Victoria's steps are cautious, her eyes darting from one place to the other, checking for danger as she walks forwards. She can feel the strands of her hair, now wet and dirty, cling to the skin of her neck, dragging and scratching as she shifts her head. Her palms have mud on them, lines of dirt coloring the lines of her hands and patches of green from where she pressed into grass to get up mix intricately over the canvas of skin. She is still a bit dizzy, her eyes sluggish as she looks from one side to the other of the house, noting in a vague interest the vines stretching over the concrete of the building like a web. If she had a mirror she thinks she would see half closed eyes and a frown and slashes of mud and dirt on her face, her hair splattered with grass blades and earth – she thinks she'd be a human version of the house, just as battered and dirty and ancient. It makes her sigh in resignation, she doesn't have anything against being dirty, but she wishes she didn't have to waste more time washing later. Victoria expects The Scalpel to jump up in front of her from the bushes, his hands both holding a blade to attack her with, or to come out from behind the house, his eyes a stormy amber color filled with hatred. Her fear is irrational. She knows this even as she stops when the breeze hits at the drapes inside the house, making them slash across a window, the faded yellow color of the material stark clear in the unclean glass as one slaps against the other suddenly. She jumps at the sound, loud in the silence of the slowly descending night. But no one shows up, no condescending smile that sends shivers up her back, no words spat out like venom to raise bile in her throat and no Anthony to fight against. Because she would fight him this time.
She breathes, drawing large gulps of air inside her lungs and exhaling them just as deeply, relieved when she reaches the tall marble arch several feet away from the entrance and looks at the wooden door quickly. There is something scribbled inside the material, words that she can't quite focus on yet. The inscription is faded, the wood no longer as clear to read because over the years the door itself eroded slowly, making it murky before her eyes. She thinks that maybe she can understand them better if she says them out loud, her mouth watery and giving off a taste which bothers her – not something acrid, but a sort of non flavor that gives her a knot in her stomach – so she opens her mouth, lips curving to say the first word, squinting and walking closer towards the house.
"Demon!" she hears from behind her, her heart stuttering to a stop then pumping blood again, ice cold in her veins. Her eyes widen, red irises flashing in fear and the taste in her mouth changes, suddenly she doesn't have enough saliva and she can't swallow properly without choking. He found her. She doesn't turn for a few seconds, measuring whether she can make it to the house if she starts running now, but she is still woozy from earlier and she can barely walk in a straight line. She wonders if maybe she can throw him inside the river and just let the current take him, but he is stronger than her and could possibly swim against the rushing waters. It would buy her some time, but she would not get very far even like this. Victoria curses, closes her eyes and tries to think some more, while she still has time. But her mind is darker than it has ever been before, the corridors filled with her memories too long and too many. All at once it is a maze inside her head, and yet she feels claustrophobic, the space so large, it makes her feel trapped in an endless void. She opens her eyes. It is no use. He found her.
"What do you want?" she prays he can't hear the stutter in her voice or see the shakiness of her hands as they clench into fists at her sides. She has yet to face him, her heart has yet to stop pounding in her ears. She can't move, rooted to the spot she has been in for at least a quarter of an hour by now, but the fear has made her immobile.
"You know what I want. You back in class, bright and early. You should never have left, Vicky." His nickname makes anger flash through her and her vision turns red around the corners. Breath stutters in her lungs when she breathes through her nose and she grits her teeth, finally turning around, facing him. Her red eyes narrow when they meet his amber orbs, dancing with a twisted kind of excitement. The lines of his face are serene, as if he is just out enjoying a sunny day. She wants to punch the expression off of his face, mold it into wheezing breaths and pain. He opens his mouth to say something else, but she is already rushing toward him, legs tense and muscles rejoicing at being able to work, jumping from the few steps the porch of the house has and then the feet push into the grass to propel forwards. He laughs as he pushes her aside with only a soft twist of his wrist, his hand pulling her down.
He had to use that nickname, didn't he? She thinks as she jumps back to her feet. Vicky was a child, a scared, wide eyed little girl that cried every time they came for her. Vicky is dead. Victoria stole her life years ago, when The Scalpel had not even come into being. He has no right!
"I know. But you don't always get what you want, Scalpel!" she tell him as her fist rises to connect with his jaw. He catches her wrist, squeezing painfully enough until she can hear the bones crackle under his grip and his knuckles turn white from the force. She ignores the pain – M taught her that lesson better than Anthony ever could – and lifts a knee to jab into his stomach. He uses his free hand to hold onto it as well, the tips of his fingers squeezing painfully. His fingers dig into the joints, causing waves of agony to spasm from it through her and she bites her tongue to keep from yelling. She punches him in the cheek in retaliation. He lets go of her, stumbling back a few steps before re-aligning himself.
"You forget who taught you to fight, demon." He reprimands, his tone light, amused. She steps back, falling into the familiar stance. She hasn't forgotten, she just learnt more in her travels than he had shown her those couple of years ago. She remembers nights spent in the rain, her bones freezing inside her flesh as he ground down into her, kicks to the stomach that had her seeing stars and coughing out blood for days, ribs broken and face swelling up from his punches. She hasn't forgotten.
"No, I haven't. But you have definitely forgotten I kicked your ass last time." She grins when his smile fades away and his teeth grind together, distorting his scar. She smiles at him, stares the long line of flesh with something akin triumph sparking in her eyes. She walks backwards again when he begins stepping forwards, enjoying the redness of the scar, watching the lines of split skin straining to hold it together as he clenches his jaw. That scar is her hope to escape, but she isn't an idiot. She knows there is no way to replicate those actions now, here. She had gotten lucky once, it would take a miracle to happen again and she doesn't believe in those. She believes in herself. She just has to fight him off, keep him away from the house while she makes her way closer. If only she can enter and lock herself inside long enough to formulate a plan.
YOU ARE READING
Purified by Fire
ParanormalVictoria was going to spend the rest of her life running. This was something she knew, like how she knew her bike was the best and forests sucked. But she never expected to end up trapped in a mansion with a young couple, not with her worst enemies...
