The Purpose in This Thread Had Me Call Ahead to Reserve A Cooler Section in Hell.

**[/color]: What Makes A Killer?* More posts (interactive) from this RP can be found here. - (887 words)]
Misery loves company.

Jessica intuitively watched between the spaces in his footing, but said nothing. Her eyes would dart to check for signs of impending movement toward her. The razor shifted between the fingers of her clasped hand ready at an angle in case he were to trail, as she shrunk away from the way his enticing muscles bulked with each movement.

She could just simply feel his hungry eyes devouring her entire figure without having to see with her own eyes. He was raping her with his eyes and it took visible resistance to keep her arms from bracing her body. The squirming reflected her emotional and mental torment. But she would not submit, her stance remained strong.

A sick smile settled on her face when he obeyed her, as if she had done something easy and playful. It was meant to mock him. But she knew better than to think that he would cease his vile advances all together. This was just one meaningless battle in a war. What to call a war that will never accomplish peace? She wondered. There would never be peace, she would never allow it. He did not deserve to get to know the bountiful kindness she had to offer. Especially with him "giving her permission" to speak that made her hold air in her lungs with contempt.

She didn't think she'd get this far and had nothing in particular in mind to say. She wanted to start off spewing something nasty, or fixating on accusatory behavior; asking what the fuck is wrong with him. That needed to get suppressed because Jessica knew that would not get him to listen to her. No. To coax him into even penetrating her voice deep enough that he would truly muse over her words she has to appeal to his interests. That will catch his attention, which is something of importance to make this display of stalling the inevitable worth anything other than temporary peace of mind; though, probably just a demented game of cat and mouse to him. She had to humanize herself… or humanize him to himself.

In truth, Jessica really did not desire to speak with him either. What a horrible thing to propose. Treating him as if he were something other than what he truly is; a monster, displeased her soul. Though she supposed it was better than getting raped. But was it really? …Yes! It still needed to get questioned to distinct the toll of confliction to herself. There wasn’t a variety of options she had to work with here, so she had to take what she could get and squeeze the advantage dry.

A incredibility disguised monster he was: Strong and remarkably handsome, deceivingly so. She would never admit that, even to herself. And here he was residing in a upscale house and a safe neighborhood; well, somewhat safe, there was a vicious killer living there after all.

“Look…” She took a deep breath and went on baring a sympathetic tone, “I imagine you’ve killed a lot of people...” paused, as if her mind elicited images that portrayed the very words she spoke. “Damaged families beyond repair… caused a number of pounds with bloodshed. And I don’t understand what could possess someone to have a desire to do such things; to want to hurt people. I doubt that you’ll believe me, but I can kind of relate to that state of mind. The subtly of relish when someone is taken by surprise. A curious fascination of darkness by violence, weapons, injury, or torture. Treating someone harshly and getting away with it. The savored satisfaction from when someone obeys you.“ Kind of like that sick smile you just had? “It’s similar to how I feel about you. Everyone has bad thoughts that cross their mind.” Do they? “That doesn’t make me a bad person though.” Doesn’t it, though? “Because I only have these urges to harm you for what you did—are still doing to me. I can admit your pain and suffering amuses me.” Oh, that’s normal? Her eyes were smoldering with a charge as she flicked them to focus on his face to watch his reaction. “That leads me to believe that someone has hurt you, pretty badly if you’ve come to be… what you are. I know you probably dislike the thought of having nobody around. And there’s got to be someone out there for you, but I can tell you right now that is not me. Someone to make you feel- really feel. Or maybe I’m just foolishly pooling this from some other dimension in space and you’re completely and irrevocably mentally fucked.”

“Do you like placing people in a state of abject misery? They say you are what you surround yourself with. Perhaps you would have a far greater benefit if you just seek out happy things instead. If you start looking for the good in life more often, you will find more of it."

Studying his surroundings, she remembered his offensive stance need be reason to worry. In her hand was the razor. Her concentration strengthened, and she could feel the flesh of her knuckles stretched and they whitened. "Now it's your turn to properly speak." She reminded him, "Do not come near me." with a tinge of a threat in her voice.

**[/color]: Disasterpiece, Victorian London version - (2338 words)]
1888 - London, England


Nobody knew that Jessica Dennehy killed John Chapman, torturing him and smashing the thick blade against his jaw with a butcher knife Jessica called her implement from hell. Of all the accomplishments she had achieved in her life thus far she never thought being responsible of a person’s final breath would have made it to the list. One she noted of the highest value, at that. The urge to speak of the brutal crime brimmed at her surface. It was not because she wanted to confess her sins, nor release any guilt that may have been building up; there was no remorse. It was because she would rather gloat about what she had done, to have a good laugh in remembrance as she described the uncontrolled change of infliction in John’s bone chilling screams, being controlled by her. How the blood sprouted from a freshly inflicted wound when he was sitting compared to the dribbling mess when he was on his side.

Since she glorified this crime and had not been able to receive praise as she would with any of her other accomplishments, Jessica felt a sense of numbing loss, which was natural after achieving victories. She learned. But this time was unlike any of the others. No matter what she done to substitute for lack of acknowledgement of her accomplishment, her crime; performing a new song on the piano sporting the latest women’s fashion, or even things she much detest such as, charity display; there was still that consuming void unable to fill. Jessica wanted people to know what she had done, to fear her, realize just how cruel and clever she was in her head, though, that did not outweigh the desire to keep killing. And to do that she knew secrecy was uncompromising.

Jessica often wondered if her family had any inkling to the darkness that constantly loomed over her. Though, she realized how that simply could not be. She was the type of person who masked sadness with detachment, fear with anger, much rather come off as a cold-hearted bitch- or mouse- than allow anyone to view her as weak. This gave her a magnetic charm. She's proud and totally confident; holding the noble name Dennehy, one would have to be.

The family was fame ridden being traced with nobility back from the late 1600's. Today, Dennehy maintained such difficult to obtain power and wealth through a string of doctor’s history within the family. Her father, Collin Dennehy, was a 59 year old doctor that was hardly ever home in his younger years; he spent his time traveling to offer his practice to those in need, and was around more often now in his old age. Her mother, Abbie Dennehy, was 46 and the traditional Victorian woman; being a good wife to her husband. Her brother, Caleb Dennehy, was five years older than her at 28, in and out of home, studying under the best in the footsteps of father. Money was never issue. It was never a question, it was always there with abundance and never ceased.

She had grown up being taught that the family had immunity to near everything, and so she thought herself to be just that, always to get what she wanted. When she was a child the other children played what she wanted to play, exactly how she wanted to play it, and when she wanted to play it. The only connection her family could have that linked to her darker side was when she was a child, and children are often silly and overbearing in behaviorisms anyway, common to grow out of it with age. She was a bossy little girl. Things had not changed much over the years. The only difference was that it was an unspoken obligation than vocal direction of demand. It was long ago that she had learned it better to hold her tongue and let the sea of words cycle in her mind. Once someone had tried to cheat her in a Chess match and out of obvious agitated anger she claimed she would hack his throat open and tear his tongue out through the hole. Words can be perceived as fickle, but the deadly intent in her unflinching gaze said otherwise. She got quiet after that. One might think that Jessica's silence was more worrisome than sharp, direct words unleashed from her mouth. If she stared in silence at someone long enough she noticed they would get possessed with squirming and drown in the imprisonment of their own stupidity.

John Chapman, that was his name; the very person of Jessica's first kill. She was not a woman to tolerate disrespect, and her spiteful nature was angry and powerful enough to carry this grudge for half a decade. That was not why she killed him though. It was not a petty revenge murder. In part it was the darkness inside her glimpsing the light of the surface. She wanted to know if she could do it. If she could really kill a person, watch as she permitted an innocent family’s destruction. It was a question she had asked herself for some time: could she really kill a person? At times she thought it not possible, and banished the idea from her thoughts, only to start thinking about it again, like torture. Still, she told herself she could not do it. But then why did it keep cycling back to her thoughts? She had always retained a sick fascination with pain and torture, and blood, so be it through the carnival of Freak Shows, public hangings, and the hidden detail in the painting of her art work or music and others. Truly beautiful art it was to her, all of it. She showed herself she could do it, that she could kill and enjoy a pleasant breakfast with her family the following morning. But kicking John’s bucket was not enough.

That seemed too long ago, and she was itching to attack her next victim.

Would she want the family name destroyed on account of her pretenses? Would it make her more mentally ill if she wanted people to know it was her, not allowing some other name to hog the glory of her thought out and prized handy work? Hell, would she even be willing to swallow her pride and admit that she is anything other than little Miss Perfect? That she was a murderer?

Only time would tell.

Jessica was passionately at work in learning pieces new to her of Mozart, piano music when she found out John Chapman’s murder had become known to the public. It was 2 o’clock on a Wednesday. A maid had entered the music room, and with a nod of consent from Jessica the maid proceeded toward Jessica whom had killed her fingers right there at the ivory keys and supplied her with London’s Daily Gazette and a cup of steaming tea.

Jessica took the newspaper with her left hand and reached over to her glass of cabernet atop the piano, pulling it to her lips at equal speed she raised the paper to her classical beauty face. The maid placed the cup of tea at a table adjacent to the piano; tea cup and plate were white with pink and red floral décor, vibrant green vines as stem and accented the gold trimming at the rims and handle.

“Bring me some more wine, would you?” Her deep brown orbs found capital lettering of the newspaper and to her twisted delight of shock and excitement saw the headline: Another Dreadful Murder.

The maid was apprehensive in her speech, “Yes, of course. What kind?” she inquired.

Jessica breathed evenly, “It matters not. It all tastes the same anyway. Though I do have a strong preference for red.” Splitting herself in two.

“It’s not my place, Miss, but as I have love and concern for you, I would just like to respectfully point out that you have been indulging in drink every day since the weekend, Miss. Your parents have spoken of you old enough to take on a husband. Again, none of my business, but in case it had gone unnoticed by the Miss, I thought I would be helping to do so, Miss.” At once the maid bowed and obediently did Jessica’s bidding.

Only a pretend smile of compassion creased Jessica’s lips, eyes staring at her, awaiting the maid’s departure. Largely, she yearned to read this passage alone and partly was too nervous to allow anyone to watch her read it, frightful of the grim expressions that might pull on her face. When she left, in an anxious adjustment, she eagerly read it, grinning impulsively.