living breathing statistical impossibility (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
hamiltonian) wrote2016-10-15 04:06 am
hamiltonian) wrote2016-10-15 04:06 am
(no subject)
Even from within, it's clear that the home was built with luxury in mind. It sprawls out from the view of the foyer, the very picture of an antebellum plantation house, complete with a stunning central stairway. It would be an absolutely gorgeous sight if it weren't clear that something here was very wrong.
Perhaps it's the screaming.
The sound is muffled and pained, but unmistakably human; if one listens closely enough they can hear a scrabbling noise accompanying it, as if multiple things were trying to claw their way out of the walls. It's not too far from the truth.
The rising chaos is pierced by the slamming of a door as a potentially familiar figure dashes into the scene: Hazel. Her mere presence seems to enrage the house; the very ground shakes as she ascends the stairs, which bend and lift away plank by plank beneath her feet. The boards rotate and twist into the air, splintering at angles normally impossible. In the empty space from which they were torn, something deeper than darkness shifts.
None of this phases Hazel, who moves at a breakneck pace, messenger bag flapping behind her, with single-minded purpose. Whatever's happening, she knows exactly where she must go. The path takes her to one of many identical upstairs doors which, when flung open, presents a scene that anyone who may have walked past her mural in Heropa might be familiar with. Those same people will be quick to note that the differences between art and reality are significant.
The library she steps into is as vast and stately as the rest of the manor, but floor-to-ceiling bookcases aren't what arrests the eye. What instead stands out is an enormous summoning array burned into the ground, foul runes pulsing with a sickly beat. They glisten in the self-cast light, newly wet with...something. Further inspection reveals more runes etched in the room - the entire place has been built for the sole purpose of bringing something into this world, whether existence can hold it or not.
The centerpiece of the infernal ritual is an enormous spike of dark, strange metal protruding from the floor. It reflects absolutely nothing from the room - not even the man with his face skewered upon it. Magic crackles from his body into the spike, feeding the spell beneath it. Most horrifying of all is the way the body still seems to struggle to dislodge itself from the instrument which causes its bones to collapse and crack, hands pushing feebly and ineffectually against it.
The entire room seems to throb with an otherworldly heartbeat. With each pulse, something else warps in time with the rising moans echoing through the rest of the house. It's impossible not to be intimidated, and the hesitance shows on Hazel's face. But there's no going back now - her expression steels and she throws the doors shut with a slam that carries even over the arcane cacophony.
It certainly attracts the attention it's meant to. The only living being in the room, previously on its knees inside the summoning circle, rises up with far too much violence. It's another man in his early thirties who might have reasonably been labeled attractive if the inside of his forearm weren't streaming with blood. The letter opener in his hand leaves no question as to the culprit, nor the identity of the slick substance coating so many of the runes. Apparently the spike still hungered.
His face contorts into something frightfully hateful when he spies Hazel, a look that nothing remotely human should ever wear.
"You maggot-forsaken mistake! How dare you taint the inner sanctum with your stench?"
The letter opener plunges into his arm once more, twisting with an anger clearly meant for someone else. Blood languidly drips off his fingers - any droplet that fails to fall onto a rune remains suspended in the air before it sizzling and disappearing, as if it had run into some invisible superheated object.
"I'll excise you from reality, the way your maker should have when you oozed onto this plane!"
It's disturbing speech to have fired at you at any point, let alone when your mere existence has apparently pushed a man to do all of this, but Hazel takes it with nothing more than a flat stare. If anything, the disgust seems to completely settle her nerves: her own response contains a familiar kick.
"...yeah, whatever. I really don't have time for this."
With that she moves to step across the circle, only to find herself thrown back with a yelp of genuine shock. She slams into the door - and despite Hazel righting herself immediately the dent does not, instead melting in on itself as she stares at the mage in vaguely unsettled disbelief.
"Did you think I'd allow something so wretched to interfere now? You'll return to the depths tonight."
It's odd that a small jolt is what finally manages to pull Hazel's fear to the forefront, but it seems to have done just that. Suddenly there don't seem to be any options left, nothing she can do but watch as he continues to cover the floor in his own blood and peel deeper and deeper layers of reality back. Pieces of bookshelves simply evaporate while she stares in dumbstuck horror, something possessing far too many eyes pressing itself up against the cracks.
She had done this. All because she couldn't walk away when she was supposed to. But, then...that meant it would be unthinkable to walk away now.
The thought galvanizes her. Without warning she shields her face with her arms and charges, the edges of her hair sparking with hostile magic as she bodily forces her way through the wards meant to keep her out. There's no time for either of them to stop and contemplate what she's just done - no sooner does the mage's head snap up in astonishment than Hazel is crashing into him, angry little hands reaching out to try and wrest that damned letter opener from him.
The ground flares angrily as they crash down, still locked in a battle for the blade. Hazel can't match the man's physical strength, slight though he may be, but she has a strategy; as they roll and flail she does her best to send them tumbling over the runes, smearing the blood everywhere. It's not enough to break the spell entirely, but it's visibly weakening it - and the mage's resolve. As he lets out an enraged cry Hazel finally manages to pull the letter opener down into her stomach.
The wound itself doesn't seem to phase her, but the warding magic racing up her legs to jump inside does manage to make her hiss. Worse still is the way it causes the mage to snap, along with Hazel's wrist as he brings his superior stature to bear. Power crackles and illuminates his veins from within, the only warning sign before he unexpectedly begins the assault.
It pours forth from him like a wave of blood, snaking down Hazel's arm and digging deep into her skin. The ward spell jumps into the newly formed gashes, ripping them further open and smoking as if aflame. Her face is wracked with pain, but she absolutely refuses to release him. The mage continues battering her with magic, stripping more and more flesh down to the bone for the ward to pick apart, and still she holds fast. Perhaps he was right not to want her crossing into the array.
In a rage, he drags her to the center of the array and begins slamming her against the spike, causing the still-living corpse to shrivel with a discomforting gasp. It flakes from its post and continues to twitch unbidden, attempting to crawl away from this nightmare on withered limbs.
Even with her neck snapping uncomfortably back and forth with each hit, Hazel's attention has completely departed from her own situation. Her eyes are fixed unwaveringly on the rapidly disintegrating bookcase behind her and the thing (things?) shifting in the growing holes. Faint though it may be, she swears that she can hear it singing.
The otherworldly music brings a thought crashing into her mind. There were other ways to halt a spell aside from destroying its trappings, after all.
"Nsath rb'aestn mtarksghat ita," she mumbles, unspeakable words cracking her jaw as she pulls on a reality incompatible with their own. Her eyes remain fixed on the ancient thing in some direct parlay until the final utterance, whereupon she snaps back to stare at the mage who has been brutalizing her so terribly. The expression on her face is not pleasant. "Pt dhounm."
The moment she finishes a tendril breaks through the invisible barrier holding this plane together, reaching out for the mage. The appendage warps and stretches into impossible shapes, as if the weight of this world is pressing down upon it in an attempt to eradicate this foreign invader. Even under siege it has more than enough power to firmly wrap around the man's waist and begin dragging him - and Hazel - back towards the rip in the bookcase.
Suddenly his grip on Hazel has become something else entirely. Now she struggles to force her adversary into letting go, but to her dismay she finds that fear of the end has even more strength than death itself. He's hurling curses at her, foul inhuman things, damning her to the abyss right alongside himself, and there's nothing that can be done -
The world on the other side of the bookcase saves her. The truth of the realm which the summoning circle calls upon is revealed to the both of them the moment they cross through: a desperately dark void populated with glimpses of writhing creatures with too many limbs, too many eyes, taking up too much space...all too much for the human mind to grasp. The mage shrieks in newfound terror, and his hold on one of Hazel's arms loosens.
It's all she needs. Instantly that free hand is shooting up to grasp onto the edge of the bookcase, anchoring herself to the other world. In the chaos it's difficult to tell what happens next, even from the outside perspective of the memory - does the Old One's tentacle try to latch on and pull her down, or does it offer her the salvation of a gentle push? Whatever the answer, Hazel suddenly finds herself with enough momentum to swing up and out of the miasma entirely.
The mage is still screaming in horror as the window into the nightmarish plane closes, and the entire mansion seems to be crumbling down around her, but Hazel remains insensible to it all. She's tired-but-not, that awful paradoxical emotional exhaustion she knows too well by now, and just can't be assed to fear a house dropping down onto her head. Even as the foundation begins to shudder, she remains prone on the ground.
It's another alleyway now, another city peeking out at the end of the path. It's late, much later than in the real world, and the streets seem to be almost completely deserted. Almost.
There's no mistaking the figure that walks past the alley now: it's Hazel, nearly the same and yet almost completely unrecognizable. Not a single scar marks her skin, and the party clothes she wears would be utterly out of place in her current wardrobe. Even so she seems comfortable in them, a quietly content expression on her face as she strides towards whatever her end goal is.
A previously unnoticed shadow detaches itself from the wall, stepping forward into the light to reveal the silhouette of a man. He's quite large, but otherwise seems completely unremarkable; when he reaches out to catch her attention by tapping on Hazel's shoulder his tone is even and pleasant.
"Pardon me, but do you know how I can get to the Royal Sonesta from here? I'm a bit turned around."
Her step only slows for half a second. There isn't even time for Hazel to begin turning him down and continue walking right past him, as clearly is her plan, before the hand on her shoulder becomes a vice grip. She's silently pulled deep into the unlit alley, and a hand over her mouth ensures that it will remain that way.
One of her shoes twists off in her attempt to pull free and escape, causing Hazel to stumble. Her assailant takes it as a sign that this is the perfect spot to begin his work and immediately drops down on top of her, pinning her to the ground with his bulk. The man is so much larger than Hazel that he almost completely dwarfs her in this position; anyone peering into the darkness would likely assume him to be nothing more than a drunk attempting to do battle with gravity.
In reality, there's a much grimmer battle unfolding. Her legs are locked into place thanks to the man's knees pressing down on them, but her arms are free; while the terror pours white hot through the memory watcher, there's an undercurrent of iron determination. No amount of fear was going to stop her from fighting this fate.
With the way he's splayed her arms out, however, it's impossible to reach up and strangle him; worse, his size makes it impossible for her to reach his neck from over his shoulders as well. What she can do is cause as much damage as possible, and throughout the entire ordeal Hazel never ceases scratching and clawing at his upper back and shoulders. He bleeds profusely, but there's no way that she'll be able to exact anything equal to what he's about to take from her.
The light is nearly nonexistent in the alley, but there's just enough to catch the blade of the knife that her attacker pulls from his pocket. The man seems completely oblivious to Hazel's struggles - if anything each injury she inflicts spurs the manic sheen in his eyes to grow brighter - and with the reveal of his weapon the world shrinks down to contain only her torso.
The hand on her mouth has slipped inside now, pushing so far down her throat that Hazel can't help but wonder if she'll choke to death before she ever bleeds out. It's the last semblance of coherency she's allowed before her attacker begins to work in earnest and everything is completely lost in a storm of fear and wretched pain.
She can't get away from it, but by god does she try. Half arcs of her back, twisting feet slapping at the pavement, frantically digging her nails as deep into his own flesh as she can manage - every slight opportunity is tried almost simultaneously, and all of them fail.
Each time she tries to scream or let out a strangled noise of pain the man uses the hand in her mouth to slam her head against the pavement with a sickening crack. Again and again, thumb digging a bloody crescent into her jaw, until black creeps around the edges of Hazel's vision. The sound reverberates down the alleyway so loudly that she can't help wondering doesn't anyone hear it? Surely her life must be worth at least that.
No one comes. no one so much as walks by, leaving her attacker free to mangle her according to whatever twisted plan rests in his thoughts. His face remains as calm as ever, the focused tranquility now an eerie juxtaposition to the violent slashing and tearing of the knife. He seems intent on causing as much damage as possible, slicing through already exposed organs simply to elicit another spray of blood or dig deeper into her body. It's frighteningly close to an artist deeply absorbed in his work.
And, just like that, he's finished. The man's eyes drift back to reality as the knife drops softly to the ground - a reality that just as suddenly contains Hazel.
His free hand grabs on of hers that has been battering his shoulder this entire time, brute forcing his way to intertwining their fingers. His touch is gentle now, almost sweet, even as he presses their hands up against her exposed innards. He looms over her now, leaning in so closely as to make it impossible for anything to enter Hazel's field of vision but his face.
"Hush, hush, sweetheart. You've been so brave, but it's time to let go now."
It's as if he's speaking to a sister or wife who's coming to the end of a long battle with an illness. Certainly there's no hint of the man who gutted a complete stranger moments ago as he presses his forehead to Hazel's, trying to chase away her silent tears with a smile.
"There's nothing to be afraid of - you've never been so beautiful. Don't cry now."
His only response is wet choking noises as the blood in Hazel's throat finds itself without a place to go, but her killer barely seems to notice it. He continues pressing close to her, mumbling loving nothings with no regard for the way her one free hand continues to claw at him.
Please, she thinks, words the clearest the memory viewer has heard throughout this tragedy. Please don't let this be the last thing I see.
Her fingernails dig into his bare skin one last time, desperately gripping at a chance at life. Instead they go still, hanging off his ripped shirt with an awkward limpness.
The man waits a moment, just to be certain, and then kisses her affectionately on the forehead before sitting up. "You were wonderful."
He moves quickly now, slowly collecting his trappings before any wayward eyes decide to make a belated appearance. The knife slips back into his pocket once more, and he retrieves a coat and gloves that had been sitting on a nearby garbage can all this time - with a jaunty zip all evidence of his violent past disappears.
As for Hazel, she's easily scooped up and settled onto an arm, her own arms looped about his neck as if she were simply taking a nap. It's easy enough to imagine the readymade excuses should anyone inquire after them on the street: a drunken friend at a party who'd gotten into a fight and subsequently passed out. Even her bloody hands (the only proof with her front pressed against his dark jacket) seem to play into the lie.
Once he moves a trashcan or two with his free hand to cover up the bloodstains in the asphalt, the entire encounter simply vanishes from existence. Hazel's life disappears with some deliberate maneuvering as if it had never held any value. All that remains is the shoe she'd lost early in the encounter, something he very nearly misses on his way out.
"That would have been very rude of me, wouldn't it." He laughs, either to himself or to Hazel's corpse, before crouching slightly to nab the shoe. It's fitted back onto her skinned foot in short order; he allows himself a fond nuzzle into her hair, just one, before setting out into the world beyond the alley - and the scope of this memory.
Perhaps it's the screaming.
The sound is muffled and pained, but unmistakably human; if one listens closely enough they can hear a scrabbling noise accompanying it, as if multiple things were trying to claw their way out of the walls. It's not too far from the truth.
The rising chaos is pierced by the slamming of a door as a potentially familiar figure dashes into the scene: Hazel. Her mere presence seems to enrage the house; the very ground shakes as she ascends the stairs, which bend and lift away plank by plank beneath her feet. The boards rotate and twist into the air, splintering at angles normally impossible. In the empty space from which they were torn, something deeper than darkness shifts.
None of this phases Hazel, who moves at a breakneck pace, messenger bag flapping behind her, with single-minded purpose. Whatever's happening, she knows exactly where she must go. The path takes her to one of many identical upstairs doors which, when flung open, presents a scene that anyone who may have walked past her mural in Heropa might be familiar with. Those same people will be quick to note that the differences between art and reality are significant.
The library she steps into is as vast and stately as the rest of the manor, but floor-to-ceiling bookcases aren't what arrests the eye. What instead stands out is an enormous summoning array burned into the ground, foul runes pulsing with a sickly beat. They glisten in the self-cast light, newly wet with...something. Further inspection reveals more runes etched in the room - the entire place has been built for the sole purpose of bringing something into this world, whether existence can hold it or not.
The centerpiece of the infernal ritual is an enormous spike of dark, strange metal protruding from the floor. It reflects absolutely nothing from the room - not even the man with his face skewered upon it. Magic crackles from his body into the spike, feeding the spell beneath it. Most horrifying of all is the way the body still seems to struggle to dislodge itself from the instrument which causes its bones to collapse and crack, hands pushing feebly and ineffectually against it.
The entire room seems to throb with an otherworldly heartbeat. With each pulse, something else warps in time with the rising moans echoing through the rest of the house. It's impossible not to be intimidated, and the hesitance shows on Hazel's face. But there's no going back now - her expression steels and she throws the doors shut with a slam that carries even over the arcane cacophony.
It certainly attracts the attention it's meant to. The only living being in the room, previously on its knees inside the summoning circle, rises up with far too much violence. It's another man in his early thirties who might have reasonably been labeled attractive if the inside of his forearm weren't streaming with blood. The letter opener in his hand leaves no question as to the culprit, nor the identity of the slick substance coating so many of the runes. Apparently the spike still hungered.
His face contorts into something frightfully hateful when he spies Hazel, a look that nothing remotely human should ever wear.
"You maggot-forsaken mistake! How dare you taint the inner sanctum with your stench?"
The letter opener plunges into his arm once more, twisting with an anger clearly meant for someone else. Blood languidly drips off his fingers - any droplet that fails to fall onto a rune remains suspended in the air before it sizzling and disappearing, as if it had run into some invisible superheated object.
"I'll excise you from reality, the way your maker should have when you oozed onto this plane!"
It's disturbing speech to have fired at you at any point, let alone when your mere existence has apparently pushed a man to do all of this, but Hazel takes it with nothing more than a flat stare. If anything, the disgust seems to completely settle her nerves: her own response contains a familiar kick.
"...yeah, whatever. I really don't have time for this."
With that she moves to step across the circle, only to find herself thrown back with a yelp of genuine shock. She slams into the door - and despite Hazel righting herself immediately the dent does not, instead melting in on itself as she stares at the mage in vaguely unsettled disbelief.
"Did you think I'd allow something so wretched to interfere now? You'll return to the depths tonight."
It's odd that a small jolt is what finally manages to pull Hazel's fear to the forefront, but it seems to have done just that. Suddenly there don't seem to be any options left, nothing she can do but watch as he continues to cover the floor in his own blood and peel deeper and deeper layers of reality back. Pieces of bookshelves simply evaporate while she stares in dumbstuck horror, something possessing far too many eyes pressing itself up against the cracks.
She had done this. All because she couldn't walk away when she was supposed to. But, then...that meant it would be unthinkable to walk away now.
The thought galvanizes her. Without warning she shields her face with her arms and charges, the edges of her hair sparking with hostile magic as she bodily forces her way through the wards meant to keep her out. There's no time for either of them to stop and contemplate what she's just done - no sooner does the mage's head snap up in astonishment than Hazel is crashing into him, angry little hands reaching out to try and wrest that damned letter opener from him.
The ground flares angrily as they crash down, still locked in a battle for the blade. Hazel can't match the man's physical strength, slight though he may be, but she has a strategy; as they roll and flail she does her best to send them tumbling over the runes, smearing the blood everywhere. It's not enough to break the spell entirely, but it's visibly weakening it - and the mage's resolve. As he lets out an enraged cry Hazel finally manages to pull the letter opener down into her stomach.
The wound itself doesn't seem to phase her, but the warding magic racing up her legs to jump inside does manage to make her hiss. Worse still is the way it causes the mage to snap, along with Hazel's wrist as he brings his superior stature to bear. Power crackles and illuminates his veins from within, the only warning sign before he unexpectedly begins the assault.
It pours forth from him like a wave of blood, snaking down Hazel's arm and digging deep into her skin. The ward spell jumps into the newly formed gashes, ripping them further open and smoking as if aflame. Her face is wracked with pain, but she absolutely refuses to release him. The mage continues battering her with magic, stripping more and more flesh down to the bone for the ward to pick apart, and still she holds fast. Perhaps he was right not to want her crossing into the array.
In a rage, he drags her to the center of the array and begins slamming her against the spike, causing the still-living corpse to shrivel with a discomforting gasp. It flakes from its post and continues to twitch unbidden, attempting to crawl away from this nightmare on withered limbs.
Even with her neck snapping uncomfortably back and forth with each hit, Hazel's attention has completely departed from her own situation. Her eyes are fixed unwaveringly on the rapidly disintegrating bookcase behind her and the thing (things?) shifting in the growing holes. Faint though it may be, she swears that she can hear it singing.
The otherworldly music brings a thought crashing into her mind. There were other ways to halt a spell aside from destroying its trappings, after all.
"Nsath rb'aestn mtarksghat ita," she mumbles, unspeakable words cracking her jaw as she pulls on a reality incompatible with their own. Her eyes remain fixed on the ancient thing in some direct parlay until the final utterance, whereupon she snaps back to stare at the mage who has been brutalizing her so terribly. The expression on her face is not pleasant. "Pt dhounm."
The moment she finishes a tendril breaks through the invisible barrier holding this plane together, reaching out for the mage. The appendage warps and stretches into impossible shapes, as if the weight of this world is pressing down upon it in an attempt to eradicate this foreign invader. Even under siege it has more than enough power to firmly wrap around the man's waist and begin dragging him - and Hazel - back towards the rip in the bookcase.
Suddenly his grip on Hazel has become something else entirely. Now she struggles to force her adversary into letting go, but to her dismay she finds that fear of the end has even more strength than death itself. He's hurling curses at her, foul inhuman things, damning her to the abyss right alongside himself, and there's nothing that can be done -
The world on the other side of the bookcase saves her. The truth of the realm which the summoning circle calls upon is revealed to the both of them the moment they cross through: a desperately dark void populated with glimpses of writhing creatures with too many limbs, too many eyes, taking up too much space...all too much for the human mind to grasp. The mage shrieks in newfound terror, and his hold on one of Hazel's arms loosens.
It's all she needs. Instantly that free hand is shooting up to grasp onto the edge of the bookcase, anchoring herself to the other world. In the chaos it's difficult to tell what happens next, even from the outside perspective of the memory - does the Old One's tentacle try to latch on and pull her down, or does it offer her the salvation of a gentle push? Whatever the answer, Hazel suddenly finds herself with enough momentum to swing up and out of the miasma entirely.
The mage is still screaming in horror as the window into the nightmarish plane closes, and the entire mansion seems to be crumbling down around her, but Hazel remains insensible to it all. She's tired-but-not, that awful paradoxical emotional exhaustion she knows too well by now, and just can't be assed to fear a house dropping down onto her head. Even as the foundation begins to shudder, she remains prone on the ground.
It's another alleyway now, another city peeking out at the end of the path. It's late, much later than in the real world, and the streets seem to be almost completely deserted. Almost.
There's no mistaking the figure that walks past the alley now: it's Hazel, nearly the same and yet almost completely unrecognizable. Not a single scar marks her skin, and the party clothes she wears would be utterly out of place in her current wardrobe. Even so she seems comfortable in them, a quietly content expression on her face as she strides towards whatever her end goal is.
A previously unnoticed shadow detaches itself from the wall, stepping forward into the light to reveal the silhouette of a man. He's quite large, but otherwise seems completely unremarkable; when he reaches out to catch her attention by tapping on Hazel's shoulder his tone is even and pleasant.
"Pardon me, but do you know how I can get to the Royal Sonesta from here? I'm a bit turned around."
Her step only slows for half a second. There isn't even time for Hazel to begin turning him down and continue walking right past him, as clearly is her plan, before the hand on her shoulder becomes a vice grip. She's silently pulled deep into the unlit alley, and a hand over her mouth ensures that it will remain that way.
One of her shoes twists off in her attempt to pull free and escape, causing Hazel to stumble. Her assailant takes it as a sign that this is the perfect spot to begin his work and immediately drops down on top of her, pinning her to the ground with his bulk. The man is so much larger than Hazel that he almost completely dwarfs her in this position; anyone peering into the darkness would likely assume him to be nothing more than a drunk attempting to do battle with gravity.
In reality, there's a much grimmer battle unfolding. Her legs are locked into place thanks to the man's knees pressing down on them, but her arms are free; while the terror pours white hot through the memory watcher, there's an undercurrent of iron determination. No amount of fear was going to stop her from fighting this fate.
With the way he's splayed her arms out, however, it's impossible to reach up and strangle him; worse, his size makes it impossible for her to reach his neck from over his shoulders as well. What she can do is cause as much damage as possible, and throughout the entire ordeal Hazel never ceases scratching and clawing at his upper back and shoulders. He bleeds profusely, but there's no way that she'll be able to exact anything equal to what he's about to take from her.
The light is nearly nonexistent in the alley, but there's just enough to catch the blade of the knife that her attacker pulls from his pocket. The man seems completely oblivious to Hazel's struggles - if anything each injury she inflicts spurs the manic sheen in his eyes to grow brighter - and with the reveal of his weapon the world shrinks down to contain only her torso.
The hand on her mouth has slipped inside now, pushing so far down her throat that Hazel can't help but wonder if she'll choke to death before she ever bleeds out. It's the last semblance of coherency she's allowed before her attacker begins to work in earnest and everything is completely lost in a storm of fear and wretched pain.
She can't get away from it, but by god does she try. Half arcs of her back, twisting feet slapping at the pavement, frantically digging her nails as deep into his own flesh as she can manage - every slight opportunity is tried almost simultaneously, and all of them fail.
Each time she tries to scream or let out a strangled noise of pain the man uses the hand in her mouth to slam her head against the pavement with a sickening crack. Again and again, thumb digging a bloody crescent into her jaw, until black creeps around the edges of Hazel's vision. The sound reverberates down the alleyway so loudly that she can't help wondering doesn't anyone hear it? Surely her life must be worth at least that.
No one comes. no one so much as walks by, leaving her attacker free to mangle her according to whatever twisted plan rests in his thoughts. His face remains as calm as ever, the focused tranquility now an eerie juxtaposition to the violent slashing and tearing of the knife. He seems intent on causing as much damage as possible, slicing through already exposed organs simply to elicit another spray of blood or dig deeper into her body. It's frighteningly close to an artist deeply absorbed in his work.
And, just like that, he's finished. The man's eyes drift back to reality as the knife drops softly to the ground - a reality that just as suddenly contains Hazel.
His free hand grabs on of hers that has been battering his shoulder this entire time, brute forcing his way to intertwining their fingers. His touch is gentle now, almost sweet, even as he presses their hands up against her exposed innards. He looms over her now, leaning in so closely as to make it impossible for anything to enter Hazel's field of vision but his face.
"Hush, hush, sweetheart. You've been so brave, but it's time to let go now."
It's as if he's speaking to a sister or wife who's coming to the end of a long battle with an illness. Certainly there's no hint of the man who gutted a complete stranger moments ago as he presses his forehead to Hazel's, trying to chase away her silent tears with a smile.
"There's nothing to be afraid of - you've never been so beautiful. Don't cry now."
His only response is wet choking noises as the blood in Hazel's throat finds itself without a place to go, but her killer barely seems to notice it. He continues pressing close to her, mumbling loving nothings with no regard for the way her one free hand continues to claw at him.
Please, she thinks, words the clearest the memory viewer has heard throughout this tragedy. Please don't let this be the last thing I see.
Her fingernails dig into his bare skin one last time, desperately gripping at a chance at life. Instead they go still, hanging off his ripped shirt with an awkward limpness.
The man waits a moment, just to be certain, and then kisses her affectionately on the forehead before sitting up. "You were wonderful."
He moves quickly now, slowly collecting his trappings before any wayward eyes decide to make a belated appearance. The knife slips back into his pocket once more, and he retrieves a coat and gloves that had been sitting on a nearby garbage can all this time - with a jaunty zip all evidence of his violent past disappears.
As for Hazel, she's easily scooped up and settled onto an arm, her own arms looped about his neck as if she were simply taking a nap. It's easy enough to imagine the readymade excuses should anyone inquire after them on the street: a drunken friend at a party who'd gotten into a fight and subsequently passed out. Even her bloody hands (the only proof with her front pressed against his dark jacket) seem to play into the lie.
Once he moves a trashcan or two with his free hand to cover up the bloodstains in the asphalt, the entire encounter simply vanishes from existence. Hazel's life disappears with some deliberate maneuvering as if it had never held any value. All that remains is the shoe she'd lost early in the encounter, something he very nearly misses on his way out.
"That would have been very rude of me, wouldn't it." He laughs, either to himself or to Hazel's corpse, before crouching slightly to nab the shoe. It's fitted back onto her skinned foot in short order; he allows himself a fond nuzzle into her hair, just one, before setting out into the world beyond the alley - and the scope of this memory.