ORIN holds her prize triumphantly in one hand. She is sated— for now. Her blade, having imbibed the blood pouring fast from Fever's neck, surfeited— for now. Now and until her thirst demands hot lymph on an eager, flapping tongue. Now, for the brief moment she remains on stage, locked in a final pose: arm raised high, stone catching light and refracting it, red as insides onto the audience's blank faces.
Bow strings whisper.
Sparks rain down. She's gone.
...
Ellen Ripley does not know when or how she's made it backstage, only that she's conscious of her presence under hot lights in one moment, and in the next finds herself plunged in darkness. Through the crushed velvet curtain. Through the narrow mazes. Through the black door that lets into the Green Room. And through the threshold of that door, she is herself again. Tripwires catch and split underneath skin, freeing her. Whatever it is that'd kept her on-stage is no more.
She wolfs down air. In out in in out in out forcing her lungs to inflate deflate inflate in out out to no set rhythm at all— chaos.
Her mouth is dry and her eyes are wet. She turns a wild look into the mirror, her costume no longer the intricate magic of demons but a cheap sham you'd throw together on a dime. A wig, frayed and wiry. Makeup, shoddily applied and costume a too-tight vinyl.
The blood, however, is real.
The wig comes off first.
Nails rake hard through curly hair. Off off off-
Ripley tears it from her head and throws it to the side, not caring where it lands or who it might hit. Off get it the fuck off now-
Her tongue curls. Retreats at the still-lingering taste of blood. Fever's blood. Blood, god damnit it's blood on her tongue she's killed that woman on-stage for everyone to see-
She can't really be dead, can she?
Makeup heavy and sticky in her pores. She needs it gone. Smears with front and back hand alike, making a mess of white foundation and real, real blood.
no subject
ORIN holds her prize triumphantly in one hand. She is sated— for now. Her blade, having imbibed the blood pouring fast from Fever's neck, surfeited— for now. Now and until her thirst demands hot lymph on an eager, flapping tongue. Now, for the brief moment she remains on stage, locked in a final pose: arm raised high, stone catching light and refracting it, red as insides onto the audience's blank faces.
Bow strings whisper.
Sparks rain down. She's gone.
...
Ellen Ripley does not know when or how she's made it backstage, only that she's conscious of her presence under hot lights in one moment, and in the next finds herself plunged in darkness. Through the crushed velvet curtain. Through the narrow mazes. Through the black door that lets into the Green Room. And through the threshold of that door, she is herself again. Tripwires catch and split underneath skin, freeing her. Whatever it is that'd kept her on-stage is no more.
She wolfs down air. In out in in out in out forcing her lungs to inflate deflate inflate in out out to no set rhythm at all— chaos.
Her mouth is dry and her eyes are wet. She turns a wild look into the mirror, her costume no longer the intricate magic of demons but a cheap sham you'd throw together on a dime. A wig, frayed and wiry. Makeup, shoddily applied and costume a too-tight vinyl.
The blood, however, is real.
The wig comes off first.
Nails rake hard through curly hair. Off off off-
Ripley tears it from her head and throws it to the side, not caring where it lands or who it might hit. Off get it the fuck off now-
Her tongue curls. Retreats at the still-lingering taste of blood. Fever's blood. Blood, god damnit it's blood on her tongue she's killed that woman on-stage for everyone to see-
She can't really be dead, can she?
Makeup heavy and sticky in her pores. She needs it gone. Smears with front and back hand alike, making a mess of white foundation and real, real blood.