Obscure Occurrences |C. BAREBONE|

☛ Thirty-Nine ☚

• April, 1927 •

The moon arched over the darkening sky, creeping across into day as Genevieve reluctantly left Credence. Her heart thrummed with a memorable tune and forgotten lyrics, her body vibrated with a fear as her hands curled and uncurled from tight fists. She had done this so many times before yet never had been promised punishment.

Genevieve's throat swelled with a stiffening terror and choked the love from her body. In a undulated whisper through wind Credence's soft, vulnerable voice left her mind. She was an ocean. Her small form drank and digested all happy memories into waste. Nothing was going to shield her mind and body from the assaults it would endure.

The witch tried to calm herself, she attempted to remember her book on history of magic while one foot fell into another daunting step.

When Genevieve came to the tent of the Marvellous (Muggleborn) Metamorphagus, she felt as if she was staring agony in the eye. It stood there before her with a menacing glare which spoke all words. It said:

"You will not forget today, Genevieve Burnett".

And the witch didn't doubt she would before she shakily pushed the tent flap aside.

☛✹☚

"That was fun, wasn't it?" Catriona sighed in delight as she stood from the satin bedsheets. Being Skender's loyalist worker she got everything or anyone. While she dabbed her lips with rouge, her smile wide against beautifully, white teeth. Genevieve shook into the blankets with silenced sobs. If you could see the once dark witch, you wouldn't recognise her under the bloody bites and purple bruising. Only hours earlier, Catriona had morphed her face into that of a dog and gnawed at the girl's flesh, scratching at her hips with extended nails for claws and nipping at her neck with fangs replacing blunt, human teeth. From where Catriona sat, Genevieve was shivering in pain each time the cold wind buried into her cuts. The witch even feared to move an inch in worry of the red liquid pouring faster from her veins.

"Oh don't worry, they are all flesh wounds, nothing too damaging" The witch chuckled before magically flinging Genevieve's clothes onto her shivering form.

Despite the pain, Genevieve bit harshly at her bottom lip and slowly and oh so carefully pulled her dress over her head. Each movement forced the cuts to bleed faster until the green fabric clung to her frail body in a haunting dampness.

"What's taking you so long?-" Catriona exclaimed, daring not to look back, "- get going then!".

And with the venom laced words, Genevieve limped from her tent and toward the one she shared with Credence.

Genevieve's legs nearly dragged behind her as she fought further to the tent. She no longer wanted to walk helplessly slow against the violent winds which knifed her. Genevieve only wanted to feel safe and warm, she wanted to be curled up in Credence's side with no worries waiting from the outside.

While Genevieve was gone for the night, Credence was waiting for her to come home like he always had done. This time, however, his mind swarmed with images of what could happen. It involved blood and torment. But he knew Genevieve was too strong to just take it, she would've fought back and returned already if Catriona places a hand on her head. Genevieve was filled with much pride as a dark witch.

Yet, those thoughts, so strong and reinforced, were broken in an instant as Genevieve came collapsing into the tent.

Her feet hadn't even made it through the tarp and already Genevieve was down for the count. She wasn't able to move any longer, her whole body was numb to her desires of heat. But it still came anyway. In moments Credence had barrelled forward and ignored Genevieve's moans of pain as he cradled her into his arms and gently placed her onto their bed.

Without a chance to study her wounds, blood had already seeped through her dress and onto the thin cotton sheets of their small beds.

He couldn't ask permission in times like this.

Credence ripped her dress from her crumpled form without a word, only a moan of protest as his eyes laid upon her pale skin.

Like a map, trails of red travelled across Genevieve's thighs and around her hips toward her lower back. They weren't thin cuts, nonetheless deep as they were imprinted upon her skin. As his black orbs trailed further up, he noticed the dog bits littering Genevieve's upper arms, shoulders and throat. The witch was completely engulfed by wounds, cuts and slits of crimson.

The sight was a nightmare to the Obscurial. And no matter how hard he tried to keep calm, he could no longer; not without Genevieve's sing-song voice cooing in his ear.