We Are Who We Are

[Abbadon]

She managed to keep her composure long enough to retreat from West Towers and back to her own apartment building.

As soon as she entered her own safe haven, however, the mask cracked, crumbled, to the sound of her purse hitting the wall as it was flung from her grasp, contents scattering over the floor. Her lips were curled into a snarl, fingernails digging into her palms as delicate hands formed fists. This was insanity. Pure, unaltered insanity. She had never had reason to doubt her own desirability and then Nishaa had waltzed into her life.

Everything was different and some of it was absolutely abhorrent. What was change good for anyway? If she had a choice to take the enhancements and leave the uncomfortable entanglement, at this moment she would take it. And then, unbidden, an image of her sire’s crooked smile, her laugh, the way she cared for her, filtered into her mind and she collapsed against the door.

Abbadon sighed and tilted her head to stare unseeing at the ceiling. Insanity, once again, this was insanity. How could this have happened to her? The tiniest bump to her ego and here she was, a crumpled mess on the floor.

This wouldn’t do. It wouldn’t do at all.

Pushing herself up, she brushed errant wrinkles from her dress and squared her shoulders. She was an unstoppable force, an apex predator. She was not a simpering woman and she would never be. With a light inhale, she turned and left her apartment behind again, intending to prove it. To herself, to anyone.

It didn’t take her long at all to find a target. Subduing them was child’s play with her strength, something she had learned just after being turned. And currently, the man was bound to a chair inside a warehouse. She felt some sort of push, an urgency that had her deviating from her norm.

Abbadon circled him, fingertip tapping her chin as she thought. He begged, of course. Promising all sorts of things if she would just let him go. Along with the generic spiel about how he’d never done anything wrong in his life, he was just a regular guy. It was pathetic. It was disgusting.

She lashed out, hand wrapping around his throat and squeezing until she could practically hear the creak of his windpipe, silencing him. It made her head hurt, the clash of her thoughts and his simpering. His face turned various shades of red and purple until she released him to gasp and sputter for air.

Without her knives, any of her instruments, she’d have to be creative. Nothing too traumatic, of course. The artistry was in making them suffer for as long as possible. It was only too unfortunate that he simply would not be silent long enough for her to think.

He blubbered, crying now and struggling with his bonds like the trapped animal he was. She was used to this. She couldn’t fathom why it was making her head throb like a jackhammer was positioned directly behind her eyes. She bared her teeth, a hiss leaving her, and she began to pace, heels clicking against the filthy cement floor.

This was her fault. Their fault, even, if she cared to include Shan in this. Disappearing off to god knows where when she could use the distraction. What was the point if she wasn’t there when she was needed? The pinprick pain in her hands alerted her to the fact that she had been clenching her fists again, half-moon indentions in her palms welling with blood until her nature healed them over.

The pitch of the man’s whining grew until it hit a point where Abbadon whirled, arm striking like a viper to send her fist into his face. Blood and bits of teeth decorated his shirt and her skin, the impact fracturing his jaw. The loss of control in her own strength only infuriated her more. She had only meant to split his lip at the very most.

He was curled into himself as much as he could considering his circumstance, head bowed and dripping red. He sniffled pitifully, shaking, and started to pray under his breath. She couldn’t help but laugh. God wasn’t here. Not now, not even in this wretched town.

The pacing began again without her consent, legs carrying her to and fro, almost frantic now. What was she meant to do if even the world of her own creation she couldn’t control herself? If she couldn’t torment and tempt without mercy?

Obviously she wasn’t going to find the answer with the simpering form of a defeated man breaking her solitude. With a sigh, she approached him and gently lifted his face, cradling it in her hands.

“I had such plans.” She lamented, then with a viciousness that belied her pleasant and slight exterior, she hooked her nails in his throat and pulled. His flesh tore like wet tissue paper, spraying her and the general vicinity in rapidly cooling red. This dress had been one of her favorites.

The trek back to her apartment was made in stealth and haste. It wouldn’t do for someone to see her covered in blood, especially blood that wasn’t her own. Once she was inside the relative safety, she toed off her shoes and made her way to her bathroom.

Her reflection stopped her short.

She knew she looked as she would if she had stayed dead the night that she and Nishaa met. The face that stared back at her was beginning to rot, skin sallow and hanging from bone. Her hair had begun to fall out with clumps of flesh.

The glass shattered under the weight of her fist.