+ ~ I M P U R I T Y ~ +

+ ~ If I Were A Masochist ~ +

"Hello?"

".."

"I know you're here, I can feel your breathing."

".."

The figure sighed, looking towards her.

"Your sigh sounded grey, is something wrong?"

"I did not want to do that, I'm getting too tired with all this," he cleared his throat, "shit"

Pandora reflected on her voice, it was turning icy blue. That was odd for her.

"I'm sorry."

"Please forgive me."

Clang.

"Mildred was-"

Clang.

The child blinked, her light cobalt eyes settling upon the figure's head region. She broke into a cold sweat, feeling her hair stick to the sides of her face.

"Do not leave me."

Already Pandora could feel the rubber shriek of his shoe's soles against the floor.

Tears pricked at her eyes, threatening to rain downwards.

Clang.

The sounds sounded like an electrified yellow before they faded into a monotone gray. Light flashes before her eyes, the sound of a creak following after it. As quickly as the light came it was gone, the sound of oak banging against the doorframe.

Pandora sat, legs going into a crisscrossed position. She perched on one of the upper columns. She looked down, her gaze adjusting to the dark abyss of a warehouse. The masked figure had left. He was nice, usually. The child picked away at one of her scabs, paying no mind to the rest of her distorted leg. Pandora watched as crimson violently began to squirt, raining down on parts of the ground under her. The substance faded as it descended lower, and after a minute or two the excess material stopped shooting out of the wound at last.

Pandora could sense disappointment. Her ability to hear coloration faded along with her mood. The child blinked. That had been an ability that she rarely had the time to enjoy. It never lasted. Despite the good out of this lasting a demanding side effect existed boldly, this profound yet peculiar instance more often than not tampered with other abilities that those civilized took the liberty of. When she could hear such vivid color it became hard for her to decipher other senses. Call it a 'sensory overload' to simplify.

Although one of her 'senses' always stayed the same. The sense of pleasure and excitement in harming herself. Ah, how it would make her happy. Just the thought of finally ridding the world of herself. She was simply another one of the world's deformities. Yet, some aspect of the cold metal touching her flesh relieved some of the constant heartaches she faced. For every moment after she would feel rejuvenated. Tired, from blood loss, but rejuvenated, and on most occasions, like clockwork, would take a long nap to calm her nerves afterward. The cocoa haired girl would always wake up with the wounds stinging as the repulsive odor of strong alcohol wafted in the air, bandaged head to toe (if needed) in gauze.

Pandora would stick razors into her mouth just to momentarily feel the chalkiness in her oral cavity. The chalkiness being of her own flesh when slices of her cheeks droop onto her tongue. Like granulated sugar that same chalk texture would begin to melt away, only to leave a filmy substance in its place. A substance from her own flesh that she would spit out with a glare of spite and disdain. The Comedy Man constantly scolded her for such actions to herself. Actions she'd rather not induce to herself in public.

The child was still learning about life, how to live. She was still stumbling about like a chicken without her head when searching for meals after all. The child considered herself to be 'lucky' to have the privilege of having a roof over her head. The Comedy Man provided heat and water for her. He just happened to take the child in. The child's eyes blinked.

The child curled up into a petite and compact ball upon one of the rafters before dozing off to sleep. Wings draping over the side in a lazy bundle of monotonous sterling highlighted charcoal feathers.

The heat turned on, a tame, yet repugnant buzzing cascading across the once serene, yet freezing atmosphere.

"She's not the most normal out of the bunch, we can state that for a fact."

"We'll check on her every now and then, drop her off food at a designated location."

"Y'know, the usual, unidentifiable bodies and such."

"Hell, we could even rob funeral homes after the wake, no one would know the difference."

"You're treating her like she's being an animal relocated!"

Air. Air. Air. Air.

Oxygen needed to flood into her lungs as she tumbled, choking as she failed to breathe. Water surrounded her, she couldn't breathe. She couldn't. Air refused to push into her lungs. She was choking, gagging, wheezing. No! No! No! Her face heated, as though someone had allowed an open flame upon it. Ripe tears swelled upwards in her eyes as her esophagus felt as though it was collapsing. The girl felt her lungs as their bronchi pulsed with agony, pain stemming off of pain like the head of broccoli or a tree's branches. Jagged chunks of keratin ground themselves across her trachea as she tried to claw whatever was ailing her out of existence. Metallic began to pour as the markings grew deeper. Flood. Flood. Flood. Flood. Flood. A flood was erupting down from the oak rafters, pouring over the dot made previously. Raven ooze that was coarser than lard and stickier than glue poured outwards as she had removed the layer of skin from her gullet. Strings of cartilage were dismantled from her throat, spanning out on her clawed fingertips like stringed toffee. Did the perpetrator leave at last? She went numb, as though someone had poured cough-syrup down what she assumed was her esophagus. Being as uneducated as the child was, she had no grasp of the situation she had put herself in. Scarlet reds gushed from her nose, burning the nostrils as she desperately tried to nullify the bleeding through pressure. The thinning figure panicked, her needle-like nails penetrating instead the flesh of her nostril, going through the septum. A whine passed through her throat. It was as though she practically damned herself. Horrendous shrieks shot out, a  catharsis of her ever-day suffering. A predatory-cycle of self-harm, healing, vowing to not do it again, and inevitably repeating the mistakes of old. Pandora stood to her ravaged feet, warmth applying pressure to her frontal lobe. Her temples felt over-run, as though her brain was about to explode. Dizziness overrode her brain's power in order to stabilize consciousness, and in a confused moment, her figure toppled from the rafters. Right limb, partially catching upon a nearby set of cabling, caused her ankle to snap backward, crackling, before giving out and once again sending her into a free-fall. This caused her to spiral throughout the air, land flat out onto her back from a whopping thirty-three-foot drop, and obviously cause fatal-damage to herself. Pandora's retina bulged from their sockets, the pungent odor of her own bodily fluid over-whelming. If only life allowed her to give in to its charms so easily. Although there was no exact way for survival to be possible, as it seemed, that catch on cabling along with the mixture of inhuman properties saved her from a slow fate. Immediate attention was also given, for as the world seemed to fade out of existence and grant her to the peace she oh so desperately searched for, she heard the tumultuous, feverish, and violent sound of footsteps as someone she knew presumably cleared the metal steps. Without hesitation, a rag was slammed half-way in and out of her trachea, the gloves that performed this haphazard procedure causing chafing with the rest of her flesh.