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Mark awoke with a headache. He had no idea where he was, or how he had gotten there. Blurry-eyed, he attempted to bend himself upward as he massaged his temple. An awful smell assailed him and made him wince. Vomit and piss. Probably wasn’t his bed, or at least hopefully. He moved his other hand toward the opposite temple, but soon felt a hard clank against a tender spot. He groaned as looked at the hand, white-knuckled and clutching a Corona. That was great, just beautiful, passed out. He blinked hard and shook his head once, it helped his vision a bit, but he didn’t want to risk getting up. He felt a brisk wind and realized where he must be. It was cold, way too cold to be coming from inside. He froze and grabbed onto whatever he could find. Why did he have to pass out here of all places? He loved heights too much.

His vision suddenly began to clear, but he already knew where he was. Second story of the haunted house, the front windowsill, to be precise. The three-foot wide section of plaster over brick was where he was, and between him and a fifteen foot plummet to the concrete porch below was a layer of glass that hadn’t existed for years. He had been laying on his side, right along where he realized he would certainly have fallen. The thought sobered him, but, at the same time, gave him a sense of pride and excitement that he had been that close to death the entire night. He laughed a bit and swished the bottle around to see if he had left any. None. Greedy Bastard. He chucked the lifeless corpse out of the gaping hole he had been flirting with and attempted to rise to his feet. Colors rushed him and his headache climaxed, he’d try again later. What did he do last night?

Stacy, he did Stacy. He chuckled again, stupid bitch. She showed up, and in about five minutes, she was mad and jumping all over him. He ran his fingers through his hair, what a sexy son of a bitch. He looked over and spotted where she had passed out, right where he had left her, about four feet on her journey of leaving him behind because he was “such a perv”. Made his night, seeing her looking at him, no control over the expression of her face, eyes looking all over the place, tears running, telling him that that was it after she had given it all up. Four feet and smack, right onto the wood of the second floor, passed out. He was a little drunk, so he wondered why he remembered it so vividly, but it wasn’t till after he went back downstairs and did the heavy stuff did it seem like a good idea to go flirt with death.

He assumed that was his though process after he went back down to get drunk, but really didn’t care. It was Saturday morning, about eleven on a cold, crisp spring day. He slowly got up, and started his shamble downstairs, stepping over the stupid bitch. He loved the haunted house, it was his house, and whoever came, came because they had a reason to see him. It was a good-sized place, for some reason or another ditched by whoever lived in it in the sixties. Probably because it was in the middle of nothing. Maybe they wanted to be farmers but were too lazy to work the land? Whatever happened, it was an awesome house, right smack in the middle of a field of grass, right smack in the middle of the most screwed up woods he had ever seen. Every inch of it was covered with razor sharp thorns, and it was about three quarters of a mile to the clearing. It was a great day when he first discovered it when he was eight, and he had been spending since then, tangling through the hellish brush, that he half-created, half-discovered a secret path to. It was truly his place.

Like a friggin war scene. The downstairs were riddled with bodies, probably made the same mistake he did, sans the like for dangerous situations. He gave one corpse a hard kick, and was amused when it had no effect other than an audible groan, he’d feel it later. He rubbed his temple again, it wasn’t the worst he’d ever had. There wasn’t a door, so he walked strait into his front yard. His parents probably wondered where he was, then again, they probably didn’t give a shit. He stretched out and took a breath, what a night.

((Visit the OOC before you do anything else, A Study into Evil and Corruption OOC ))

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There will be a time for words.

A Study into Evil and Corruption

She always lost herself in here, the second she turned the taps and hot, steamy water erupted from the faucet – her mind began to wander. Seconds…minutes…hours. She’d tuned the world out for almost an entire day once while she stood, still as a statue with her head turned up, hands pressed to the warm tiles, bracing herself against the wall while hot water splashed her face and seeped through her long, dark, wild locks.

She’d worn it short back then, the wispy ends of her hair had only just touched the tops of her shoulders, they’d worn it that way too – the girls. She’d never met them – not personally, she saw their pictures. Their bodies looked frozen, their skin as clear and smooth as alabaster, almost translucent, she remembered staring at their blue veins as they shone through their dead flesh and wondering…Why hadn’t he cut up their faces like he had their bodies? Fourteen….fourteen girls, each and any of them could have been her sister, from their small, petite builds to their angelic faces, the youngest was fifteen, the eldest was nineteen, at the time she was twelve. She didn’t know their names, she could never remember what they’d been called, what their parents had screamed when they saw their angels lying there on cold steel slabs. She went to all their funerals and yet she couldn’t remember what was etched into their gravestones. But their faces, the look of manufactured peace on their still features was etched permanently into her memory.

Had they looked that way while they were with him? She doubted it.

A loud, sudden thud broke her from her trance, Lil blinked, hard and shook her head as she turned and looked at the shower curtain, as if she could see through it to the door.

“Open up!”

The shrill, croaked voice wailed like a harpy and the knocking resumed. She didn’t move, her eyes stared about the bathroom, the air was choked with steam – how long had it been this time? She lifted a bottle of shampoo and began to wash her hair, the knocking continued so persistently that eventually it was nothing but a dull annoyance in the back of her mind.

“Open the fucking door!”

She calmly rinsed her hair and began to lather herself in a body wash that smelt of vanilla and cinnamon. The knocking turned to an open hand banging, stopped, a moment of something that sounded like kicking, a brief pause, a muttered swear and the knocking resumed.

“Fucking hell!”

Lilith stood still and let the now cooling water rinse the suds from her pale flesh. Eyes closed, she inhaled slowly and waited until the water was frozen then twisted the taps and severed the flow. The consistent knocking broke for an unusually long time, five whole seconds and then the door handle shook as if someone were trying to open it from the other side. Lilith grasped a fluffy white towel and wrapped it warmly about her thin, shivering, dripping body. Several sharp bangs sounded on the door, she lifted her chin and stared at it as if she expected the wood to splinter at any moment.

“For fuck sakes – Open the door now Kri-”

The door swung open so fast that a slight breeze rippled through the air and sent the steam swirling into the corridor. The final word was silenced as Lil stood, blocking the entrance to the bathroom, her pale grey eyes looked silver and cold under the white glow of the light bulb. There before her was an older woman of about her height, her dry, messy dark hair salted grey, she dressed in a peach flannel bathrobe, held a cigarette in one hand and tapped her bare foot in agitation against the floorboards.

“So you’re finally awake,” it was already ten in the morning, “Have fun last night, Claire?” Lil stated blankly as she looked the woman up and down before meeting her dark, almost soulless brown eyes.

The woman’s face visibly twitched in anger, they shared their features, the same small nose, defined jaw line and thin lips, course hers seemed sour, Lil had a sweeter look to her that could only be credited to her youth.

“You watch what you call me – I’m still your damn mother!” Claire retorted sharply and took half a step forwards to enter the bathroom, Lil dug her heels in and didn’t move out of the way. They were close now, she smelt of cheap booze and even cheaper aftershave.

“You do the same,” Lil breathed, her words seethed through her clenched teeth. She chanced a look to one side, “I’m not going to run into someone I shouldn’t on the way to my room, will I?” The implication was blatant and it was one she’d made too often, one that no daughter should have to say to her mother.

“He left,” Claire replied as she stared down and looked directly at the sparkling crystal orb covered in tiny dew drops that dangled about Lilith’s slender neck. “You’re just like him,” she hissed and forced her way into the bathroom, Lil didn’t have to look, she could hear her falling to her knees in front of the toilet, heard her retch, heard the practically empty contents of her stomach splash into the water. She was surprised she’d held it in this long.

“So you keep telling me,” Lil whispered as she walked down the corridor, leaving a trail of wet footprints in her wake. She passed her mothers ajar bedroom door and glanced in, the sheets were tossed, the floor lined with beer cans and half empty bottles of spirit and by the door was a not so perfect circle of watery, stinking vomit.

Figures she didn’t hold it in.

Lilith was dressed and making her way out of the apartment before Claire had even risen from her knees and stopped hurling into the toilet bowl. She buttoned her crimson jacket, wrapped a red tartan scarf about her neck, over the damp, free falling locks of her hair in an attempt to tame it as she rushed out the door with a black canvas bag sewn all over with random patches hung over her shoulder and an old manual camera swinging from her neck. Outside the sun was warm but the air was cold and the breeze was fierce, she wandered down the street with the camera clutched like some childhood treasure in her gloved hands. There wasn’t much to do in a small town, not many places to go, at least – when you were outcast there wasn’t. True, she could have gone to the drive-in, the mall, the internet lounge, the game arcade, these were all viable hang-outs for a teenager on a Saturday morning and perhaps she might have if she hadn’t threatened to eviscerate a cheerleader her first day at school. She’d only been in the fucking town a week and already she had enemies, it was her fault really – the bitch had touched her and told her if she lost a few more pounds she might make it at try-outs. Still, perhaps it was better that way, no friends, no one to pry into her personal life, into her past. No one to ask her questions, no one to stab her in the back, no one to risk sharing her secrets with. A week in ‘Shitsville’ and all anyone knew about her was her name, she’d chosen it because it was hard to forget, course she had other reasons for changing her name, for one it was better than the original. One day in Louisiana and gossip with a remarkable pension for the truth had spread like wildfire through the school. The next day her bags were packed and they – she and her mother were gone. A week and she still had boxes towered in the corners of her all but barren room, she was still expecting them to move again. Hoping? Perhaps?

With a soft sigh Lil perched herself on a park bench where she sat crossed legged and right in the middle, head held high, brows raised as she watched people pass her by. Most stayed away from her, news spread quickly in a small town, she barely knew anyone and yet already everyone seemed to know her face, her name, what she’d said and the fact that she seemed to arrive out of nowhere. She was an enigma to them, small town folk didn’t like strangers or people who seemed to have something to hide, they could smell secrecy on her like a wolf could smell fear in a lamb and in turn, she could see worry in their eyes. There seemed to be something amiss here, every family had their skeletons, every town had their unsavoury events, she recognized the expression on their faces, they were afraid, but of what?

A soft smile flittered across her lips and Lil pushed herself from the park bench and turned down the street, headed in the direction of the library.

If nothing else it was something to do.

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The table was silent between them, and Simon silently wished that he hadn't taken the seat adjacent to his mother. Although she didn't say much, he knew that he was being watched by the despicable eyes between her crows feet. But the main thing that bothered him, the real main thing, was that although the only sounds bouncing off the mahogany walls of the dining were the sounds of metal forks on glass plates, they would inevitably be interrupted. But for now, Simon only exchanged glances with the Picture of Jesus in The Last Supper, which was posted up on the wall in front of him.

"So," she said and continued to chew her fried ham. It was only morning and Simon could feel bad mojo crawling through the creaky wooden floorboards of the house, and here it was about to present itself. Of course, she couldn't wait to finish chewing before starting a sentence, she had been wanting to get this conversation rolling for a long time. Simon's mother sucked a miniscule piece of ham out between her yellowed teeth and said, "did you finish taking your meds?"

Simon poured some more hot sauce onto his eggs in anxiety. She was going to put a gun to his head, wasn't she? She needed to feed off of his misery. He had to look at her before their meeting was over or leave the beast unfed and angry. "Simon?" she asked him again, extending her hand across the table and leaving an inch short of touching him.

"What?" he asked. The fact that he didn't turn his head towards her, only turned his eyes towards her made him feel slight accomplishment with the scalding elixir of guilt.

"Did you take the medication? You know, if you don't do what the doctor tells you, it's right back to therapy." She was happy to throw that in.

"Ma, it's a head doctor, I think I have enough sense to trust her word. Plus, the meds are only one brick of the mansion. You know, I probably need a physical therapist to get over the muscle dysmorphia," he said with reluctance. Was she pulling him into her game? He didn't know. But the good thing was that she would stay silent for a few seconds. He had said the words: muscle dysmorphia. She was stunned.

He finished the last of his eggs whilst savoring the aesthetic of breakfast food. The yellow of the yolk; the red of the hot sauce; the white of whatever that was -- he would look it up later.

"You didn't answer my question, Simon." she stated plainly. He could tell that her game was over at this point, somehow. Her eyes seemed more content. Maybe. Maybe he was just crazy, he didn't know.

"I'll take them when I get back, ma." He got up and left the remains of breakfast on the table. She would take it back to the kitchen like she always did; he thought that she thought that doing this would make him feel properly mothered.

"Simon," she said and didn't look up. He stopped in his tracks before he could even open the door. "To see you fail in life would be my greatest unhappiness."

"Okay."

--

Simon looked upon the bodega from the front door like it was a familiar hunting ground where he and a few select others from his clan ruled. Whenever he entered this place -- the messily organized home of slushees, hotdogs and cinnamon buns -- he felt the brutal truth.

To them, people like the cashier of the bodega, he was the perfectly attractive metrosexual well-to-do rich kid. And sometime, when he was in his tweens and watching shows like The Sopranos and Desperate Housewives as if he was an adult, he had formulated that since he suffered from the disorder of muscle dysmorphia, he was a punk to his own niche. He was avante garde. But as he looked over the bodega, where normal people roamed, he always knew that no matter how avante garde he thought himself to be, he would be in a different league.

Simon gulped with dismay and indulged himself upon buying two boxes of Hot Pockets and Spaghetti-Os, which a normal middle-class family would have frequently in their generic Whirlpool refridgerator. As he slid it across the caramel colored counter, he looked up to see the attractive cashier. He was obviously middle-class; he wore Abercrombie and Fitch. It was badass and exciting, and Simon made a mental note to start wearing Abercrombie and Fitch.

Simon knew that the cashier knew instantly that he was gay from the way Simon stared at him. Although he was uncomfortable, the cashier was obligated to wish him a nice day. Simon wasn't obligated to say shit, because he would never be out of money, but it didn't come off like this was true. Simon thanked the man and silently pretended to care about how plastic bags are contributing to the world's destruction.

And as he left, Simon looked backwards upon the cashier with jealousy. A mediocre life with challenges and potential thought and humour that came so easily because it was the only thing they could do to get their minds of problems. He probably had problems, and his family probably had problems. Simon would kill for problems like his.

Simon turned around and looked across the Town Square where he saw the library. He had the choice of going home, watching television and eating cinnamon buns or going to read about the secret lives of other people. He chose the latter.

And at that moment, it became clear to Simon that he was a broken person.

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The air in here was stifling, it smelt of musty old books, moth eaten pages, squeaky leather shoes and fresh black stamp ink. The heavy door sucked open, she crossed the threshold and instantly could have gagged, perhaps that could have been due to her utter lack of an appetite, or more specifically, lack of appetite for booze and cigarettes, Claire scarcely bought anything else. Lil unbuttoned her coat to reveal a tight, strapless black corset underneath and with two fingers she loosened her scarf, the long woollen ends hung by her hips and swept about her almost valiantly as she rushed past the librarian in an attempt to avoid meeting her skeletal bird-like features. The woman stared at her over a pair of wire frame glasses, pursed her lips and squinted, it gave Lil the unnerving impression that she was examining her as if she expected to see a worm crawl out her ear – that at least would give the vulture a reason to attack her. She ducked out of sight behind a crowded, far too organized bookshelf, shivers ran up and down her spine, she breathed as if a weight had been lifted from her small, narrow shoulders and walked confidently through the aisle of bookcases. Her eyes trailed along the shelves and book spines with a feigned interest, fiction, non-fiction, encyclopaedia’s – she wasn’t here for any of these.

Then she saw them, the many gleaming silver towers that housed an immense amount of files, newspaper clippings, town records…old police reports? She could only dream. The crisp sound of the drawer opening was music to her ears, her fingers flittered through the folders from A to B to C and landed finally in D.

DISASTERS.

How perfectly blunt.

Lil pulled the folder from its home and shoved the drawer closed with a butt of her hip, sidestepped to the nearest desk and dropped into the chair. The folder was a treasure trove that fed her greedy over-inferring nature. She pulled a notebook from her canvas bag and parted the poster collaged cover, flipped through pages upon pages of notes, quotes, vague sketches, sticky taped polaroids and doodles until she found a clean fresh, virgin page. With a black biro held in her left hand she used her right to sift through the mundane until she found the intriguing.

MURDER.

Her eyes gleamed. A wicked grin broke across her face and her hand scribbled across the paper. Dates, number of victims, locations, there weren’t many and therefore there wasn’t much to go on. Small towns were nothing like big cities, bodies weren’t pulled out of dumpsters every morning and those murders that did occur seemed to have their facts over-emphasised in the media. Were these people so pathetic that they had to turn the accidental death of a farmer into a soap opera story of motive and greedy nephews? Was she so pathetic that she actually found it hard to contain herself as she savoured each word? It was entirely possible that this was better than sex. Lil scoffed, now she was over-emphasizing the facts. She brushed away the trash stories and focussed on the truly heinous and it was then that her eyes crossed the heading:

COMMUNITY SHOCKED BY MURDER SUICIDE.

Her chair creaked as she rocked forwards and leant in over the page like a teenage boy ravaging the same old, dirty scrap of an edition of ‘Penthouse.’ She stopped writing and bent her elbow against the tabletop, her wrist went loose, she gripped her pen with her fingertips and touched the tip to the soft flesh of the underside of her jaw. Her pale skin dimpled inwards as she pressed the tip up, pulled it away, let her skin bounce back then pushed it in again, harder and harder each time.

“…shotgun was found alongside the bodies, it had recently been fired. I mourn for the loss of such young lives by the hands of a man who should have cared for and protected his family – that is all.”

The sheriff’s statement.

Her pupils dilated. The trance found her again.

He’d been such a quiet man, at the time he had seemed so gentle, she never noticed how his tender strokes of her cheek or hair would turn stressed and stiff within seconds of contact with her. She never noticed how eagerly he’d sit by her bed and wait for her to fall asleep. She never noticed the smell of blood on his hands. She never noticed the look of pure, animalistic lust in his eyes.

“Ah!” the tip of her pen broke her flesh, Lil blinked hard, the pen hit the desk, a thin line of blood weaved through the many black ink dots on her jowls and ran down her neck. She inhaled sharply and licked the pad of her thumb as if it were a postage stamp and pressed it to the small, insignificant wound until the bleeding stopped.

“This isn’t it,” she whispered, eyes scoured the newspaper clippings. “This isn’t what they’re hiding.” She pushed the papers back into the folder without care that they stuck and hung out the edges in a horrible mess, she didn’t care that she put the folder back out of order and slammed the drawer closed. She leant against the towers with her ankles crossed, eyes vacant, she licked her thumb again and wiped the ink from her jaw.

“Something else,” she muttered the words between her teeth. “Less obvious.” Her eyes sparkled, she turned about, bent at the knee and crouched low as she scanned through the letters with the tip of her index finger.

M.

MISSING.

It was like being in a milk carton factory. She couldn’t believe how many smiling faces stared at her from the contents of that folder.

“Deja – fucking – vu.” She touched the side of her face, slapped herself, her cheek stung and turned pink – she wasn’t dreaming. She bundled them up in her arms and made her way over to the photocopier – this was going to take some time.

__________________

“ Because that’s inconspicuous.”

With the sentence he slapped the copy machine, sending a hollow plastic thump reverberating through the silent halls of the library. The librarians knew better than to do anything about it, because they knew he was going to leave in a matter of minutes, it was always best to wait it out.

“ What has it been, a day or two? You give Stacy Compton some kind of emotional complex, thanks for that by the way, and now you’re printing off pictures of all my old buddies. I would’ve at least tried to stay low. It may not be the kind of thing you were going for, but you have got to be the most suspicious person in town”. With his thanks he gave a twisted sideways smirk that dissipated into the cocky expression he maintained through his entire speech. His tone made it hard to clarify whether or not he was kidding, about as ambiguous as he planned on it being.

He was lucky it wasn’t a workout day, he was not in the mood, but he’d still have to do it if it was. Today, he was just, lucky. It would probably have been weird if anyone looked over and saw him doing push-ups in the middle hangover-hell, but it was a light risk he didn’t mind taking. The repetitive motion worked its way through his upper arms and chest, burning, seething, threatening to give out, but that was what he loved about them. A pure test of endurance, with no real endurance involved, they were easy, and he reveled in them. Four sets of sixty, and he collapsed onto the floor, lying there, unobtrusively because of his surroundings, for a few minutes. As he got up he debated whether or not to actually run that day, but the decision had been made years ago, not on the damn weekend. That was it, the true test of endurance, he holy grail of a masochist, as he saw it, to force yourself to endure unimaginable pain when stopping would be so convenient. It wasn’t even pain, pain he could take, pain he could enjoy, but this was so much more, but pain was the only word he knew to describe it.

He cracked his neck and took a trashy breakfast from the only table in the house. There was some kind of balance in the food decisions he made, but for the most part he wished he had some meat. The best he could come up with was the protein shake he kept in his emergency stash, of course, in case he ever passed out at his own place. He made a note to replenish his stock later. By this time, his guests were leaving, and he bid them good riddance. One guy would never know why he laughed as he limped out the door, clutching his side in pain. He bid a special farewell to Stacy, who refused to look him in the face. Fair enough, he thought.

After a quick shower through tubes the city never knew still ran with water, Mark slipped on the coat and boots he was known for. The reliable leather coat had seen everything, from the razors of the surrounding forest, to a small, uncontrollable flame one night at a party (someone else’s place), and had come out not only in one piece, but somehow unaffected. There had to be some kind of curse on the thing, but he didn’t feel like going over every bad thing that had ever befallen him. The boots though, they were infamous. It wasn’t enough that they were sinister-looking enough to go on the bad-guy in any western, but the stories attached to the two beauties gave them a lasting sentimental value.

A quick trip through the forest, on the only path in or out, and he came out right across the road from town square, behind a Smoothie King (of which he knew all the employees, and had a special connection to the manager). The best place in town as far as he was concerned, but he knew if he dropped in to say hello, he would be there for a while, so he decided to let it slide. Today he felt like making a trip to the grand old town square, the most center with the most history, and of it the most apathetic teenagers throughout “Westriver”. Truly the center of the universe, when it wasn’t his own haunted house.

Upon his entrance across a frantic four-lane highway, he shook himself off. Those guys were out for blood today, he swore. Two minutes into his walk through the metropolis, he had spotted something that had caught his interest. Unmistakably the ass of the new chick, with whom he had wanted a few words. Maybe even thank her for the gift she didn’t know she had given him, but maybe something more. It took some balls to do that to Stacy, but it occurred to him that she probably didn’t know who she was dealing with.

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There will be a time for words.

A Study into Evil and Corruption

The creak of the floorboards outside her bedroom made Josie freeze, poised on the edge of her thin mattress in the process of pulling on her tattered blue running shoes. Slowly, the doorhandle began to turn. Her breath hitched and she felt the bile rise in her throat. Frantically her eyes swept the entire room, desperately trying to locate somewhere for her to hide, perhaps some small nook or cranny that had appeared overnight. Her search revealed nothing remotely helpful, as she knew it would. The room was as tiny as ever, barely big enough to take three strides across it. There wasn’t even a bed to crawl beneath, only the thin, hole-riddled mattress she was sitting on. Not a single piece of furniture graced the small space; her few possessions stacked against the walls and her second-hand clothes neatly folded in a small travel bag in a corner.

Without a sound, her bedroom door swung inward, revealing the object of her terror. He stood framed in the doorway, a man tall enough he was forced to duck his head to walk into her room. He had the slightly overweight look of an athlete gone to seed and the unhealthy pallor of an abuser of drink and drugs, but Josie knew not to underestimate him. He was fast and he was strong and he knew it. Shaking, Josie hugged her knees to her chest, careful to avoid eye contact with him as he took a step closer. She learnt long ago, if you didn’t do anything to provoke him, he sometimes went away.

Not today, however.

His hand shot out, took a handful of her short brown hair and dragged her upwards. An involuntary whimper escaped Josie’s lips and she hated how pathetic it sounded hanging in the silence of the tiny room. His grip tightened and she could feel strands of her hair parting company with her scalp. Her arms hung limply by her side, her hands balled into fists. She desperately wanted to lash out, to kick and punch and scream at him for years of torment but she knew it would only make it worse for herself. Perhaps even cause her death. She was too weak to do much more than give him a bloody nose. He shook her slightly, daring her to lash out and strike back, toying with her. She clenched her teeth and squeezed her fists closed so hard her nails drew blood from her palms.

‘Why are you still here, Josephine?’ he asked quietly, the scent of stale scotch washing over the skinny girl in his grasp. Josie’s heart skipped a beat; he only used her full name if he was furious. Silently she berated herself for not leaving earlier. Why had she taken so long getting dressed?

‘I’m sorry, I’ll go n -’ she began, but was abruptly silenced with a hard slap to the face that sent her ploughing into the floor. Her hand went to her cheek in an ineffective attempt to dull the stinging pain. Her ears were ringing and she could taste blood in her mouth but she wasn’t given any time to dwell on such things as his boot connected heavily with her side. She curled herself into a ball, though she knew it wouldn’t help much and might even infuriate him further.

‘It’s too late now!’ he roared. ‘They’re already here!’ He kicked her again and again. He was always careful not to bruise her face too much, but had no such reservations with the rest of her body. By this time tomorrow, her sickly pale skin would be painted with a variety of painful colours. Knowing this didn’t stop him from trying to kick her across the room, however. Josie knew who was there, probably listening to her beating with idiotic grins plastered on their faces. He called them his ‘poker’ buddies, even though they did almost everything but play cards.

‘I could go through the window,’ she cried, desperately trying to fend off his blows. He didn’t like his friends looking at her, which was why he wanted her gone before they arrived on Saturday mornings. He was protective in his own way but his taste for her humiliation seemed to far outweigh that side of him.

‘No,’ he announced, pulling her up by the scruff of her neck. ‘You will leave through the front door.’

‘Daddy, please,’ she begged softly, as he marched her out of her room, his fingertips pressing harshly into her flesh. Hearing those words, he stopped abruptly at the top of the narrow staircase.

‘Don’t you dare,’ he snarled, his voice low and dangerous. Something flashed behind his eyes and she realised what was about to happen a second too late. With a sharp shove, he sent her flying down the stairs. She tried to stop herself, tried to grab the handrail, tried to cushion her fall but to no avail. Feeling pain shoot up her spine every time her back connected with the wooden steps, she soon became a crumpled mess on the living room floor. She could hear his ‘poker’ buddies laughing at her, could see the glimmer of needles as they shot up to her pain. It was too much.

She ran.

Out the house, through the gate, down the street, toward the park. Josie roughly brushed the tears from her cheeks, bowing her head to hide her red, swollen eyes from the people she passed. Her face was set in a pained grimace, each step she took sent tendrils of agony snaking through her battered body. She suspected she had a few fractured ribs this time and her left wrist felt sprained. Pausing to lean against a tree, she removed the socks from her feet, thinking of her shoes left on the floor of her room. It looked like she would have to go barefoot today, though her baggy cargo pants would hopefully hide the fact from others. She found a drinking fountain in the park and washed her face with the cool water. How could she go back to that tonight? Tears threatened to overwhelm her again, so she pushed the thought to the back of her mind where it belonged. She had nowhere else to go.

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"It's a pity they discontinued the Lucky Strike brand two years ago, Johnny," David began, lighting a cigarette with a black zippo lighter. "You see, I used to smoke a lucky as I told this story... it had a sort of poetic justice to it. You see, my very first cigarette was a lucky. True story. I stole it from my dad when I was ten. He didn't notice. I kept stealing one by one for two years, until he did notice. See... I had taken a whole pack from his carton, like a dumbass."

David paused to look at his company; they were in the alley behind the McDonald's in the town square; they had no company but the dumpster and brick walls. Johnny was nervous; David could see that. People tended to get nervous when David began his speeches.

"Now, Johnny boy, when my dad caught me, first he whooped me good for stealing from him. Then, he sold me a pack. It was that easy. Bastard charged me the price of a carton for a pack though... but by then I was hooked. Now, a year later he went to prison and I got my first fake ID, so I could buy my own luckies, but I learned two things from that little period of my life. First thing, Johnny boy, is to control your vices, and don't get addicted. Now, normally I would never tell a client that. My coke heads and heroin junkies; well, I rely on them getting addicted. That's how I make money. Buy you... you just smoke weed, don't you Johnny? And weed's not addictive, is it?"

David paused, and took a long drag on his cigarette, and stared Johnny square in the eyes. David was a large teen, and the way he carried himself made sure that no one ever forgot it. David didn't stand, he loomed.

"I swear Johnny... If I didn't know better I'd swear that you're addicted to weed. You come by every week and buy a whole ounce! Every week! Why, Johnny boy, you're my best customer! You must smoke a lot of weed, boy, it's a wonder you're passing school."

David finished his cigarette, and let the butt fall to the ground. He put it out with the sole of his shoe.

"Wanna know the other lesson I learned, Johnny boy? There's dealers and buyers, and I'm the dealer. Now... I've heard that you've been dealing on the side Johnny. Taking advantage of my low prices, and reselling my shit for your profit. But I know you wouldn't do that to me Johnny would you? I'm sure you can handle a whole ounce by yourself, can't you Johnny boy?"

...

Sure, it was a waste of product... but it would be a great headline.

Boy Choked to Death on Reefer!

Damn it feels good to be a gangster.

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Shit.

She’d learnt on her first day that few things were synonymous with Mark Sade, topping the list was ‘fucked up’ and ‘awesome parties.’ His other qualities seemed to be obnoxiousness, self righteousness and vanity. He was handsome and carefree and there was something psychotic in his eyes. He was a cat, she was a mouse and it was time for a game.

It turned her on. She couldn't help it.

Lilith smiled softly and leant against the copier, her vintage camera rested its weight on the lid, the strap around her neck slackened, her back arched, her jacket slipped off her naked shoulder ever so slightly, she tucked stray dark hairs behind her ear and with her chin tilted up she angled her head to look at him. He was taller than her, most people were.

“Hello Mark,” she had her doubts that he knew her name, obviously though she had not failed to pass unnoticed over his radar, was that a good thing or a bad thing? There was a listlessness to her voice as she addressed him, but that changed as she rocked back on her heels and pulled on the copier lid, it jerked but did not open, she exhaled evenly, his hand was still pressed atop it.

“I like pictures of dead people,” she said bluntly, it was certainly a strange thing to say, considering the pictures she was photocopying were of ‘missing’ children from up to a decade ago, most of them were young and had they been alive today, no doubt they’d have been about her age.

She had a feeling they were almost definitely dead.

“Do you have a problem with that?” it was more of a rhetorical question than something aimed specifically at him and with those words she pulled hard on the lid, opened it despite his hand, removed the paper that was in there and slipped in a new piece. The lid slammed closed, she pressed a button, the machine whirred to life and a green light beamed out about the edges of the lid.

“I heard you had fun last night,” she didn’t, she guessed, it had been a Friday night, there was gossip through the school of an event and Mark had a somewhat pale, clammy complexion with deep dark bags under his eyes. “Did you have fun with Stacy too?” she wasn’t looking at him now, she seemed to ramble with no real coherency despite that fact that she liked to get inside people’s heads – Mark would prove a challenge when it came to that.

“She may be small but I bet she’s not very tight.”

Was he still the cat by this point, or had she taken that illustrious position?

“Sure, she’s probably good for a spell, but I guess after a while…after you get too close for her for too long the novelty must wear off and you realize how she’s cheapened what once used to be such a precious little toy.” Lil sighed and replaced the sheet of paper in the copier; she had a total of four copies by now.

“Tell the truth,” she looked at him out the corner of her eye and grinned, “How badly did you want to slap her, when she thought she was still good enough to play games with you?” There was a stillness between them then, Lil broke it within seconds, she didn’t like long silences.

She lifted her small pile of papers and shoved them into her canvas bag. Mark was an intriguing individual, on the surface he seemed easy to read, for five years now Lil had been reading people, so many beings in this world were so mundane – he was not, there was more rippling beneath his skin than an inflamed ego and she wanted to peel the layers back until she discovered what it was.

Casually, Lil tossed her bangs from her pale grey eyes and stared out the door for a moment, the day was still bright, the wind still ravaged the world outside, yet it seemed immensely more vicious now than it had been when she’d entered the library. She left the ajar folder on the desk and began to button her jacket, her camera she’d now placed into her bag, her hands stuck in her pockets and she turned somewhat whimsically on her heel to face Mark. They were standing very close, he smelt of – well…lots of things, sex and Corona mostly yet astonishingly he was quite clean, despite the sinful musk that hung about him.

“Want to buy me a burger?” The request was so innocent and perfectly typical in contrasted sharply to the twisted musings that had slipped her lips before, but there were hidden intentions behind her guileless words, there were wheels turning behind her eyes.

Mark had unwittingly posed himself as being useful to her.

There was no turning back now.

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Whenever she spoke she somehow gave the expression that she wasn’t finished, so Mark listened on, silent, his grin growing as she talked on. She knew his name, that was a mild surprise, but altogether likely, it was just strange when his infamy lashed back upon him, preceding him by, in this case, a day or two? Then again, if she listened around, she could get an biography of everyone in the school who had ever had enough balls to tell anyone they did anything. By her tone, he also guessed she knew why he was famous. However, by her expression, although it looked as if she was trying to hide it, he turned her on. With years of experience, he guessed he could read this intention in any chick. Either that, of course, or he turned every chick he talked to on. Either one would have been logical.

She liked dead people apparently. He had dealt with that kind before, and on multiple occasions. Morbid little girls, very similar to one another. Listened to slipknot, wore black coats, all that crap, stereotypes wouldn’t exist if there weren’t so many out around in the world. This one seemed different, however, as if she was fascinated by such a morbid subject matter for a different reason. If she wasn’t like the stereotypes, there was a potential for a pretty good time. Take off all that makeup and all those clothes, he figured, and most chicks squealed the same way. Maybe she really was as she behaved? It would be interesting to find out…

Now did he have a problem with it? Cute. His grin broadened, of course there was a problem, if you walked around with these pictures, you could find half of these people a few cities over, and living very interesting lives. He looked over the pictures, Southridge, Brekenhill, Oklahoma, Mexico, dead, and actually kidnapped. He could never figure out why the runners decided to break for it, they would have been so much comfortable living town life. It was really too bad for them. She might have been interested to know that, but he decided to keep a few secrets, they hadn’t wronged him enough for him to give them away. The dead kid though, that was an interesting story, as he himself was personally involved. It was recent, only a year ago that he saw it.

The dead kid was always on ends with Bobby Cole, and even the highshcoolers heard about their legendary battles. Eventually, they were both suspended, and for about two weeks each. Just long enough. He and some friends were smoking in the woods, and had been for quite a bit when they heard someone coming. There he was, the dead kid himself, walking in some kind of bloody mess, expressionless, and groaning as he tangled himself in the spiked vines hanging from the trees. He had a good collection on him, so much that they eventually stopped him, and he hanged there, motionless and dripping blood all over the ground. And there they were, a mile in the hell of the town park, high, and watching a bleeding corpse wrapped up in spikes. There wasn’t much to do, Mark knew that if he confessed anything, they’d find a way to pin it on him. Looking back, he was probably a little high paranoid, but the three ended up digging with their bare hands, the work taking years in a single minute, and untangled the corpse, careful to keep their clothes clean. And it was there they buried him. Nowadays, Mark had no idea as to where that spot could have, been, or if it had actually happened. Still, he concluded, he would rather be high or drunk when something like that happened.

Yes, indeed he had had fun that night. But he was curious as to how she knew that, she definitely didn’t hear it from anyone. Perhaps she even figured it out, what a bright girl. And fun with Stacy, two for two, she was on a role. Not very tight? Right again, but it was to be expected. Good for a spell? And she was doing so well. No, it was priceless, every time. Of course, it was only Stacy on occasion, but she had a way of simply revolting it, dreading it, that he could find nowhere else.

Games? Stacy knew better than that. Slap her? She wished he had, but he really didn’t want to at all. What he did want to do, however, he did, and slapping was certainly a great deal tamer. It was true that he didn’t like Stacy, but that’s where he got his kicks. If only he could feel that way with someone he did like. Just maybe.

Yes, this was a chick that was used to getting what she wanted from guys. He grinned again as she stared out the window. She was now probably making the mistake that many girls before her regretted even thinking about, getting to know the real Sade. It was fun to watch their processes, their tactics, their effort, all focused on the singular objective of finding out what made him tick. It wasn’t an easy one to answer, and the path to enlightenment wasn’t real clean. He’d humor her.

“A burger? As long as we’re going to McDonald’s, I’ve got a better idea, you’ll think I bought you Reims Cathedral.” He smirked as he gave a jerking direction towards their destination, and put his hand on the small of her back to lead her out of her own territory, it was no longer her choice.

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There will be a time for words.

A Study into Evil and Corruption

The air of the recreation center was filled with the rhythmic splashing of a single swimmer. At eight o'clock in the morning there was no one else but Melanie and the life guard. Of course the life guard on duty knew she wasn't absolutely necessary, with the exception of the statement in the safety guidelines, as Claire was perfectly capable of taking care of herself. She was more home in the water than on land.

As she climbed out of the cool water her soft white flesh prickled as the air snapped at her damp skin. She shivered and smiled at the lifeguard, "That's all this morning, thanks Jen." Then briskly made her way into the women's change room.

After a quick rinsing to get the chlorine stripped off her body and donned her green summer dress. It had short sleeves that just wrapped over her shoulders and a modest collar that only gave a slight hint of cleavage. The dress ran the length of her body, firmly gripping to the gently curving shape. It leaped from her curves at her hips and hung loosely from there to her ankles. The dress itself was a light green with a blue flower pattern over her breasts. Claire had fair skin with a few red spots on her forehead and chin that were the dying remains of an acne filled childhood. Her eyes were a bright glowing blue and her hair was strawberry blond and reached down to the middle of her back. She had pulled it up into two pig tails and tied them with light pink ribbons. She was built like a swimmer, because she was a swimmer. Her back and legs were toned and muscular in an acceptably feminine way. She was, to be short, beautiful.

Gym bag over her shoulder she strode from the recreation center and into the parking lot where she had left the green four door sedan that belonged to her on weekends. Her mother worked in the next city over and so during the week had to commute. She spent her weekends taking care of Claire's youngest brother who was four and a half years old and more than a handful. So Claire got the car, and she hardly used it. She had her friends, but they were few and far between. For the most part she spent her days swimming, reading and getting ahead in school work. She also made a pointed effort of avoiding certain individuals from school. Most specifically, Mark Sade and his gang of low life scum.

She revved up the engine and backed out of the parking lot. She had spent quite a bit of time getting dressed and making herself pretty for no one in particular. It was almost noon now, she decided it was a good time to drop by the library and pick up another book, she had already finished the three she borrowed the weekend before.

She left the car parked at the convenience store a block over from the library. Walking was good for you and she didn't like leaving it parked in the roadside spots reserved for library goers, not to mention her lack of skill at parallel parking.

As she moved towards the library who other than Mark Sade strode out of the doors, trailing the new skinny girl. The girl was attached to him by the hand, Mel shook her head inwardly, doesn't take him long to corrupt them. As she crossed their path, which was an inevitable evil if she intended not to look like an ass and storm away at his sight, she made a concealed effort to not make eye contact with either of them. Her eyes locking on the library door and her feet moving slightly faster than before.

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