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Scent of Blood, Part 1, Jaye Voorhees
🕑 Added 2021-10-27 20:34:18 +0000 UTC
***Author's Note: Viewer Discretion is advise. Gore, Scares, and Thrilling Imagery ahead.***
The door slammed shut behind Ian Waylan as he frantically tried to work the rusted old lock into place. The chain rattled as the bolt clicked into the socket at last and he tore himself away from the entrance. From outside he heard the terrible screams, the hacking and chopping sounds that slowly muted them one by one, the slow, thundering footsteps as they ascended up the rickety wooden stairs towards the last cabin. His cabin.
He grabbed at the dusty old bookshelf in the corner and threw his meager weight against it. Splinters and nails stabbed into his hands as he hauled it over onto its side and right across the doorway. It wasn't going to hold, he knew, but it was something. Something to buy him even one more second.
Hurling himself back, he frantically searched for anything else to block the single entrance. He darted toward a wall where a single window hung, intending on grabbing the side table there and adding it to the pile but stopped himself. No windows. Stay away from windows. That was how Helen had gotten grabbed.
Her scream haunted his mind, seeing her clawing her fake nails into the wood around her as she was steadily hauled up off her feet by the back of her shirt by some unseen attacker outside, giant fist protruding through the too-small window to fit the young adult woman's body through. Her frantic face, the terror in her eyes that replaced the constant bitchy superiority she had vaulted over everyone, even her supposed friends. The glass had cut at her pale skin, decorating the windowsill with her scarlet blood, nails cutting furrows into the walls. Then, with a final, agonized scream, she was gone, body bending unnaturally in half with a grisly snap. Her scream was cut off in milliseconds.
Ian jerked his mind back to the present. Helen had been a bitch but she hadn't deserved to die that way. Neither had Travis. Or Jerome. Or Tyler. Or Loraine. Or Lia. Or any of them. He fell back onto his ass as the door rattled suddenly. Something was hammering on it loudly. He at first assumed it was the monster, the strange, shadowy giant in its faded jacket and ripped pants and shirt, macabre white mask speckled with blood and highlighted with red stripes across the forehead and cheeks. He saw the flash of its machete, steel smile painted with gore as it swung through the midnight air, carving up the intruders to its domain. Hooks and spikes, blades and hammers, chains and those huge, horrible, fingerless gloved hands; it used them all with gleeful abandon, taking care to make each death unique and gruesomely ironic.
A second later, he heard a panicked, pleading voice. "Let me in!" pleaded Garret. "Let me inside! Please! It's here! It's right fucking here! Let me in!"
Garret. The worst of them all. The last week had been utterly horrible even if he had been Ian's only tormentor and the others had been perfect saints. The taunts, the jibes, the shoving. The deadlegs. The rabbit punches. The never-ending mocking and the way he used his weight and seniority to force Ian to perform the most belittling and demoralizing chores around the lake.
"Hold on!" Ian shouted back, scrambling up to the door already half-stacked high with the things he had used to block the entrance. "I have to get this stuff out of the way!"
"Hurry the fuck up!" shouted Garret, sounding hysterical and frenzied, not at all like his usual macho self. "I don't know where it went! It grabbed Freddie and Carl just now!"
Ian threw his whole, unimpressive strength against his ramshackle fortification, trying to move it. But it wasn't budging. His mind worked frantically. "The window!" he shouted through the door. "Get around to the back of the cabin! I'll pull you through!"
"Right!" Garret raced off, footsteps thundering on the uneven floorboards off and around the cabin. Ian wasted no time and bolted for the window as well, unlatching it and flinging it open. Garret's blood-soaked face emerged a second later, blond hair plastered to his head. The lamp pole behind him on the trail leading away from the camp blazed on in the misty, rain-drenched night.
Ian stuck his hand out the window. "Take my hand!" he told the jock. "Hurry!"
Garret grabbed for it, jumping slightly due to the small depression where he was standing beneath Ian. Their hand slipped the first try and he landed back on the ground with a frustrated whimper.
"Come on!" Ian pleaded with him. "Where's all that basketball jumping power you kept talking about?! Dunk it up!"
"Shut the fuck up!" the larger man snarled in terror. "I'd like to see you deal with the shit I have been!"
"I've BEEN dealing with it, you Neanderthal!" Ian shot back, fear lending him strength to his voice that normally he might never had dared to insult the larger boy. "Now fucking jump!"
Garret gathered himself and leaped up again, higher this time. Their hands slapped together and caught. Ian was nearly dragged out of the window after him from the immense weight now pulling him down but somehow he held on. He pulled as hard as he possibly could, slowly lifting Garret up a bit higher. "Come on!" he panted. "Just a little...more!"
"Oh god, I don't wanna die!" pleaded and blubbered the jock. "Thank you, thank you so much man!" His other hand scrabbled for purchase on the windowsill. "Don't you dare drop me you little shit!" he warned as Ian struggled to continue pulling him up.
"Just...shut up...and...help...me!" grated out Ian, hissing through his teeth and worming his other arm out of the window to try and alleviate the near dislocation of his right limb.
They had almost gotten him up and into the window to start tugging his bulky, muscular body through when Garret, mid-sobbing plead, jerked in shock. His eyes, barely a foot away from Ian's now, were wide and white. Blood burst from his lips, spraying Ian's face. Then he was being hauled back and away. His hands slipped away, nearly jerking Ian out of the window as well.
"NO!" he screamed in terror and denial as he watched Garret slam back to earth and then start to be rapidly dragged off into the gloom by a grisly chain. He saw one last view of Garret's disbelieving, horrified eyes before he disappeared into the dark. A loud, gurgling scream tore the night's silence to pieces before it was cut off with finalizing thud of impact. The bushes where he had vanished into rustled and shook violently, accompanied by horrible sounds of rending, breaking...
Ian hung, half in and half out of the window, unable to believe what he had just seen. Then a shadow moved across his field of vision. Beneath the glow of the lamp post, a figure stepped out of the darkness. Illuminated from above, the thing, the person, stood stock still and silent. Mist and droplets of rain gusted around them.
They were big. Very big. In fact, a human had no rational or justifiable reason in nature to be that large. A heavy, ripped and faded green-brown jacket, looking to be made of either leather or maybe even canvas, hung over a musculature that defied the constraints of a basic human form, as if the muscles were trying to bulge out from underneath the dirty flesh and escape their skin-covered prison. The sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, showing bare, scar-riddled forearms that led to fingerless, black leather gloves. The hands they covered seemed big enough to grab his entire skull in just one ham-sized palm. He had seen the power of those hands up close before. Underneath the jacket, they wore a blood-soaked dark shirt with many rips and tears in it, only coming to the abdomen where a toned and rippling set of abdominal muscles were visible. Slashed and ripped pants torn beyond much recognizable other than to shield her modesty and leaving the larger sections to cover barely anything, straining around legs that seemed as thick around as tree-trunks, with huge leather boots on the feet.
A glittering machete was held in one of those hands, also bigger than it should have been. Its nicked, scarred, and battered but still fearsome blade was painted liberally with and dripped human blood. A hatchet, also stained with other horrible liquids, was strapped to its wide back. So too could be said for any other number of brutal instruments and devices. Bear-traps, chains, railroad spikes, meat hooks, knives, barbed wire-wrapped clubs. It was a veritable walking armory of horror-movie weapons.
But it was the face that sparked the most terror in him. The monster's entire face was covered by a hockey mask. Dim, dispassionate eyes stared out from beneath its chipped, bone-white, and red-detailed covering. A shock of wild, untamed hair stuck out from underneath and all around it. The neck bulged with veins and muscles, skin so dirty it looked almost gray. It remained standing there, facing down the trail. In the glint of the flickering light above it, Ian could swear he almost saw something in one of its ears. An earring maybe? It seemed so out of place.
He didn't dare move. He could barely breathe. The windowsill was pressed hard against his abdomen as he hung halfway out of it from where he had been jerked while trying to save Garret. He could not risk drawing that murderer's attention. How it hadn't noticed him already he had no clue. It just stood there, silent, completely still as a corpse, letting the rain spatter all over its bulky body. Heavy clouds were gathering above the lake and campground as a storm rolled in.
But he had to do something. Carefully, cautiously, he started to worm his way, inch at a time, back into the window. He moved as slowly as possible, breathing through his nose in tiny sharp bursts after prolonged periods of holding it. He had gotten his ribs back inside doing so. He pulled an arm in as well, stained and ripped shirt disturbing the tiny shards of glass along the sill. His shoulders and other arm were still exposed. He kept going.
He had just gotten his other hand inside when he nicked his wrist on a rusty nail. He took a sharp inhale as pain coursed through him, several drops of blood now staining the wood. He looked at the cut in almost annoyance before he glanced up where the figure had been. They weren't there anymore. Panicked, trying not to sob out loud, he kept pulling back, ignoring the pain and discomfort now.
He collapsed back off the table he had been standing atop of to reach up and out of the window. He curled up there against the wall, panting and gasping for air through his nose and keeping one hand over his mouth to not let out a ragged, trilling sob. Lightning flashed overhead then, followed by a booming peal of thunder. He closed his eyes tight as one of his old phobias flared up inside, making him shudder. There were bigger things to be scared of tonight than thunder.
Another flash of lightning was visible through his clenched eyelids and he warily peeled them open. A shadow lay across the illuminated floor of the tiny, ramshackle, ill-repaired cabin. The shape of a person's head and upper body, clearly visible. Through a window that Garret, an over 6-foot tall quarterback and basketball star, had not been able to clear without jumping.
He took in a panicked inhale before he clamped his hands shut over his mouth and nose to cut off the scream that bubbled up inside of his chest. It was right outside, looking into the room through the window. He curled up as tiny and small as he could, not a hard task given his diminutive and rather skinny frame. He'd always been good in fitting into places he shouldn't have been able to. Lockers, barrels, trashcans, the tight cramped spaces underneath bleachers. The other counselors had taken to experimenting at seeing just how tight a space he could be shoved into.
Another flash of lightning. The person was still standing there, staring into the room without moving. It was searching for any sign of life inside. His only chance at survival was at not moving, not making a single sound, and praying that it didn't stick its hockey-mask covered face in through the window and look straight down at where he was cowering. There was a creak of a floorboard a second later.
Crack! BOOM!
Another lightning bolt. The figure was gone. It was circling the cabin.
Ian trembled from head to sketchers clad toe. He looked around, desperate to find even one place to hide where it might not be able to fit into itself or even think to look. A game of hide and seek, for the ultimate keep: his life. He looked at the dresser. No. Under the bed? What was he, five? Then he spotted the broken floorboards across from the metal frame. Where he had always hated hearing the gusts of wind howl up through the underneath of the cabin, worried about snakes and other animals worming their way up and into his crappy little living space.
There was nothing for it now.
He wormed his way gingerly across the floor, cursing each creak of the wooden boards both beneath him and outside as the monster continued its tauntingly slow circle around to the front door. He reached the broken planks and carefully, delicately, worked his fingers underneath one. Old nails groaned and he held his breath. The footsteps paused outside, then continued.
He kept going, working as fast as he could while also being completely silent. The board slowly rattled up and out of the way, revealing a foot and a half wide space. He wasted no time, sliding his feet through the opening first and then turning at the hip to begin snaking his skinny, boney body more and more down beneath the floor. His shirt caught and tore on the planks around it but he kept going. He had squeezed into tighter before.
At last, his shoulders were finally able to squeeze in as well. The door rattled just then and he frantically grabbed the board and began sliding it back up over him as he ducked his head down. He was only seconds fast enough to get it moderately back into place, still obviously loose and sticking up from its fellows, before there was an explosion of force up above that shook the entire building. He heard pieces of timber and various debris scatter around the interior of the cabin. Then came the boots.
The floor creaked alarming up above as he lay completely flat and cramped between the floor joists. Dust trickled down all around, accompanied by the heavy footfalls of his predator. He held his breath desperately, wishing to every God and Deity in existence to hear his plea. He wanted to be anywhere but here, wished that all of this was just a nightmare. Horrible cold, wetness, and painful wooden logs surrounded him. There were dust-caked spiderwebs everywhere in vision and he felt them clinging to his hair and skin.
The boots paused, up from him about six feet away. He peered through the uneven boards above him. The masked person had their back mostly to him. From here, he could see multiple holes in the fabric, revealing more of the scarred, hulking body underneath. The head swung slowly from side to side. He couldn't even hear their breathing and that alone was somehow worse than knowing everything it had done. For all the carnage it wrought, the terror it inflicted, it didn't make a sound. Not a grunt. Not a roar. Not even a whisper of breath. It was like a corpse, uncaring and unfeeling of the world around it save for the slaughter it could wreak upon those unfortunate enough to come here, to this miserable campground.
Ian felt something crawling over his bare leg and he squinted his eyes shut tight to avoid wriggling and making noise. Nothing that was down here could be worse than what was right above him. He wished he'd never gone to that tiny little, abandoned hovel in the woods while desperately trying to find something to occupy his time, away from his fellow camp counselors who were all busy getting high on drugs and having sex in their much nicer cabins. He hated them. But he hadn't wanted any of this.
He blamed himself for everything that had happened. Would this figure, this monster, have even come down from the forest to find the intruders to its lair, had it not been for him? His mind reeled through the newspaper clippings, old, brown, and moldy that had been nailed to the walls of that tiny building.
Campers and trespassers found mutilated and murdered in the woods surrounding Camp Crystal Lake. Missing persons reports teaming in the dozens. A masked figure that stalked the area, slaughtering any who it came across. A shrine, built up around a pile of materials too corroded or dirty to tell what they were anymore. Sitting atop of it, a faded old teddy bear. A name had been stitched into the fabric, almost impossible to make out.
In his mind, he saw the final newspaper clipping, the oldest of them all, sitting right beside the bear. He remembered how it flaked in his hands as he picked it up to read it. "Pamela Voorhees, area coordinator and cook at the local summer camp, Crystal Lake, New Jersey, was taken into police custody following the deaths of five young adults who were interning at the campgrounds for a summer job. When questioned, the furious and irate Pamela blamed the counselors for the death of her twelve year-old daughter who tragically drowned in a lake while the teens were distracted by their lovemaking to stop other children from tormenting her child."
He saw the picture of a little girl alongside the picture of Pamela Voorhees' mugshot and grainy picture of her being hauled into a police squad car. The girl was plain, pretty, but had big, blockish features and very messy hair. She wore a camp Crystal Lake shirt that seemed tight on her as if she had been a rather large kid. A plastic device stuck out from underneath her hair in one ear. The name on the paper read: Jaye Veronica Voorhees. Age twelve. The same name stitched onto the stuffed, moldy old bear.
A creak right above Ian tore his mind back to reality. The masked monster had reached the uneven floorboard he had used to crawl underneath. It waited there, seemingly for any sign. Then, to his utter relief and shock, the boots turned. He caught a glimpse up directly at the figure as another flash of lightning burst through the window then, illuminating it in perfect detail for that split second.
It was a woman. A huge, hulking, unbelievably large woman. Say what you will, even on an unnaturally bulky frame like that one was, but even the most 'shapely' of pectorals could not be described the same way as the equipment jostling about underneath the belly-length shirt she wore. They rippled and moved at the slightest motion. Twin peaks disturbed the front of the fabric, revealing that she wore no bra underneath.
What had at first seemed monstrous were now shapely, curved, and sculpted legs that, while muscular, still showed a feminine shape, underneath the ripped and nearly shredded pants she wore. The body, this close up, definitely had curves to it that defined it as female not male. Even so, there was nothing sexual about her. The machete still clutched in one hand was as brightly polished as ever, seemingly washed clean by the rain that now hammered on the roof of the cabin. The flash of light vanished, followed by the loudest yet retort of thunder.
He had seen something else too. The weird, out of place shape in one ear, barely visible beneath the shock of untamed hair. A plastic device, obviously broken, but left where it was, hooked over the earlobe on a blackened loop. A hearing aide?! There was no doubt about it. That was a hearing aide.
The boots slowly tromped off, aimless and without rhythm, away. Dust motes drifted down around him before the building settled back to stillness. He waited a full minute, lungs bursting, before he finally let out his breath in a muted gasp. She was gone.
A gloved fist hammered through the floor directly beside him. Splinters and shards peppered the crawlspace he was wedged into. He screamed. He couldn't help it and there was no point. Terror constricted his chest as that hand uncurled and grabbed the board beside the one it had broken. It hauled it up, wrenching the nails right out of their sockets and cracking the board in half. Again the hand descended, grabbing yet another board and making the hole bigger still.
He looked up now directly at the killer. The huge hand dropped the board it was holding and then it raised the machete in the other, aiming it straight down at him. Time seemed to slow around that curved, fang-like tip. Breath caught in his throat as the eyes behind the mask narrowed in seeming satisfaction and joy to have finally found its next victim. He couldn't speak, couldn't think. He couldn't manage to even muster up a plead for mercy from this figure that had otherwise ignored every such cry or scream before him.
He was going to die.
His hands flew up on instinct as if to shield himself from the oncoming blade that would pierce through him and spill his blood and worse everywhere. She would not be gentle. She would not show mercy. She would tear him apart, as she had the others, split him open like a gourd. He waved his hands as she drew back for the killing thrust. His right hand went flat, his left hand curling into a ball with the thumb pointing straight up.
Help.
He wasn't sure why he used sign language just then. Was he signing to God? Using the only means of language left to him with his vocal chords seemingly frozen in fear? What God would allow him to live after so many others had died at this masked murderer's hands? What was so special about him that was worth saving? It didn't matter. Ian didn't want to die. He'd done nothing with his life in his short 18 years. He'd never had a girlfriend. Never gone on a date. Never been kissed, or held, or comforted by anyone. He'd die, a virgin, lonely, terrified, and helpless.
Help.
He signed it again, closing his eyes tight, waiting for the end. Tears streamed down his dirt-splattered cheeks. It was all he could think of right then. For anyone to come and save him. To help him. Then another thought came to him, as thoughts tended to do, speeding through your mind in moments of crisis, making reality almost slow around you as life flashed before your eyes.
She had probably thought the same thing. Little Jaye. She had only been twelve years old. The newspaper clipping had gone into how she had been ostracized and picked on by her fellow campers for being different. For being shy and nervous. Like him.
Jaye. I'm sorry. I wish I could have helped you too. If I had been there. I would have.
It was so strange. He was scared out of his mind, about to die in the most horrible and painful way by Hockey-Mask She Hulk, and all he could think suddenly was how much he regretted not having been able to be there for a little girl who had suffered a tragic accident because no one was around to save her. Because of cruelty and indifference. Because of prejudice and terrible judgement on the part of those who were supposed to keep her safe.
One last tear trickled down his cheek. "Jaye. I'm sorry," He signed.
The blade didn't come. He waited, and waited still longer. He didn't feel the sharp steel bite into him. He didn't feel anything. He just smelled the damp and the cold and the dust. He warily opened his eyes, scarcely able to believe he wasn't yet a blood-soaked corpse like the rest of his fellow teens had become.
The giant hovered over him. The machete was still lifted, glittering, flashing in the wavering light from outside. The figure was stock still, staring down at him through the eye sockets of her obscuring mask as he cowered there beneath the floorboards in the hole she had smashed open. Her eyes were fixed on his hands.
He looked from her face to them, and then back up. His hands trembled as he, shuddering from cold and terror, signed it again. "I'm sorry. Help."
The killer flinched almost, a flicker of something passing up her spine as she continued to loom up above him, still as a statue for the most part otherwise. The blade didn't waver but it also didn't come down to strike him.
His eyes furrowed and he stared up at the eyes behind the expressionless mask. At the wild head of hair that surrounded it. He took in the scarred skin. He saw the hearing aide, clear as day, in one ear. He dared to hope...
"Jaye?" he asked, voice trembling.
She didn't respond. Of course she didn't. She was deaf. The hearing aide was obviously worn anymore as a force of habit.
He signed it. "Jaye?"
She stiffened in alarm. She didn't respond otherwise but he knew he had her complete and utter attention.
He could barely believe what was happening but he wasn't about to give up on the only thing probably keeping him from having his chest cavity split open like a watermelon. He kept signing, thanking every higher power, and his mother, who had insisted he learn ASL. "I'm. Sorry. About. What. Happened. To. You."
Her eyes behind the mask narrowed. The hand holding the machete tightened its grip. The flooring creaked underneath her considerable weight as she actually shifted position by just a hair.
"I. Wish. I. Could. Have. Helped. You. Before," he continued. "I'm. Sorry. For. Intruding. In. Your. Home. I. Meant. No. Harm."
Jaye waited, watching.
"Please. Don't. Kill. Me," he begged her, hands shaking even more now. "I'm. Only. Here. As. A. Job. I. Didn't. Mean. For. This. To. Happen."
He saw something in her eyes flash, or maybe it was just another burst of lightning from outside. This seemed more likely, as immediately after was another roll of thunder. He shuddered uncontrollably from it. The memories his phobia had stemmed from still left him shivering at even the most distant peals or sights of such storms. The blade lifted higher.
"Please!" he signed more frantically, barely able to make out the complex symbols with his fingers. "I. Would. Have. Helped. You. Before!"
The gloved fingers tightened their hold once more. The blade poised itself, ready to fall like a guillotine towards its helpless victim. That he had lived this long was in and of itself a miracle. The arm thundered down toward him.
Ian screamed and closed his eyes tight, throwing his head to the side. He couldn't watch death descend toward him. He was so scared. Dust and splinters abruptly showered his cheek. A muted, vibrating sound came. He opened one eye. The blade of the machete was buried right in front of his nose, embedded in the floorboards.
He looked up in time to see Jaye reaching down with her now empty hand for him. He had no time to struggle or even react before the fingerless gloves took a single-handed hold of his shirt and hauled him up out of the crawlspace. She lifted him as easily as he might have a kitten, holding him aloft and feet dangling in the air in front of her. The fabric of his yellow, camp t-shirt strained and began to rip at the incredible strength she possessed.
Jaye turned and threw Ian bodily across the room. Wind rushed past his ears before he suddenly felt himself come back to earth, landing hard on something soft. There was a grating of metal and the whole world slid along with his momentum before thudding against something solid. He gasped for breath and looked around frantically. He had been thrown a good ten feet and landed on the mattress of his assigned bed, which had then skated across the floor and smacked up against the far wall. He lay there, sprawled out and nearly paralyzed by shock.
The huge girl turned, gripped her machete and tugged it out of the floor. She advanced on him, shoving it into its leather holster at her waist. He tried to back up away from her but his back hit the wall behind him. There was nowhere to run. All he could do was look up at her as she crossed to stand directly over him once again.
Jaye Voorhees towered over him like a giant from Norse mythology, like a Titan from a Greek epic. Her whole body seemed to shimmer with a coating of damp and cold as she reached toward him with her hand again and once more took a hold of his shirt. She tore it up and away from him, fabric shredding to pieces. He screamed again as he was left now shirtless and bare-chested. She dropped the torn shirt onto the floor. Her eyes scanned his thin, unimpressive upper body, paying attention to the starkness of his collarbone through his skin, the lack of dominant musculature. He trembled like a reed before her.
Her hands strayed to her belt again and he flinched. Her grip returned to him again. Against his now bare skin, her own felt clammy and cold, wet too, as if she had just come out of the very lake she had once drowned in. Her clothes remained sodden too, drawing emphasis once again to her erect tips of her prodigious chest. She roughly trailed a hand up across his shoulders and down over his pectorals and then to his waist. He didn't dare move or object.
Then she stood back up. Something seemed to go on behind the mask, eyes flickering strangely with a light all their own. Then the hands lifted, ever so slowly, and gripped the cracked, solid edges of the stained and battle-scarred face-covering, marked at the right temple with what could only be an axe-blow or similar bladed weapon that carved a heavy notch into the material. He wasn't sure why, unable to look away in sheer horrified fascination, but he expected something monstrous underneath.
The mask slid up from her face before she turned it to lay across the side of it instead. Jaye stared down at him from underneath her heavy, obscuring mane of hair with only one eye fully visible. It was green, brilliantly green like clovers, with speckles of brown woven into it around the pupil. And she was beautiful.
Her features weren't stereotypically feminine, very heavy in the jaw and brows, but remaining soft in other places. She had very thin eyebrows, or eyebrow from the one that was visible, and her face had no emotion on it at all. Her throat, to his shock, had horrible scarring all over it as if it had been slit or cut savagely open before somehow healing. Or...were they the marks of a chain that had been wrapped around her neck and then dug in while she was hung? More scars decorated the bulky form. Gunshots. Claw marks. Stabbings. Blades. There seemed not to be barely a few inches of flesh that he could see that didn't have some sort of blemish.
Jaye slowly leaned down toward him then, hands raising to cup either side of his face. The strength in just that gesture made him quiver as pressure began to be exerted on his temples. He had seen her do the same, in shadowy contours before, to Jerome when the foolish athlete kid had tried to stand and fight. His head had squished like an overripe melon beneath those gorilla-like paws.
And then she was leaning down, nearly bending at the waist and hovering her face barely half a foot away from his own. She was so tall. Standing up he probably would barely have come to the top of her ribs. Her huge form blotted out everything in his sight. Her single eye gleamed with something. Scarred, cracked lips opened from their grim, tight line. The pressure doubled upon him as she firmed her grip more, keeping him in place.
Jaye reached forward, closing the gap between them closer and closer. The metal bedframe creaked as she began to settle her weight atop of it too, slowly moving to loom ever closer over him and slowly but surely pressing him back and down. Her lips hovered just over his. His wide, startled, terrified eyes stared up at her singular, flat, expressionless ones. Her thumb brushed a strand of his hair away from his face, surprisingly gentle. It was such an odd motion, so delicate and light, compared to her rampaging before.
Her lips drew closer....
How had it all come to this...?
