Author Games: Red Room

Task Six: Angela Belmont

If only the darkness that grew inside silence could be controlled, there would never be another need for alternative energy sources. Angela's heart grew cold and distant, leaving all traces of humanity with a tinge that burnt like the hell that existed around her. There was a beauty in the wildness, like that of a Goddess striking down her hand and creating a world so wonderful that those that live there could never come close enough to its perfection. Against this beauty is the hate that grew deep within, its roots crowding underneath the surface and reaching everything, poisoning the stream of water and killing all the fruit born from its glories.

The world watched her, a target walking through the woods. Red stained her body, marking her, and the game was soon to begin.

She traveled it, her body aching, like a snail. Each movement was soft, butter against a knife, and her heels marked the dirt with her name. Something rose in the dirt behind her, following her movements, but there was no back for her to turn, no way to look behind when the forward was hard enough.

A hardness had covered her mind, forcing her to submit to its will. All she knew was the past two days--an eternity of silence and pain that repeated itself over and over. The deerskin was falling off, the subpar stitches never meant to stay, and as it shed so did all her innocence. She was naked, a fawn in the wild...if fawns were whores who with every passing second crawled their way into the depths of purgatory.

Hell awaited her, this she knew, but to get there first she needed to walk.

Purgatory was wild. It was a circus about her. Those that followed in silken shadows watched her, their prey just inches away from death, and the forest only got larger the further she walked. In some places, it was clear, in others almost entirely full, all filled with leaves and decay. Blood splattered trees showed her where to go, marking a path that was illuminated by the last rays of a dying sun.

Diligently, she followed, the shadows behind her growing ever closer. A crackle formed in the air, snapping and sizzling. The wind blew past, gentle and slow, carrying with it a burnt scent. It was wood, wet leaves...and cloth. The smell of fabric as it shot up in flames. Then, she heard a cry, one lone voice in the growing night, haunting her soul as it claimed a place within her memory that would never be taken away.

His voice was agony.

From age fifteen to nineteen they were the on and off fling of the century. Two flames danced, sparking one another each time one would dim. They kissed like they were stuck there, glued to the inside of the others mouth, permanently exploring territory that they so desperately needed to colonize. He was older than her, an experienced man and his freshly shaven face made him seem young. He would buy her pot and alcohol and they'd get drunk and high and sit there laughing at stupid movies as the smoke curled in rings around them.

His face was contorted, eyes rolled up to the heavens and lips parted, a gasping fish without water, burning up in the heat of the day as the waves rolled far, far away, leaving him to dry out. The flames were slow, the bonfire below not yet roaring. The night was long and the fire would take all the time it needed.

"Angel," he'd moan, his fingers stroking up her sides. He'd take a touch, then too, and suddenly she'd be burning alive. She was nervous, her heart racing, stomach uneven. The touch hurt in ways she couldn't describe, yet was so exciting, so hot, and she craved every small movement. His tongue fondled her neck, lips sucking, a rough surprise as his teeth would graze her, just for a second, before he'd go back, making her gasp and squeal in delight. "Ugh, please."

"Howard..." Always, that unease. The slight pull away. Her hand placed over his, keeping him from going too deep. "Not tonight, baby. Let's just play."