The Artist: Silence Is Tumultuous

3rd person

It had not taken long to find the officers. But apparently it had not taken long to flee, either. yet again, Christabelle was gone, leaving dead bodies in her wake. Four kills and two crime scenes. in less than 24 hours. the Police were in shock and grief, the two who had died were of their best. Wives and kids would mourn, but at the moment everyone was focused on trying to catch the little shit who has brought havoc to Huntington Beach-- and many other places.

The two officers' throats were slit, and their shirts were blood-soaked. The radio blared out Nightrain by Guns 'n' Roses, and a single scrap of paper was laid on the dashboard. Detective Cameron picked it up carefully, scrunching his face up in distaste at the message written luxuriously on it--in calligraphy. This was mockery, she was taunting them. She had to show them that she was in control, that she had all the time in the world to do what she wanted before she had to walk out. the message itself meant almost nothing to the forty-five-year-old detective.

It consisted of four words, four seemingly ordinary words that had seen each andevery one of the Artist's masterpieces--but he didn't know that.

Again the old detective tried to make sense of it, to no avail. She made it seemlike some sort of game, or an adventure to take them to her ultimate goal...

"Whatcha got there, Cammy?" Harry, Cameron's partner, asked. Harry was much younger and much less sagacious compared to Cameron. The man looked up at his partner, showing him the note. Harry cocked his head in confusion andcontemplation at the sight of the note.

"Closer now, and closer yet," He said, hint of a grin on his words. "Whaddaya
think that means? and she has good handwriting, too."
"I don't know," Cameron replied. He was dumbfounded. This would call for a longday at work.

*********

Jagged breathing filled the air around her. Her lungs seemed to perceive oxygen as
pure poison, and her muscles screamed for her to stop.
FUCK! she screamed mentally. What the fuck am I doing?!
Running. Yes, that's what. she was running from the police car with two dead cops

and a message in it. Why, oh why did I have to put so much effort into that fucking calligraphy?! She screamed to herself, because she was too tired to make any physical noise expect for wheezing. She had taken off, running as fast as she dared as soon as she laid the piece of paper down on the dashboard of that car. that was the last time the Master spoke to her before He went into hibernation. It has been, what, fifteen minutes straight? yep.

Christabelle had ran for all she was worth, towards what she knew was the slum side of whatever city she was in. At the time being, she couldn't even remember her own name. All her energy went into her legs and her navigation system.

Her heart and lungs felt like they were about to either explode or just shrivel up and die inside her. Her converse-clad feet thudded fast and hard on sidewalk pavement, and she just barely caught the strong, vile scent of week-old dumpster content and alcohol.

Yes. I'm here. There's less of a chance that she'll be caught here, with the number of hobos, drunkards, and city scum that the police don't even bother with anymore.
Buildings whizzed past her as she ran faster at the thought of being caught. No, she thought. I may have made it seem like I wanted them to catch me. But heck, I love freedom! That much is sure!

Just as her vision began to blur and spin, sirens came into hearing. Christabelle took a last wild sprint into an alley and collapsed there as the police car whirred past her, paying no attention to her shaken body on the dirty alley ground.

Probably some drunkard, in their eyes.

There she was; lying near a puddle of sewer water, in a filthy alley beside a filthy bar filled with filthy people. She was filthy. A filthy legend. Her whole reputation was still on her, wasn't it? Enigmatic, dark, ruthless, crazy. She still struck fear in people's hearts. she was a sinner and she was proud of it.

But now the cops knew who she was. They didn't bother to work so hard in identification, because her name and face was already out. There was no more mystery to the serial killer who strikes at random, who can never be predicted, who most certainly can never be defeated. But as she lay on the ground that seemed to radiate the dumpster-sewer smell, she sure felt like she was defeated.

Well, the Master can't help me now, she thought bitterly. In times of trouble, He had always hidden himself away and she was left to fend for herself. That was his nature. Sure, it had left her with a bunch of cops on her trail but she'd never left much of a trail to begin with. Sure, it pissed her off to some extent but what was she to do? Simply stop? no... no, it wouldn't be that simple at all. She was an addict-- and murder, blood, freedom, power, his art was her poison. She needed her hit, just like the parasite inside her. Only, she would never call that smooth, devilish voice a parasite. He was, after all, her Master.

She was a living marionette on strings, except now there's nobody on the other side of it and she's just a living marionette, dancing sullenly to her own soft serenade to Death.For what seemed like a decade, Christabelle Poe lay on the opening of the alley, trying to regain her breath, her voice, her ability to think...

Time crawled slowly, as it had with her last victim's witness. It felt so slow, so sluggish that a second could turn into a year for her, yet once it's over it feels like it was only a fraction of a microsecond. And let's not forget silence. yes, a horrible silence seeped slowly into her mind, at the absence of the Master's voice. she tried to push the thought of that silky, sinfully decadent voice from her mind.

You don't need Him, she thought. He's a vice. that's what he is, yes... He won't help you.
If only she knew how true that was.

At the sound of cars, Christabelle had shot up--instantly forgetting about her sore body-- and bolted deeper into the alley like a bullet. She knew they would search for her. Alley after alley after alley passed by, until the girl herself didn't know where she was. All she knew was that she was by the dumpster of a loft of some sort.. and there were emergency stairs. For the second time that day, a smile graced her lips. The girl brushed some unruly curls out of her eyes, peering up at the unfolded stairs through her thick, dark lashes. though the intense fear of losing her freedom shadowed her heart, the gleeful feeling of being smarter and faster than everyone else hung in the rooms of her heart like cigarette smoke within the confines of a nightclub's walls.

The girl stalked up the stairs quickly and quietly, soon hoisting herself up to the flat roof with ease. the sun had made it warmer, and almost comfortable for her as she lay on it, staring up at the sky. It was bright out, as it usually was. Clouds drifted calmly past the sky, puffy and white. It reminded her of the anggora rabbit that belonged to the old widow who lived next to her... when she still had a home and family, of course. The rabbit got run over quite some years ago, but Christabelle still missed him. His name was Mr Fluffles.

A sigh pushed past her chapped pink lips. The days of anonymity are gone. But that's alright, isn't it? She'll just cross the border, start a new life in Mexico or Canada, whichever one she decides to get to. A new life, a new start. Of course, still as a homeless, still walking on foot everywhere, probably still killing... But she didn't know for sure. Every time the Master vanished, she could've sworn it was going to be her last.

And all this at fourteen years old, she thought bitterly. Christabelle laughed placidly, pondering over the world. The warmth of the sun caressed her skin, and she could feel it even past her soon-closed eyelids as a warm slumber took over her. She dreamed of a different life... one where she had a family. one where she didn't need to hide her face or stay in the shadows alone.
She just had no idea that the dream would come true... in some way.

Meanwhile, back at the police station, the witness sat in incredible anxiety, as waves of pain and confusion struck him again. Life, Death, nature, cosmos, a simple complexity within a complex simplicity... reasons, most of all. cause and effect, why and...

"Zacky!" An all-too familiar voice called out, void of the usual cocky cheer in it. Brian Haner Jr burst into the room, panic drawn clearly on his wild chocolate eyes. His bed-strewn hair stuck up in all directions, and he was clothed in nothing but pajama pants and a white v-neck shirt.

Zacky rose nervously, as Brian marched quickly over to him and froze. Just froze.

"Zack..." His voice was quiet, incredulous as he inspected Zacky's red nose and swollen eyes. "Zack, it's true? Matt's.."

Zacky nodded. The two brothers stood in tense, unmoving silence. Zacky choked out a sob, feeling his shoulders tremble.

"I saw it, bri... I-- I saw it happen... I couldn't do anything, I j-just..." Zacky stammered. Brian felt tears well up inside him as well, as he wrapped his arms around Zacky.

The taller man buried his face in his slightly shorter friend's tangle of raven-black hair. When would any of them learn that history repeats?

Zacky sobbed in his arms, shaking so hard he could've sworn that the rhythm guitarist would simply collapse if Brian let him go. Brian broke off and tugged Zacky to a nearby sofa, putting his arm around Zacky's shoulder. minutes passed and the smaller man's sobbing finally ceased.
"c'mon, zee... let's get some coffee," Brian said, in a hoarse hushed whisper. He'd been choking back tears, and it had clearly taken its toll on him.

Wordlessly, Zacky rose and followed Brian outside. Neither of the two had any idea how they'd break it to the others, let alone pull through the grief once more.