Stories I Never Finished

Money & Power

I cant even keep up
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Lively Saturday nights often drove kindred souls to plow through days of hellish work, living in a drowning system mooching off of their every cent. With city streets overwhelmed by crime, and fashion rising above the normality of society; the world was ever growing into its glitzy gown. It took each stride in diamond studded heels, stomping on the guts of the fallen with a chorus of grunts and cries of pain following her as she strode with confidence; wealthy with the money of kings and fools draped over her body.

From expensive diamonds strung around the expanse of soft skin to the glittering red dress curved like a forced hourglass down a petite figure, society had banished a particular non-conformist into incarceration for his petty crimes.
Ruby lips that had once refused to submit to the will of another man sung into a microphone whose system harmonised through the karaoke bar. Black velvet gloves covered hands that had once pushed a dominating man away in a plight for safety—splattering blood across their soft skin as a body crumbled off a balcony; the key that kept the petite singer locked tight to their pedestal.
Lungs burned as hazel eyes watered beneath heavy makeup, insides pushed against the edge of his skin from sleek red corset fabric holding tight around his stomach—pressuring his body into a shape it didn't belong and hidden by the bedazzling dress slung over one shoulder.

Gentle fingers, though they shook, rose to push faux fiery red hair from his face; masquerading as a damsel in distress. But finding cold green eyes among the few sets of drunkards who had made their way to the private bar made him fear maybe it wasn't all a masquerade.

The men enjoyed hearing their damsel in red sing, entranced by angelic vocals they believed a God had forged by His own hands. Some wanted to get close, too close, and others wanted to bathe in its angelic divinity until they drowned.
Deep voices often begged the damsel to drown with them, rumbling coarse tones dragged through gravel from years of smoking and drinking grabbing at the damsel's dress. Calloused fingers pulled and prodded at each sequin, some getting close enough to grasp the damsel's shoulder and pull the angel close before they were brutally ripped away.

You see, the angel had a protector. A demonic one, but one nonetheless. And the demon held no regard for anyone that dared to get too close. For this particular angel the demon had claimed as his own and hidden him away by lock and key—presented only as a trophy for the weaklings around him to gawk at; forlorn eyes trailing up and down the glamorous red dress as though weeping for the day they could chance to graze their mere fingertips over such beauty.

"That voice," a man dressed in a bedraggled suit, whose front pocket held his hidden wedding ring, sat at the bar beside a vague stranger, "it's like she's serenading my heart." He mumbled, dazed and woozy.

"I know." The equally drunk man beside him downed the rest of the beer left in their bottle and beckoned the tall barman over. "I'd sell my soul for that belladonna."

The bartender placed another bottle down in front of the man, not pleased to be told the drink could go on Sir-Drunkard's tab. Blue eyes were emotionless, locked in a trance of professionalism as the tall blond man—well fitted in his plain black clothes—spoke to the soul-burdened male.

"We do offer a package for Deity, if you're interested?" Luke Hemmings was nothing more than a business man and Deity, the supposed famous angel who could heal your woes with her voice, was his biggest financial asset.

An asset he would beat, slaughter and maim for without so much as a blink of his lifeless eyes. His business was his life and soul, his world remained within its four walls, and should he ever leave he swore Hell itself would strike him down through the earth's soil and entrap him in sordid flames for eternity.