SHE KILLS; tom riddle

𝔱𝔥𝔯𝔢𝔢

THE MOON LUMINESCED BRILLIANTLY in celestial drenched night and yet, Elise was far from tired.

The sheets of the unpalatable inn were itchy on her skin and the creak of the walls settling when a breeze rustled had unnerved her; but most importantly and indelibly her conversation with the newly acquainted stranger had painted itself on the forefront of her psyche and she was implicitly sure it would never leave.

'I have some business to handle' he had sneered with toxins on his lips while suffocating cigarette smoke swelled from his nostrils in wisps and curves like dragon flames, scorching her skin . She had felt uncomfortable under his inquisition and the menacing way in which the aired littered trepidation along her spine in a shiver.

His business he never quite elaborated on but the way his eyes shown with rascality had made her reckon that perhaps she didn't want to know at all.

But curiousness is a addiction.

So within thin sheets of discomfort she contemplated her options, and from what she could anthologize, none of them seemed respectable in the slightest.

She thought to settle on parting ways, a stranger she could someday tell stories about, a handsome face with an...interesting personality; but all the same, and to her discontentedness, there was a part of her who resented the idea all together. There was a part of her that wanted to remain in uncomfortable rickety wooden seats of a dusty joint where he picks her apart and pieces her together like a puzzle tapped together for impatience impairs his need for perfection.

She felt out of place and all same completely and indelibly whole. She had never met anyone as sundry and disparate as he and even though they knew nothing of the other, there was a way in which he carried himself that pooled security, as if no one could ever touch her as long as he was near.

It was a silly thing to think about, and in ways she resented the way she fed into misogynistic expectations but she'd been hurt far too many times, visible with bruises, and burns, and slashes of ardent spirits and moonshine drenched blades; so she cuts herself a break for desiring a feeling other than complete vitriol fulmination that she could feel ransacking her cerebral.

The world had grown quiet as she settled into her thoughts. Her fingers tracing over the skin of her curves, just above her hip to her stomach as her eyes shut and her senses fell into feeling the groves of scars along her pretty paled skin, drenched in moonlight and resentment and the hope of a quick and painless end.

But she wasn't lucky enough for that, so she settled to remain in her past and sins and hope that maybe, just maybe she can find an antidote.

She was fervent though, she only dressed in a silk coverup that managed to reveal far too much for curious eyes, and she blames that terrors that lurk behind shut eyes while the bends above her lip collected sweat and her lungs closing into suffocation.

A scream tears through the pages of thin air, or perhaps a growl of anguish but no matter a affrighted jolt electrifies her body and she's up with her wand in hand before she can even comprehend. Shaky hands, tremulous legs and with a silent step she inches to the wall. It feels as if it shakes with the tremors of tribulation filled string quartet, raspy and low, a rumble or rolling thunder and even before she can stop herself, a spell spews from past her lips as the click of the door unlocks and she's crashes through the joining doors to see a pile of torn cloth and protruding nerves of a hunched man far to distraught to notice her there.

She curses below her breath, chest heaving as exposed skin glows in moon candescence and her heart manages to burst from its confinements of a frail ribcage and fatigued muscle when piercing blue orbs connect with her own and his face falls into one of complete and utter antipathy.