Dark Days (Written Pictures #2)

by H. A. Kotys

  “Ki-Ki, Ki-Ki!” accompanied the continuing cuddle as she wrapped the small girl tight in her arms. It was how it always was and how she always wanted it to be and as Raven fondly remembered the times looking after the child from the other end of the street, she almost laughed as the girl’s attempt at her name rolled around her head.

  She was only just three years old. Presented with a difficult name, she had plucked out the easier parts and doubled it up in an attempt to make it sound longer. Jacqueline had been turned into Ki-Ki and the mangled name made into a special bond as Raven visited each day in her cherished role as babysitter and playmate.

  == ~ ==

  Natalia worked diligently up the woman’s body. She knew she would enjoy this day but nagging fears welled within her. This woman, this American, had established a place in her brother’s mind and maybe somewhere else and she feared it with all that she was. Finishing off the supposed coating of polish, she fished a brush from the makeup box she had placed on the wooden bench and reaching up, set to work.

  Garish blue for the eye shadow was followed by a brush of misplaced white on cheekbones and Natalia busied herself with the final touches to complete the caricature. The flame red that flourished on those full lips was the final embellishment and, stepping back, Natalia looked on with a smirk of satisfaction, feeling safer in the knowledge that today would indeed be a day of all days.

  == ~ ==

  Jacqueline. It was a name Raven hadn’t called herself in an age and more. She hadn’t allowed herself to, or indeed wanted to. It was a name of her past, of a time when she had been someone else, a person so vulnerable and ultimately so hurt.

  Jacqueline. The name echoed in her head, focussing on it while her other memories melted away. Jacqueline. Perhaps she could be her again one day. Perhaps he could call her that. Perhaps. Perhaps. Perhaps…

  CHAPTER XXXVII – Toward The Light

  Red felt surprisingly invigorated. The mixture of stimulants and the first solid food in weeks were clearly working wonders. Why had they changed though and why had that brute of a guard not fucked her like he always did? Questions flared in her head as she huddled over her plate to protect the food on it from the ever present black birds that swooped around her, their thick grey beaks snapping with each pass. They never left her alone now, night or day and she wondered why they only attacked her.

  There was something unusual about the injection too. It hurt the way they always did but the rush was almost nourishing, more than the sticking plaster to need. Still those damn birds though, why the fuck couldn’t they just get them out of the place? The main difference lay in her awareness and Red could feel each of her senses was as taught as a bowstring, waiting to twang on the merest input.

  She flailed out an arm to discourage the latest swoop of an imagined bird and scooped overcooked vegetables up into her gaping mouth, the mange touts too wide but bending inside anyway as she pushed the heap in.

  Her ankle snapped out to kick away a bird that hopped toward her on the floor and the clanking snap of the chain caused it to flap and flee, ready to try again from another angle as it cried, “Murderer.” She was sure she felt the snag of a claw in her lank dirty hair before she shook her head wildly to dislodge it. Bastards, never a second to herself.

  Black birds; they were everywhere and had been with her since she had been taken. Their presence tortured her and after screaming her defiant hatred of them, Red hunched deeper over the plate and shovelled her first solid meal in quicker still, ready for yet another day’s hard training.

  == ~ ==

  It could only be described as odd. Like an accomplished campanologist, Raven rang out as she walked; the bells dangling from her nipples pulling and swaying no matter how much she tried to glide. Her usually elegant gait was thrown out of tune by the added inches of the towering platform boots. They caused her hips to move in exaggerated swings and her unusually unsure steps echoed along the corridor down which she was pulled by the chain to her neck.

  There was light at the end and a growing murmur which wasn’t quite drowned out by the clump of her steps. Once, twice her ankle almost gave way and Raven had to shoot a hand to the wall, steadying herself, bending the rubber shield in the process. It distracted her enough to make her oblivious to the increasingly fresh air that progressively nipped at her exposed crotch with every hesitant step forward.

  Her mind drifted back once again. Jacqueline. Jacqueline Corbeau. Names from a time when she was very different to the woman she had made herself into. She was vulnerable then and yet, at the same time, happy – an emotion she hadn’t permitted herself for all too long. Hard though her life had been with a mother who was always either working her fingers to the bone or whoring herself to her latest meal ticket of a male, the small girl had been a ray of sunshine. That brightness had helped her through life until the night when her world was ripped apart.

  Jacqueline Corbeau. The unshackling of that memory of a name echoed in her head as Raven remembered when she had been her. She had been told that her maternal grandfather had been a Cajun and that it was his name she bore but she would never be truly sure of that as her mother had explained it to her through a bottle of tequila and the stumbling, hurried words could have just been alcohol-induced ramblings.

  Not knowing for sure had always left her feeling disconnected, feeling almost rudderless with a lack of foundation on which to build. Evolving into Raven had finally taken care of that lack. Raven was her sense of purpose, her security and her protector, always looking forward, never back. And yet, here, now, somehow she felt less real, less herself.

  Thoughts spun to the pathetic creature that used to be Red and the need for Raven soared back. Was that her destiny too? She could never let herself become that. Raven had to endure and she was sure Red was in some way intertwined within that continuing existence; it couldn’t wholly be coincidence that she was here, could it?

  Raven had never needed anyone. Sure, she had coincided with people and used them when she had cause to but she had never actually needed anyone. She knew Red needed Raven though; she had always been dependent on her to some degree since she had moved into the manor with that blonde girlfriend of hers in tow.

  She needed Raven now more than ever though if she was to free herself from whatever they had done to her. Deep down though, Raven knew that something had already changed. Raven now also needed Red. If nothing else than as a touch point to remind her of what they could still do to her. Alexei had changed though, softened. She needed him more than anything.

  God. What was happening to her? Alexei just kept intruding on her thoughts. She could see his legs again and remembered how they had rested against her side the last time she had been hung from the pier. Such a comfort to feel that strength. She needed that.

  With a deep breath she shook her head as she was walked up the corridor to the peel of small bells. Jacqueline Corbeau, she still needed Raven too. She needed her strength, her single-mindedness and her absolute sense of survival if she was to get through whatever future hells were planned for her. But bound tightly to the tumultuous turmoil that was her mind, she also knew that in some way Raven now held her back.

  Drawn along behind the smaller woman and stumbling toward the light, the statuesque beauty bedecked in garishly fetish Americana could no longer be sure what she needed. Escape. But what to? Should she just get away or throw everything into getting him? She was torn between two very different pasts, each of which hinted toward very distinct futures.

  CHAPTER XXXVIII – Opening Ceremony

  The unseasonal ferocity of the early evening sun on already tender breasts snatched Raven’s breath despite the constriction she already felt around them, gripped tightly as they were by the ring of reinforced blue latex. Instinctively recoiling from the prickly sensation, bell-fitted breasts tolled their warning and she was dragged forward again by an impatient tug on her neck.

  It was the cheer that snapped her fully back to reality. There, encir
cling her in her strange outfit were people, lots of them, laughing and pointing at the strange sight of a deconstructed dominatrix being pulled into a ring.

  They were higher than she, elevated in stands around a sunken arena that looked more than a little like a bullring. Slowly she turned, adjusting her stance on the ridiculous heels as she looked from face to face, bells tinkling from her tits as she did. They all watched, all laughed, all focussed on her and what she had now become.

  A hundred? Maybe more but it was hard to tell with the sun in her eyes and impossible to tell how many more laughed at the other side of screens when she noticed a camera zoom in and pan down her decorated body to take in the full ignominy of her perfectly prescribed exposure.

  The white blush on her cheeks started to tinge pink and then, with laughter ringing louder than the bells swinging from her quivering breasts, that pink turned to red before transitioning quickly to scarlet.

  She looked up, defying the shame that weighed her down. At the top of the stand, Alexei was shouldering his way purposefully through the howling crowd toward his seat, eyes fixed on her, examining appreciatively.

  His eyes never left her as he barged through the baying crowd who, like a pack of hungry dogs, feasted on her humiliation. And what humiliation. She was a comic fetishists dream; Captain America, sexualised and feminised.

  Part appreciation, part amusement, Alexei couldn’t help himself as he smiled. Even clad as she was, she was the American dream, his American dream. She even managed to make the garish explosion of red, white and blue look mouth-wateringly good. Though her makeup looked like it had been applied by a seven year old embarking on her first exploration of her mother’s cosmetics, her natural beauty still clearly shone through.

  == ~ ==

  She was ridiculous. With her sex and chest exposed, framed and exploding with white stars on her outfit and boots more often seen worn by some overtly patriot backstreet hooker, Raven knew she was ridiculous even before she heard the first shout. She pressed her thighs tightly together, making it difficult to stand but struggling on anyway, just to try to cover her shame.

  Fists clenching tight around the rubberised props she carried, one hand rose to cover her displayed breasts behind the shield while her crop arm ineffectively covered her exposed butt. She needed his strength and looking up to pick Alexei out in the crowd again, she experienced instead a crushing of her soul. He was smirking at her too.

  A cacophony of catcalls rung around the stands, stabbing at her like arrows shot from each laughing face.

  “Stupid Yankee bitch.”

  “Silly little slut.”

  “Bet she takes it up her ass.”

  “Bet she takes it any way she can.”

  The laughter and insults continued, some vile, some just sounding idiotic delivered as they were by people shouting in a second or maybe even third language. They assaulted Raven’s ears, wrapping themselves tighter, constricting until she could barely breathe. And as they squeezed the very air from her lungs, the woman enveloped by them, standing alone in the middle of the arena, fractured and broke apart. She was Jacqueline Corbeau again and Jacqueline Corbeau cried.

  CHAPTER XXXIX – Pieces of Eight

  If she could have counted, the little black and white cat would have realised the symmetry in her life, a life of eights. Just eight months old, she had already wasted one of her nine lives due to a kittenish misjudgement of her own dexterity.

  She always tried to nap eight times a day: anything less left her exhausted, anything more equally so. It was eight hours that her owner slept and she made sure she was at the kitchen door at eight sharp as the house awoke so she was ready to wrap herself in figures of eight around legs that sloped sleepily into the kitchen.

  When she arrived on this particular morning though, the legs were already there and, curling her tail to encircle her carefully presented seated position, the little cat tilted her head and twitched her whiskers to watch for the hand that would reach for the cupboard where her food was kept.

  It was always the same routine; coffee maker, milk and juice from the tall, white, humming object by the wall. She left them alone to do that part, it was cold and no place for a cat. Cup and glass from the shelf and then, when all that had been readied, the most important part - her turn. They obviously left the best until last and she would watch intently as they gathered a bowl, a fork and those meaty chunks in gravy she so loved, along with the vitamin pill she always intended to leave aside but never quite remembered to as she furiously fed. She guessed they had her wellbeing at heart but even the silly tall things that fed her should know better than to try to make a cat do anything other than it wanted to.

  Tucking her back legs in tighter, her tail quivered in eager anticipation, willing the legs to bow to her will and serve her food. It wasn’t going to plan today though, and try as she might, the little cat couldn’t persuade the legs to present her with her delicious breakfast.

  More was needed and so, with a mewl to herald her approach, she stalked to the legs and nuzzled as lovingly as she could before circling through them to spread the love on the other side in a persuasive sweep.

  The smell of the coffee was so homely but lacked the meaty edge she craved. The little cat remembered nuzzling the toes on those same legs the previous night just to say hello and so redoubled her efforts in case her current message was being confused. But even her increased urgency didn’t work.

  A brief crescendo of music tumbled from the work surface high above and the little cat paused, cocking her head to one side to gather in the sound. In her mind, the sound connected to an image of what made it; it was the warm thing with the bright window and the strange moving floor that she often laid on to get attention before being gently dumped somewhere else. At some point later the thing that competed for their attention would have to die, there was room for only one laptop in the house and that was her. But right now she needed to be served and things were getting out of paw.

  Gathering her hind quarters ready, the little cat looked up at the work surface, whiskers twitching. It was high, but had been successfully reached many times before. That was usually achieved with a run up though and twice she hunkered back before relaxing – no margin for error here.

  The third time her courage was high enough and she sprang, slipping as she landed in juice spilled from the glass she knocked over. She was greeted not by food but by a curse from the torso that should have been feeding her.

  Looking around, the little cat quickly noted her surroundings. The thing with the window, they were looking at that again and so she turned back on herself to pace onto the warming keyboard, leaving orange footprints in her wake.

  “Ah ah puss, no you don’t,” warned the torso, though of course in a gruff tone she didn’t care to understand. At the same time, the small cat felt a large hand scoop under her belly and lift her high in the air before she was deposited carefully back on the floor.

  Frustrated at the displacement of her routine and the rejection of her affections, not to mention the indignity of being moved without her permission, the little cat sloped off, ears flat, mind set on hunting a bird to bring back to show the legs that she, at least, still cared.

  As she passed over the threshold of the room into the carpeted hallway beyond, the little cat had her new focus, while the owner of the legs had her own. Eyes wide, peering hard at the laptop covered in sticky orange paw prints, the blonde called loudly, “Oh my God, Kat honey, you have to see this….”

  CHAPTER XL – The Jester

  Trumpets heralded the entrance of an effeminately dressed man with a chalk white face who pranced theatrically into the arena. He skipped two circles around the crying Jacqueline, leaning closer to steal a light brush on her exposed breast, then as she reacted to cover herself further, a breezed pass of his gnarled hand against her rear.

  A third circle followed and after a pause and to the encouragement of the crowd, a fourth. Hands brushed here, there, everywhere
normal society would say they shouldn’t. Through tears, Jacqueline watched his movements, reacting to them, covering what she could but still flinching to each intrusion, to which the crowd whooped their approval.

  Shame told her to shove him away, kick him hard where it would hurt most, but sense argued that it would probably do her more harm than good. He was vile, circling, leering and fondling, passing around her for a fifth time, his hand lingering longer between her legs. Her own hand shot down to push his away and in response his flicked up, tinkling the bell hanging from her nipple. The sound of her slavery was barely audible over the braying of the crowd, but very clear to her own ears and she tried to still the bell, but as she did his hand shot down to her exposed crotch again.

  Craning her neck, she forced herself to watch the strangely costumed man, clothed in a suit of left half yellow, right half red, with a large, floppy hat wilting over one eye. She needed clues to where he would touch her next if she was to be able to pre-empt him, it was the only defence she felt she had.