cell in solitary,” Rembrandt remarked, as Huntington tossed Winn into the closet. He slammed the door close before Winn could regain his feet. Rembrandt raised his voice a little, just to make sure he was heard over the ex-con’s furious demands. “If you behave, maybe we’ll let you out on good behavior. Goodnight, Winn.”

#iwrite #tumblr games #ask games #rhiotnloula #battle buddies #winn #rembrandt #superpowerverse #nightstargalaxy

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