Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > Translations of Blood
The Crime Scene
17 ReviewsThe silence buzzed like black insects.
A/N: Hello there, my pretties ;D Thanks so much for the lovely reviews on the first chapter- like I said, I'm a little nervous about this story because I've never written anything like it before, but I'm pretty fucking excited about it! This chapter is really important to the plot, despite the fact it's short. So yeah...again, if you want to work out where things are going, really think about what it's saying. Enjoy! And remember to R&R xD
Prologue
Some silences are temporary; fleeting, peaceful pauses in time.
And some silences are forever.
……
Chapter One; Crime scene
Year; October 7th, 2006.
Location; Nightingale Ballet Hall.
Victim; Emily Louise Hawthorn.
A repulsively dark kind of silence choked the ballet hall, crawling copiously with unspoken lies. It buzzed and droned like black insects, swarming into your skull in a defiled cloud of unheard poison, thick and glutinous and tar-like.
Stepping through the mahogany double doors into the hall was like stepping into a whole different world. A world of besmirched silence; the quiet that just seemed to go on and on and on, drowning everything.
Silence had never been so loud.
Footsteps echoed deafeningly across the waxy floor, rupturing through unfathomed answers and murdered honesty with slightly uneven wariness. The full-length inbuilt mirrors violently reflected the trepidation that intensified with every footstep.
The air was nauseatingly thick; drenched in silenced screams that tarnished the air with metallic fear.
She was draped over the bar at the end of the hall.
Destroyed.
Dead.
Murdered.
Her head hung lifelessly from her sprawled body like a broken marionette, the frothy white net of her tutu stained a macabre shade of mottled ruby.
Strands of her auburn hair were straggling free from her bun-net, encrusted in deep, dark ruby; bedraggled and scabbed from the slowly congealing fluid that dripped slowly, sickeningly to the polished floor beneath her, staining it in blotches of diseased, diluted scarlet life.
Blood.
Blood that had once been innocent and that was now spattered violently across the waxy surface, sullying it in what it had never been intended for.
The smell of it smothered every inch of the desolate ballet hall, rusty with screams.
The taste of it lingered repulsively on the tip of your tongue, digging its hacked scarlet talons into your taste-buds with every shuddery, sickened breath you drew.
And the image was one that would never, ever fade; it wormed its bloodied obscenity behind your eyes, scratching and scrabbling with its infected claws to scrabble deeper and deeper into you; besmirching any remaining innocence forever.
The image, the mood, the smell, was unforgettable. Inescapable.
Her ballet pumps dangled from her limp feet, strangled dreams, as the ribbons unravelled just like the truth, trailing into the puddle of violent red beneath her and letting the spattered ruby veins contaminate the once pure satin.
Although her expressionless eyes and emotionless canvas of a face were shrouded with blood-soaked tendrils, her neck stood out bitterly; deep, angry scarlet gouges contorted the now cold, milky flesh.
There was something else there, too. Something that was almost unnoticeable amongst the riddling scarlet slashes.
A skinny, viciously crimson ribbon was knotted fiendishly round her silenced veins, throttling the answers as much as the deceased convulsing of her throat.
And her left arm was thrown out, pale and limp and bedraggled with blood-soaked strands and crusted red, but it's position lingered surprisingly strongly; in a way that almost seemed to imply she'd thrown it out for someone to catch hold of.
As if she truly believed someone was coming, and she was waiting.
Waiting for them to come and save her.
……
Years later, and the ballet hall is still silent. But it isn’t empty.
It’s smothered in that same, crawling silence that scratches across your life like rusty razorblades, buzzing relentlessly and deafeningly in your eardrums.
The silence is anything but a peaceful one. It’s not resting. It’s not dreaming.
It’s holding its breath.
It’s waiting.
Hope that was okay, and not too morbid- I got a little carried away! Let me know your thoughts...I know it all seems kinda hazy at the moment, but it'll all start to make sense soon, promise. Next chapter will be the start of the story properly, and you'll meet the lovely Frank and...well, I won't say much else...you'll have to wait and see! R&R? I'd really make my day :D I'd also like to know if this is okay, as I'm really not that familiar with this type of thing. The next chapter will be longer, I promise!
Thanks so much for reading!
C.Z xo
Prologue
Some silences are temporary; fleeting, peaceful pauses in time.
And some silences are forever.
……
Chapter One; Crime scene
Year; October 7th, 2006.
Location; Nightingale Ballet Hall.
Victim; Emily Louise Hawthorn.
A repulsively dark kind of silence choked the ballet hall, crawling copiously with unspoken lies. It buzzed and droned like black insects, swarming into your skull in a defiled cloud of unheard poison, thick and glutinous and tar-like.
Stepping through the mahogany double doors into the hall was like stepping into a whole different world. A world of besmirched silence; the quiet that just seemed to go on and on and on, drowning everything.
Silence had never been so loud.
Footsteps echoed deafeningly across the waxy floor, rupturing through unfathomed answers and murdered honesty with slightly uneven wariness. The full-length inbuilt mirrors violently reflected the trepidation that intensified with every footstep.
The air was nauseatingly thick; drenched in silenced screams that tarnished the air with metallic fear.
She was draped over the bar at the end of the hall.
Destroyed.
Dead.
Murdered.
Her head hung lifelessly from her sprawled body like a broken marionette, the frothy white net of her tutu stained a macabre shade of mottled ruby.
Strands of her auburn hair were straggling free from her bun-net, encrusted in deep, dark ruby; bedraggled and scabbed from the slowly congealing fluid that dripped slowly, sickeningly to the polished floor beneath her, staining it in blotches of diseased, diluted scarlet life.
Blood.
Blood that had once been innocent and that was now spattered violently across the waxy surface, sullying it in what it had never been intended for.
The smell of it smothered every inch of the desolate ballet hall, rusty with screams.
The taste of it lingered repulsively on the tip of your tongue, digging its hacked scarlet talons into your taste-buds with every shuddery, sickened breath you drew.
And the image was one that would never, ever fade; it wormed its bloodied obscenity behind your eyes, scratching and scrabbling with its infected claws to scrabble deeper and deeper into you; besmirching any remaining innocence forever.
The image, the mood, the smell, was unforgettable. Inescapable.
Her ballet pumps dangled from her limp feet, strangled dreams, as the ribbons unravelled just like the truth, trailing into the puddle of violent red beneath her and letting the spattered ruby veins contaminate the once pure satin.
Although her expressionless eyes and emotionless canvas of a face were shrouded with blood-soaked tendrils, her neck stood out bitterly; deep, angry scarlet gouges contorted the now cold, milky flesh.
There was something else there, too. Something that was almost unnoticeable amongst the riddling scarlet slashes.
A skinny, viciously crimson ribbon was knotted fiendishly round her silenced veins, throttling the answers as much as the deceased convulsing of her throat.
And her left arm was thrown out, pale and limp and bedraggled with blood-soaked strands and crusted red, but it's position lingered surprisingly strongly; in a way that almost seemed to imply she'd thrown it out for someone to catch hold of.
As if she truly believed someone was coming, and she was waiting.
Waiting for them to come and save her.
……
Years later, and the ballet hall is still silent. But it isn’t empty.
It’s smothered in that same, crawling silence that scratches across your life like rusty razorblades, buzzing relentlessly and deafeningly in your eardrums.
The silence is anything but a peaceful one. It’s not resting. It’s not dreaming.
It’s holding its breath.
It’s waiting.
Hope that was okay, and not too morbid- I got a little carried away! Let me know your thoughts...I know it all seems kinda hazy at the moment, but it'll all start to make sense soon, promise. Next chapter will be the start of the story properly, and you'll meet the lovely Frank and...well, I won't say much else...you'll have to wait and see! R&R? I'd really make my day :D I'd also like to know if this is okay, as I'm really not that familiar with this type of thing. The next chapter will be longer, I promise!
Thanks so much for reading!
C.Z xo
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