The devil was in the details.
It wasn't a matter of how long she had been there. Piper couldn't recall that much of the story - couldn't remember when groggy hues opened through a sheen of neglect, struggling to blink away the crust of sleep without the aid of her hands. She couldn't remember where she had been headed before she found herself in the belly of this great criminal beast, nor could she remember what sort of faces her captors had - just that there were marks for each set of their hands. Her bruising blossomed like finger paint petals, trickling low and dark in descent from the expanse of her neck and upper arms, trailing to her half swollen rib cage and manhandled hip bones. A petite thing when standing, she couldn't remember every grim detail of her fate in confinement, but she could remember the parts that mattered; the traumas she was meant to be burdened with. In that regard, there wasn't any means to forget while strapped to that chair, and though the hours clicked along and the chance of rescue slimmed immeasurably in her mind, Piper was less than cognizant to what was going on. Time lost meaning in the darkness.
By the time Connor showed up, her wilted frame was little more than a grotesque ornament on display.
His scent was something delectable in such contrast to the mostly lightless chamber. When his warmth approached, she knew to recoil, even if she was barely lucid. Hers was a fear learned through action, through trial and error, so the way Piped shied as physically far from Connor as she could in her chains suggested there had, at one point, been reason for alarm. His rhetorical question would be met with physical aversion. Piper silently braced for blows that didn't come. Instead, the release of bindings followed with heavy clunking of metal to the ground, removing stress from joints and ensuring blood flow would be able continue circulating, but the frail woman didn't seem as appreciative as may have been expected. Drugs coursed through her system, inducing a sort of sluggish response time that meant even if she had meant to run, it would be a sad display of wobbling knees and teetering, unsteady wall hugging. The thought hadn't really crossed her mind.
Realistically, Piper had resigned herself to die in this room, strapped to this chair.
At least she had been previously while stewing in her own filthy, blood basted appearance. Currently, with someone unshackling the restraints little by little, there was a flash of curiosity intermingled with whatever fear refused to wane. Maybe Piper would die in another equally revolting part of the house, rather than this chamber she had become so accustomed to in whatever period of time she was a captive. Maybe they intended to make her death a quick one. That brought something of a macabre smile to her bloodstained mouth, though it remained hidden behind the veil of matted auburn curls and cotton mouth gag. The one with her now was a different sort, gentler, taking steps to free her at an agonizingly slow rate. Not that she minded, playing the scenario in her head out as some kind of fucked up Christmas morning, with Piper wrapped tight and secure for his pleasure. A gift. A token.
Something to play with until he was tired of her.
Her head lolled lazily before she managed to shake it at his question. No. She couldn't walk, and the static running from her pale toes to her battered thighs promised this. So long off her feet, the prisoner was lucky they even still worked if they still worked. This would have to be tested at another point, and by all her hopes and wishes, Piper wanted to walk again. Languidly, a slender set of arms rose to assist him with whatever the stranger's plans happened to be, but she wasn't in a state to make her grand escape. Toes vanished into the slippers while a welcome blanket encased her frame, which remained in need of care. Even if she didn't appear to be, Piper was desperate to be rid of the sights this hell hole had seared in her psyche. Only then did she look at her savior, emerald orbs studying a set of eyes that were similar, but less hollow. This was a sort of existence middled between life and death, and what had once shown brightly behind the sharp greens had been replaced by a miserable impersonation of it's former self. Maybe in time, she would come to miss who she once was.
"Thank you..." Even if her throat had been painfully raw from screaming, Piper managed that much as a barely audible chime. In another life, her vocals were an affectionate sort any man would enjoy listening to. Now they just tugged at the heartstrings like a skilled set of hands against cords on a harp, plucking uncomfortably for both Piper and Connor to hear. Was that really her voice? A better question - Was this really her life?
It wasn't a matter of how long she had been there. Piper couldn't recall that much of the story - couldn't remember when groggy hues opened through a sheen of neglect, struggling to blink away the crust of sleep without the aid of her hands. She couldn't remember where she had been headed before she found herself in the belly of this great criminal beast, nor could she remember what sort of faces her captors had - just that there were marks for each set of their hands. Her bruising blossomed like finger paint petals, trickling low and dark in descent from the expanse of her neck and upper arms, trailing to her half swollen rib cage and manhandled hip bones. A petite thing when standing, she couldn't remember every grim detail of her fate in confinement, but she could remember the parts that mattered; the traumas she was meant to be burdened with. In that regard, there wasn't any means to forget while strapped to that chair, and though the hours clicked along and the chance of rescue slimmed immeasurably in her mind, Piper was less than cognizant to what was going on. Time lost meaning in the darkness.
By the time Connor showed up, her wilted frame was little more than a grotesque ornament on display.
His scent was something delectable in such contrast to the mostly lightless chamber. When his warmth approached, she knew to recoil, even if she was barely lucid. Hers was a fear learned through action, through trial and error, so the way Piped shied as physically far from Connor as she could in her chains suggested there had, at one point, been reason for alarm. His rhetorical question would be met with physical aversion. Piper silently braced for blows that didn't come. Instead, the release of bindings followed with heavy clunking of metal to the ground, removing stress from joints and ensuring blood flow would be able continue circulating, but the frail woman didn't seem as appreciative as may have been expected. Drugs coursed through her system, inducing a sort of sluggish response time that meant even if she had meant to run, it would be a sad display of wobbling knees and teetering, unsteady wall hugging. The thought hadn't really crossed her mind.
Realistically, Piper had resigned herself to die in this room, strapped to this chair.
At least she had been previously while stewing in her own filthy, blood basted appearance. Currently, with someone unshackling the restraints little by little, there was a flash of curiosity intermingled with whatever fear refused to wane. Maybe Piper would die in another equally revolting part of the house, rather than this chamber she had become so accustomed to in whatever period of time she was a captive. Maybe they intended to make her death a quick one. That brought something of a macabre smile to her bloodstained mouth, though it remained hidden behind the veil of matted auburn curls and cotton mouth gag. The one with her now was a different sort, gentler, taking steps to free her at an agonizingly slow rate. Not that she minded, playing the scenario in her head out as some kind of fucked up Christmas morning, with Piper wrapped tight and secure for his pleasure. A gift. A token.
Something to play with until he was tired of her.
Her head lolled lazily before she managed to shake it at his question. No. She couldn't walk, and the static running from her pale toes to her battered thighs promised this. So long off her feet, the prisoner was lucky they even still worked if they still worked. This would have to be tested at another point, and by all her hopes and wishes, Piper wanted to walk again. Languidly, a slender set of arms rose to assist him with whatever the stranger's plans happened to be, but she wasn't in a state to make her grand escape. Toes vanished into the slippers while a welcome blanket encased her frame, which remained in need of care. Even if she didn't appear to be, Piper was desperate to be rid of the sights this hell hole had seared in her psyche. Only then did she look at her savior, emerald orbs studying a set of eyes that were similar, but less hollow. This was a sort of existence middled between life and death, and what had once shown brightly behind the sharp greens had been replaced by a miserable impersonation of it's former self. Maybe in time, she would come to miss who she once was.
"Thank you..." Even if her throat had been painfully raw from screaming, Piper managed that much as a barely audible chime. In another life, her vocals were an affectionate sort any man would enjoy listening to. Now they just tugged at the heartstrings like a skilled set of hands against cords on a harp, plucking uncomfortably for both Piper and Connor to hear. Was that really her voice? A better question - Was this really her life?
BDRP Admin. Writer. Villain. Personal Blog.
I tried running from the memory and the mourning.
I tried running from the memory and the mourning.
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