izzybellboo (izzybellboo) wrote in jaexplicit,

[SERIES] Atlas Ascendancy (Prologue)

Atlas Ascendancy

The sheep have their shepherd.

Pacing the home of one of the most influential men on the planet felt good.

The massive master bedroom had a sculpted ceiling, which soared upwards to form a dome, which was centered with an ornate gold chandelier. The thousands of diamonds of the grand light-piece cast speckles of geometric lights on the great Persian carpet, dotting the scarlet fabric with light.

A fishtank took up one fourth of the chiseled walls covered in expensive paintings. Its contents consisted of twisting corals which exotic specimens darted in between. Above a sprinkling of swaying seaweed, an elegant lion-fish floated drowsily. The fish tank cast off an eerie, yet somehow soothing glow in the semi-darkness that was mixed with the light of the full moon outside, through immense arched windows and drawn, silk curtains.

But it was the bed that was the center-piece.

The giant, four-poster bed rose from the marble floor, stretching its mahogany posts towards the murals on the dome-like ceiling. Gold curtains embroidered with black fruits and flora hung around the bed like a canopy, contrasting with the crimson sheets.

The life of the indulgent was dramatic.

He had grown up in a harsh family. An incomplete family, where shouts and the smell of alcohol pervaded. Women were constantly flitting in and out, but there were only two men in the house – a drunken old man, and a quiet, malnourished boy who only stayed to clean up the beer bottles and the bruises on his face.

Life had been a constant pulsing of anger and hurt. He had felt it so often in his childhood that it almost numbed his senses raw until he longed to find something to convince him that he was alive.

The mad rush of cocaine stilled the pain as much as it could. He scrambled for it so often just to lose track of time in his rat-infested room and ignore the sounds of the bed creaking in the other room where his loser of a father got on top of some other bitch who wasn’t his wife.

He took so many drugs that his days revolved around the needle in his arm, scrambling his senses with a temporary escape.

But he was past that. He’d served his time, hauled off the graffitied streets to be buffeted within iron cells, spitting into the faces of tattooed men twice his size, constantly beat up, bruised, cut, and even shot. He’d watched those men stronger, and more powerfully built than him, slowly eaten away by the peddling hallucinogens, shooting themselves up with drugs until their minds were so twisted that they could barely mumble out intelligent replies as they were shoved into asylums and in most cases – coffins.

15 years in jail had built him, scarred him, and ultimately made him stronger.

The old me no longer exists. He had thought when he stepped out on to the fresh, spot-lighted grass outside of the jail, drinking in the sounds of pandemonium within its ugly cragged walls, following the violent stabbing of several security guards, inmates, and a break.

His time in Hell had taught him a new form of release, with far more gratifying rewards than berating his body with foreign substances.

A last visit to his pathetic excuse of a father was another in his evolvement from the eye-opening experience of slicing his cell-mate open back in prison. The satisfaction of his blade wedging into the fat flesh of the man that had beaten him and demeaned him constantly in his childhood, was better than any high. He’d watched the life drain out of his father’s eyes like a light going out, and felt every fiber in his body tingle with existence in turn. It was only the beginning.

Murder was the calling.

And he had responded again.

The body of one of the most influential men on the planet lay on the massive four-poster bed, blood seeping into the sheets from the embedded knife pushed through the sternum, turning the fabric black. His eyes were wide open, staring up in frozen fright towards the arch of the ceiling where the gold chandelier formed a shining eye amongst the painted angels.

You pray to your fucking million dollar ceiling that you’re going to Heaven. Not a chance.

A row of vases lined an intricately carved shelf against a wall. Bushels of colorful flora rose from the opaque, thick vessels, beckoning their scent.

The former low-life gathered the petals from the spray of flowery hues and crushed them in his gloved fist, bringing them to his face to breathe in the intoxicating mix of perfumes before scattering them like a deck of cards.

From the lower, luxurious levels below, a large clock chimed midnight.

The murderer turned towards the splayed, bleeding body of the wealthy man and walked towards the corpse, crushing the strewn petals beneath his boots.

As he brought his clothed hands towards the pale, limp neck of the body, he felt that rush of life in him again, and a new tingling of excitement, for the events that would come of this fresh new conquest.

Soon his evolvement would undergo the next phase of transformation.

And the world would see it happen.

The sheep have their shepherd. And the wolf will eat his skin.


I've always wanted to do a murder/detective story :D i've been influenced lately, so my writing muse has kind of been inspired, especially after reading "Along Came A Spider" by James Patterson, and I recently started reading Dan Brown's newest book, "The Lost Symbol" (which isn't exactly in the murder/detective type of story, but it's still got that thriller factor in it).

This prologue is just what it is... A prologue. Don't worry, our boys come in to the first chapter, so stay tuned. My updates are going to be scattered depending on the status of my offline-life (aka, the "real" world). But I will be writing this, and I'm determined to finish it. It's going to be a roller coaster :D
Tags: author: izzybellboo, genre: au, genre: crime, genre: thriller, length: chaptered, rating: nc-17
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