Gift for Toccata No. 9
She asked for a Jon/Sherry drabble, but instead I took an idea she has used. I placed my iPod on shuffle and chose the first five songs I could write to and made this. Hope you enjoy this, Toccata! I enjoyed writing it!
I've come to love writing these kind of relationships and scenerios.
Disclaimer: You know the deal. I own nothing and I claim no ownership of anything but my ideas.
As I Went Down To the River to Pray—Alison Krauss
His eyes glanced around as everyone else's eyes were closed. He searched everyone's countenances with cynical disgust. Yes, they prayed to God, his son, and the holy ghost. They prayed to that all powerful deity he was always punished in the name of. They were hypocrites, all of them and it made him sick.
Humanity and its excuses; he sneered and his eyes continued to observe until they landed upon another pair of eyes, these a dark brown. He was startled by her freckled, alert face and he turned away, closing his eyes in shame at being discovered, but he couldn't help smiling in his abashment. Sherry always looked beautiful in white like an angel.
The graveyard that rests in the shadow of Arlen's First Baptist Church is silent in the night, for why would it be anything else? The dead cannot speak nor move in their tombs. They no longer moan and sigh at a wretched existence. Instead, so thinks the figure sitting atop a gravestone whose owner is shaded by the shadow of his long legs, all they do is rot.
The souls here, poisoned and blackened, though they wanted to think otherwise, they merely are food for the mold, enshrined in heavy, wooden, beautifully sick vanity. And even if he believed in God—the man who is dressed in the guise of a scarecrow laughs at that thought—she deserves to be bound to eternal nothingness. She was never a saint. Perhaps she dressed as an angel, but she was a siren, and he, he was Hades, clothed in the nightmares of the dark.
He spreads his legs and reads the name of the grave's inhabitant.
Sherry Ann Squires
Born: March 4, 1969
Died: June 5, 1987
Underneath the Stars (Renholder Remix)—The Cure
Her body is lean and long, formed perfectly for the purpose of dance and despite the fury that is slowly forming in his veins the longer he watches the video, the dance she executes is stunning. Her spirals graceful and accurate, her jumps swift. Her blows are deadly and paint the walls in arches of scarlet splatter. She is a master artist and her fingers twirl his scythe expertly.
His jaw is clenching and as much as he wants to scream, he can't tear his eyes away from it. The blood staining the blade of his weapon, the way her dark lips pull into a smirk. He knows the stirrings of desire and the churn of self-loathing that follows immediately in its wake. Her eyes are obsidians and he's drowning in them. It takes everything he has to pause the tape and then he's flying from his chair hands, flaked now with drying blood digging desperately into his ginger hair.
He wants to forget her, he wants her image to disappear, but this is just like Sherry. She has grown, she is beautiful, deadly, and definitely not deceased. She decimated his henchmen with his own scythe and left nothing more than her attack on tape and a playful scrawl of "Icabod" on the wall above his men's bodies.
He looks at the screen again, and her eyes tear into his soul like a thousand sharp beaks.
Nothing Good About Goodbye—Hinder
Jonathan glared coldly into her eyes, her own expression defying and daring him as his grip on her slender neck grew tighter. He showed no emotion, for one moment, for two before his body pressed her further into the thick wall and one of his hands fell to her hip. The other twined into her hair and painfully wrenched her head to the side. There was no love in what he did, or so he told himself.
What he knew was it was some form of passion as his mouth found that warm skin, which was already mottled from his previous grip. He gripped her hip relentlessly and didn't allow her any room to move. He was not the same boy from Arlen all those years ago. He was stronger, swifter, and he longed to control the woman now arching against him wantonly. He made her long for him; he believed he held her strings. Yet she too wasn't the Sherry Squires he claimed to have murdered either.
She no longer required Bo to do her dirty work; she was no longer anyone's pawn. She managed to wrench his lips from her throat and savagely attacked his mouth. They often shared this dance, a waltz that always ended with them hating themselves more come the morning, but at the same time only heightened their thirst. For now, however, all he longed to do was to draw his name in desperation from her lips and she sought the same.
Miss Murder (VNV Nation Remix)—AFI
Her first victim had been Bo Griggs; she had been more amateur then, sloppy. Anger had consumed her like a wildfire and by the end of her assault Sherry had found herself unsatisfied and covered in streak after streak of metallic blood. The death had been too quick, that was her mistake. Brutal, but too swift, but one learned from their mistakes. She had, and that murder was still unsolved. Arlen comforted themselves by claiming it a Scarecrow murder, but she would always know.
Yet now, watching the strobe lights of the Iceberg Lounge, she had honed her skills. Revenge and death were best served long and icily. She leaned her head against the door, not startled when the pounding began behind her. Instead her body shook in contained laughter as she pushed herself forward and began down the hall, back towards the main club.
She had learned that it was far more terrifying when they saw their assailant's face. She wore no mask like Jon, but it was well enough. In that perhaps she was more powerful; she needed no gimmick to sow her horrors. She turned halfway down the corridor as the screaming started.
Sherry vaguely wondered what the woman she had entombed was seeing, but she had learned self-restraint as well. Sometimes, just knowing you had done your job was good enough, besides she had given her the information she needed after all. She felt her heart flutter in dark glee when she imagined Jonathan reading the paper tomorrow. She was one more step closer to finding him.
She'd place a bouquet on Linda Friitawa's grave to thank her, but for now she'd just enjoy her pretty screams.