Her Transformation

April 16, 2009
I arch my back, bending over so that my face was eye-level with my knees. A shriek rips through the silent hall--a black streak of a blank white canvas. My eyes are hollow, a blazing fire hidden behind each one of them, My breath is caught in my throat, as if a heavy metal hand was clamping it shut.


I’d thought it through--It would be easy, you told me, smiling the evil deceiving grin I’d grown to hate over the past hour and a half. Like nothing, you kept repeating.


My fists slam against the wall as I felt a raging monster inside my mind, ripping apart all the decency and morals I had left. The transformation was creeping through me slowly. My neck still tingled from the long silver needle that had pierced my pale skin. I could feel my skin crawling, turning a color I’d never thought was possible to be reached by any normal human being. Normal, I then thought, was out of the question.


There was nothing to worry about, you assured me. A couple of hours in your lab. A couple hours could change our fates forever. It sounded too good to be true. Like a dream.


I cry out in agony, falling to the tile white floor, as you certainly enjoy comfort and pleasure elsewhere. Never a thread of a single thought in the incredibly shallow mind of yours ever flickering to me. Flipping through the novels you never read, even though you told me you did. My world seems to darken in that moment--the monster inside of me taking over all I saw. Terrible and mysterious, yet powerful. It feels like the silence was pounding on the sides of my head, quickly stealing the hanging air, leaving me gasping for breath.


I wasn’t sure, even as you approached me with the glinting velvet elixir. The mere stench radiating from it was enough to make me gag, yet I was drawn in by the alluring color of the vile. You prompted me to drink it, and an encouraging look spread across your face. I pleaded for another way, but you tilted the glass and the thick liquid poured down my throat. I struggled against your firm grasp on the bottle, trying to push it away from my face, with no avail.


I sit, crouched on the ground, my weak ankles screaming for mercy. I slam my eyes shut, as my breath comes in short intervals. I try to grab hold of the plain slate wall, as I feel as though something is taking hold of my very actions. My heart is racing, as if could give out at any moment.


I coughed and sputtered as the last drop slithered down my throat. I stared at you, my eyes full of mystery and remorse. Your face was alarming: beet red, a slight sweat just below your eyes, and an expression that told me that you’d kill me without hesitation if I refused to cooperate again. Yet, in a split second, you seemed easy again. Pale, gentle, assuring, and the irresistible smile painted across your face. The façade. Flashes of my life being displayed on the television screen inside my mind. Is this is what death feels like? I murmur an unladylike term, as I dig my nails into the inside of my palm, drawing blood in front of my eyes. My heart skips a beat as a the dripping crimson liquid stains my once-red coat. I wipe the blood hastily on whatever I can to keep it off of me--my coat, my dress, the tiled floor, I even run my fingers through my own hair once or twice. Anything to stop the blood--to stop the lightheadedness, the urge rip and to burn.


Before I can stop to say anything, you reach to the table and grab a needle that was easily the size of my forearm, containing a think silver liquid. I asked what it was for--I’d already taken the foul potion before. Side effects, you’d told me. Preventing side effects, I wasn’t sure what side effects there could be, seeing how long you took to map out every option. You told me that there was nothing to worry about--minor details, you whispered as I felt the cold metal spear through the side of my neck. A burning pain rushed through me as I watched the liquid pour down the needle.


The want to kill. The completely overpowering desire to destroy, to hurt. To kill. A fire burns through my veins, as I finally reach my feet. A menacing chuckle rolls off my tongue--sweet bells like the mourning song. A smirk grows on my face, calmly laughing to myself. Perhaps I am going crazy--maybe this is was the point of the torture. Yet, somewhere on my shadowed inside, I know this is supposed to happen. The want to kill. The shame in goodwill. The disgust at a smiling child, cheerful and aglow. Still, amongst the wickedness now I now bear in my heart, there is a surviving happiness. I know what I am doing is wrong, but I feel as if the chains once shackled to my hands and feet have been dropped. Alive. Bittersweet bliss. Revenge may be sweet, but it’s the pure evil that’s the sweetest.





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xoxo_ducky_xd said...
May 7, 2009 at 12:53 am
This was really good, well i thought so i liked it :]
 
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