Written Prompts

01

Warning!

Light descriptions of gore/mentions of blood, mentions of mental manipulation. The story is written only with he/she pronouns with preexisting characters in mind. 

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"Don't try and stop me."

"That's not why I'm here."

And then he pushed her off the ledge.

~

She could hear them. The screams. They echo in her ears, pool around her eyes in the liquid embodiments of remorse. The guilt is an imp on her back, twisting its tiny claws into her flesh. The tear rolls from her eye, over her orange flesh, off her nose, and down, down, down, ten stories, twenty stories. It splatters on the ground, an invisible speck from the rooftop.

The ledge beneath her feet is thin, but she is graceful. Lithe. A gymnast, a perfect physical weapon of speed and agility. This is why he chose her. Never in her life has she ever been unsure of her footing.

Until now.

Though it's not her actual foot, perched on the ledge that she worries about. No, it is the leg her mental state stands on, fatigued, weak, ready to collapse. She has done so many bad things. Under the guise of misdirection they all seemed so justified. But now, finally, finally in her own, un-addled state of mind, the weight of her indiscretions threatens to crush her sternum.

Breath does not come easy to the wicked. She chases it as the rabbit chases safety from the fox: as the captive chases release from its captor.

Speak of the devil, and he doth appear.

Her shadow apparates behind the ledge, hulking and black from her peripheral vision. The metaphorical fox leaps. The captor strikes. Her sanity snaps just as the rabbit's neck, just as the captive's will. Gooseflesh crawls down her spine, shooting across her arms and down her legs. She whirls on a dime, never swaying once from her narrow stage.

"Don't try and stop me," she warns, voice giving away her weakness. It cracks with wariness, showing through to the defeated uncertainty of her very soul.

She sounds exhausted.

His chuckle leaks into her ears, spreading over her brain, sending the signals between her synapses sprawling. It's his voice.

The one that corrupted her.

The fabric around her waist flutters around her delicate frame, tasting the freedom of the breeze. It promises the cool caress of air- if she could just move through it. She is rooted to her spot.

"That's not why I'm here."

And with that simple phrase, all of the vile, insidious, sinful things he once uttered to her pour into her imagination. The things he threatened. The things he promised. The things that molded her into the defiled masochist she was for him.

The screams rage against her eardrums again. She can feel the blood course over her fingers, though she had to remind herself its not there. It's not there. It's not there. The memories assault her, tear at her defenses, wrench the remnant scraps of her sanity from her skull.

There is nothing.

Nothing but the slow and steady beat of approaching footsteps.

She blinks back from looking at the bloodied skull of a man in her palm to his face. It's calm. Steady. She no longer is.

His proximity sparks an instinctual fear inside of her, sending her back a half step. Her heel hangs over the edge, her weight resting in the balls of her feet, like she's ready to spring. Now, she has become the lioness, waiting for her moment to pounce. Though on what, she's not entirely sure.

There's no more room to recede, and he stops merely inches in front of her, the ledge barely able to provide the height advantage for her to look down at him. He placed a hand on her chest, and opens his mouth to speak. The moment passes and he closes his lips, seemingly having thought better of speaking. With his other hand, he brushed a stray lock of fiery hair from her confused face.

And then he pushed her off the ledge.