Thursday's Child
folder
DarkFic › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
4
Views:
3,037
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
DarkFic › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
4
Views:
3,037
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
Pale Glory
Thursday’s Child
The Excitement in the End
Mondays child is fair of face,
Tuesdays child is full of grace,
Wednesdays child is full of woe,
Thursdays child has far to go,
Fridays child is loving and giving,
Saturdays child works hard for his living,
And the child that is born on the Sabbath day
Is bonny and blithe, and good and gay.
Chapter Three: Awake
The little girl blunk the sleep out of her eyes hours later, noting how dark it was outside as it was lighted only by a pathetic streetlamp about thirty feet away that flickered every few seconds. She was sitting propped up against the gray brick wall, head tilted sideways onto her shoulder, making her neck sore. As she strained to see details in front of her, she saw her clothes and scrunched her nose. Her dress was covered with blood. Well, more like blood splatter. There were tiny droplets decorating the bottom of her dress. She lifted up it and looked at her legs, looking for some sign she was hurt or bleeding, but no vision of split or bruised skin was in sight, save the sure bruise the man had made with his hand earlier. She placed her hand on the purple-black epidermis, turning her hand how his had fit there when the man from the subway had grabbed her. Five inches separated the tip of her tiny hand and the tip of where his ended. She outlined it with the same hand, wincing at the soreness of it, and then glanced at the rest of her body. Not a single mark. During her subtle inspection, she noticed a sticky discoloration on her hands—blood there too. Somewhere in the back of her conscious, she wondered where the blood covering the front of her came from but never addressed it. She merely covered her legs again and brought a hand to her aching neck, massaging the muscle and then stretching it out.
She sniffed a few times, trying to clear her slightly runny nose, and then wiped at it, only to find that her face, too, was blood covered, some of it rapidly drying. Looking around where she was currently propped up, she saw that she was sitting against an unfamiliar brick wall and her legs were lying out in front of her on the broken concrete of a sidewalk. Little sprouts of grass had made their way through the rock and were now tickling her hands as they splayed across the dirt just next to the wall.
A rank odor made its way to her nostrils and she nearly threw up at the stench. She finally saw the dumpster not five feet from her and it was as nasty as they come. There were torn open bags of trash, messy yellow and red liquid staining strewn paper. The entire place made her gag, so she scrambled up and pinched her nose while looking for a place to go; a place to gain her bearings. She looked to her left and right and found that the only way to escape was to pass the trash heap. She stood her full height and bravely made a dash to the slightly lighted street, only stopping when, passing the dumpster, the girl spotted something quite out of the ordinary. There, laying spread eagle, was the leather jacket clad man from before on the subway. Her eyes widened for a moment as her eyes rapidly took in the most beautiful sight, smell of the atmosphere completely forgotten. The way he was laying—his throat bared, wide eyes dotted singularly with light from the streetlamp, mouth open to a never-ending black hole, chest proudly thrust in the air, arms as wide as a flying bird, torso lean and exposed to the world through a slash in his shirt that seemed to have caused the slice across his skin, bare legs seductively parted, naked skin glowing in it’s pale glory.
He was the most beautiful sight she had ever beheld and she loved him then. She loved him in his death because his evil lay on his skin and it was something that made her heart throb and her lips twist into a grin of happiness. She didn’t know why or how she could love a dead man, but in that moment, all things had become possible. She wanted to be with him, lying beside him and drinking up the coolness that all bodies devoid of life had, but she knew better. Lingering here next to her love would shock most little girls and, imitating them, she decided to flee. Taking one last glance toward the pale, lifeless creature that had bruised the skin on her thigh, she ran to the end of the ally and turned down the street, dark hair against oily white epidermis flashing into her thoughts. The thick fumes of the city filled her lungs and made her dizzy, but the girl just kept running. She passed a parked cop car on the way to where her instincts were pulling her, only decided against waking the sleeping man.
He would be upset at the sight of her dress and Father would be upset that she had admitted to anyone she even existed. She hadn’t been allowed to attend school because then Father would be found out—Priests are supposed to remain celibate. A child would prove he had broken his vows…and mother knew this. She was safe from being hurt in any way because a priest would not harm another person, or so she had believed, and could blackmail the man at will. All the while, their little girl had been in the background and soaked in the information. Now, with Mrs. Sugarman keeping tabs on her mother, she knew a few secrets on her that she could use against the prostitute. All is fair in Hate and Warfare. She just knew the basics of life—simple things that would help her get by unscathed and victorious.
She sauntered quickly past the black and white car and glanced up and down the sidewalk for another streetlight. There wasn’t one for as far as she could see but a few neon lights close by lit her face and a pulsing glow of city lights haloed the building tops, even though the buildings’ occupants were ominously hushed and the insides were inky, all still and secretive. She wouldn’t get very far without being questioned; she picked up her walking pace and started to massage her neck, crick still annoying her movements. All the while, the tingling feeling she had had so many years before was returning to her, pressuring her back, forcing her forward faster. At first she nearly fell over herself, but then was ushered forward, guided by her raw instincts. Onward she pressed; gaining speed until finally she knew she had to stop running, she halted just when face to the face of a building guarded by the night’s shadows. She felt the brick tickling the tip of her nose; tacky weeds, grasses and pieces of rusted metal brushed against her legs and leaving small scrapes. She let out a labored breath and noticed the tingling had stopped pushing her, but the painful prickling was still there.
Backing up cautiously, fearing where the animal in her had led her legs to bring her, she looked up at the sign that hung there, ‘Library’, it read. The girl furrowed her eyebrows in confusion. Since when had there been a library in her neighborhood? Obviously, the girl had pulled a Dorothy wasn’t in Kansas anymore…Or perhaps, she was.
The Excitement in the End
Mondays child is fair of face,
Tuesdays child is full of grace,
Wednesdays child is full of woe,
Thursdays child has far to go,
Fridays child is loving and giving,
Saturdays child works hard for his living,
And the child that is born on the Sabbath day
Is bonny and blithe, and good and gay.
Chapter Three: Awake
The little girl blunk the sleep out of her eyes hours later, noting how dark it was outside as it was lighted only by a pathetic streetlamp about thirty feet away that flickered every few seconds. She was sitting propped up against the gray brick wall, head tilted sideways onto her shoulder, making her neck sore. As she strained to see details in front of her, she saw her clothes and scrunched her nose. Her dress was covered with blood. Well, more like blood splatter. There were tiny droplets decorating the bottom of her dress. She lifted up it and looked at her legs, looking for some sign she was hurt or bleeding, but no vision of split or bruised skin was in sight, save the sure bruise the man had made with his hand earlier. She placed her hand on the purple-black epidermis, turning her hand how his had fit there when the man from the subway had grabbed her. Five inches separated the tip of her tiny hand and the tip of where his ended. She outlined it with the same hand, wincing at the soreness of it, and then glanced at the rest of her body. Not a single mark. During her subtle inspection, she noticed a sticky discoloration on her hands—blood there too. Somewhere in the back of her conscious, she wondered where the blood covering the front of her came from but never addressed it. She merely covered her legs again and brought a hand to her aching neck, massaging the muscle and then stretching it out.
She sniffed a few times, trying to clear her slightly runny nose, and then wiped at it, only to find that her face, too, was blood covered, some of it rapidly drying. Looking around where she was currently propped up, she saw that she was sitting against an unfamiliar brick wall and her legs were lying out in front of her on the broken concrete of a sidewalk. Little sprouts of grass had made their way through the rock and were now tickling her hands as they splayed across the dirt just next to the wall.
A rank odor made its way to her nostrils and she nearly threw up at the stench. She finally saw the dumpster not five feet from her and it was as nasty as they come. There were torn open bags of trash, messy yellow and red liquid staining strewn paper. The entire place made her gag, so she scrambled up and pinched her nose while looking for a place to go; a place to gain her bearings. She looked to her left and right and found that the only way to escape was to pass the trash heap. She stood her full height and bravely made a dash to the slightly lighted street, only stopping when, passing the dumpster, the girl spotted something quite out of the ordinary. There, laying spread eagle, was the leather jacket clad man from before on the subway. Her eyes widened for a moment as her eyes rapidly took in the most beautiful sight, smell of the atmosphere completely forgotten. The way he was laying—his throat bared, wide eyes dotted singularly with light from the streetlamp, mouth open to a never-ending black hole, chest proudly thrust in the air, arms as wide as a flying bird, torso lean and exposed to the world through a slash in his shirt that seemed to have caused the slice across his skin, bare legs seductively parted, naked skin glowing in it’s pale glory.
He was the most beautiful sight she had ever beheld and she loved him then. She loved him in his death because his evil lay on his skin and it was something that made her heart throb and her lips twist into a grin of happiness. She didn’t know why or how she could love a dead man, but in that moment, all things had become possible. She wanted to be with him, lying beside him and drinking up the coolness that all bodies devoid of life had, but she knew better. Lingering here next to her love would shock most little girls and, imitating them, she decided to flee. Taking one last glance toward the pale, lifeless creature that had bruised the skin on her thigh, she ran to the end of the ally and turned down the street, dark hair against oily white epidermis flashing into her thoughts. The thick fumes of the city filled her lungs and made her dizzy, but the girl just kept running. She passed a parked cop car on the way to where her instincts were pulling her, only decided against waking the sleeping man.
He would be upset at the sight of her dress and Father would be upset that she had admitted to anyone she even existed. She hadn’t been allowed to attend school because then Father would be found out—Priests are supposed to remain celibate. A child would prove he had broken his vows…and mother knew this. She was safe from being hurt in any way because a priest would not harm another person, or so she had believed, and could blackmail the man at will. All the while, their little girl had been in the background and soaked in the information. Now, with Mrs. Sugarman keeping tabs on her mother, she knew a few secrets on her that she could use against the prostitute. All is fair in Hate and Warfare. She just knew the basics of life—simple things that would help her get by unscathed and victorious.
She sauntered quickly past the black and white car and glanced up and down the sidewalk for another streetlight. There wasn’t one for as far as she could see but a few neon lights close by lit her face and a pulsing glow of city lights haloed the building tops, even though the buildings’ occupants were ominously hushed and the insides were inky, all still and secretive. She wouldn’t get very far without being questioned; she picked up her walking pace and started to massage her neck, crick still annoying her movements. All the while, the tingling feeling she had had so many years before was returning to her, pressuring her back, forcing her forward faster. At first she nearly fell over herself, but then was ushered forward, guided by her raw instincts. Onward she pressed; gaining speed until finally she knew she had to stop running, she halted just when face to the face of a building guarded by the night’s shadows. She felt the brick tickling the tip of her nose; tacky weeds, grasses and pieces of rusted metal brushed against her legs and leaving small scrapes. She let out a labored breath and noticed the tingling had stopped pushing her, but the painful prickling was still there.
Backing up cautiously, fearing where the animal in her had led her legs to bring her, she looked up at the sign that hung there, ‘Library’, it read. The girl furrowed her eyebrows in confusion. Since when had there been a library in her neighborhood? Obviously, the girl had pulled a Dorothy wasn’t in Kansas anymore…Or perhaps, she was.