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| Pity, who needs it?; Closed, (M for violence) | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Oct 8 2005, 10:55 PM (152 Views) | |
| Mr. Trout | Oct 8 2005, 10:55 PM Post #1 |
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Henshin boogy
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There are a few houses in Kabuki cho that remind the populace of how things once were, and not always in a good way. Inside a creaky building made of brick and a cheap tiled roof forcing the rain to go down into the gutters and yet let some drip inside and splot into the pots that were collecting them. Sitting on a dull blue mat that had a ruffled comforter taken from a salvation army man to keep the occupant warm at night. She was young compared to many that worked in this house coming in at only 23...one of the most popular of the women that lived and worked in this building. Her face was clean besides the lit pipe in her hands the tabacco smoke wafting to the cold ceiling. There was a book open in her lap her hand that wasnt holding the pipe going over it with slim figured writings. My name is Yoko Mosumurri, a rather common name. Most people that come to see me call me all different names none of which I care to repeat. I have lived and worked in this building since I was 17 and am pretty good at what I do. Its a way to live and its easy. I dropped out of school when I was 14 and lived on the streets, my parents had money sure but they didnt like to spend it. I ended up here three years later and settled into this life. Thats enough about me though, how interesting could the life of a whore really be? I'm a whore, so what? Dont pretend we dont exist anymore, men know where we are almost by instinct...like a dog. You are probably looking down on me right now saying what I do is 'immoral' or just downright 'wrong' strange thing is most of those people who say it have been in this very room at least once or twice. They look down on us like we are rats. People pity us and say we shouldnt be this way and then walk away after saying what a shame. Yet there are people worse then us around. People we pity are harder to find but you know them when you see them. Weither they are mad, or in eternal pain is when they have our pity, men on drugs we dont care about...thats their own fault. There is only one man that has my pity anymore, but not because he is mad. He was just here you see, the warm spot on the wall from where he sat all night. He didnt touch me he never has, he merely comes here looking for conversation, another human being to spend time with. I have a stack on the wall near the window over there, over 200 volumes, all given to me durring our talks. There is a man who whores pity, who must pay for conversation. His eyes are hallow now and his voice cold but he comes here out of kindness, pays me well to simply give him another mind. There arent many like him, no others I am told by the older women here. He didnt talk as much this tonight, his voice was weak and his skin cold as ice. He let me do all the talking, we have spoken on nearly every subject or at least I have...he rarely speaks about himself. I barely no more then the man's first name and yet in his lonely kindness my pity is obvious. How could such a man be forced to find his only company in the room with a whore? The first time I thought he was here for flesh but he immediately said no and merely asked to talk. I hope you find some better place Mr. Eeth. People greater then me so I can no longer pity you. The book closed and the door to her room opened up quickly. She was still a working girl and had to deal with customers even if they arrived at the worst time. She moved the book to the side and tapped her pipe before even looking at the man who walked in. It wasnt the one she had just written about, this one had a lively face and a dangerous look in his eyes, the kind of look so many of her customers seemed to have. He held out enough money to feed a family for a week, longer if they didnt like their kids too much. She nodded and the door slid closed behind her. An hour later the comforter was stained in a red fluid, miss Yoko was being held down on it her hands lay away near the books as if wanting to touch them one last time. The man ontop of her had a maddening smile the long saw in his hand tearing through her chest. She tried to scream, it didnt last long though, the man couldnt allow such a thing and quickly used pliars to remove the pink tool of speech and cut it off with a quick strike of the saw. He pocketed it as a souvineer before parting her bleached hair to the side off her forehead where he pressed his bloody thumb print. He brought down the pliars slowly so she would know what was happening to her at least...for a while longer. Which was a more horrible torture? Having your hands and tongue hacked off and watching as you can do nothing or is it having your feet torn off and the skin across your upper body flayed off after your eyes were plucked out? Only Yoko would know, a pity she would never be able to tell anyone. He was a killer this one, one without morals or duties or codes. Someone so horrible that prisons had already fought over who would take him in. Like every victim of his there was just that thumb print in blood pressed on the victims. A thumb print that had long ago been altered from his old records. Yoko was still alive when he left. She was let to bleed until her heart could find no more blood to pump. Her limbs were scattered about the room but even in her death throws she didnt go for them, instead she went for the small book on which she was writing before. The first few pages were being soaked with blood yet the binding was strong enough to keep it all in one place. The killer had gotten away with no witnesses, no evidence, nothing besides the bloody thumb print. Eeth the man who had left her in spirits was not blamed for this. It was not his thumb print and everyone had seen him leave while Yoko was alive, the police dropped him as a suspect and returned to thinking it was the same serial killer. It had taken a while to identify it as Yoko, her teeth had all been torn out and shoved back in at odd angles and places a few of which missing, the eyes were gone and the fingers cut off. The hands were there yes but no fingers. Mr. and Mrs. Mosumurri had been called to identify the body from the old footprints taken from her as a child. |
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