RATING: R! Oh, the R-ness!
CHARACTERS: Freddy, Amanda Krueger, The Man
DISCLAIMER: A Nightmare On Elm Street belongs to people who are not me - namely, Wes Craven. In fact, you know what? Nothing belongs to me. But hey, I'm a college student, I should be used to that by now.
WARNING: Violence and major ickiness, mentions of rape.
i. There Was A Crooked Man
She really was a beautiful girl. Sweet baby face, not a heartbeat over nineteen, with long brown satin curls and blue, blue eyes. They made the difference; those big, startling eyes, every flicker of thought or feeling like crystal.
"My heart is sad and lonely," singing along with the gramophone, as he took up his razor and strap. "For you I sigh, for you dear only..."
Amazing robin's-egg eyes, bloodshot and filled with tears. He turned so she could see as well as hear the steady, rhythmic slide of razor blade against leather, grinning when her eyes grew wider, terrified. No class or subtlety, but he couldn't help himself- the harder she cried, the brighter those baby blues got.
So pretty when they cried.
"Why haven't you seen it," he timed a bit of soft-shoe with his sharpening, twirling and scuffling closer to where his lovely guest cowered. "I'm all for you-"
He swooped down to croon the words only inches from her face. "Body and soul!" she shrieked through her gag, and tried to scrabble away, but the wall at her back wouldn't allow it. He cackled. "Don't think I'll make it in vaudeville, hm? Everyone's a critic."
Pitiful desperation was sort of cute on her, which he appreciated. Not all of his lovely ladies had worn the look as well. Still, she was trying to get away, and that was unacceptable. The straight razor fell from his grasp with a clatter, as he grabbed a fistful of soft, shining hair and yanked her up onto the bed.
"No running from Daddy," he caught the rope binding her wrists, and knotted the running ends around one tilted bedpost, in a quick two half hitches (after the Navy, he could tie them in his sleep).
There. He leaned back to admire his work.
Her hands drew his attention, their perfect bruised skin and tiny broken bones. He traced a finger over the back of one, savoring her agonized whimper. Precious, her wrists scraped raw and bleeding from the rough hemp. Everything below them was a swollen, throbbing purple, starved for circulation.
Another hour like that, and she'd be lucky to wiggle those pretty little fingers ever again.
He cinched the rope tighter. The answering muffled cry was music to his heart.
The mattress squeaked as he climbed atop her, eyes raking over this latest treasure. Bound and gagged, trapped, helpless beneath him; she looked...delicious. Succulent. Something like hunger shimmered at the base of his spine, tingling shivery warmth spreading out through his stomach.
Unable to resist, he skimmed one hand along a trembling thigh, disappearing it under the tattered remnants of her slip (once white lace and silk, stained rusty, dirty red). She sobbed harder, tears flooding down her cheeks, and when he reached up to brush the hair from her face, his fingers trailed blood. "There, there, sugar," he soothed, petting her like a favorite child. "I know you've tried to be good."
He rolled off her, and onto his feet at the bedside, arms open. Her head twisted around to stare up at him, eyes shining with timid hope. It was sweet, really.
The hopeful look was replaced with horror as he smiled, cracking the razor strap against his palm. "All you whores do."
She shook her head, those blue, blue eyes widened to dinner plates, and frantically began pulling at her restraints. What a sport- he could almost miss her, he thought. Maybe he'd keep her a few more days. After all, there was still the razor itself to use.
He cocked his arm back for the first swing, record skipping in the background and covering her shriek "I tell you I mean it, I'm all for you body and soul..."
Art shouldn't be rushed.