The Artist: Silence Is Tumultuous

The after-shower freshness was a welcome change to her usual disheveled, filthy self. She noticed with distaste how her ribs protruded from behind her skin, and how her stomach sank in visibly despite the bandages. She had replaced her bandages, as the old ones were thoroughly covered in dried blood. Dark bags were under her eyes, and shadows hovered under her cheekbones.

Christabelle scowled. No fucking wonder people pitied me so easily, she thought as she raked a brush through her curls repeatedly. Once in a while, she'd catch a glimpse of herself in her victim's mirrors; but she never lingered long enough to look at details as she did now. Even if she did, all she saw was the post-kill euphoria smudged all over her face, and the blood on her hands. Her eyes drifted from the pool of her tattered clothing to the neatly-folded pile that lay in front of her. She sighed again and started dressing.

Fourteen years, she smirked bitterly. Fourteen fucking years of being nothing but... but an insanity-ridden monster. and here I am. She slipped the plain t-shirt on, covering up her horrid body. The loose black jeans followed. They were clearly meant to be snug, but still hung off her hips, as if reluctant to bother covering her. She slipped the small, red-black belt into the loops on the jeans, and tugged it to the very last hole.

this is clearly fit for a child, she mused bitterly, wishing her life would support better sustenance. At the mere thought of it, Christabelle's mind returned to the Master. How she missed his low, sultry voice... no, she shook her head and rid herself of the thought. He's not coming back.

Despite her attempts on forcing herself to believe that He wasn't coming back, she hoped otherwise. It could take weeks, months... but he'd come back, right?

"no," she stared at herself in the mirror. At the near-black abyssal orbs she had for eyes, at the slight scowl tugging on her lips, at the rise and fall of her chest. "no, no, no, no. He's not coming back. He'll never come back," she convinced herself. And with a last sigh, she stalked out of the bathroom to find Ice.

*********

The stale, dim light of the corridors melted away into a slightly brighter, yellow glow of the dining hall. Christabelle stopped and blinked, trying to clear her eyes. Ice nudged her forward, and she suppressed the impulse to growl at him. Silver walked on her right side, playing with an all-silver balisong knife. The girl licked her lips and continued walking forward. She was met with a room just smaller than her bedchambers, yet infinitely more threatening. A chandelier hung from the high ceiling, providing the light that blanketed the whole room. Drapes and tapestries of black and gold adorned the walls, bearing the Viper symbol. Christabelle shuddered.

In the center of the room a circular table stood, wide enough to seat ten people. The heavy scent of cigarettes polluted the air, and the voice of a seriosa singer drifted in the background, like fog in a cemetery. Christabelle scanned the seven people already seated, all wearing the same half-face venetian mask, save for the one person directly opposite of her seat (which she reluctantly took). She wasn't sure if it was an illusion of the light, but he seemed to glow. His alabaster skin was a drastic, fragile contrast to his raven black hair, which was slicked back. His eyes were a sharp Viridian, with spikes of emerald and jade. She'd never seen such eyes before. They seemed to draw her in, enchanted her, hypnotized her... fucking hell, she mentally smacked herself, intent on finishing her analysis on the man's appearance. His lips were drawn into a thin line, even as his forked--wait, forked? yes, forked--serpentine tongue passed over them, and eventually flickered as he hissed before returning the tongue to his mouth.

She shuddered. what the fuck is wrong with this dude, she squirmed. the room was silent, and it was evident that the man was analyzing her as she was investigating him. Something in the back of her mind screamed out snake in the grass, and the girl nearly barked out a laugh when she realized how fitting he was of his name. His colors reminded Christabelle of something--black backtone with viridian auxiliary streaks and golden accents. She tucked a loose curl behind her ear, moving her eyes up to lock with his. She knew fully well that in this light, her eyes looked perfectly black. She loved using that to her advantage.

He seemed to emanate an air of assertion and dominance, albeit he didn't look like a figure of authority in the least. Christabelle felt every pair of eyes in the room fixated in the (lack of) interaction between her and the man. She dug around in her mind for what they called him. Na... Naja-Naja. yes, that's it. Spectacled cobra.

"I can hardly believe the Artist is but a little girl," he spoke, his tone low and sickly sweet--like honey. His words seemed to slither into her ears, down to her throat where it suffocated her and then her stomach, making it twist into violent knots. She held back another growl.

"I thought you a figure more intimidating than this, Naja," she purred, returning his sweetness with venom of the highest degree as she accentuated the last word ever so slightly.

"So my men have informed you of my...name," his eyes narrowed as he cocked his head slightly, completely ignoring her insult. Christabelle let the ghost of a smirk creep onto her face, despite her heart thundering inside her chest. The Naja Naja rose from his seat, and strode towards Christabelle with ghostly grace. His hands were tucked behind him, and a devilish grin split his face. Christabelle maintained her deadpan facade, holding back a wild snarl. As the Naja Naja advanced upon her, she felt Ice whisper into her ear. "stand up," he said in a hushed hurry. She reluctantly obeyed, lifting her chin up and daring a glare at the man before her. He was lanky, she only just managed to meet his chest. A challenging glare of hatred radiated from her eyes, returned only by his calm demeanor.
"Ah, such a rebellious soul," he lisped softly. His eyes glimmered darkly in the dim light. He stepped back and held out his hand, palm up. Beyond bewildered, Christabelle stole a glance at Silver, who was giving her the 'damn dumbass white bitch' look. "And poetic, too," Naja sought eye contact. Silver linked both his hands together, motioning desperately towards Naja's outstretched hand. Christabelle, far beyond shocked, stared straight up at the Naja and reluctantly placed her palm in his. To her surprise he bowed, and pressed his lips to her knuckles. She pulled back hastily but his grip was firm and unrelenting.

"Stop the act. I have nothing to offer you," she stated matter-of-factly. The Naja straightened up and laughed, throwing his head back before meeting her eyes in a condescending gaze.

"Quite the contrary, my dear," he replied, running his thumb over her knucles before finally letting her claim her arm back. "We shall discuss that... in due time. for now," he breezed placidly, swinging his arms in motion to the table. Servants filed in, carrying plates and dishes and setting the table. Naja waltzed back to his seat. "we dine."

*********

The food was impeccable. She'd never tasted anything like it in her life. From the first hesitant bite, she nearly broke down sobbing because it was just that good. For the first time in a long time, Christabelle ate until she couldn't stomach any more. Before she could catch herself, she flashed an open gaze of gratitude towards the Naja. he smiled in response, albeit in a somewhat ominous way. Within microseconds, Christabelle had returned to her cold, I-hate-everyone state.

**********

The clink of silverware against porcelain plates finally ceased, and servants once more came and took the plates away, clearing the table. Moments later, more servants entered and took the table away, much to Christabelle's surprise. The men in the Venetian masks rose as the servants took their chairs away, and stood in two lines on either side of Christabelle and Naja. She soon realized that Ice and Silver stood as well, just a few feet behind her. It was only then she noticed that the Naja was sat in a grandiose, luxurious armchair that complimented his colors and made him seem grand.

Naja cleared his throat, capturing the attention of everyone in the room. He smoothed his attire down, and set his fingers into the iconic evil finger pyramid. His eyes were fixated on Christabelle, and hers on him.

"Down to business," he spoke, slow and steady. A smile grew on his face as he watched Christabelle struggle to show no emotion. She was definitely nervous, scared beyond limits as she was in a foreign environment with little to no control over her life.

"Like I said, I have nothing to offer," She said through gritted teeth. Naja let his tongue flicker out again, passing over his lips devilishly.

"Then do you suggest we dispose of you?" he retorted, leaning back onto the chair and snapping his fingers. One of the men pointed a gun at her, and she rolled her eyes.

"Might as well," she replied bitterly. "I've got nothing worth living for."

Naja caught the increasing tension in the man's finger, poised over the trigger. "stop," he hissed. The man instantly pulled his finger away from the trigger, albeit he still pointed the gun in Christabelle's direction. "I see you do not fear death, little one," Naja spoke fondly, as if the girl was his favorite niece instead of some serial killer with an enormous body count and a notoriety to applaud.

"Death is inevitable," she nearly whispered, longing now to see His black robes and majestic scythe. "I have only come to terms with it. What difference does it make to hurry it along?"

"Ah, but would it make a difference then, if I prolonged it?" the Naja asked. Christabelle tensed.

"How would you suggest such a thing to be done?"

"Bars, my dear," he purred. "Death will surely find it hard to reach, when you are behind bars." Christabelle's fingers trembled. Her breath was unsteady and she felt a horrible black hole form in her stomach. The last thing she wanted was to be denied relief, and forced to live a long, monotonous life with a pre-set routine that she was not allowed to change.

"How would you convince the jury not give me a death sentence?" She asked again, hoping to whatever God was up there that the Naja did not decide to turn her in.

"Mm, our little princess here has a quick mind and a sharp tongue, I see," Naja fawned. "Boss, we--" one of the men spoke. Naja hissed at him, and he instantly backed down. "Now, I think we've all established the fact that you do not tremble in the face of Death," he lisped softly. "I can tell you that the safety on that gun was never off," here he waved his hand at the man still holding her at gunpoint. He put the gun down on the table as he sat back down. Christabelle fought the urge to laugh. Laugh at her own fear, despite what she said. To laugh at the fact her fingers trembled at his words. The sly, cunning snake... she'd get back at him someday. Not soon, probably. But someday. "I want to make a deal with you."

"Do I have a choice?" Christabelle remarked, bitterness all over her words. Naja laughed lightly.
"You," he said, with an unmistakable fondness in his voice. "You are something else. I have seen your art. I must say, your canvases are rather... diverse. Please tell me, how exactly did you overpower them?"

"Chloroform," Christabelle smirked. "and pity, not to mention a trusty knife and a sick alternate personality." Naja rose one eyebrow, and Christabelle returned the motion.

"Pray tell, where is this alternate personality?" Naja asked. Christabelle's heart lurched painfully at the thought of the Master.

"He has left me," she retorted coldly. "I am capable of fending and killing for myself, though. Almost half of my victims stand as proof of that."

"Very well," Naja smiled. "I am certain you are aware what I want you for?"

"A footsoldier?" Christabelle asked, although she knew he wanted her to kill. Naja laughed.

"Nay, my dear," he said, smiling wide. "Maybe at first, yes, but my ultimate goal is to have you stand by Ice and Silver there, as my private executioner. A girl of torture and death, a...hit-girl," here he chuckled at the pet name. "If you do well, I might also give you a partner of your own. Of course, sustenance, shelter, and security is a mandatory part of the bargain that I will be glad to provide you with. Not to mention a vast array of weaponry."

"Is there a catch?" Christabelle sighed. There had to be a catch, right?

"You don't have much to lose," Naja stated matter-of-factly. "Except, of course, your freedom." The girl cussed under her breath, knowing that the threat would be there sooner or later. She raked her fingers through her hair, locking her eyes with Naja's dazzling green. His features were absolutely scintillating, and even so, he looked just as dangerous as he was. He emanated controlled, deathly power that she dared not defy.

"So, what is the deal?"

"I keep you under my wing, with the vipers," he said, eyeing her carefully. "And in turn you give me your loyalty. You will do as I ask. You will become one of us, and you will never turn back. You trade in your life for the one I will give you."

Christabelle's eyes shifted around the room, and she rose wordlessly. Many of the men shifted and put their hands to their weapons. Christabelle ignored them and walked calmly towards the smirking man. At this point, six guns were pointed at her and zero fucks were given to them. She faced the Naja, glaring at him for a solid thirty seconds, standing a mere three feet from him. Her hands curled into fists at her sides, and relaxed again as she calmed her ragged breathing. Naja merely smiled at her, though he knew not of what the girl was about to do. Defeat was in her eyes and triumph was in his. He granted her time to ease the turmoil he knew was bubbling within her. For goodness sake, he could nearly hear her heart thundering away inside her rib cage like there was no tomorrow. He shoved pity aside and looked at her again.

"Now tell me, do I have your loyalty?" he said, leaning towards offering his hand. Instead he held back, eager to see what the girl would do.

She dropped onto one knee, and pressed her right hand to her chest. She bowed her head in total submission to the Naja, admitting him as her superior... her master.

"My loyalty is yours," She spoke flatly. "As it will forever be."

"Fabulous," was the first thing he uttered. "Now stand. As much as I love the sight of a young maiden kneeling, I don't need you to act so archaic. Here, shake my hand," here he stretched his hand out, and again she put her palm in his. Rather than forced and merciless, his grip was now supportive--firm and reassuring. At the sight of his smile, Christabelle fought hard to refrain from smiling herself silly.

********* **********

"The funeral is to be held this Sunday," Brian softly uttered, stepping over piles of words gingerly to pick out what he could and could not say to him. The raven-haired man hasn't said a word to anyone but Brian since the death of Matt and Valary. "Zacky," he called, hoping for a response. Zacky only hummed to signify he was listening. "We'll get past this, okay?"

"Okay," he rasped. He knew he didn't mean it, and Brian knew so as well. The feeling of a warm hand on his shoulder was strangely comforting, but Zacky didn't allow himself to return Brian's touch. His muscles were tense and rigid.

"Zacky," Brian called again. "It's not your fault."

"Don't lie, Brian," was Zacky's response. He did not listen to the words Brian said after that. "Get out," Zacky growled. Brian squeezed Zacky's shoulder once and let go, shuffling towards the door that would lead him out of his best friend's room. One last glance and he was gone. Out of earshot and completely alone, Zacky collapsed into a mess of sobs and shudders once more.