Logs:PrP Choices : Who We Are Pt. 3

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PrP Choices : Who We Are Pt. 3
Dramatis Personae

Regan, Damian as ST

28 August, 2017

Regan makes the choice, but is it the right one? Only she can know.


House in the Suburbs

Sometimes gallantries make Regan uncomfortable. It suited Doc, an old school gentleman, a European officer whose formalities were nicely complicated by the vicious sadism underlying it all. But with Michael it feels off, like an affectation.

And something about suburbia has always disturbed her to no end. The middle class with their 9 to 5's, 2.5 kids, Toyotas and backyards. She was a girl of extremes. Extreme wealth or extreme poverty, hanging out in the pool house of her family's old mansion, or sitting on a torn sofa in someone's shitty alley, smoking weed. Suburbia felt so tidy, so controlled and contained and dull, dull, dull.

And creepy.

Regan takes another deep breath. Is this the cheese scene where the guy gets his girlfriend out in front of a strange house and then on bended knee asks her to marry him after proclaiming he bought it for her? "I know it looks a mess but we'll fix it up together!" She'll throw up on his shoes...

But no, that's not Michael's style, she's pretty sure of that. Getting out of the car she shoves her hands into the pockets of her third hand coat, missing the warm and luxurious wool one Doc had bought her, that's hiding from moths in storage right now.

"What's this?" she asks.

“You’ll see, come on.” He takes her hand, more pulling her along than he actually does wait for her to take it. He leads her a few houses down, and then starts walking up to a house with the lights off. There’s no ‘For Sale’ sign out front. Yet, he strolls up to it as if he owns it.

”Isn’t it great? Way better than that shit apartment we have?” Yes, Michael is very excited. He pulls out another set of keys and unlocks the door, walking in. If Suburbia was creepy on the outside, and fi Regan follows him in, well there’s just a sense to this house. Enough to send a shiver up ones spine. Nothing’s out of place, yet, it feels off. And there’s a smell, it’s weak, but it’s there. Chlorine and bleach.

Michael doesn’t seem to notice it. He shuts the door behind them, and turns on the light in the hallway.

It is a nice house though. Everything a budding couple might need to make a life, a good first house. It looks lived in. A coffee cup sits on the table, cold and untouched for days, however. Maybe this is his surprise.

He takes off his coat and hangs it up on the coat rack, smiling at Regan. “Well? What do you think?”

Nothing feels weird after you live a couple of years of solid back to back weirdness. Regan walks from one place to another in life, rarely even getting a shiver up her spine anymore. Nothing's normal anymore. But the moment she steps into the house, she shivers visibly. 5r5rThat smell. It means one thing to most people-- sanitation. To her, it's the smell of her dead lover's breath. The poisoned kisses he gave. Doc drank bleach like she drank vodka. She'd never known why, he just did. It had been hard to get used to-- impossible really-- but now that he's gone, the smell of it will always evoke him, and the longing.

For a moment, it's crushing. Her legs feel weak, her insides feel like they're caving in. It guts her. Nothing brings back memories and emotion like a smell.

Unable to force herself back into the blasé state which she always uses to fool Michael, she instead simply tries to get her brain off her pain. It's been months. /When will it stop hurting so much/.

"Uhm, it's great," she says faintly, her eyes roaming over the place without seeing. "We here to feed someone's cat?" “Nah babe, it’s ours.” Well, he did walk in here rather nonchalantly. He seems not at all worried about it. He starts taking her on a tour of the place. He notices the coffee cup. He looks slightly irritated, and he picks it up, forcing a fake smile. Makes his way back to the kitchen and puts it in the sink. As if he had just forgot it one time.

The main floor is toured. As they pass the basement, that smell, the gut wrenching smell from moments ago is a little stronger. Probably where the chemicals are stored, probably. It’s locked though, from the outside, and Michael never takes her down there.

Instead he takes her for the stairs up. A lovely place, a little more modern, with some rustic charm. Everything you’d expect in a neighborhood like this. Everything to make someone feel normal.

'Normal' is gross. 'Normal' is the last thing to ever make Regan feel at home, comfortable, relaxed. Something's off, and it doesn't take a sleuth to see that. She pushes Doc out of her mind, but when she does, she realizes her feelings for Michael have lost their mask. They were nothing, illusion, and she can't seem to recapture the sense of pleasure she has fitfully found in his company.

For one, he apparently wants her to live in a middle class neighborhood like she's some fucking housewife. A two car garage, three or four bedrooms, and what's that imply, kids? Quaint dinner parties, candlelit dinners when the kids are at a sleepover, a /minivan/?

It's revolting, all of it.

She tries to keep her voice normal. "You bought a house? Ah." It'd be best if she could act thrilled, she's sure. She's probably supposed to. "I...like the wall color." The sickeningly neutral wall color.

And the furniture, the decor...someone else's stuff. "You sure you have the right house?" she asks.

“I’m sure.” Michael climbs the stairs to the top. As his delusion gets deeper, the need for normalcy grows. When she first met him, sure he was more of what she wanted, or thought she did, but he has progressively changed. Seeking in her something and not finding it, just as she is failing now to find it in him. The more something escapes you the more the delusion must take over.

The smell up here is not so good. It catches your nostrils the moment you reach the top. Feces and piss, like someone left an animal in one of the rooms to do as it wished, or worse. At least it doesn’t smell like death. Michael doesn’t even seem to notice it, he’s still smiling.

He goes towards the door on the right, the master bedroom and opens it. Like parading it in front of her. But the moment that door opens, that smell intensifies. It’s got to be coming from in there. “Hey babe, we’re here.” It’s a different tone, a sweeter, honey laced tone than he’s ever used with her. He walks into the room, starting to disappear out of sight.

Time to think fast. None of Regan's teachers ever told her parents she was a bright child. Regan took pains to give the opposite impression, and perhaps she's not a genius, anyway. But she has her moments, despite all aspirations to be a loser, and if ever there was a time to exercise her intelligence and wit-- wait a second. What's to fear? Can he even hurt her?

Not knowing where that sudden gutsy feeling comes from, not knowing it is her geist manipulating her emotions and urges, she suddenly feels mellow. Like she has all the time in the world to think. Like nothing this man can do can hurt her anyway. What's the worst? Rape, torture, forced cannibalism? ok the last would be hard to cope with after the fact but really, what can Michael do to her that's not already been done?

Suddenly, like never before, Regan feels a sense of mastery, of calm. She's 19 and barely has the muscle to bruise him with a baseball bat, but now is her chance to gain the upper hand. To /understand/ him.

She's in a room with ted Bundy during his last spree. He's Dahmer opening his freezer for her. Mary Bell explaining why she hates little boys. He's her very own monstrous enigma to unravel, untouched by cop, psychiatrist, or prosecutor. And he's done something truly horrible.

She follows him in.

Her first step into the room reveals his not talking to her. And what a sight it is. Once you get past the smell, if you can. A man lies slumped against the wall. Tied and bound and forced to face the bed. His head is slumped, and he has defecated himself several times. To the point that shit and piss leak out his jeans at the bottom and the top. He has been beaten and tortured, and it’s not even clear if he’s still alive. Blood stains his shirt all the way through. There’s something familiar about him though, but Regan can’t see his face.

Then there is the bed. Tied to his and naked is another familiar figure. Skinny and blonde. There are signs of semen, and defecation, and blood on the bed as well, but that has been cleaned up, so many times that even at that it is stained beyond ever coming clean. Wounds cover her body, but they have all been cleaned and scabbed over. Tended to, despite the ferocity that caused them.

It’s then that Regan realizes Michael is not talking to her. He shifts on the bed and she can see he is petting the girl’s hair on the bed. Talking to this girl like he talks to Regan. Just like he talks to her. “Hey babe, I’m back, did you miss me? It’s Michael.” Her face comes into view. The girl from the locket. She does have a lot of similarities to Regan, a lot. Her lips are chapped to such a degree, that every touching of them must be painful. A gag stopping her from talking. She looks like she hasn’t really eaten much in weeks. Weeks. That’s how long this might have been going on. Tears have stained her cheeks, but seem to lack the fuel to even fall anymore.

Her eyes are half-lidded, but when they spot Regan, there is the briefest moment of hope. She tries to scream, but nothing comes out. Michael pets her face. “Ssh, ssh, we’re all together now.”

It starts to maybe occur to Regan that Michael has a type.

Stepping into the room should be like entering hell, should't it? And Regan's been to hell. Twice now. This time, however, she is not alone. In her head, in a walled off area where so many dark things are stored, is a creature forged, itself, in hell. It has lurked with her months, now, whispering to her only in song, letting little wisps of memory through to feed Regan the story of its birth on a battlefield over a century ago. There it had lain, wounded and defiled, dripping with loveless man's seed while a group of soldiers in the uniforms of the 'good guys' buttoned up and rationalized their deeds. A trio of blondes who have more than one thing in common-- except that the one on the bed hasn't died yet.

Regan bites her lip. It's not just deja vu. What's deja vu times three? Deja deja vu? Her memories, the geist's memories, the present woman before them, a monster for whom she had feelings, albeit weakened, weakening feelings.

Doc had looked far more dignified, and had taken far better care of her, when she had been his prisoner.

Regan does not react the way the poor girl would have hoped. She doesn't scream or throw her hand over her mouth or turn to flee with a cell phone to her ear. She moves deeper into the room quietly, not looking terribly shocked. She knew, really, didn't she?

Regan has a type too.

"Michael," she says quietly. "That man there...is he dead?" Though she was trying to keep her voice calm, Regan is surprised just how chill she actually sounds. The man’s position hints at what he was there for. To watch. For Michael to take his frustrations out, but mostly to watch. Maybe he just got in the way of Michael’s prize. It’s hard to say. Michael turns towards him, looks past him as if he’s not even there. “Who?” Like he sees no one.

Michael turns to stand and face Regan, after brushing the cheek of the girl on the bed. His gaze is a little wild and dark. He approaches Regan, and puts his hands on her shoulders. Or tries to. “What do you think?” The same question he asked her downstairs. Not clear what he might be hoping she will say. He no longer seems like the overly doting boyfriend before. The hope of normalcy seems gone when he looks at Regan.

What has replaced it, is likely the delusion, a hand rising to go to Regan’s cheek to pet her face, like a doll. “You love it, right?” Even his voice is far more level. Emotionless.

She's spent so much time reading about these types of things. These types of people. Some are more puzzling than others. Few people have had the awareness and skills of observation as well as the opportunity for up close and personal study, as Regan. She's spent her life preparing for this moment, the past months priming. She looks up at Michael with her uncanny eyes steady, and somehow she manages to smile. "It's the sexiest thing I've ever seen, baby," she whispers.

Whether it's the time she spent with Doc, with Michael, with the books on serial killers and abnormal psychology, or the special friend she came back from hell with, Regan can smile about a it all. Not just any smile-- that smile she gives a guy when he's going to get lucky.

She really is that fucked up now.

"What now?"

It’s odd how sometimes delusion and reality can intermingle. Whatever Regan’s purpose is, she feeds into the beast. It is exactly what Michael wanted to hear and see. Perhaps what he was going to see, regardless of what she said.

He smiles back at her. It’s the first time he’s smiled since he came into the room. It’s not a smile she recognizes. It’s different, darker, somehow tainted by its environment. He pulls her by the hands towards the bed. The bed with the bound and gagged girl that looks a lot like her. Michael is pretty strong, he’s in good shape. He pushes Regan roughly onto the bed. She lands right next to the girl. There’s terror in those eyes, like she’s seen this before. The way he pushes Regan, it’s not the same as a lover taking charge, not exactly. It’s got a rougher quality to it.

He stands over her, beginning to remove his clothes methodically. Looking down at her with lust. This is his fantasy. Where he is powerful beyond measure. Where normal no longer matters. It is whatever he wants it to be.

Regan was a fit enough girl before she met Doc. There, in subterranean darkness she had dwindled. To the point where the spectre of death had been visiting, biding his time. And when Regan had made her escape at last, it was weeks before she could even begin to form some normal habits. She never regained an appetite, even after she was reunited with Doc and his more humane caretaking had compelled her to eat, exercise, and sleep. She's no physical match for Michael.

Her breath catches in her throat as he knocks her back and her disgust at the state of the bed is interrupted by the bloodshot whites of the girl's eyes as they desperately meet. There's no time for looks of reassurance-- and Regan's not the type to really offer such anyway. Does she even care about these people?

Turning sharpoly away from the bound girl, she moves to take off her coat, like she's excited too, but as she leans over to put her fingers to the laces of her boot she suddenly arrests herself and sits up, as much concern scribbled across her features as she can muster. "Michael-- what was that?" Oh, did Regan hear a noise? She'll assure him she did, and look terribly concerned.

Unfortunately, this is Michael’s delusion. Michael’s fantasy. He hears what he wants. Naked, he reaches down, beneath the bed and pulls out a very large knife. One that has seen a lot of use. The girl beside Regan whimpers. “Don’t worry, babe, I’ll take care of you. Shhh.”

He moves toward her on the bed, brandishing the knife in front of him. There’s something much darker in his features now. Menacing. Tears, she can hardly spare, start to stream down the eyes of the other girl. But it’s Regan that Michael has eyes for. He shoves her back down on the bed, even rougher. She bounces a little. Mounting her on the bed, pinning her to it. Can he hurt her? Will he?

”I’m so glad you love it.” The knife tip touches Regan’s cheek, leaves a small little trickle of blood, and then trails down to her top. “I will take care of you. I love you.” He whispers it.

The knife starts to tear at her clothing.

A seasoned sin-eater might know what to do. Whatever Regan is capable of, she's little awareness of it. She's felt the flickering energies, knows there are forces at her beck and call she had never dreamed of before. But it's a panicked moment. She's been here before. her geist has been here before.

She draws in her breath sharply, the other woman's sobs become nothing but background muzak in an elevator as the situation slips through her fingers. Yes, she'll likely survive it. She has that feeling that she will. But she doesn't need anything new to have nightmares about. And she's certainly not in to having to play a victim.

Michael only ever got to hit Regan because she /let/ him. This time, she's not /letting/ him.

She crawls back on her elbows until she hits the headboard, her breast rising only for her to hunch a little to lower herself away from the blade. She still feels that eerie calm, which is the most unsettling thing about all of this, or will be on reflection. Nothing else is that /surprising/. "Michael, that guy's moving," she says, while she grapples with the too many avenues which feel like they are opening before her. Paths, at the end of which hazy futures mature and beckon.

The other woman’s sobs do fade. She might even have passed out, from her weakness, from the trauma, from the stress. She’s more an obstacle than anything now. An obstacle on the bed.

Yet, in the moment, Regan is the victim. Michael is bigger and stronger and has no sentimental feelings for her. Not now. He is drawn only into whatever delusion his psychosis has played out for him. And it strengthens his resolve. Him. He has no care about a moving man. What man? Not in his world. Just Regan. His Regan.

”It’s okay babe, I’ll take care of you.” It’s an eerie, broken record, really. He scrambles with her, on top of her to the headboard, trapping her there. Eyes locked on her. The knife moving again for her top, pressing a little harder, until its sharp blade can be felt on her breastbone as it threatens to drag downward. His free hand lands on her throat, starting to close around it. A little tighter. She needs to open an avenue if she wishes to escape. Escape, or let it happen.

There are probably a variety of things Regan might do, but she is no master of her art. She hasn't much idea what she can manage, and it's not a good time for imagination. She half closes her eyes to block out the image of her impending lover. Oh yes, she has other options, but there's something she knows, even now, that she wants out of this. At the end of it all, she wants...Michael.

And if someone else has to suffer for it, it's for the best in the end.

If she can slip that knife form his hand, that thing of folded steel and molded handle, it is straight at the heart of the slumped man it will fly. Michael is expecting a struggle. In his mind, in this fantasy, he’s in control, and Regan wants it. Him. Sure, she might fight him for the knife, make him work for it, that’s part of the game. He cuts her, she cries out, her cuts her some more. On it goes, until he gets everything he wants. Which is what she wants also.

What he’s not expecting, however, is a knife to be lifted from his hand without a struggle. Like magic. Or like wisps of plasm only visible to others of Regan’s kind. Little wisps like white smoke originate from Regan and pull the knife free and then fire it across the room. Ka-chunk. It buries itself in the almost dead man’s chest. There’s a gurgle of blood and he falls on his side, nothing holding him up. A pool of blood begins to form. What did he do? He might want to know later.

That’s the thing about being a Sin-Eater now. The dead don’t always go away just because they are dead. She knows that. And they don’t necessarily go away because you ask. She may have a new friend soon, wondering why he had to die, wondering why Regan didn’t save him when she had the power. Maybe.

For now, Michael has no knife. That has an effect of pulling him from his delusion to little more reality. He looks angry. Both hands clutch at Regan’s throat. Choking hard. It’s so hard to breath.

Ah, Regan, lost a bit of her humanity while buried alive all those months in Doc's catacombs. he put his fingers in her soul and things would never be the same. Poor anonymous tortured men who had to watch their innocent lovers raped by sadists are just collateral damage. In Regan's mind, he couldn't have wanted to live after being a witness to that, after suffering his own impotence. Regan needs his help. Help he couldn't have rendered in his half-dead state. Besides, She's not entirely in control. The geist guides, and the geist doesn't give a shit about this man, any man. Regan has finally, after all these months, invited her out to play, to have a little control, to pull the strings.

Pull hard enough to lift that dead thing to its feet, for it to reach up with bound hands and drag its bindings down the part of the blade that protrudes and cut itself free.

What happens next does not bear detailing. Regan herself can barely fathom what she has done, but her will has been let loose upon the fates of the three remaining lives. The girl, should she be conscious and witness to the horror that follows, will be left with no memory of Regan, for the geist whispers that a memory can fade. Her lover and her rapist are gone when she wakes, and whatever strands of hair or DNA Regan herself leaves behind will, one hopes, not be tested. After all, any blonde hairs found in the girl's bed are likely to be her own, no?

Once the monstrosity which she created has assisted in getting the concussed Michael into his own car downstairs, she leaves him to rest in the hallway, where anyone peeking through the front fdoor will be alerted to the disaster. Quickly reviewing the scene, Regan can only hope it looks as if the man escaped and was murdered as he pursed his girlfriend's rapist, who, himself had fled after committing these heinous acts. And if anyone spotted a strange car parked on the street? Well that was Michael's too.

Though not the best driver, Regan managed a phone call on the way out into the country, where the abandoned business Doc had left her waits, newly rebuilt and uninhabited. At which point a trusted former associate of her dead lover assists her in getting Michael to a secure location inside. A hefty payout to an already unscrupulous man will hopefully assure his silence, along with an anuity for future services rendered. After all, every girl could use a goon.