𝚁𝙾𝚄𝙶𝙴 𝙳𝙴 𝚁𝙰𝙶𝙴 | 𝚃𝙾𝙼 𝚁𝙸𝙳𝙳𝙻𝙴

𝚃𝚆𝙾

riddle's gaze was trained on her, flicking up and down her slouched frame as though he was searching her flesh for somewhere to sink his teeth. his fist clenched at his side as he discerned her attire. scarlett was still wearing the dress she had killed him in; sanguine satin soaked in slaughter.

like a painting on a canvas, she remained exactly as he had left her the night before; slumped in a chair in the corner of the room and restrained at the wrists. confined like an animal in a cage or a bullet in a chamber, waiting patiently for someone to pull the trigger.

scarlett had been drifting in and out of consciousness all day, dreamless depictions of walls splattered red playing before her on loop. visions of violent delight dripping from the high ceilings.

     her subconscious sought no comfort in mourning the loss of a childhood stolen at gunpoint - most nights her dreams would delineate deranged devilment and decay, spilt milk or spilt blood.

the screams were soporific sedatives. they crept in and clouded the void of her mind with memoirs of murder and the muttering of madmen in their final moments.

the incessant ticking of a clock in the distance was the only sound to interrupt them and scarlett found herself clinging to it, insufferable yet consistent in a way nothing else in the room was. the ticking was escape - elevator music playing softly over the screams.

     with the memories came a strange sense of consolation, she had carried them with her for longer than anyone had stayed. like a ghost concealed by her own shadow, she knew they would always be there. there was no content carved into these walls but the screams were familiar to her; almost old friends, almost lovers.

     scarlett had never known love, not really. she told herself it was better that way, that she would only be held back by such frivolous things, but if she was to be honest, which she rarely ever was, she had always longed for something to die for.

    when she was young she would wait for someone to love like a horse in a kill pen. pocketing every smile which had in reality been closer to a sneer, she carried the idea of kindness on her back, never feeling its weight until it was far too late.

     but that little girl had died. she lay down and let them fashion her into a killer, watched as she became the villain of her own story. with time she learnt to be a willing weapon, to smile when she was handed a knife far too big to be held in such small hands.

     she played her part until it wasn't an act anymore, painting every room she entered red. from pain arose putrescent power and as time went on and knives dulled kindness lost it's allure. eventually she found herself comfortably numb. she didn't want to be scared anymore.

the ticking returned.

     there was no telling just how long scarlett had been sitting there, no window to gaze out of or visible clocks on the walls.

no one came, not to leave food or drink or to torture her. the faint glittering of a silencing spell could be glimpsed bordering her room and she found herself wondering how many other wards had been placed upon the circumference of her confines.

she deduced that he would have had someone cast them while she was stunned, presumably the red head that had been left to 'guard' her.

the pounding in her skull had reduced to a dull ache and as her mind raced she almost yearned for the distraction which came alongside the pain.

     the wall before her was too plain for her liking, a perfect canvas. she found that her sleep deprived mind would often paint a picture. it was always the same haunting scene - a knee height girl standing with tear stained cheeks and a corpse at her feet.