Post by beth on Dec 5, 2011 18:45:43 GMT -8
DATE & TIME seventeen october, twenty-eleven -- sometime between ten to ten-thirty.
as a girl you have set your heart
o n h a u n t i n g m e f o r e v e r *
o n h a u n t i n g m e f o r e v e r *
Rumor was that he was on the run, this man named Carlyle McCaulay. It was a rumor, a simple thing of gossip, spread by a few chattering witches of the Ministry, those who worked under Lord Williams and his everlasting power. With their daring snickers hidden in underneath their airy breaths, their watching, hateful eyes greedy and stuck on the brooding, dark figure of a man, tall and heavy-footed, wandering forward from the hidden crevice where he appeared, and into the open of the wet stone of the streets below. Those who saw him veered away from him, scared of the disfigured patch upon his face. He was a werewolf, those witchy women said with a dark laugh, one the hunt for his next prey, his next meal, his next woman to be devoured, whose bones would be thrown in the sea in a bundle of bloodied cloth. Such a dark rumor spread by such dark witches, but perhaps, they were true.
For all anyone had known about this quiet, solemn man, they knew had, once upon a time, a family. A beautiful wife and a darling daughter no older then thirteen now. He had something special that he lost. No one had bothered to learn the facts of how that dirty-blooded, foul creature of a woman had died. They only assumed that he had killed her out of anger. After all, those witches had said he was a dark man with a twisted head. Those stories haunted him with each step he takes, and each breath he breathes. Everyone watches him out of fear he can turn on them, kill them with his heightened strength and his bloodlust needs. He was a danger to the society, this Death Eater with a twisted head and a dangerous past. He could kill in a second, kill a family in a blink.
That was, after all, what he had done.
As he lowered his gaze, dropping his dark eyes to his booted feet, he continued forward. There was no point meeting the gazes of the sinister witches giggling like children as he wandered past them. He could hear their whispers, their dirty talk of his past they created. He let it slide; there was not a single he could do to change their minds. He was a Death Eater, or so he was meant to be -- and taking down a member of his own group would be trouble. It would be foolish to say it had never happened, because he was certain it had, but it was still a threat to the rest of the Death Eaters he was meant to charm and play pretend with. That was his job, after all. To play pretend and let his past be his past. There was nothing he could do to change any of it. But the wolf within him; it wanted out. It wanted to tear the flesh of the witches and bite into the meat of the dark wizard soon greeting them, joining into the gossip. But the wolf was not the one in control. It was he who controlled his emotions, his feelings. Not the beast within him, clawing away, wanting to be free from his body and become its own master, its own persona.
He ducked his head further, hiding it behind the popped collar of the leather jacket as he continued forward, down the cold, empty road. Few wizards and witches dared to leave their warm homes in search of a drink of whiskey for the warmth, for the feeling of numblessness, for the feeling of nothingness. Oh, the feeling of being immune to the world. It was a lovely feeling the man enjoyed quite often, being able to block out the pain of the world. Most anyone liked that feeling anymore, just being able to live the world through a topsy-turvy point of view. It was the only way to go about it in a topsy-turvy world, after all. But he had to remain in the shadows, as the eyes of the passersby increased. He felt the thousands of eyes glued to him, searching for something in him. What would they find? Some sympathy, perhaps, for the woman his heart went out to that he so brutally destroyed? Perhaps a hint of humanity behind those dark eyes, hidden in the thick lashes and thick brows that knitted together. He looked menacing, heartless with that disfigured patch of scars and dead tissue upon the left side of his formerly-handsome mug. If the scar would disappear, would leave, he would be able to reclaim the charms he had once.
The thick beige jumper beneath the leather jacket did little to protect him from the lashing wind that gusted through his hair, onto his face. His eyes remained upon his dirtied boots, upon his somewhat tattered jean trousers. He pulled the sweater closer to him, hiding his hands within the folds of the crumpled thing. He kept the wind from breaking further into the weathered thing. He found himself rounding a corner, soon into another one. A fork in the road; he turned left, bit his lip. He turned right, his feet moved him forward. Without hesitation, he let his legs move, let them walk. He wouldn't stop them. The hesitation his mind created by those lies that spread like a wildfire fazed him little. How could false rumors keep the man down? It couldn't; it was impossible. He carried onward, into Knockturn Alley. It was dark, it was dreary. No one dared comment on another here. They had faults, all of them.
He leaned against the sharp brick of the façade of the building, his hands slipping into the pockets of his jacket. He pulled out the cigarette packs from the Muggle world, a matchbox, and quickly drew a match. He lit the cigarette, shaking out the flame from the match, and took a long, much needed drag. His mind began to relax, began to calm itself from the intoxication of the poison substances floating about. He took another drag, blew out the smoke in rings. His head leaned against the building and he sighed, his breath forming its own smoke. His eyes gazed from the Knockturn Alley entrance, his eyes focused on the petite, somewhat darkened figure of the young woman he knew all too well. His brows furrowed, his teeth clenched. He curled his fingers into a ball, and he watched her, hesitated. Poppy Livingston. He growled somewhat, gazing back into the dark alley he stood within, snuck out from the shadows, and took a tight grip of her arm in his hand. He swung her into the dark shadows, away from Diagon Alley, into his arms.
WORD COUNT 1120.TAGGED poppy. TEMPLATE beth. LYRICS panic! at the disco. NOTES i stopped rambling... and i'm terrible with titles. >.>
[/SIZE][/CENTER]