Greer // Avox
Mar 7, 2015 11:58:10 GMT -5
Post by Stare on Mar 7, 2015 11:58:10 GMT -5
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There is nothing she loves more than the sound of that glorious silence.
Within it she can hear her own heartbeat thundering in her ears, feel her chest heave and burn with every breath, sense the crowd leaning forward as the unspoken question lingers. Is it...? For a moment, they are as mute as she is.
It never lasts. They break out into screams when the beast does not move, blood flowing so thick it's practically black, and something in her chest always tightens at the sound even as she lifts her knives in victory. She knows what comes next, after that glorious moment of victory. Hands clamp around her bony arms, congratulatory from the perspective of the audience but in reality far too firm, and lead her back into the depths of hell where she belongs.
It's a cycle that began years ago, and it never stops.
She passes time in her cell by sharpening her knives. Apparently, they trust her enough not to hurt herself. Or maybe they simply wouldn't care if she did. After all, she doesn't have pretty, delicate features like Roses to inspire sympathy or attachment. How can a monster ever be seen as beautiful? Sometimes she catches sight of her reflection in the knife and sneers. Too-pale skin. Hollow cheeks. Tangled red hair. Angry eyes. And with each stroke of stone against metal she erases the image, because warriors aren't meant to be attractive. Only deadly.
And besides, there's little she loves more than the way her guards pale when she smiles as she passes the sharpened knife back through the slot to them. It's too small to fit even her scrawny hand through, so she can't actually do anything to them, but she still enjoys the fact that she can make them doubtful. She'll do anything for a bit of entertainment these days.
She hates her containment as much as anyone else, but for all the wrong reasons. Her heart aches for the fight, for the blood and steel and slashing claws. Her interactions with the avoxes are awkward (she supposes it's hard to be casual with someone who's ripped an animal's throat out with her teeth), but she knows they could be far worse. At least she isn't the subject of either lust or loathing, like Roses. Yet Knives knows where she truly belongs - in the ring, fighting, always. It's who she is. It's all she knows.
Some nights she tries to remember. There is a before - there has to be - but she can't go back any farther than distant screams, thrashing, blood splattered against sterile white walls. (Ripred, what did they do to her?) The only explanation is that she's earned this damnation somehow, just like the other avoxes earned theirs. It isn't enough some nights. Most nights, though, it is.
And if she's to fight through her hell, she'll be damned if she doesn't do it in style. War paint, flashy knives, wicked grins. It's as much of a performance as it is a battle, especially when teeth rip through flesh and she's forced to pretend she feels nothing. Theirs is special kind of dance, their fur slick with sweat and her hair caked with blood.
Sick, she hears the guards say sometimes. She actually likes being in the ring with those monsters.
Sometimes a response tries to boil out of her, but it stops abruptly and she can never make a sound. She always watches them walk away with narrowed eyes, drowning in the only kind of silence she truly hates. Her own.
Yes, she loves the monsters, because who the hell else could understand her?
Within it she can hear her own heartbeat thundering in her ears, feel her chest heave and burn with every breath, sense the crowd leaning forward as the unspoken question lingers. Is it...? For a moment, they are as mute as she is.
It never lasts. They break out into screams when the beast does not move, blood flowing so thick it's practically black, and something in her chest always tightens at the sound even as she lifts her knives in victory. She knows what comes next, after that glorious moment of victory. Hands clamp around her bony arms, congratulatory from the perspective of the audience but in reality far too firm, and lead her back into the depths of hell where she belongs.
It's a cycle that began years ago, and it never stops.
She passes time in her cell by sharpening her knives. Apparently, they trust her enough not to hurt herself. Or maybe they simply wouldn't care if she did. After all, she doesn't have pretty, delicate features like Roses to inspire sympathy or attachment. How can a monster ever be seen as beautiful? Sometimes she catches sight of her reflection in the knife and sneers. Too-pale skin. Hollow cheeks. Tangled red hair. Angry eyes. And with each stroke of stone against metal she erases the image, because warriors aren't meant to be attractive. Only deadly.
And besides, there's little she loves more than the way her guards pale when she smiles as she passes the sharpened knife back through the slot to them. It's too small to fit even her scrawny hand through, so she can't actually do anything to them, but she still enjoys the fact that she can make them doubtful. She'll do anything for a bit of entertainment these days.
She hates her containment as much as anyone else, but for all the wrong reasons. Her heart aches for the fight, for the blood and steel and slashing claws. Her interactions with the avoxes are awkward (she supposes it's hard to be casual with someone who's ripped an animal's throat out with her teeth), but she knows they could be far worse. At least she isn't the subject of either lust or loathing, like Roses. Yet Knives knows where she truly belongs - in the ring, fighting, always. It's who she is. It's all she knows.
Some nights she tries to remember. There is a before - there has to be - but she can't go back any farther than distant screams, thrashing, blood splattered against sterile white walls. (Ripred, what did they do to her?) The only explanation is that she's earned this damnation somehow, just like the other avoxes earned theirs. It isn't enough some nights. Most nights, though, it is.
And if she's to fight through her hell, she'll be damned if she doesn't do it in style. War paint, flashy knives, wicked grins. It's as much of a performance as it is a battle, especially when teeth rip through flesh and she's forced to pretend she feels nothing. Theirs is special kind of dance, their fur slick with sweat and her hair caked with blood.
Sick, she hears the guards say sometimes. She actually likes being in the ring with those monsters.
Sometimes a response tries to boil out of her, but it stops abruptly and she can never make a sound. She always watches them walk away with narrowed eyes, drowning in the only kind of silence she truly hates. Her own.
Yes, she loves the monsters, because who the hell else could understand her?
the heart is a worthless game
what the hell do you expect me to say?
but I can't take it, I can't take it
the devil he keeps, the devil he keeps it all
what the hell do you expect me to say?
but I can't take it, I can't take it
the devil he keeps, the devil he keeps it all
