This is your Addiction: A Sheminist Collection

Tag, You're it

Submittedby twirlyswirly

A/N: Before you begin, I would just like to add that this was loosely based off of -- you guessed it: Tag, You're It by Melanie Martinez. Give it a listen if you'd like. Next, I would like to quickly apologize to anyone if it seems I have written the characters strangely. Also, this is a bit different from my typical 'style', I simply wanted to try something different. (Don't judge to too harshly) Thank you!

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-Run, Run, RUN!

Her heart pulsating through her being, the warped sensation of her mind pulsing her forward in her advance. Like a broken record, the voice in her head cried out to her:

 RUN!

It was pure animal instinct. The virtuous man watched from afar. He liked to watch her run, observing her ebony locks bounce to the beat of her terror. He never understood the fear. Why would she run from him? A gentleman, such as himself, would hardly have any intention of harming her. He only wanted her to feel wanted. He would make her feel whole - she just didn't know it yet. 

He continued his leisurely pursuit. Cold sweat beaded down on her. She had been running for an eternity. She could see the shallow breaths before her, a soft steam billowing from her lips. The chill clung to her skin, nipping and prickling the spine. Swirling her head around, she watched as the virtuous man sauntered behind, a charming smile plastered to his lips. Her frantic steps raced forward, breathing rugged and muscles tender. 

She had to escape. 

Her pupils scanned the environment before her. Endless parking lot, endless dark. The rows of designated parking stretch on for an unknown infinity. I must keep running, she tells herself. The longer she runs, the more pain she feels. Her feet feel bare now, as though the ground has scraped away the reminding flakes of shoe, replaced with damp, bare feet. She can feel the jagged pavement pecking at her delicate feet. Scarlet liquid starts to soak her flesh, staining the olive hues of her pigment. The torment settles. Like running on broken glass, the cement begins to to slice her feet, turning the tire of running into agony. And yet, she carries on.He cannot catch her. He mustn't. 

"Little dove, don't hurt yourself." She hears the virtuous man behind her call, a faint whisper. Her steps are intermittent, scattered and a irregular. She stretches her lanky legs to their limit, making each torment-induced step count. It is soon after everything slows. At her full capacity speed, every quick-paced move she attempts slows greatly. Everything has become very heavy - to move itself is a burden. A flash of silver disrupts her panic, the pointed elongation spiking from the vile is enough. The needle shatters to the cement, glass spilling across the pavement. 

Her vision blurs, her head is heavy. She is calm. Too calm. She tries to scream. No sound comes out, only the knock of his shoes against the cement. Her voice is strained, a soundless shout that stole the words from her mouth. She doesn't comply, the carnal instinct to survive is too great. That is all she has now, primitive thought. Her mind screeches at her. 

RUN.

RUN.

RUN.

 Her docile body fights as the other party. It refuses to move. It is an internal war. His footsteps echo off of the buildings around her. Each step closer. Closer to her. He pities her. 'Look at the pain', he thinks, 'I will relieve her. I will free her.' The woman tries to move, but she is paralysed within herself. Her head is screaming, shrill and scratchy. Her arms shake, the anxiety eating her away like a vulture to its prey. Her breathing is short and hollow, a storm of translucent steam raging in her presence. His slim fingers grasp her bare shoulders.

Her whole body stops, rigid, she is immobile. Her mind tears itself apart. Like a wave to city, or ash to the lungs, it toppled everything, washing it away to never be salvaged. The cries halt abruptly. There is nothing left. All that remains is the false relaxation of the toxic cocaine poisoning her blood. 

The glorious rapture of the virtuous man is ecstatic. His nerves tingle at the faint touch of her soft skin. The glutton of his pleasure poisons him. He allows himself the luxury of tracing his nimble fingers along her arms, delighting in the sensation of prickled hair on his neck. He will be gentle to her. She isn't the others.

 "She is my high," he mumbles, "she is my drug." The insatiable thirst for her tortures his mind. He wants her all for himself -- not the detective man. He leans towards the woman, their lips just apart. In her daze, she can feel the nervous, moist breath of the virtuous man. His lips are so close now- she can't escape. She can't escape.

 RUN,

 RUN,

RUN!

It is an awful burning that tears Millie from the sheets. Sweat clings to her being, she is at a loss for breath. Her bellowing cries howl to every corner and crawl of London, and she can't stop. She is shaking, trying to force her body to stop the intense quake. Salty tears pool from her eyes with such ferocity, they may leave scars. The screams come to a standstill as she intakes for breath. The door clicks open. Emily emerges from the hall, eyes clouded with a genuine concern. She shuffles to the bed, seating herself beside her. She settles her muscular arms on a petrified Millie.

 "It's going to be okay." Emily knew her words were just mere condolences, but that was all she could provide.