rippling with fire

you will watch me fall, the truth is you are next

Sat, 12 Dec 2009 13:49:30 GMT

five years later

She shone the flashlight over the breaker panels, all of which were carelessly installed with mazes of wiring and conduit that had worn with wear and heat. She then shone the flashlight upward, revealing a couple of loose ceiling panels that exposed the insulation and fiberglass above. "This place has already got to be considered a risk with the fire marshall."

"So what do we do with it?" her partner asked.

"Make it more of a risk," she answered, assisting him in fraying the wires and pulling the conduit away from the wall. She twisted the wires roughly until the plastic split open and revealed the copper inside.

"Convenient, the flammability of paint," he muttered idly as Chance produced the flint striker from the inside pocket of her blazer and unceremoniously ignited the vulnerable wires. "Do you have the flash drive?"

She patted her other pocket. "Sweet, sweet insurance." The growing fire reflected oddly in her dilated pupils. The collection of paintings to the adjacent wall held her attention for a moment as she reflected upon the first time she saw them. It was a shame to see them go. They were from her first job, retrieved for her very first client. It was almost like watching a part of herself being destroyed.

"All right, we're done here," she said, taking one last lingering look at the exhibit. "Let's go."

Chance surveyed the painting in silence, one arm crossed over her chest and the other poised in a pretentious gesture as she held her glass of wine. She didn't drink it; wine never suited her fancy. She'd only accepted graciously so as not to hurt the curator's feelings. He stood next to her, in almost the exact same pose, meticulously studying the painting and waiting for her appraisal. Even their heads, both tilted slightly to the left, made for an amusing sight to anyone who might have come up behind them.

She took a sharp, shallow breath and finally spoke. "I admire that it's so profound without actually saying a single thing."

He regarded her out of the corner of his eye and smirked. "That describes the entire movement from this period." The Northern lilt to his Yorkshire accent gave his tone the perpetual sound of mocking, though she took no offence.

"Of course. I like his use of cubism. It bears real insight to his...soul." She winced, knowing how vapid and cliché it would sound before she'd even said it.

He snorted. "That sounds so pretentious," he said with a laugh. "And exactly what does the element of cubism say about his soul?"

She flashed him a sideways smirk and lowered her wine glass. "That he was a square," she answered with a coy shrug.

He laughed, then became abruptly silent. Chance moved past him to inspect the next painting on the wall, but he remained in his place.

"So I'm sure you heard about the electrical fire at my old mentor's gallery," he said after a brief silence.

"I heard." She didn't divert her attention from the piece in front of her.

"The place was entirely destroyed."

"...Did any paintings survive?" she asked, glancing at him from the corner of her eye.

His satisfied smirk caused her to turn her head toward him. "You have them?" Her tone sounded vaguely intrigued.

"They were salvageable enough to restore, with some time and funding. I'm almost through with them. The exhibit's set up already and prepared to be viewable to the public in a month. They're the last remaining works of Alonso Perma, found in his studio just after his death."

They stared at each other in silence for a moment, and she smiled. "I think you need to show me that exhibit."

"Come on Chance, you know I can't."

"Yes you can. It's your gallery."

"Yes, but I wouldn't want to be accused of biased exclusivity."

She kept her probing eyes on him, the corners of her mouth twitching with amusement. "I really think you should show me that exhibit."

He fidgeted, torn for a moment. With a defeated sigh, he grinned and motioned for her to follow. He led her into what used to be a regularly empty room, partially because he hadn't near enough pieces to fill the entire building, and partially because of funding problems. It had remained half-finished with exposed drywall and wall studs since he took over the lease. Now it was complete, painted in a pristine white, with the unmistakable collection of paintings arranged carefully on the wall. They were somewhat darkened from soot, with a few minor mistakes in the details, but essentially whole again. Her face showed no sign of her irritation.

"So?" he asked. "What do you think?"

"I think," she said distantly, slowly making her way across the room, her shoes clicking authoritatively with each step, "...that the artist had great potential. The pop art comic style is a bit overused these days, but he has a talented hand, and his use of heavy lines is a bold move. Were he to live long enough to channel his talent, I think he could have made a very promising career for himself. The potential is apparent."

"I expected you to say something like that."

"What do you know about the artist?"

He shook his head. "Not much."

She rolled her eyes toward him and inclined her head slightly in his direction, her skepticism apparent. "What do you know about the artist?"

He chuckled nervously. "You know, no one could ever read me as well as you, Chance. But honestly, it's just a bunch of speculation...nothing really, he was bit of a...well, a bit of a shut-in. He was a recovering addict. Or trying to recover, it's unclear...his cult following whispers of demons."

"Demons." She said it flatly, her eyes now fixed blankly on the floor.

"Not like his addiction demons, I mean like real demons. They haunted him. All the creatures of dark mythology. It's what some blame for his evident suicide. That girl - " He paused so that he could approach a smaller painting positioned in the upper right corner, " - this one, she's supposed to be a vampire."

"A vampire." Chance stared emotionless at the familiar face, its silver eyes staring back at her. The face that never aged, and remained as that of an eternal adolescent on the very verge of womanhood.

"I know, right?" he said with an uncertain laugh. "She looks nothing like one. Story of this piece is that she uses her innocence to draw in her victims."

Chance idly turned on her heel and moved away, her hand disappearing inside her blazer pocket. "Is that so."

He remained turned toward the painting, his eyes sweeping distractedly over the details as Chance withdrew a small plastic bag from her pocket, containing a nondescript fine powder. She closed her eyes for a fraction of a second, then turned back around and approached him from behind, surreptitiously slipping the powder into his drink just before she smoothed her offending hand over his shoulder to mask her discreet gesture.

He turned his head toward her touch and kissed her fingers. "You know, I've missed you."

She didn't respond immediately, only kept her emotionless stare on the hand on his shoulder. "I think you should put them on display tomorrow. Showcase them in a grand opening event, and hold an auction afterward. I'll bankroll it. Is five hundred enough?"

"What? Five hundred? Thousand?" He smiled skeptically, though it faded quickly as he inspected the seriousness of her face. "You're not joking."

"I am not."

"I - well of course...I mean, you don't have to do this. It's remarkably generous of you, but I certainly don't expect you to - I mean, that's not why I asked you to come here."

"I've always had a profound appreciation for the arts. And I think the artist's beneficiaries, few though they may be, would benefit from the royalties. I'm never opposed to the success of a good mind. And he's dead, so that already increases his value tenfold. I mean, he was bound to get discovered eventually by some pretentious, rich eccentric hipster endowed with a sizeable trust fund. Might as well be endorsed by someone worth the street cred, don't you agree?"

He grinned. "I think your unabashed shrewdness is what originally intrigued me about you. This calls for a toast."

"Indeed it does."

"To expression," he said, clinking his glass against hers and downing the remaining liquid as she did the same. Her steely eyes remained on his throat as he swallowed.

"You know, sometimes I'm a bit humbled by the fact that you've moved on to lucrative art investment so quickly, while I'm still a struggling dealer in a near-bankrupt institution. But then if it weren't for you, I guess I wouldn't have as much of a chance in this business." He made an ironic sound between a laugh and a grunt. "Your mother aptly named you, it would seem."

She nodded curtly, her eyes flashing briefly with what looked like cold fury, but it vanished in an instant. "It would seem," she said with an empty smile. "Well, I think we've learned at this point that college was good for absolutely nothing aside from meeting the people that will get you where you need to be. They certainly didn't teach us anything we didn't already know," she finished airily.

He opened his mouth to reply, but his words were replaced by a pained gasp, after which his hand flew to his chest and he collapsed to the floor. She calmly knelt beside him, her eyes wide and feigning innocence and concern. "Alex," she gasped, her hand gently closing around the one he held at his chest. "What happened?"

"I don't know," he breathed, flinching as he tried to draw another breath. "Something's very wrong, I don't feel well."

"I'll call an ambulance," she said as she gracefully straightened, pulling her phone from her pocket. She swiftly moved toward the door as she dialed, pausing just outside the room when the call was answered. "Your suspicions were correct, he knew too much," she muttered quietly. "The medical report should reflect hypemic hypoxia. Have the paintings taken to my storage unit in New Mexico." She slid the phone shut and returned to the dying man on the floor, smoothing his hair back as he panted. "They'll be here shortly," she assured him. "Everything will be okay."

He smiled and squeezed her hand, then his eyes dulled as his pupils dilated, seeing nothing. His hand on hers went limp. She gazed at him in unaffected silence for a moment, then stood up and casually left the building.

He stood against the ledge, staring out over the city lights. He didn't turn when he heard the familiar calculated, determined footsteps approaching from behind. He didn't greet her when she came to stand next to him at the ledge. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her for a moment. Her face gave away nothing; it was one of those faces that would never be expressive enough to truly reflect her feelings, if she had any. She always demanded a certain level of respect without ever needing to say a word.

"So I took out a particularly distasteful politician today." His voice sounded flat and hollow in the uncharacteristically still air.

"Oh? Which one?"

He glanced at her sideways, his expression saying Yeah, right.

"At least give me a country. American?"

He shook his head once. "Canadian."

"Nice."

"You?"

She paused, her eyes sweeping the city below. "I assassinated an old college flame today."

He turned toward her and leaned his hip against the ledge. "Really?"

She nodded.

"...So...was it difficult?"

She breathed a silent hmph and shook her head with a grim smile. "No. Y'know, it wasn't."

"You feel like it should have been?"

"For anyone else, it would have."

"Well, that's what makes you one of the most commissioned assassins in the world, I would presume."

"Must be."

He watched her steadily for a moment, attempting to read something from her fathomless eyes. As always, he saw nothing. "I think we all go through that period where we question whether or not we're cut out for this business."

"That's not what I'm going through. You know, it's a remarkable thing. Knowing that you're the most affluent person from your graduating class, and everyone else knowing it as well, but not being able to tell anyone why or how. You wanna know why I got into this business? Because I always knew I was capable of killing. I could realistically imagine myself doing it. Without any feelings of remorse or regret. I started out as an art thief, for chrissakes. And within a couple years, I've traded up to first class assassin. How's that for career advancement. I mean, my first kill was so gratifying. I was just a kid at the time. I wasn't even an assassin yet. It just felt right, that this is what I should do."

"Well, and also you have something of a god complex."

She ran her hands through her hair, kneading her scalp in parody of someone in despair. "...Some people are not comfortable believing in something intangible being bigger than them. These people are their own gods. And quite honestly, I'm content living that way. I don't need the fear of death or some nonsense about a potential judgment afterward to inspire me to be an ethical person. That should come naturally. And it does. For me, at least. Only I choose not to acknowledge it, because in today's world of cutthroats and thieves, one can't afford to be merciful. Since I'm not so inclined to let faith dictate to me that all of the reprehensible people in this world will eventually get their comeuppance, I've realised that it's up to those of us with the capacity for vengeance to take on that role. You're either just or you are merciful. You cannot be both. I've found that being just makes life a lot more worth living."

"Valid point. ...You know, what kills me about what we do isn't the killing part. I have no problem with that. What bothers me is that we've been coming up here, to this same rooftop every Friday night for a year now, and we still don't know a thing about each other. We don't even know each others' real name. We share our kill stories and our various tricks of the trade, but are completely oblivious to all the trivial personal details. I don't know your favourite colour. You don't know what kind of food I like. We're possibly the best acquainted strangers there ever were."

Her brow furrowed in confusion. "Okay?"

"I guess what I'm trying to say is that we must lead depressingly isolated lives, that we're by definition complete strangers and yet the closest to a valid companionship either of us will ever get. It's a relationship, this. In a way."

"Hm. I guess it is."

"Which is why I've decided to get out."

She snorted derisively, unsure whether or not to take him seriously. "You know that's not an option," she said, turning back to look out over the ledge.

He smiled. "I know," he answered peacefully, then flung himself over the ledge before she could even register the movement.

Her reaction was subdued with shock, completely helpless but to look down after him as he plunged to a considerably grotesque thump onto the pavement below. She allowed herself a mere second to stare down at his limp, broken body before wrenching herself backward from the ledge, producing the phone from her pocket as she made for the door to the stairwell. She swiftly made her way down, going as quickly as possible without actually running. "I need a favour," she said tersely. "If I remember correctly, you're indebted to me. This is me redeeming that favour."

By the time she made it to the street, two squad cars and an ambulance had already arrived. She brazenly swept past them, going straight for the shadowy figure no one else saw in the adjacent alleyway.

"So what did you do this time?" he asked mockingly.

Her glare was seething with contempt. "Would you believe me if I said it was a suicide?"

"Perhaps. It wouldn't be the first time you've inspired one to self-termination."

"Whatever. Can you fix it?"

"Of course. My question is, if it's a legitimate suicide, why do you need me? Investigative reports are always very thorough, they'll rule out homicide first thing if what you're telling me is true."

"Will they? Someone's bound to know I was up there with him. Do you seriously think any self-respecting detective will take for granted the fact that two of the world's top assassins were on the same roof at the same time, and one ended up dead as a result? When they found out the last person he talked to was me, they'll either run an alias that will come up suspiciously empty, or run an alias that will come up with everything. Neither of which will end well."

He nodded. "So why did he do it?"

"I don't know. Consider me genuinely surprised."

"And how are you in all of this?"

She shot him another contemptuous glare. "Profoundly inconvenienced." She sighed then, a sound that accurately reflected her frustration and defeat. "You know," she continued, her voice more subdued, "the worst part about the whole thing is that, when he jumped...the first thing I thought wasn't oh dear god, the closest thing to a genuine friend I will ever have has just plunged to his death, it was fuck, they're gonna think I did it as I indexed my damage control options. What does that say about me?"

He looked away, chewing his bottom lip. "It says you're a true professional that does what's necessary for survival. Go get some rest. I'll handle this."

I really don't have a title for this yet.

Sat, 03 Oct 2009 08:20:59 GMT

So I'm trying my hand at nonfiction! Well, fiction that's very closely based on real life. I figure this will be my contemporary Grapes of Wrath. It's an idea I had that basically chronicles the life of a not-rich, not-poor but generally financially stable twenty-something in the midst of the biggest economic recession of America. I'm not confident that I'll finish it, or even continue beyond what I've written so far, but if I do, I like to think it'll become an inevitable classic and bore the hell out of high school sophomores in required reading assignments 100 years from now.

Tentatively entitled The Recession for now, or at least until I can come up with something better.

I still remember the day the ubiquitously titled Security Bank starting popping up around the surrounding counties. I'd been driving...somewhere, and the paltriness of its sign's design distracted me. For the life of me, I couldn't tell you what bank had formerly taken its place. All I know is that it had been there for decades, and suddenly, in the summer of 2009, it disappeared without a trace and gave way to the commonplace establishment it is now. No matter that it boasted FDIC membership; it was too obvious in this shaky economy that it wouldn't be unwise to take that stamp at face value. Ironic that its creation was only inspired by the last time this happened to the economy. Weathered entrepreneurs and small business owners, who had been doing well for themselves for quite some time were now filing bankruptcy and having the banks foreclose on their homes, forced to rent out their houses in order to pay the second mortgage because selling their now worthless property would more than likely result in them owing the bank more than they paid for it in the first place. My favourite burger joint, which had been an establishment in town since the end of the last economic depression, now bore a tattered real estate sign on the front of its boarded up windows.

I guess that was sort of the wake up call for me. I'd previously been going around in a bit of a haze, not really paying attention to the problems the country had been going through. Of course I was vaguely aware of a menacing problem facing the economy, I knew there was a war going on and a ridiculously incompetent administration running the country. For the most part, I avoided the news - and television in general - why schedule your life around your favourite shows when you could just as soon watch them at your own convenience on the internet? Admittedly, I was deliberately sheltering myself from the news of current events, because I really didn't want to hear it. I figured the best way to perpetuate the country's current downward spiral to inevitable demise was to dwell on it. Not the best way to crawl out of a hole when you're doing nothing but wringing your hands and sweating over the massive debt the government dropped in our laps. So I ignored it, perhaps occasionally vaguely acknowledged it, but did my best to keep myself afloat while maintaining a slight air of blissful ignorance.

Then I started paying attention, really paying attention. It seemed odd that the trivial things were what really stuck out. The gradual evolution of gas station signs from the acrylic panel numbers to digital LED signs, since gas prices were fluctuating so frequently (sometimes by the hour) no underpaid attendant would have gone out in the southwestern heat to change the display of the market's capricious whims. My credit union cut its hours; that overdraft notice in the mail was an unpleasant surprise, and I only realised too late that the deposit I'd made on a Friday night wasn't received until Monday. Gone were the privileges of banking institutions being open till noon on a Saturday. Even overdraft fees and interest rates were soaring drastically, a way of perpetuating the banks' own irresponsibility by desperately (and obviously) attempting to dig themselves out of their own pathetic hole they'd created for themselves, by robbing its loyal investors blind. It was sort of gratifying, in a way, to see a selfish, impatient and incompetent institution come crashing down at its own hand. Something that any common man with a calculator and eyeballs could have predicted. A nation driven by its own greed, pride and overindulgence, that it couldn't even see the rapidly approaching wall on a one-way track that sped eighty years backward through time.

I think I'd figured it out by the time I'd graduated college and gotten out into the real world, surrounded myself with people of all socioeconomic classes. My class, the self-made bourgeois, was rapidly dwindling. Soon enough the existence of the middle class would be a myth, leaving only the extremely povertous and the one percent left behind. I watched the nauseating overindulgence of the upper middle class, the living beyond their means, even though they could have lived comfortably had they just waited on buying that double-cab diesel pickup, or saved up a little more for that backyard pool. I'd figured out that the reason we'd come to this point was because the rich weren't really rich - not by attitude or class, at least. Sure, they had money, but they were far from wealthy. The entire country had been established on instant gratification and the impressions of face-value. Instead of actually valuing one's net worth, it was encouraged to blow as much money as possible on the lowest quality investment, wear it out as quickly as possible, and then throw it to waste and go out and spend more money on something shinier and newer. The lesson of value was never really taught, and that's where we went wrong. That's why the American dollar wasn't worth a pack of gum anywhere else in the world. Why Europe's lip curled at us, and looked upon us as if we were proof that it was possible to polish a turd.

But this was not my life. This was not how I planned myself to live. How long did the last recession last? I figure I'm safe. After all, at least I have a job. A rather decent-paying job. And I'm grateful. I'm constantly in fear, though. Every time some small instance of the economic disaster rears its ugly head, on the news, in some trivial occurrence on the street, I feel a very vague sense of panic, hoping that it will never fully reach me. Hoping that it will blow over before it has a chance to destroy me as it's destroyed everyone else.

This is my story.

Time flies over us, but leaves its shadow behind.

Sun, 20 Sep 2009 10:09:49 GMT

HOLY FUCKING JESUS ON A POGOSTICK, AN UPDATE. Yeah, just because this is technically nine months in the making, don't expect it to be that good. BUT WIL WANTED IT. OKAY WIL HERE YOU GO.

He awoke to fleeting glimpses of trees, a sliver of moonlight filtering between the branches, a chilling breeze that bit down to his bones. He distinctly remembered leaving the forest, and the addict in the alleyway shortly thereafter, the rising sun, Ash getting weaker; past that, he remembered nothing. He came to an abrupt halt and looked around, waiting for his eyes to completely adjust to the darkness. Of course all forests are disorienting, but the unfamiliarity of this one was staggering. This was most certainly not Cibola National. The trees were different, the climate was different. Even something about the sky was...not right. He stared upwards long enough to make him dizzy, trying to figure out what it was about the sky that was so unnerving. The moon was there, the stars were all there, it was as typical a night as any other. They were unusually bright, and didn't twinkle. There seemed to be more of them than there should have.

Footsteps crunching in the foliage nearby distracted him, and he almost ducked for cover when he saw that it was only Ash, aimlessly wandering about the trees. He nearly called to her when he realised that something was terribly, terribly wrong. She was different. She didn't move with the usual grace he'd grown accustomed to seeing on her. As a matter of fact, she was quite clumsy. Well, as clumsy as any human might be in the dark, in a forest. He held his breath as he watched her stumble about the tree roots, cursing each time she lost her footing in a language he couldn't place. Her clothing, the language she spoke, the stars...the sky was too clear. There was no pollution yet to cloud their brilliance. The odd silence was one of a pre-industrial age. And Ash was clearly still human. His heart pounded violently in his chest as it slowly occurred to him where - when he was. Every instinct told him to run to her, but she certainly wouldn't recognise him. He was about to do just that when a disturbance in the trees froze him in place. She didn't have time to turn and see the source of the sound before a hulking, growling mass bounded out of the shadows and sprung on her, knocking her to the ground as her scream was cut off as abruptly as it began. The animal wasted no time ripping her apart, clawing open her stomach and violently ripping her arm out of its socket as she struggled to get away.

A nearby tree branch snapped and fell at that moment, startling the animal into fleeing. Ash lay unmoving, though the small but unmistakable puffs of vapor in the air just in front of her mouth indicated that she was still very alive. Her arm was almost completely severed, only still attached by a weak tendon, and her other arm lay over her stomach, seemingly holding what was left of her insides in place. She didn't move or make a sound, all she did was lay there with her unseeing eyes staring upward. A moment passed and she began to twitch and convulse violently, and just as Quinn was about to risk running to her, another shadow approached. He couldn't get a clear view of the figure, but it was most definitely the form of a man, walking very deliberately toward her and showing no concern for the possibility of the animal returning. The figure gracefully crouched down by her side, laying a hand on her forehead and speaking to her in a low tone Quinn couldn't quite make out. He then slid his hand around the back of her neck and gently lifted her head, pressing his wrist to her mouth until she stopped shaking. She gasped and began coughing, and he laid her head back and went to work on her injuries, carefully replacing her intestines and working her arm back into a proper angle for it to be reattached.

Ash was unresponsive, making no indication that she even realized anyone was there. The only movement coming from her was the shallow rhythm of her breathing, which became more sporadic and broken as the seconds wore on. He finished with her, carefully arranging her into a more comfortable position, then paused a moment to gaze down at her. He stroked her hair for a moment, then leaned forward and kissed her forehead. She remained unresponsive, and her chest stopped moving altogether. She was most certainly dead.

The closest feeling he could compare to it was the first breath of air after being substantially suffocated.

He had nearly drowned once, when he was twelve. No one had warned him about the current, and he had been too confident to heed the warnings of straying too far from shore. At first it was agony, that sense of skull-crushing panic, when his lungs desperately begged for air and attempted to react involuntarily. Mind eventually gave in to matter and the water flooded his lungs, and then nothing. Peaceful, surreal nothing. The next moment, a painful stabbing sensation all throughout his body, a splitting migraine, and the sense of having been chilled inside out. That first breath of air was so painful, yet so necessary.

Only this time it was much, much worse. At least the first time, he could move. There were people around him, their shouts, their warm hands, the blanket that quickly came thereafter. There was a softspoken paramedic that told him everything would be fine. The sun was blinding in his eyes, but it was that rude awakening of hope and gratefulness that reminded him that he was still alive. This...this did not feel like being alive. There was no warmth, no reassuring hands or voices. Just a terrifying cold and a darkness that no matter how hard he tried, his eyes wouldn't adjust. And he couldn't move. Trapped in a confined space, and completely alone. This must be death.

That wasn't right. He was distinctly aware of his own heartbeat pounding violently in his ears. The dead didn't have heartbeats. They didn't breathe either, did they? He wondered how long he had been there, wherever there was. Buried alive, maybe? If that was the case, he should have run out of air. He should have been on the verge of suffocation. He should have been dead. His heart slowed, and his mind cleared enough for him to understand the one reason why suffocation wouldn't have killed him. Tentatively, he ran his tongue over his teeth. The distinct points of canines that were substantially longer than before grazed against his tongue. The molars, even the wisdom teeth he'd never had removed were all now finely pointed and slightly elongated.

Immortal and buried alive.

He did the only thing anyone in that situation could do, and screamed. It was odd that he didn't seem to really need to breathe anymore, not even to sustain an eternal scream. Within seconds there was an earsplitting slam, and then the rushed paces of a light footstep mixed with a faint heartbeat, slightly less frantic than his own and very, very close. It was familiar, and the scent that accompanied it was welcoming. Only a fraction of a second passed and he was wrenched out from his confines, the room sliding past as a shocked Ash came into view.

"You woke," she breathed. The surprise in her voice was unnerving.

"A morgue?" he coughed, finding his voice. "Is this normally how it works?"

Her brows came together in a labored frown, and he noticed that her eyes were much more tired than he'd ever seen them. She was looking rougher than usual. "No, Quinn. It isn't. I thought it hadn't worked." She apprehensively reached out and touched his bare chest with the tips of her fingers. They were warm against his skin. She must have recently fed.

"It...hadn't...worked?" He formed each word carefully, trying to understand the implications behind what she said. "When you said not everyone could be a vampire, you didn't just mean mentally, did you?"

She solemnly shook her head. "It doesn't always work," she said quietly. "Sometimes they just...don't wake up. Usually after about a week, we give up and destroy the body. I'm so glad I didn't," she finished wistfully, pulling him into an embrace that was remarkably uncharacteristic of her. He didn't resist. The warmth was unbelievably pleasant. This must have been what she felt when he'd touched her as a human.

"A week..." he whispered against her shoulder. "How long was I out?"

"One month. I had a...friend kindly keep you here."

"What?" He wrenched free of her embrace, and she took a swift step back.

"It doesn't matter," she added quickly. "There are things you must learn." She disappeared suddenly, returning with a sealed plastic bag seconds later. "You were wearing these when you died," she said, holding the bag out to him. When you died. "They've been laundered." She politely turned away when he threw the plastic sheeting back and slid down from the table. He steadily watched her as he dressed, inwardly amused at how she kept her gaze fixed solemnly on the floor with her mouth pressed into a troubled frown. It was uncertain whether she did so out of propriety or disinterest.

She stayed that way for a moment, transfixed in some distant reverie, coming out of it when he lightly touched her shoulder. Her head mechanically turned and she blankly gazed at his fingers, then fluidly reached up and enveloped his hand in hers to warm it. "I'm sorry I did this to you," she whispered. She didn't look at him. Now that he thought about it, she had avoided directly looking at him since she'd come.

"Why?" he asked after a long pause. "You were planning on doing it from the beginning."

He heard her heart unmistakably skip a beat, and he smirked. "And it's okay. I came to terms with it before you even did it."

Her stoicism wavered for a brief moment, disrupted by a flicker of what seemed to be guilt, regret, and relief all at the same time. It was gone in an instant, and finally she fixed her fathomless eyes on his. "You must be hungry," she said airily.

"Can I ask you something?" he said, after having followed her in silence for several minutes.

She inclined her head slightly in his direction to acknowledge the question, then made a nonchalant gesture for him to continue.

"When I was...out, I saw...well I'm not sure what it was."

"You were experiencing my memories," she said dryly. "It happens to everyone during the change. You see the memories of your maker."

"Everyone?"

She was silent for a moment, answering him with nothing but a frown. "All but one," she said quietly.

I wish you weren't always this cryptic. "Who was he? Why did he choose you?"

"Like I said, it happens with all but one."

"What, you? Why?"

"I don't know."

"Well surely you must have learned something from him when he taught you all of this."

"He taught me nothing. I never even knew who he was or what he looked like. I never knew him. One moment I was dying alone in the forest, the next I was walking out of it a completely new creature and terrified senseless because I had no idea what was happening to me. I had to learn everything on my own. Which - is...not - easy."

"You never met him?"

"Never. For all I know, he's dead. I would know him if I just bumped into him on the street one day, but that has yet to happen."

"How did you manage?"

"With difficulty. And instinct. And a bit of cleverness that was left over from my human years. Of course everyone knew. Those that had known me before knew something was horribly different, but by the time anyone could do anything about it...well. I was obscenely hungry."

"You killed them?"

"It was either them or me." She spun around then, with a swiftness too quick for his new senses to register, causing him to plow directly into her. She never lost her footing, only steadied him with an iron grasp on his shoulder. "Quinn, listen to me. Survival of our kind is pertinent. If any one of us are captured or made known to the public, the repercussions would be catastrophic on a worldwide scale. They threaten, we dispose of the problem. It must be swift, it must be clean, and it must be discreet. Do you understand? There is no room for mercy or remorse or sympathy. This is important. If it be the one thing you learn from me at all, let it be that."

They stared at each other in tense silence for a full minute as Quinn processed the images in her head. These were conjured up intentionally, no doubt. Endless violence, wars she had seen firsthand as the result of being too careless, deaths that could have been prevented had discretion been practiced more thoroughly. The textbooks from college really gave it no justice.

"So...you killed them all," he muttered, flinching away as she released him and continued walking.

"Yes. The entire village," she said darkly. "Now," she said, her tone considerably lighter as she led him through the doors of a high-end restaurant, which seemed to open without her ever having to touch them. "Let your nose lead you," she instructed, leaning in to speak into his ear. "Usually if it smells good, it will most likely taste good. It's nature's way of telling us it's the best choice. Sometimes it can fool you, so be careful."

"It," he repeated. "As in the person I'm about to kill."

She tilted her head at a slight angle, regarding him with a sort of bemused fascination. "Would it help you to kill them by thinking of them as people?"

He sighed and nodded once in understanding. She serenely watched him for a moment, observing the way he carefully studied the crowd, the subtle flare of his nostrils every time someone moved past too quickly, stirring their scent into the air around them. He had been subconsciously resting his tongue over each fang throughout the night, still testing them out and attempting to get used to them.

"If it helps, understand that we have as much right to be here as they do. We were both made by the same creator. There's nothing wrong about what we do. Nature put us here for a specific reason, it would be wrong to forsake that purpose."

"And if I kill a good person?"

"Tragic, but your immortal soul won't be damned eternally if you do. The worst that would happen is that you're not entirely satisfied, and left with an unpleasant taste in your mouth. The blood of the innocent never did suit anyone's palate. But if it's really that difficult, don't kill them, just drink lightly from many. Until you get used to it."

He only nodded, the crease in his brow deepening with each person that passed. That one was too young, that one was with too many people, that one just seemed too innocent...

"Look, listen," Ash interjected. "You don't always have to go in for the kill. That girl, from that night in the forest? She was the first human I'd killed in years. Don't think yourself a failure if you can't do it for a while. Sometimes it's easier and quicker not to, and there's less cleanup. It preserves the food source, if you ever find one you're particularly fond of. You're going to have to feed eventually though, and the longer you abstain, the harder it will be for you to...control your instincts. If you deny yourself what nature meant for you to do, it will turn you into a monster." Her voice had a tone of darkness to it, as if she were remembering something particularly distasteful.

"You've seen it."

She nodded solemnly. "Perhaps listening to their thoughts will ease your apprehension. The more reprehensible the mind, the easier it will be for you to kill them."

"I can't. Every time I try, I can't concentrate on one single person. There are too many here."

"It will come to you. Just practice. With the right amount of effort, you'll be able to distinguish individual...voices, as it were."

They sat in silence for a long moment, staring at each other across the table in the corner booth the hostess had shown them. Her childlike fingers now toyed gracefully with the steaming cup set before her, ordered solely for the warmth and aroma it provided.

"How old do I look?" she finally asked, the question taken seemingly out of nowhere. She was gazing at herself in the reflection of the window. What was disturbing about it was that she didn't do the normal, probing gaze of vanity most women did when confronted with a reflective surface, but rather stared at herself in much the same manner as one would with a stranger who looked vaguely familiar.

"I mean, if a mortal were to ask me," she continued, "what do you think would be an appropriate response? ...It gets so difficult," she sighed, her nostrils flaring slightly as a ripe young waiter rushed past, sending his scent violently sweeping over them. Quinn's untrained reflexes balked at the conscious effort of resisting attack; Ash merely lifted her chin to better appreciate his sweetness, her age having kept her instincts in check.

"Don't bother," she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "He smells okay, but he won't taste nearly as good. He's too innocent, you see. Not enough sin to ferment in his blood. I'd save my appetite for someone more worth it."

"How do you know these things?" he asked, an edge of impatience in his tone.

"How one comes to know anything. Experience. Mostly trial and error but...having an apt instructor will do you no harm."

"Sixteen," Quinn said suddenly.

"Hmm?" She lifted the cup to her lips to give the appearance of drinking, but merely sniffed at it and set it back down.

"You asked how old you might look to a mortal. Sixteen. Seventeen if you arranged your hair and clothes just so..."

"Is that an accountable age of maturity these days? So hard to judge conventional maturity with humans, they're so fickle about culture with each passing century. I never can keep up."

"It's normally regarded as an experimental and highly laughable stage in adolescent maturity, but I doubt you'll have any problems with people taking you seriously," he said bleakly. "Your body may look young, but your 'we're all doomed' expression seems to advertise your assertiveness rather accurately."

She regarded him with slight disapproval. "I can never tell when you're being facetious," she said, in perfect reminiscence of the time he'd said the same about her. "You must have learned it from me."

He smirked. "So do you think that's how old you were when you were made? Sixteen?"

"Maybe," she sighed, holding her breath as a drunken city official swept past on his way out. She sent Quinn a mental warning that he'd be wise to hold his breath as well, lest they have a restaurant full of witnesses to clear off later.

"What the hell?" he gasped after the temporarily saved meal was well out of harm's way.

"Sniveling coward of a man, if you can even refer to him as such. Your typical scum of the earth, community college bottom-feeder, worked his way up through sycophancy, lies and bribery. Detests women, and had just finished berating his waitress for being more worldly and educated than him before you and I became acquainted with him. And I do suppose, Quinn, that we've found our delicacy of the evening. Or he'll make an adequate appetizer, at least."

"What? So you're going to kill him?"

"No," she said sternly, "We're going to kill him."

"Didn't you say once that killing is an act of mercy? Someone that reprehensible doesn't deserve that, do they?"

Her mouth twitched into a near-smile. "No one said it has to be quick." She removed the napkin from her lap and folded it once before unceremoniously flinging it on the table. "Let's go," she said, and gracefully rose before he could comply.

She wasn't exaggerating in her description of him as cowardly. It was really more of an understatement. He reeked of hypocrisy and small favours, favours that, were his self-righteous, self-proclaimed elite religious right posse to find out he'd provided, would transform quickly into the torch-carrying, mass-lynching mob. His mind was a simple one, no cleverness or real shrewdness to work around, he was the perpetual stereotype of his kind.

"So many years judging," Ash said under her breath, her tone filled with suppressed jubilation.

"I can hear your sanctimonious drivel in your tiny little head, you know," she said as she approached him with his back turned to them, having just relieved himself on the cinder block wall behind the restaurant. "That constant self-fellating you do so you can hide from your own self-loathing. You know...if you killed yourself, no one would care at all."

Quinn hung behind in apprehensive curiosity, though the scent of this man's transgressions against humanity was overwhelming, almost to the point where Quinn wasn't sure how much longer he could refrain from attack. Ash had him backed into the wall and held him in place with humiliating ease. Quinn could hear the incessant onslaught of mental degradation that she sent through his subconscious, the invocation of his own repressed guilt and mortifying memories from childhood that made him the pathetic person he was now. No one cares, you know. Everyone knows you're worthless. That waitress, she reminded you of the cheerleader you asked to prom, the one who turned you down and made a fool of you in front of the entire school. The one who laughed when you were beaten by the members of the baseball team behind the bleachers that night...the one who made you feel perpetually like a child. That's why you hated that waitress, isn't it? You've been trying to get her fired for it. You were going to wait for her shift to end, and you were going to rape her. As punishment for belittling you in front of all your friends when you insulted her. Well, I'll see that you rape no one tonight...

He was sobbing now, muttering idiotic lies, bribes, sycophantic sentiments and pleas that were all he knew how to utilise in a moment of desperation. She laughed, making no effort to hide her fangs as she ripped his trousers apart. At the whim of his own instincts, Quinn stepped forward and forced his fingers into the man's mouth and ripped out his tongue before he could scream from the brutality Ash wreaked on the travesty of manhood he had to offer. They sporadically lunged at his throat and shoulders and ripped out large bits of his flesh. Take care not to let your fangs linger too long, lest the venom set in and the opiate provide him undue mercy. Her voice rang clearly in Quinn's mind, carefully instructing him through what instinct couldn't. Like vultures at a carcass, they tore him apart, flailing and gurgling in vain as he attempted to fight them off and call for help.

Ash's subconscious berating was still going, unrelenting as his mind begged for mercy. What would your peasant father do if he'd known you were tortured in an alleyway by a teenage girl...he'd beat you senseless, wouldn't he? Just like he did when you were a ch-

"Ash," Quinn interjected. "Problem."

She jerked into a straightened position and turned in the direction of Quinn's gaze, in perfect parody of a scavenger guarding its prize in the midst of a threat. The waitress from earlier had come out for a smoke, and inadvertently stumbled on their constitutional of sorts. She stood perfectly still, crisp black apron clashing deliciously with the ivory of her thighs, cigarette poised delicately between her fingers held up just next to her neatly pinned hair, small, pale wrist turned slightly toward them so that Quinn could see her pulse moving steadily through the thin blue veins from where he stood. Her quaint little mouth was frozen in a seemingly shocked gape, though her eyes flashed of vengeful satisfaction. He swept her thoughts; a summer abroad as an undergraduate, humanitarian work in some undeveloped African country, bachelor of science in something-or-other, master's in something vaguely confusing but impressive, high-end waitressing gig to pay off the loans. A beautiful face for a beautiful mind.

"I'll handle this," Quinn said idly as he moved toward her.

"Don't kill her," Ash warned as the body in her hands went limp. Not quite dead yet, only loss of consciousness from blood loss, pain, and possibly even fear.

The waitress didn't back away as he approached, only eyed him steadily, expectantly. She didn't cringe when he inclined his head toward her throat as if to bite, didn't tremble when his lips moved over the pulse. She merely stood frozen in her place, though not out of shock or fear, for her eyes remained sharply on him. Her body and her mind told him she desired no part of him, but thank you for your services and the schadenfreude.

"But won't you allow me a simple taste?" he whispered against her throat, making a point to exaggerate his breath against her skin. He didn't wait for her to answer; the scent of her had already invaded his senses beyond all rational thought. With a firm hand around the back of her neck, he drew her toward him and pierced her flesh. Odd that she didn't put up a fight. One long draught of her blood told him he'd killed her with the force of his grip on her neck, which had snapped in his grasp. He dropped her in surprise.

"Jesus wept, Quinn, did you have to go and be so careless?" There was only a hint of irritation behind her otherwise hollow, emotionless voice. "She didn't deserve to die just yet."

"Just yet," he repeated, staring down at the beautiful corpse in detached horror.

"She was on her way to being old-fashioned evil. Educated, emotionless, weathered, beautiful, and well aware of it at that - but people like our boy there won't have made her a murderer for another five years. A sociopath in the making. She'd have tasted much better if you'd had the patience to wait. But you are young, and still in the confines of your human carnal desires. A mistake we all make."

He turned back to the body at his feet just as it disintegrated into an outward eruption of ash, the mutilated corpse slumped by the wall quickly following suit. She left him no time to mourn, which was probably better anyway.

The cursor blinked at her mockingly, hypnotically. She'd been staring at it for hours, probably. The inspiration was there, perfect and brilliant in her head, but it was never good enough once she tried to commit it to paper. Of course it would almost certainly be good enough for her AP English teacher; the problem was, it would never be good enough for her. After each attempt, she would proofread, flinch, then delete it all in a frenzy of perfectionist rage. It was one of those moments where she seriously considered banging her head repeatedly on the desk.

"Fucking...LAME," she muttered. She slammed her Norton Anthology shut and begrudgingly glanced at the time in the corner of the screen, wincing as she did so. She was beginning to develop an irrational phobia of clocks. They always told her things she didn't want to know. Running out, it's always running out. She stared out her open window, inhaling the fresh scent of moist pine.

"You're not going out there alone at this hour."

She closed her eyes at the hollowly ethereal voice. "This hour," she repeated blandly. "It's not even two. If you're so goddamn concerned, come with me."

"And do what, Chance? Watch helplessly as something terrible happens to you?"

"I guess that would be your only option."

"Chance, listen to me. You need to stop doing this. Doing reckless things in the hope that someone or something will kill you so you don't have to do it yourself is no better than suicide. You don't want this. You'll only end up like me. Is that what you want? To be stuck? It's worse than death. ...It's worse than life."

"The only difference is that you didn't want to die. You're just as capable of moving on, you're just still too attached to your human life that you can't."

"It's not like that."

"Then what is it like? How did you even die, Dom?"

He stared at her in troubled silence, seemingly trying to decide whether to be angry with her or with the situation. "We weren't talking about me," he answered finally.

She made a sound that was halfway between a derisive snort and a defeated sigh. "Of course," she muttered, then stood up and swept past him, carefully listening at her bedroom door before opening it and walking out.

Thankfully, her mother was asleep. It seemed that the abuse had worsened over the previous months, to the point where Chance was too afraid to show her face without getting assaulted. She quickly walked through the hallway, avoiding looking at the place where the plaster in the wall had crumbled in from having been shoved into it days earlier. Her makeup and the majority of her toiletries and various other personal belongings were still scattered across the house, having been carelessly flung about as punishment for being 'too tidy.' She hadn't bothered to recollect them, even after her mother had beaten her repeatedly for not cleaning it all up shortly thereafter. Each time, Chance would only reply, "You made the mess, you can clean it up," in that tone that an impatient mother uses with her ornery five-year-old. Let the fat hag step on a bottle of perfume and stumble to her death, she mused. How she relished the thought of watching the bitch writhe and groan, broken on the floor as Chance watched in amusement. I'd just let you die, Chance had said once. I would only call an ambulance to come get rid of the body. You'd deserve it.

"You really should just report it to CPS," he interjected, already outside by the time she opened the front door.

"Sorry, but I don't take life advice from dead people," she said flatly, walking past him without even bothering to look at him.

Despite her irritation at everything in general, something about the night made her at peace, if only momentarily. It was one of those perfect nights too, with the red-tinged cloud cover reflecting the city lights, accompanied by a moist freshness and an unbelievably still atmosphere. The lack of wind made it easier to hear things. Impossible how far sounds carried at this hour - a phone could ring a block away and she'd still hear it. The moon was large and unusually bright as it broke through the clouds, providing ample light as she walked down the unlit street. Normally she was a brisk walker, but as the street lamp on the corner began to flicker, she slowed her pace and cautiously moved to the other side of the street. Experience had taught her that electrical disturbances were the result of another one of them lurking around, and more often than not, they had malicious intent. She forced herself to look straight ahead, avoiding even so much as a glance in its direction. She knew it was there, she could feel it. Feel its cold stare on her, feel it trying to get inside her head and influence her thoughts.

"Don't look at it," Dom whispered, shielding her view of it as he came up beside her.

"What does it want?"

"What all of us want. It's just being a little more aggressive about it."

"Why, what's it going to do?" Her voice trembled into silence as the air became colder; the thing was moving closer, and at a rapid pace.

"Nothing," he answered curtly. "I won't let it hurt you."

"You also said you would never leave me."

He stopped and ran his palms just over her shoulders, even though it was a fruitless gesture since she wouldn't be able to feel it anyway. "And I didn't," he said, his words carried on a resigned sigh. A sudden violent disturbance in the air around them tousled her hair into her face, and he backed away from her. "Just keep walking, I'll take care of it," he promised. "Go, go now!"

She stumbled back from the urgency in his voice, then turned and sprinted as hard as she could in the opposite direction. She didn't know how long she ran, only knew that she was uncomfortably far from home with Dom nowhere to be found when she forcibly ran right into the ageless, pale couple walking quickly through the shadows. The male steadied her with a slender, chilled hand that made her shiver. The female gasped quietly. "My god, Quinn," she whispered, "just listen to her thoughts."

title undefined.

Tue, 17 Feb 2009 09:34:52 GMT

So I've made the decision to not have anyone friended on this journal. I figured that I don't update often enough for that, and I don't use this journal to read communities or friends pages. But! It is still entirely public, and will continue to be public. I never make friends-only entries, and the only private entries I make are for WIPs that I haven't edited enough to post yet or that aren't entirely up to my standards for anyone else to read. I don't mind if you do friend this journal, but don't be offended when I don't add you back. If you're looking for more regular updates from me, leave a comment in my guestbook and I'll leave you a screened reply with my personal journal. Or you could just send me a private message. And feel free to track this journal so that you can be notified whenever I do make the occasional update.

I'm working on that new update right now, I promise. I'm actually working on three, but I don't know when they'll be posted. Being arsed to write when you think all of your writing is shit really inhibits the creative process. It'll be up when it's up, I suppose.

the fruits of your labors have fermented into wine.

Wed, 21 Jan 2009 15:25:37 GMT

He had developed a talent for sensing when she was around. It was subtle at first, but the more she stalked around, the more he was conditioned to recognize it when it happened. It was like that faint electronic hum that's never really heard, but rather sensed when walking into a room with a television on mute, or that slight disturbance in the air when someone with a silent footstep enters a room. He'd trained himself not to noticeably react when it happened. Of course she'd hear the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end every time, but for all she knew, that was a natural, subconscious reaction. He learned to focus his thoughts on trivial things that young males are wont to think, how to fluidly mill about a random task without really putting on a show.

"I know you're there," he said idly one night, never looking up from the guitar he'd been restringing.

She seemingly manifested instantaneously in front of him, perched on the arm of his couch with a look of blank curiosity.

"Jesus," he gasped. "Could you...not do that? I mean, do you ever use doors?"

"How do you think I got in, Quinn?" she said with a patronizing chuckle.

He narrowed his eyes and glared at her, shaking his head. "You know, I can never tell if you're being facetious or if you've truly become that oblivious to human custom in your old age. Why have you been sneaking around, anyway?"

She stoically gazed at him, her mouth finally smoothing into an amused smile. "There are others. They'll sense me on you, it gets very territorial and ugly. I'm just making sure you're protected. I could leave you to your own devices if it makes you uncomfortable."

He thought briefly, and after considering the potential unpleasantries, he resigned to letting her continue the habit. Now that he thought about it, he had felt relatively safer in the time since he'd met her.

"Are there others like you? Or are they...I don't know, what one would stereotypically come to think about them. Be honest."

Her smile vanished and she stared at him with vague concern. She had that expression she always got when she was on the verge of one of her coldly enlightening speeches, but seemed to reconsider and slowly rose to her feet. It was obvious that she was making her gestures more deliberate, for the sake of his comfort. "Come with me then," she sighed.

She put her cold hand over his and had just begun to lead him out the door when he found himself surrounded by near darkness, the full moon obstructed by the towering treetops. The forest was close, it was just on the outside of town - though it was physically impossible to have accomplished the trip that quickly. The wind picked up, sending a violent tremor through his body as the chill bit through his bones. She caught the movement and idly waved her hand, then as abruptly as the breeze picked up, it stopped.

"Christ almighty, how is it that everything in the physical universe we occupy doesn't apply to you?"

"Shh," she hissed. She muttered something under her breath that sounded a lot like I don't occupy your physical universe, but he knew it would be fruitless to respond. He was about to ask why he had to be quiet, since they were seemingly alone in the depths of Cibola National, but it soon became clear that they were not, in fact, alone.

A young male wound his way through the trees, the limp figure of a girl draped over his shoulder. The way his complexion radiated under the dim moonlight gave him away. Quinn could only assume the girl was human. The vampire stopped then, unceremoniously throwing her to the ground with no regard to her frailer body. She lay heaped in an awkward position for a moment, but immediately woke with a violent jolt. She rolled painfully onto her back, and Quinn saw the excessive bite marks that covered her, running from just above her collarbone to the inside of her arm. Her skirt rode up and her thighs bore multiple bruises and lacerations, along with even more bite marks up the inside of her groin.

Her eyes shifted to her abductor and she attempted to scramble away from him, a choked howl catching in her throat. With great effort, she managed to get to her feet, but she wasn't fast enough. He caught her effortlessly by the wrist, and with a vice-like grip on her arm, he ripped her thumb from her hand. It made a terrible snapping sound, and Quinn immediately turned away as he heard a second snap, and then another. Her wretched screams became more choked and hoarse, but the awful snapping sounds persisted.

He doubled over and vomited in the nearby bushes, and Ash froze. The sound inevitably gave them away, but he stayed crouched next to her with his head down and his eyes closed in defeat. He felt her move in front of him, bracing himself for the attack. When nothing happened, he cautiously looked up to see them staring at each other in silence, their bodies poised in preparation to attack. A quick glance at their faces told him exactly what they were doing. His expression was smug and covetous; hers was stern and pleading. She was reasoning with him. Not just reasoning - warning. She didn't want to have to kill him. He'd only moved slightly before she made a swift flick of her hand, and he flew backward into a tree as if she'd actually thrown him there. He fell face down into the leaves, and she was already at his side before he could spring back to his feet. He tried to raise himself but she ground the heel of her hand into his shoulder and slammed him back down with a force that imprinted his body into the hardened soil.

Quinn apprehensively watched her, his flesh crawling at the fury burning in her stare. He could swear that if she looked at him, it would burn holes into his flesh. She inclined her head toward the vampire's throat, then moved in closer so that her mouth was only an inch from his ear.

"I am going to say this very slowly, so that there will be no mistakes," she seethed. "I am very angry. I can't think of a single reason why I shouldn't torture you before I kill you." She paused for a long moment, locking his gaze with hers so he could assess the seriousness of the situation. She inhaled deeply and, voice shaking with rage, she finished, "You should feel blessed that age has made me merciful."

She set her jaw and turned to the condemned girl writhing on the ground next to her, placing her hand softly on the girl's face. "Turn away, child," she said quietly. In an instant, the vampire erupted into an explosion of dust, the tiny particles flying in every direction and stinging Quinn's eyes and nose. She'd disintegrated him. Quinn stumbled back, coughing and trying to decide whether he should go to her or run in the opposite direction. It didn't matter anyway; he quickly realized he was rooted to the spot, no doubt kept there by the force of her will.

"Look at me, child," she said to the girl.

She was shaking violently, but her gaze was transfixed on Ash with a startlingly lucid expression. All of her fingers were gone so that her hands were reduced to grotesque bloody stumps, and one of her legs was lying several feet away. Quinn flinched away from the sight.

"Are you going to save me?" the girl choked.

The permanent dimple in Ash's brow deepened, and she tersely nodded. "Yes. Everything is fine now." She gently slid her hand underneath the girl's head, and Quinn turned away remorsefully when he heard the girl's neck snap.

He gingerly came up behind Ash, making his steps deliberate out of some polite gesture of reminding her of his presence. As if he could even sneak up on her. He tried not to look at the body. She couldn't have been older than fifteen. "Could you have saved her?" he asked quietly.

"I did."

"You know what I mean."

She gave a resigned sigh. "Dearest Quinn," she said, turning to glance sideways at him, "she was already as good as dead. It was either live an eternity in a mutilated child's body with that memory forever etched in her brain, or live out the rest of her human years as an invalid with no foreseeable future. What I did was an act of mercy. Not everyone can be a vampire, you know."

"So what was the point of showing me all this, then?"

"Because that, Quinn, is what happens when you are careless about your selection of potential fledglings. That vampire I killed? He wanted to be one of us. And some lonely leech of a vampire was actually foolish enough to turn him. Any human who wants this life will make the worst kind of vampire. It takes a wealth of mental stability to be able to handle a life like this. You can't imagine how many of us go rightfully insane before our first century is even up." She turned her back on him then, ending the conversation.

"Wait," Quinn interjected, placing a restraining hand on her shoulder when he realized what she was about to do. "Just - hang on." He gently pushed her back and knelt at the human girl's side, hastily muttering the Latin incantations he'd come to know so well since childhood catechism. He slowly rose back to his feet, avoiding her inquisitive gaze. "Don't do that," he said curtly. "You're patronizing me."

"I'm not. Actually, I think you're quite beautiful. Your spirituality, it works for you. I appreciate a human whose faith isn't disingenuous."

They stared at each other in silent understanding, then Ash knelt down beside the girl for only a second before she was a cloud of exploding dust as well.

"So what was your real name?" Quinn asked after they had walked a short distance in silence. "It's pretty obvious at this point that the one you're going by was adopted."

"I can't remember," she answered hollowly.

"You can't remember?"

"I've gone by so many names over the years, it would be nearly impossible to remember the one I had in the beginning. It isn't important anyway. It's only a label. That wasn't what you wanted to ask me though."

He stopped abruptly. "What do you mean?"

"Silence is uncomfortable for humans because they have too many thoughts that can't be expressed. And you're trying to cover up a thought you don't want me to hear. I'm only going to hear it eventually, so you might as well ask me now."

She turned to face him, and her eyes were stern and cold in the moonlight. For just a moment, he saw her true age in her gaze, but it was gone in an instant. There was no escaping the question now, though. She would know if he lied.

"You said earlier that not anyone can be a vampire."

"That's correct."

"Could I?"

Her mouth hardened into a perturbed frown, but then her eyebrow twitched in what seemed like sudden revelation. "I don't know. Could you?" She grabbed his hand and the trees disappeared, giving way to the lights and noises of downtown Albuquerque. There was the familiar lurch in his stomach and the dizziness that always came when she did it, but it was becoming less pronounced with each time.

She walked swiftly two steps ahead of him, venturing farther into a less affluent part of town. They had just swept past a liquor store when she suddenly stopped, then retreated a few steps with her head slightly inclined as if she listened to something very distant. Her nostrils flared briefly and she slipped inside. At the counter was a tired-looking young female, arguing about state liquor laws with a man who was clearly already under the influence. Every few seconds he would convulse and twitch awkwardly, interrupting his speech. He threw various slurs and obscenities at her, but when she still refused to sell to him, he grew violent. Ash approached them just as the clerk's finger slipped over the silent alarm, shooting her a reassuring glance before grabbing the tweaker by the hood of his jacket.

"It's okay, I can help you," she said quietly.

He jerked around to face her and twitched violently, causing Quinn to jump back. "Are you a cop?" he asked suspiciously.

She didn't answer, only fixed him with that stare. The stare that had the power to convince any human to lead themselves to slaughter. He acquiesced, and she led him outside, motioning for Quinn to follow. Once in the alleyway and out of sight, she lightly touched the tweaker's temple with two fingers, rendering him motionless as he dropped stiffly to the ground. His eyes were still wide open and moving rapidly in their sockets, and his breathing became rapid and shallow, but he was no longer able to move. He was panicking. Doubtless he would have screamed had he been able. Ash slowly turned her head toward Quinn, her eyes expectant.

"All right then, Quinn. Here it is."

"What are you doing?"

"Kill him."

"You want me to kill this stranger?"

"You're acting like this is an unreasonable demand."

"You're asking me to place judgment on someone - I'm in no position to do what you ask!"

"But you are, because I'm putting you in that position. I assure you that you will not be judged for this action."

"He could have a family, friends -"

"Even if he did, they have no need for him this way."

"I can't."

"Do you know what he's done, Quinn?" she said calmly. Her tone was flat, bored almost. "He stole all of his aunt's savings to pay off a debt to a dealer. Savings that were supposed to pay for his cousin's medical bills. She will die of cancer in less than three months. She's six. He killed a paper boy so he could hide methamphetamines in the body and told everyone it was his sleeping brother. He stabbed his landlord seven times in the chest because he was convinced it was the government coming to experiment on him. Do you want to know what he would have done to that girl in there? Kill him, Quinn. If you can't kill someone this vile, you'd never make it as a vampire. I do this every day."

"I can't, okay! I fucking can't do it. You kill him."

She shook her head, her eyes softening into disappointment. "Of course," she said quietly. "Even though I've already killed too many for one day." She turned and swiftly descended down upon her victim, a grotesque crunch sounding as her teeth severed the tendons of his neck. His eyes bulged in horror, staring at Quinn in a silent plea for help. It was a pitiful sight, and Quinn nearly took mercy on him. Nearly. He was clearly still alive when she withdrew, and she began to walk away.

"You're just going to leave him there?"

"Yes. He'll still be paralyzed by the time the cops show up. She pushed the panic button approximately twenty-seven seconds ago." She nodded in the direction from whence they came. "He deserves an eternal punishment in prison, not the mercy of death."

"But the marks - "

"He's a tweaker, Quinn. He's got puncture marks all over him. They won't notice." At that moment, she froze. One of her ears twitched, and Quinn heard it too.

The first bird had chirped. Dawn was approaching. It was always the coldest part of the day just before the sun rose, and he felt it biting through his skin. The light dampness that came with it was already beginning to settle. Even the sky was bruising with the shade of first light.

"Shit," she hissed. "We stayed out too late."

"Why, what happens? Ash, what happens to you in the sun?" He had to run to keep up with her, because she was now flitting down the alleyway at a pace that was slightly too fast for a human. "I know you can walk during the day, I've seen you -"

"Right at sunset," she interjected over her shoulder. "That's different. Dawn is - painful."

"Will it kill you?"

"Not anymore than dawn would kill any other nocturnal animal. It's just not a good idea. Hurry up."

"Ash, I'm bloody human! I can't move that quickly, I'm sorry!" He stopped, crouching over and panting.

He looked up after a moment, thinking she'd already fled, but she had stopped too. Only she wasn't waiting for him, she was standing with her palm to her forehead as she swayed on the spot. The sky was brightening quickly. She'd run out of time. He rushed to her to steady her as she fought to stay conscious. The first glow of orange poked through the sky and she slumped against him. She was out cold - literally. The vague warmth that infused her skin after she'd fed had immediately vanished, replaced with the texture of chilled cashmere. Even her breath on his neck was cold, and he shivered. That would explain why there was no vapor in the air when she spoke. He smiled a little, despite himself. She breathed. He was grateful that she was at least as light as she looked, so he could support her the short distance to the street and catch a taxi.

Fortunately, the driver didn't ask any questions; just one quick glance in the rearview mirror, the possible assumption that she'd partied just a little too hard the night before, and he took them home. It became slowly apparent that in this state there was nothing beyond an epic disaster that could conceivably wake her. It almost felt wrong carrying her, making painstaking effort to lay her down in a comfortable position. Like he was the caretaker for once. He moved quickly through the room, drawing the blinds and shutting out as much light as he could, trying not to linger too long or watch her while she rested. It seemed so invasive to stick around and watch someone sleep. He couldn't help but notice, though - she slept in a fashion that was disturbingly reminiscent of a human - head turned to the side, one hand loosely clasped at her chest, the other resting lightly across her midsection. She required no coffin or slept in some horrible travesty of a mortician-arranged pose, though she did indeed look dead. She wasn't visibly breathing, and vaguely resembled a mannequin. He extended his hand and wrapped it around hers, his fingers coming to rest over her wrist, surreptitiously checking for a pulse. It was faint, but unmistakably there. Certainly alive - so very alive - just not human. It was fascinating. Her skin was just so cold. Did vampires feel the cold? He'd never seen her shiver, never seen her cringe or hug herself from the wind.

His own exhaustion hit him suddenly, and he slumped down next to her. Her shoulder pressing against his chilled him for a moment, but after prolonged contact, her skin had warmed considerably. In a moment of experimental impulsiveness, he lightly wrapped one arm around her to attempt to warm the rest of her. It immediately felt awkward and wrong. Women were supposed to perpetuate a sort of vulnerability when they slept, but Ash just resembled a statue. A robot outside of its purpose, literally shut down for a designated period of time. He withdrew his arm and settled for her head on his shoulder. It was disappointing, almost. She would always ever be his protector, even in her weakest moments. Feeling slightly emasculated, he allowed himself to sleep for the first time in days.

He awoke to the long shadows of late evening, the sun already sinking below the horizon. He would have still been asleep had it not been for the cold shock of the tip of her nose nudging at his pulse spot. He could feel her breath coming in subtle, sporadic bursts against his skin, and he froze when realization hit. She was inhaling his scent. Breakfast. Her lips brushed faintly against his skin and rested there long enough for it to almost be a kiss. He braced himself for the sting of her bite, which was a bit rougher than he was used to; but then, she wasn't entirely awake yet. Her icy fingers slipped under the hem of his shirt and he cringed when they slid across his bare stomach, but he immediately relaxed once the opiate in her bite hit his heart. He welcomed the familiar surreal feeling that normally only ever came on the precipice of sleep, that pleasant sensation of feeling underwater. His heart skipped once, and he waited for her usual habit of releasing him then. Her fingers continued to search over his skin, wrapping firmly around his waist while her teeth dug painfully deeper into his throat. His heart skipped again, twice in rapid succession, wrenching itself painfully inside his chest as his body fought against her. She didn't stop.

"Ash - " It died in his throat. He was too paralyzed from her bite to even vocalize it.

The floating sensation wavered and an overwhelming dizziness claimed him, the first signs of a crippling migraine forming in his head. She showed no sign of stopping. Her hand circled around to the small of his back and she forcefully pulled him against her. He could feel her faint heartbeat against his. It slowly became clear that she meant to kill him. He wondered if she'd been planning it, or if it was a matter of restraint. As old as she was, the latter was highly unlikely. I'm going to die, now. The voice in his head sounded surprisingly complacent about it. She pulled harder, his heart fighting painfully against her. He would have whimpered had he been capable. Ash, you're hurting me.

She stopped then, and pulled away rather cautiously as if she'd just wakened and was still unsure of her surroundings. She'd heard him. She took a moment to register the situation, her eyes widening at Quinn's ashen colour, his shallow breathing. "Shit," she gasped, her hand swiftly reaching out to the holes in his throat to stanch the flow of blood that was already beginning to slow considerably. "No...no, no, no, no, no." She said the words rapidly under her breath, berating herself for the mistake. "Quinn," she said sternly, cupping his face in her hands, which were pleasantly warm now. "Quinn, stay awake. Listen to me."

He flinched and tried to focus his gaze on her. "You didn't mean to - " he whispered.

"No, no, I didn't. Why the hell were you with me while I slept? Don't you know that's dangerous? Damn it, Quinn!"

I'm really tired, just let me sleep. I'll be fine. He was sure he'd said the words, though his mouth never moved.

"No," she said firmly. "Don't sleep. You have to stay conscious. Just listen."

I feel fine...

"It's the venom. Of course you feel fine. You're dying, Quinn. You don't have long...the best I can do is stay with you and talk you through it, so that it isn't so...so terrifying." Her expression wavered, and she looked as if she might cry. "Jesus, Quinn, why couldn't you have slept in another room?"

You'll talk me through my own death? The voice sounded amused.

She gave him a travesty of a smile. "I've been through it, myself. Dying isn't so bad. Especially if you know what to expect." She winced as she heard his heart struggle, threatening to give out any moment. "It won't hurt. You'll know you're about to go when you start feeling numb. Let me know when that starts happening, okay?"

He nodded. The migraine was dull, but clearly still there. I'm cold.

"I know." She ran her hands over his shoulders, more out of delighting in the softness of his skin than to warm him.

He tensed then, and his hand grabbed weakly at her arm. "Ash - I can't see."

She winced and turned away, battling with herself over the decision that lingered mockingly in the back of her mind. The erratic rhythm of his heart slowing to a near-stop confirmed it for her, and she slid her hand underneath his head and gently lifted him forward. Grabbing a letter opener from the nearby table, she sliced open the artery just above her collarbone and pressed his mouth to the opening. He didn't respond for a moment, his breath absent against her skin. "No, Quinn, not yet, just give me thirty more seconds," she gasped, wrapping her fingers around his arm just above the elbow and applying just enough pressure to the nerve. His body responded to the pain and he gasped for air, forcing him to ingest her blood. He choked and threatened to cough it back up, but her thumb massaged his throat, forcing him to swallow.

"It's awful at first, I know. Just give it a moment and your body will want it. Try not to pull at it, let it flow into you. The heart is less likely to fight you that way."

He followed her instruction and was pleasantly surprised at how simple it felt. His gag reflexes slowly ebbed and he began to regain some of his senses. The shadows that had clouded his mind just seconds before were slowly dissipating, and for a fleeting instant he was sure he saw colours with a vibrance he'd never before seen. He had only begun to reclaim his strength when his body convulsed in excruciating pain, filling him with a sensation of being turned inside out and throwing him back with overwhelming force.

"Ash, what's happening," he choked, curling into himself and rolling onto his side.

"It's beginning," she said quietly. "It will not be pleasant, but it will be brief."

"Oh god, Ash...it hurts."

"I know. It will be over soon. You're going..." she sighed, her eyes darkening in sorrow, "...you're going to go to sleep for a while." There was a vague waver to her voice, that loss of composure one has when they're holding back a sob. "I'll be here when you wake."

Why did when you wake sound suspiciously like if you wake?

"When will that be?" he said through clenched teeth.

"I don't know. It could be two hours, it could be two days. It's different for everyone."

The pain inside him subsided, the burning sensation ebbing into more of a dull, throbbing ache. He relaxed a bit and tried to focus on her expression. It looked grim. "What will happen to me?"

"I think you have a decent idea."

"Why do I have to sleep that long?"

"It's not sleep. It's death. Your heart will stop, you won't breathe, you'll be legally dead. It must happen before the change."

A million more questions formed in his head, but a feeling of lethargy consumed him at that moment, preventing him from asking them.

Don't fight it. Her voice was only in his head now. He felt the light pressure of her palm against his cheek. Everything will be fine soon.

stray.

Fri, 19 Sep 2008 08:12:35 GMT

A/N: This story was inspired by a dream I had the other night. It isn't supposed to be realistic or even make any sense, and it doesn't reflect any hidden political meanings or agendas. I just had to write it down.

(hint: I intentionally coded the html to make this resemble a blacked-out government document. Highlight the text to read.)

I was still in high school when they passed the Human Decency Act. When they'd decided that in order to uphold their precious documents declaring freedom and democracy, for all humans to truly be equal, they had to eliminate any sort of individuality. That included sexual preference. I was as outraged as everyone else. I spoke out against them, I presented my logic that countered theirs. It didn't matter who had the stronger argument or whose ideas made more sense, it's always the powers that be that eventually decide what is to be. After a while we all just sort of stopped fighting. Things that would have inspired riots and public action a century ago are now met with apathy. Occasionally I'll catch myself, walking down the street, a young mother will catch my eye as she bends down to pick up her baby. My eyes linger on the goods for a while before I remember that opposites are supposed to attract. I can't let myself get distracted. I suppose it's a good thing that it never mattered what gender a person was for me to be attracted to them. At least I'm only fifty percent ostracized. Occasionally one of the Guard will catch my mistake. They're everywhere now. It's like there isn't a street corner that isn't adorned by a Uniform or a camera. I'm clever, though. Usually if my eyes linger for too long on another woman, I'll glibly comment on her shoes or tell her how fabulous her belt is as I pass by. Girls will be girls.

That was when things were still good. The homosexuality debate was abandoned with yesterday's news when they really started enforcing equality. No two men are equal when one's income is considerably greater than the other's. It didn't matter that one was responsible and affluent and the other was lazy and made terrible choices. What mattered was that they weren't equal. Our bleeding heart government, or rather our oppressive government, not wanting to be outwitted by any lowly citizen who happened to be cleverer than their backwards policies, revoked everything that was once the nation's dream. It was much easier to make everyone poor and miserable than to provide the haven of opportunities that once defined the nation. If only the PC police of last century could see us now. How proud they'd be that their seemingly humane sentiments led to the destruction of human progression as we know it: congratulations, we're all retards now! To think that what was once a slur is slowly reaching fruition. They're weeding us out. Those who are considered superior. Those who could one day potentially threaten the new Empire. That's what they call it now. They don't even teach real history in schools anymore. Now? Now it's Empirical Relations, Empirical Dynasty, the rise of the Empire, Community Behavior in the Empire. More like Communism of the Empire. There was no such thing as currency anymore. Legal tender stopped circulating abruptly some decades ago. I'd never actually seen legal tender in person. Anyone caught with it would be arrested.

Ever since the rest of the world cut us off, there was no need for international diplomacy anymore. Even third world countries lost in the depths of the African jungle turned their backs on our assistance. They didn't want our tainted charity. With no countries overseas to taunt, they turned their attention homeward. For once. No one ever would have thought it would have been such a bad idea. Now - those of us who were lucky enough to get our hands on the banned history books of decades ago, or whose grandparents survived to tell the stories - now we reminisce back to the good ol' days, when bureaucrats and politicians plowed down middle eastern countries for what used to be a worldwide coveted resource. If that was even the reason the wars happened in the first place. We still don't know. We never will. All of the people who knew the real motives behind it were all dead now. Forgotten. There was no longer such thing as conservatives and liberals. They all disappeared at the hands of the reactionaries and extremists. After a while, the sides became so militant and reprehensible that they melded into one another to create one massive, inseparable conglomerate of oppressors. It no longer mattered what issues you cared about, it only mattered how merciless you were when enforcing your beliefs on everyone else.

We became so abandoned that we no longer even had enemies. Those countries who once touted hatred and trained their people to be martyrs since they took their first steps, those ones in the nightmarish fairy tales of commercial airliners and towering city structures - they no longer cared. They were bored. All of them, one by one, turned their backs on us and refused to even acknowledge our existence, isolated in the far West. The Far West. What they called us now. An uncivilized, devolving, primitive race. Tourists leered at us, mocked us in their languages that we didn't understand, that we weren't allowed to understand. My grandmother told me that it was once required in school curriculums to learn a second language. Now it's forbidden. Citizenship Act XIV, she said. She had been well out of college and ready for retirement by then, but by then she was already fluent in five tongues. They'd taken her away for that. Eventually. She had been thinking aloud, or counting, or something, in one of her many languages, and one of the Guard heard her. I haven't seen her since. For all I know, she's dead.

And then last year they began the real persecution. The obesity epidemic of the twenty-first century was never fixed, so in their negligent, defeatist tactics, they used the timeless can't-beat-'em-join-'em technique. Smaller people were easier to defeat anyway. It started out with making us go last in the lines in supermarkets, restaurants, banks, everything. We were denied jobs, living quarters, our wages were significantly lower. We were given the scraps. We couldn't even go out in public without being jeered at, without fear of being assaulted. They don't even make clothes to fit us anymore. They stopped manufacturing them. Even children's clothes have gotten to the point where they're too big.

And the sterilization. No, all men are created equal. So if you're significantly more intelligent or have better skills at deductive reasoning than the average citizen, you're breaching the Empire's Contract. They sent the Medics out last week. Everyone who made suspiciously high marks in primary school or who voiced considerably revolutionary, logical thoughts was being hunted down. They were to sterilize us. The exceptional minds were to halt at the current generation. I'd seen it coming toward the end of middle school. I faked it sometimes and played stupid. I would imitate the thoughts and actions of the perpetual vapid female when everyone was looking, hoping I wasn't overdoing it to the point of making it a caricature. Apparently my acting skills weren't as good as my academic ones, because my name ended up on the blacklist. I huddled alone in my quarters, shivering uncontrollably when they broke into the quarters next to mine. I heard his screams as they dragged him away. He had been a pianist. I would hear him playing well into the night. He had been extraordinary. Now, if he was lucky, he was dead.

The Medics...they weren't like the doctors of times past. They weren't educated in universities or sterile hospitals by experts. They had a rudimentary knowledge of the workings of the human anatomy, and had very little practical training. They were given six months and a few textbooks, some crudely drawn diagrams on a chalkboard, and then let loose upon the sickened masses to lend a healing hand. It was no surprise that their patients left more mutilated than they'd come. And whatever it was that they did to people to prevent them from breeding, I could only imagine. Soon, they were coming to do it to me. I did the only thing that any human being with a properly working survival instinct would do: I hid. There was no time to flee the day they were marching down the street, the red crosses emblazoned on their shoulders. There was a time when that symbol used to invoke relief. Now it's the universal logo of fear.

That day, I hid in the tiny compartment that served as my closet, wedged behind what little clothes I had. They perceived me as intelligent, so no intelligent person would hide in a goddamned closet. They honestly never thought to look for me there. I stood there, frozen in fear, watching them between the cracks in the boards and fearing that my racing heart wouldn't give me away. It was so loud in my ears I was sure they could hear it. I held my breath for so long, I thought I would collapse. I stayed there long after they left, too terrified to come out and too clueless as to what to do next. I couldn't stay there, it would become a crime scene. I was a fugitive now. They were convinced I'd already fled. I slipped out as discreetly as possible and I ran. I kept to the alleys and hid in the most offensive places to avoid being caught. The Uniforms had been so plenty that day. I ran as far as I could in one night, and by some miracle, I happened upon an abandoned military silo that had since been turned into a refugee camp run by people just like me. They had clothes that fit me, and even though they were two centuries out of style, they were still somehow flattering on me. There was a logo just below the left lapel on the shirt I was given that looked like a man riding on a horse with a javelin of some sort. I didn't know what it meant, but it was charming, somehow. It seemed to resemble freedom. I tried to envision it on a flag, but after a while it just seemed silly.

They even had food. No rations here, we were all already starved. Actual cooked meat, and roots prepared in ways that I never would have thought of. I must have lost track of how much I ate because it seemed I'd only eaten a little when I felt violently ill and nearly passed out from the stabbing pains in my stomach. I'd learned the hard way what sudden abundant nutrition can do to someone who has been borderline starved all their life. My body was never allowed to learn how to digest protein. I don't remember much of the nights that followed, but they'd told me it nearly killed me. Baby steps, they said. Next time I would start out with starches, bread. Maybe dairy in small doses.

The weeks passed, I became part of their community. It wasn't an organization of any kind, they had no vendetta to overturn the government. They didn't consider themselves citizens of anything. They were just vagabonds trying to survive. Be nobody, be invisible. That's what we were. We were nomadic, obviously. We couldn't stay in one place for too long. We constantly migrated to new locations that had long ago been considered too dangerous for humanity. It didn't take long to figure out that 'too dangerous' was just a scare tactic the Empire used to keep everyone in closer confines, to make surveillance less work. We were able to make ourselves more hospitable living quarters than the ones provided by the Empire. Discussions were had, stories were told. The older ones told of the history books they'd read in school, and the story of a Roman Empire. The more they talked, the more I started to realize how horrifically alike this Roman Empire was to our own Empire. Everything that had happened to the Roman Empire had happened to us. None of us were old enough to remember that far back, but the stories were always there. Only our Empire had already fallen, hadn't it? That was back when it had been called something else. A name forgotten with the ones who named it. So what was next for us?

I didn't think about it. It's hard to think about a future that can't, or won't, exist. Somewhere in the weeks I'd spent with them, I'd accepted the fact that I would be living like this forever. It was easier to think that way, in a worst-case scenario, not expecting anything. It was harder to be disappointed that way. I think there was a point where I'd actually learned how to be happy. It was the closest name I could use to describe the feeling. Or maybe I just wasn't afraid anymore, wasn't stressed. Or hungry, or tired. The absence of those things alone can add so much energy to a person, it was like I'd never seen colors or daylight before then. For a while there, things were good.

Then one night a little girl came running through the fields toward us. She finally stopped in front of me, doubled over and gasping for air. Then she straightened, and looked directly at me. I hadn't seen her in maybe five years, but there was no mistake. The face that was mine over a decade before. My sister. How she found me - no, how she even survived...a mystery. She'd been on her own since we'd been separated. Or under the care of strangers.

"They're coming," she'd panted, her eyes rimmed in red, but the tears having run out long ago. "They found me, but I ran. They're following me."

We could only thwart the Guard for so long. Even as we were running, hiding, always hiding, it was with dampened spirits. We weren't even really trying anymore, because we knew it would only be a matter of time before they found us. And they did. No one fought them. No one ran. We were all transported to a barracks in the middle of the desert, then seemingly forgotten. A couple of Guards manned the gates, brought us scarce portions of food. The heat was stifling, and several died of exposure. After about the third person that dies next to you, it kind of loses its novelty. The flies become irritating, but then the apathy sets in and it doesn't matter.

The Lottery came shortly thereafter. A Guard would come and pick someone at random, who would then be taken by a Medic to be sterilized. They were putting us under the assumption that we would someday leave this place. Hey, at least we weren't being killed. But then maybe that would have been better. I was beginning to think that they really were killing them, because after someone was taken, we never saw them again. It was hard to believe that they were actually set free. I watched with glazed eyes as they led another away, and another. Then one day, they came for my sister. Unlike the others, she fought them. She screamed and kicked at them, she even bit a guy's finger off. They finally subdued her and took her away. There was nothing I could do. Sometime that night, she came back. I remember thinking I'd been dreaming, because no one ever comes back. She was crying, and I lit the kerosene lamp on the floor to look at her.

It was horrific. I could have sworn she was already dead. She opened her mouth to speak, but instead turned and vomited on the floor in front of me. The front of her shirt and pants were stained in blood. I wanted so badly for it to be a nightmare, but the smell clearly proved its reality. I clenched my teeth and lifted the hem of her shirt, suppressing the urge to vomit myself. A large mass of flesh from her abdomen was missing, seemingly melted away and exposing what was left of her organs, which would probably be gone soon as well, by the looks of it. It was a wonder she was even still alive. She began shaking, and I knew she was going into shock. Her eyes rolled back into her head and she was able to choke out four final words: "They said you're next."

I'm not sure how I managed it, but somehow the prospect of that future was enough to inspire my escape. Bloody and my clothes torn to shreds from the barbed wire, I sprinted under the full desert moon until I thought my lungs would burst. I didn't know where I was going. I didn't know where I was. I could have wandered for hours or days. I was starved and exhausted from the heat and possibly even delirious, because I didn't notice the rise and set of the sun, though I know it must have happened at least once because I was sunburned. Or maybe that was a fabrication of my addled mind as well. It was at night when I breached the outer walls of a town. I knew it would be chaos, because the orange blaze of wildfires reflected in the thin cloud cover overhead. I could smell the burning timber and could hear the jumbled sounds of various rioting mobs. I knew before I even reached the gates that there would be no Guards to greet me.

The gates were open. I wasn't surprised by the scene inside. The people finally had enough. They revolted. Civilians ran screaming through the streets, sirens whined in the distance. Snipers must have been positioned on the tops of the buildings, because every minute someone would fall to the ground with a gaping hole in the back of their head. It wasn't a revolt, though. It took a moment for me to realize what was strange about this scene. It wasn't the Guard that was shooting them down. Civilians were shooting other civilians. Guards were shooting other Guards. Everywhere, everyone was killing indiscriminately. I tried to make out the words they were shouting, tried to single out a voice, but nothing they said made any sense. A stream of shrilly screamed words with no meaning, the type of jumbled incoherence one would hear from a schizophrenic. There was no telling what could have caused this, though I had a few ideas. The Guard had access to some of the most noxious gases developed by the world's leading chemists. Hell, they could have done something to the water. Or maybe the Empire's reverse-genetic cleansing had finally taken its toll and this was how the human race had evolved. How long had I been in that camp?

I turned to leave the same way I'd come, but there was a mob of civilians and Guards sprinting in my direction. I had only one option, and that was to run too. I never even looked over my shoulder, I just ran aimlessly in whatever direction where there wasn't another mob. I saw the Uniform step in front of me as I sprinted down a narrow alleyway, and meant to plow right through him until he raised his gun and aimed squarely between my eyes. "STOP! I ORDER YOU TO STOP, GET ON THE GROUND!"

The weapon didn't stop me, but his words did. "You're coherent?!" I yelled over the surrounding gunshots, shrinking back from the barrel of the gun and keeping my eyes on his, just in case he really did have plans to shoot me. The eye contact would cause a long enough delay for me to attempt to negotiate. Guards expected you to stare down the barrel before you died, not at their face. Then I noticed he wasn't a Guard.

The uniform was similar, but it was like one of the uniforms worn by police officers in the twentieth century. A...cop? The last known police force was disbanded nearly a century ago. This was impossible. An impersonator? Or maybe he really was as insane as everyone else, only he still somehow had his motor skills intact.

"I SAID GET ON THE GROUND!" He aimed steadily at my head.

"Are you a real officer?!" I screamed.

He froze and stared at me numbly. After a brief silence, he slightly lowered his weapon. "You weren't infected." I think he was saying it more to himself than to me, but I tersely nodded. He swiftly holstered his weapon and grabbed my hand. "Let's go. Run."

He found an abandoned house, one of those types of family dwellings that so many people had back in the pre-Empire days. I couldn't believe it was still standing. I'd thought they'd all been destroyed in the Credit and Communal Equity Act. No one was allowed independent property anymore. He explained to me that he was one of the only officers left from the Discreet Force that had survived the Empire. They had been attempting to rebuild a new system that was safe and progressive for a falling race. When the Empire found out about them, they were all executed. Only he was left. He told me he was going out to scrounge for weapons, ammunition, anything he could use to protect us. He told me not to move, to stay there and wait for him until he got back.

That was six weeks ago. I don't think he's coming back. I still wait in case he does. There really isn't anywhere else I can go anyway. At least I can rest assured that no one will find me h

This document is Property of the Empire of the New Republic. Unauthorized solicitation of this material is punishable by execution.

I got a Cheshire smile and a five cent rag.

Wed, 16 Jul 2008 10:02:48 GMT

At the place where North FM 919 and South TX 108 meet the highway, there resides a tiny little town with no name - well, doubtless it has a name, but no one knows it. It's isolated enough that the general ambiance that comes with the city is absent, but close enough that on a particularly moist night, one can see the faint glow of orange haze reflected on the clouds from the city lights, just beyond the horizon. Don't bother looking for it on a map, you won't find it. I know this because I checked, just to make sure the place was real, and not fabricated in my own warped mind. I can only be sure of its existence because at my moment of its discovery, I had the mind to record the highway numbers in my phone, should I ever find it in me to return.

It consists of a small twenty-four hour gas station that is visible from the highway, but is only noticeable if one has to pee bad enough. During the day it looks fairly innocuous, but its true charm is at night, when it bears a tacit warning to stay away unless you wish to be a nauseating cliché from a horror movie.

Which is exactly what attracted me to it in the first place.

I was kind of hoping for a town name, but I had to settle for the sign by the service road that simply read Erath County, pop. 33001. From what I could tell, there were no other people around save for whomever was running the convenience store, so I pulled in and parked on the side, but well within a lit area.

Tucked away behind the gas station is an old-Western style motel, complete with worn wood façade and blinking neon sign. You can imagine my delight in discovering this little gem, because it looks like something straight out of a classic B-movie. Dazed by the dim bulbs strung about the eaves, I tentatively opened my door and slowly rose from my seat. It was so stereotypically tacky, but held some kind of subtle, inexplicable value of hospitality and warmth, that kind of pseudo-amiability that you just know is wrong, that makes your hairs stand on end. A sign on the front very proudly stated that the establishment was American Owned - no doubt the most tactful way for the owners to let potential patrons know that No ragheads will be screaming Muslim obscenities concerning your pets here! This sentiment probably wouldn't have been so strong in my mind had the giant Confederate flag hanging from the awning over the porch not been blowing softly in the breeze just below it.

I could make out two figures sitting on the porch in what appeared to be handcrafted rocking chairs; most likely truckers, judging from their husky builds and unkempt beards. I stared. I wanted very desperately to approach the building and go inside, but the two figures on the porch stopped me. It wasn't out of fear of them, but more out of apprehension at the conversation I knew would ensue. Questions on what A Girl Like Myself was doing out at A Place Like This all alone. And when it comes to questions like that, I have a hard time making shit up. Because I want to see how immortal I am or I'm totally fucking insane...really seem to be like immediate conversation killers. And I just despise smalltalk. I already have enough flaws as it is without perpetuating the city slicker stereotype by brushing off people who seem unworthy of my attention. Not that I'm actually from the city - but any outsider from a town with a population over ten thousand is automatically deemed an urbanite.

Archaic gas pumps - the kind with the handle by the pump to turn it on and tickers for the price and gallons instead of digital windows - stood abandoned and rusting under an awning to my right. The price frozen beneath the cracked glass suggested they hadn't been touched since before I was born. This place had to be isolated if the gas station had modern pumps but hadn't gotten around to eliminating the old ones. I made a mental note to photograph it during the day. The thing was an antique. It'll make a good Jones soda bottle label one day.

I felt their eyes on me as I stepped onto the porch, but I swept inside before either of them had time to say anything to me. A creaking staircase to my left led up to the 'luxury suites' - I laughed at the thought of what that might include - and a door to my right opened into the gift shop and convenience store. Just ahead of me was the front desk, where I could hear an unseen clerk squeaking about in their chair. I opted for the convenience store for the moment. I was immediately drawn to the handmade soaps that were neatly wrapped in wax paper and displayed near the register. The first one I picked up smelled like peppermint, and was really rather delightful. I purchased a couple of them and went to check into a room. The place was very obviously a bit low-maintenance for my tastes, but in this regard I was willing to make an exception.

The woman at the front desk was unnerving. It could have been the complete disregard for physical appearance or that she was thirty years too old for her nose ring, but she stared me down with considerable distaste as she dropped the key in my palm and tersely informed me that I'd be in room eleven. Her eyebrows rose in almost mocking disbelief when I told her no one would be joining me that night - clearly I must be insane. Why yes, yes I am.

The room was pretty much what I expected it to be. Furniture dating back to the seventies, an ochre-tinted water stain in one corner of the ceiling, a television I was sure wouldn't even turn on, and the carpet was stained with things I'd need a blacklight to fully appreciate. I took a moment to inspect the bathroom; one look at the showerhead and sink faucet and I knew that I'd be lucky to not have water the colour of rust through the duration of my stay there. I pulled lightly on the mirror over the sink, which opened to an empty medicine cabinet save for cobwebs. I stared at the spider roaming aimlessly among the shelves for a moment, then slammed the door shut. I delightfully entertained the thought of a blood-drenched maniac standing just over my shoulder as the mirror swung back into place, holding a massive farm implement poised over my head, but the illusion faded and I was left staring at my own bored face. Jesus, I looked like shit. That much time on the road would do that to a person. If the bed had looked more inviting, I would have gladly fallen upon it that moment, but instead I couldn't help imagining how many hookers had been assfucked on it by the plethora of truckers the place seemed to attract. I would definitely be sleeping in my clothes, if I opted to sleep at all. But if the alarm clock on the nightstand was anywhere close to accurately reflecting the time, it was much too early to be sleeping anyway, at least by my primarily nocturnal standards. I had time enough to explore what little surroundings the hotel had to offer before I'd even begin to feel the effects of fatigue.

Just my luck, the moment the door to my room closed behind me, one of the truckers from earlier conveniently happened to be walking by, and offered me a beer. I was just about to stiffly decline the offer when I spied the inviting yellow label on the dark bottle he held out to me, and the cap was still on it, so I managed a smirk and took it from him with a nod.

"I'm sorry I didn't have anything lighter," he said, smiling at me and missing half of his teeth. That obnoxious Texan accent was there, too. Native Texan though I was, that undeniable slur always seemed like a caricature to me.

"You're in luck. It's the only beer I'll drink."

I joined him and the other guy on the porch and pretended to listen to their stories as I proceeded to finish off a six pack by myself. I hadn't eaten for quite a while, so I ended up more inebriated than I normally would have been. Suddenly the overpass we were hidden behind became immensely interesting. I think I counted a total of five cars that drove by. I stood up and wavered a bit, but if I concentrated hard enough I could at least manage a steady enough walk to get me back to my room.

I think I sat there on the toilet pissing away half my buzz for about fifteen minutes, resting my temple against the wall and trying to summon up the proper amount of energy to get up again. It was too soon for that - but I did summon the energy to finally focus my eyes. The first thing they saw were the crisply wrapped soaps I'd bought earlier in the gift shop, now stacked neatly on the edge of the bathtub, which was actually starting to look rather inviting.

I carefully inspected the bathtub, half-expecting horrific stains or worse, but it looked innocuous enough. I tested the water - surprisingly, it was immaculately clear the moment it came rushing from the faucet. Moments later I was sinking naked into the warm water, still delightfully tipsy and perfectly capable of passing out right there. I unwrapped one of the soaps and inspected it through blurred vision, noting that it looked kind of like a slab of petrified vomit. It smelled wonderful though, and was delightfully tingly against my skin, the way that only peppermint can feel. I was impressed that for a bar soap, it didn't leave my skin feeling particularly dry. In fact, it was quite the opposite. Whatever backwoods country home responsible for making it must know what they're doing.

By the time the water had dropped to less than lukewarm and my hands were substantially withered, I got out and dried off, prepared to go straight to sleep. Even with the exhausting amount of driving I'd done earlier, combined with the consumption of alcohol, the prospect of sleep seemed like a chore. As usual, I opted for pills. A quick glance through my bag told me that I must have left them in my glovebox, so I grudgingly slipped into the clothes I'd been wearing earlier, the still unremoved contents of my pockets jingling together in protest. I couldn't have taken two steps out the door when I was grabbed from behind, not given enough time to fight before I felt the needle in my shoulder, and then, nothing.

There was no way of telling how long I'd been out. When I woke up, I knew I wasn't in my room, nor was I outside. I did nothing that would indicate my return to consciousness. I knew that playing dead was always a successful tactic for avoiding a worst case scenario, old trick though it was. I was lying on a bed, possibly a couch, and after several minutes I was able to conclude that there were three others in the room with me. All male. I listened to their voices carefully and was able to infer that one of them was close to my age, the other two possibly several years older. There was genuine fear in their voices, so it was safe to assume that we were all victims. None of them could have been responsible for whatever just happened to me. One of the older males voiced a vague concern for the fact that I hadn't woken up yet. I remained where I was, unmoving and chancing a quick glance at my surroundings through a narrowly opened eyelid. Nondescript room, perhaps ten by ten, one exit, no windows, no ventilation. By the sound of the acoustics, I could be certain that it was in a basement of sorts.

Although I was gladly unrestrained. The others were, though I could make out from whatever snippets of conversation I heard that they had initially put up a fight, whereas I was never given the chance. I had to make a conscious effort not to smile at that fact, considering it was possibly the very first of many mistakes to come on the account of whomever was responsible for keeping us here. I had to concentrate even harder not to squeal with glee at the convenience of having put on my pants from earlier, still loaded with the contents they'd had in them when I'd taken them off. Yes, the small blade I usually had on me had been removed - of course they'd gone through the necessary precautions of ridding me of all weapons - though I was most pleased to still feel the light bulge of my lipstick beneath my palm. That's all that mattered.

I was about to pretend wake up and introduce myself at that point, just so we could begin compiling what information we all had, but I quickly changed my mind when I heard six little beeps of an electronic keypad being punched just on the opposite side of the door. It opened with a dull click, and someone stepped inside just before I heard the door close firmly behind them. There was a soft chuckle - male - and I felt him take slow, calculated steps toward me. I heard one of the hostages shift uncomfortably, then begin to fight against his restraints as the intruder approached. I fought against the cringe that threated to overtake me when I felt a strange hand on my thigh, and I was sure I'd noticeably stiffened when he crawled over me. He must have been distracted by the sudden protests of the other three in the room, because he made no indication of noticing that I'd moved. He yelled at them to stay quiet or he'd cut their tongues out, and I felt his hand move down between us, heard the sound of the zipper. At this point I had surreptitiously snaked my hand into my pocket and wrapped my fingers around my lipstick. With the expert practice of one who's had to do her makeup one too many times while driving, I popped the top off and twisted the retractable mechanism with one hand as I extracted it from my pocket.

He yelped in stunned horror when my eyes abruptly snapped open and I violently stabbed the stealthily disguised stiletto into his left eye. He immediately went rigid, and I pushed him off of me so that he fell on his back onto the floor, just in front of the three that accompanied me. I noticed that they nearly jumped out of their skin at my surprise gesture, but I wasted no time consoling them. Instead I swiftly knelt beside the near-miss rapist and extracted my weapon from his eye, using the hem of his shirt to wipe it clean. I could see his fingers twitching, his eyes darting frantically about in their sockets, causing the injured one to gush blood down his face. I was half-tempted to say something douchebaggish like "Have you met mark?" but decided against it. Instead I inspected him in haughty silence. I didn't recognise him. I hadn't seen him anywhere around the premises since I'd arrived.

"Don't bother trying to fight it," I said flatly, returning my weapon to its rightful pocket. "That burning sensation you're feeling - that's the poison making its way through your bloodstream. It's supposed to be excruciating. It's kind of like having acid in your veins. It dissolves everything. Oh - it's hit your heart now," I added, noticing his sudden intake of air and the way his body became even more rigid. "It causes instant paralysis, though you'll still be completely aware of everything that's happening to you. So, the good news is, it won't kill you for approximately another seventy-two hours, so you've got time for the antidote. If there was one. That's the bad news. Also, that's a very painful seventy-two hours you're in for. Over the next few days, you'll experience the shutdown of all your major organs. Liquification, to be exact. Not so pleasant when you begin to lose control of your bowels. You'll either die from the failure of all your major organs or, in a best-case scenario, you'll drown in your own vomit and it will put an end to your suffering a little early. The question is, now that we've got all this time, what do I do to you first? You'll feel everything, by the way."

I chanced a quick glance at the other hostages, no doubt wondering whether to regard me with fear, suspicion or gratitude. I quickly looked away.

"You know, you should really be more careful about the people you bring into your home," I said dryly. "You never know what kind of weirdos are out there."

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't just a little disappointed that no one laughed.

To be continued.

So I've had this one festering for months now, and I decided to release at least the bit I've written so far. Perhaps I'll actually complete this one, yeah?

Mon, 14 Apr 2008 03:57:48 GMT

Okay, so I've had random people ask me about the inspiration for my characters and the stories, and if any of them are based on real people. All of my characters are actually loosely based on people I know, or at least people I've met randomly and who left something of a lasting impression on me.

The inspiration for Quinn was planted some years ago, when I met Eric, a metrosexual-bordering-on-goth/open-minded Christian that I met through a mutual friend at a university-sponsored concert event back when I was in college. He was very soft-spoken and eloquent, and virtuous enough that he could be considered a pure person without having that militant, judgmental and holier-than-thou attitude that usually comes along with it. I entertained the thought of the character that would become Quinn, though it was college at the time, so I didn't have a lot of free time to develop the character. He simmered in the back of my mind for the better part of two years, making cameos in various redrafts of the story that would evolve into my current project. He's changed very much in the progress of writing this story, and he's been influenced by others I have met along the way. One year ago, on a tour in Europe, I [re]met the Austrian-American eighties-thrash/classic punk Nicki, ironically enough being from my hometown in Texas and whom I'd had a brief encounter with in a music store some eight months prior. His general physical and spiritual beauty and teasing flirtatiousness morphed into Quinn's character, so that he became more three-dimensional. I had more personality to work with, instead of just going off of a whim I'd developed from a casual acquaintance that I would only see once, if not twice more in my life. Around the same time, at a Cradle of Filth concert in San Antonio, I bumped into rockabilly punk rocker Chuck Fears, with whom I've had sporadic correspondence with over the subsequent months, but mostly in a business setting. His eighties rhinestone-lined style mixed with contemporary camp (complete with professionally fitted fang caps for his teeth) kind of sealed the character that Quinn has become. Quinn is essentially the ideal male that I would fall in love with. As such, I've molded the character into what I consider The Perfect Male. If it isn't obvious at this point, Quinn has been established as my archetypal male hero for the female reader to swoon over.

Ash is such an enigma. I'm not sure where she came from, because as a character, she is the oldest (in terms of how long she's been simmering in my head, not actual age within the story). I can safely say that she is mostly based on my cousin (who is more like an older sister) J'Nan. Her grace, assertiveness and apprehensive heroism that borders on subtle guilt is adapted directly from J'Nan's personality. She has that same burdened façade, seemingly a saint and truly trying to be one on the outside, but obviously troubled and potentially dangerous on the inside. I'm always reluctant to give too much detail to Ash, because she's supposed to be surrounded in mystery, so that the reader falls in love with the idea of her but still knowing it's impossible to actually fall in love with her. She isn't supposed to be really liked, but more respected. I wanted a flawed character, I wanted to make her the exact opposite of the cliché vampire vixen that's become the same female all across the niche of contemporary vampire fiction as we know it. Any aspect of her personality that isn't derived from J'Nan's is developed from whatever is contrary to that overused stereotype that's been hyped to the extreme in the latest works of vampire fiction. She's not the dominatrix-esque maneater that's seen so often, she isn't the one that goes around seducing humans just for the thrill. I figured that by making her more asexual and giving her something of a masculine personality would offset that.

Chance is a fairly new development that was pieced together from various predecessors in other works that I've since abandoned. More bluntly, she is a young version of myself, only greatly exaggerated. Chance is still in I guess what could be considered Beta stage, because I haven't yet made any concrete decisions as to what direction to take the character. Yet most of what I create in Chance is influenced by past experiences and ideas.

This is probably the hardest character for me, because over the course of roughly six years, I'm having a hard time trying to shape an autonomous individual that is clearly a far stretch from any way he's been portrayed before. I wanted something that hadn't been done before, so I at first had attempted to make him something of a protagonist. As it were, it made me end up hating him so much that I abandoned the project for almost a full year. Instead I made him a neutral entity, simply doing a job that no one else could or would do. I had no real person to base him on, so the evolution of this character took a lot of thought and rewrites. His charm and general charisma could have been influenced by classic Victorian-esque male characters, though.

As an agnostic, it's clear why the subject of anything spiritual might be difficult. To me, God is more of a concept than a deity, hence the character's description as being 'hazy' or slightly out of focus. I wanted to try and steer away from anything truly tangible in the sense of God, and make it feel more like God was why things happen in patterns or understanding in the chain of events that link strangers together, universal order. I wanted to create a symbol that wasn't bound by the confines of tired, outdated tradition that comes with religion, so I disregarded it entirely. I want it to be obvious that this is a spiritual endeavour, not a religious or evangelistic one. My intention is to make this an appeal for both the secular and the spiritual mind.

There are of course more characters being developed, but they are in such initial stages that it's too early to expound on them now. I will in future, though.

And finally, to answer the question, Why New Mexico? It was by process of elimination. I wanted a place that was enchanting without being too pretentious or cliché, and that I had visited before so that I had some rudimentary knowledge for the storyline. And it's the last place one would go looking for a vampire or the story that comes with one.

Sun, 23 Mar 2008 09:39:43 GMT

First of all, I'm writing this thing out of order, so if it's confusing, it's supposed to be. I never write anything in the chronological order of the finished product. And the names are tentative. I always have a story before I have names. I'm working on it.

And oh look, an update, holy jeez...

At nearly six in the afternoon, with the sun blindingly setting in the western sky, she was the last person he expected to see when he flung open the door. Her translucent skin and the iridescence of her eyes reflected strangely in the afternoon light. No colour could rightly describe them, though silver came to mind. She looked innocuous enough, but those faux-innocent lips were parted only slightly, and it was unnerving. At first glance it wasn't easily recognisable because it was so subtle, there was just that vague feeling that something about her mouth had gone wrong, but rather alluringly so. His body went rigid when the memory of the previous night came creeping back in vague flashes of broken images, but they were clear enough for him to put it all together in an instant.

He took an involuntary step back, his hand clasped firmly on the door and just as capable of opening it wider to permit her entrance as he was of slamming it in her face.

"You are, uh, Quinn, are you not?" The stammer sounded exaggerated, like she was making a conscious effort to seem human.

He narrowed his eyes. "Yes..."

"I believe this belongs to you." She held her little hand out, where his cell phone rested lightly on her palm.

"How convenient," he muttered, more to himself than to her. He was always compulsive about knowing where his phone was at all times, it was near impossible that he would have lost it and not noticed. "So how'd you pull that off? And how did you find out where I live? Why didn't you just give it to the event staff at the show?"

She tilted her head to one side and gazed at him in chastised innocence. "A simple thank you would have sufficed."

He frowned, but relaxed a little. "I would have asked what are you, but I'm certain I have a fair idea." He gingerly reached out and retrieved his phone from her hand, keeping his eyes locked on her as he idly slipped it into his pocket.

There was a permanent, distinct dimple at the center of her brow that gave her a look of constant pensiveness, or that there was some impending doom that only she could know. It became more pronounced as she frowned. "You weren't supposed to remember," she said softly.

He slumped apologetically and stepped aside in silent invitation. "Really, who are you?"

She hesitated, staring at him as her frown became even deeper still. "I'd give you a name, but names have power..." She sighed. "I've been going by Ash for some time now." She pursed her lips and stepped past him, out of the harsh sunlight. In the dimness of his apartment, she looked more human than he would have considered possible. Her eyes were less reflective, and the silver tones had subdued into a shade somewhere on the precipice between blue and green, morphing from cobalt to emerald with each shift of her gaze. The pupils were too dilated. Her skin was less blinding now, the translucence having softened into ivory, so that the faint blue lines of the veins underneath were no longer visible. If it weren't for the too-pronounced articulation of her gestures and obvious posture that was a century or so out of date, he would have mistaken her for a human. He noticed that her eyes quickly swept the room, resting for a fraction of a second on each window and door visible. It took a moment for it to click that she was counting the number of possible exits. She kept her hand poised over her right hip, fingers subtly twitching for a weapon that wasn't there.

"You were a warrior once, weren't you?" he asked quietly.

Her body tensed at the question, and he feared for just a moment that she would attack. She resembled the ruffled, poised look that a cat gets just before it pounces. Something about his sincerity told her he wasn't a threat, and she relaxed. The hand that instinctively checked for a weapon fell limply at her side.

"Once," she echoed. "But not anymore."

"But you're female."

She chuckled quietly. "Gender wasn't an indicator of combat prowess with these people. But they died out long ago, and only their distant ancestors...and the habits...remain. But never mind."

"Forgive me if this sounds tactless, but why are you really here?" he asked after a short silence. He wished she'd at least stop frowning.

If she'd taken offence to the question, she didn't show it. She seemed to be debating with herself about how much to actually tell him. "I was visited by an old f--acquaintance -- last night, shortly after...I had reason to believe you'd been harmed. But I see now that you are perfectly intact, so I suppose I should be leaving you then."

She made to retreat toward the door, but he impulsively reached out and grabbed her wrist to keep her from going. Her skin was unnaturally cold under his touch, and too ridiculously soft when he'd expected it to be stone, but her faint pulse against his palm threw him off for a moment. They stared at each other in silence, which was broken seconds later by her subdued chuckle.

"I'm not human, but I'm still alive." She smiled now, though still making a conscious effort not to show the fangs that he knew were there. At least the frown was gone. "Aging is almost if not completely reversed when you become one of us," she added, answering the question in his mind as he ran his thumb lightly over the inside of her wrist.

"Stay," he pleaded.

"Why?" She now seemed suspicious, her muscles tensed again in preparation to fight.

"If you were in my position, wouldn't you want me to do the same?" She demurred, but seemed convinced enough to stay for the moment. He suppressed the urge to laugh hysterically at the irony of how he was the one trying to coax her into his company now.

He led her inside and motioned for her to sit. She stiffened and abruptly shifted her gaze when her eyes fell on the ornately carved cross that hung over the mantelpiece. He regarded her with amused shock, but she said nothing.

"I will not believe for a second that the lamest myth about you would be the only one that is true."

She quickly snapped her head up at his comment and blankly stared at him. He wondered if her stoicism was due to not knowing the proper way to react. Just when her scrutiny started to make him uncomfortable, she tentatively reached out toward him, but momentarily stopped the gesture halfway through, seemingly battling with herself about what she wanted to do. But she clenched her jaw and firmly took hold of his wrist, locking her eyes on his in a gaze he couldn't break. A searing pain flooded through his head that was momentarily blinding, and when his vision cleared, he was surrounded by a crowd of weeping and jeering people. An awful aroma filled his nostrils, but it was unfamiliar and so potent and distinct that he couldn't think of anything that would rightly compare to it. There she was, standing just at his right shoulder, but oblivious to his presence. Her gaze was fixed upward, the permanent dimple in her brow as deep and pronounced as it was capable. A look of disgust and confusion was frozen on her face, and her temples flexed as she clenched her jaw. He followed her gaze and felt the acidic sting in the back of his throat as the contents of his stomach lurched upwards into his esophagus. Drenched in blood, the body so mutilated and contorted that it no longer resembled a human form, a figure hung half-conscious on a crudely carved cross high above the heads of the crowd. The gaping wounds in his wrists and feet tore and widened with each slow, agonised movement he made. The force with which he'd been stretched across the beam and the weight of his body pulling him down had caused his shoulders to become dislocated from the sockets, and the skin puckered sickeningly around the joints as he hung there. Cheers erupted from the crowd as they threw everything they could at the man hanging there - rotting food, intestines, excrement, sand, rocks. Every story told of this event seemed to trivialise it now that he was in it, experiencing it.

"Get me out of here," Quinn choked. He feared that if he opened his mouth any more, he'd vomit.

His stomach felt like it had imploded when he found himself on the floor at her feet, covered in a cold sweat and shaking uncontrollably. She stared down at him from where she sat, her body rigid and her hand poised in midair as she reached toward him. She wore the same expression now as she had moments before in the hallucination, only now it was directed toward him.

"I probably shouldn't have shown you that," she said quietly.

"Jesus Christ," he gasped.

"Indeed."

They stared at each other in a long silence, then she took his hand and pulled him back up to sit beside her.

"I'm at an age where I've seen enough religions come and go that I would never be foolish enough to become part of one myself. But he was a genuine person, and had revolutionary ideas. At least, they were practical for that time and place. It wasn't until everyone began to misinterpret him and what he was about that it became what it did. Irrationality and hive mentality do not mix well. I can safely say that none of us were expecting the cult that followed, but we didn't fight it because it's what worked for them. But of all the things they could have used to represent their faith, they had to choose that one...It's obscene. You can imagine why I have a hard time looking upon them. It's a memory I wish I could erase." She shot him a concerned glance before quickly adding, "Don't let that destroy whatever faith you may hold true now, though. I've seen defeated cynicism consume too many fragile humans in my lifetime to know that you're better off with your superstitions than you are without. They've said it's been the cause of more war and turmoil than peace and altruism, but I've seen other causes do far worse. You can rest assured that it's the only remotely plausible way humans can understand a concept that their minds would otherwise never comprehend."

"How old are you, exactly?"

She thought for a moment. "As far back as my memory permits...the caskets are Etruscan in style, I think. That leaves a huge window of time open, but it roughly puts me..."

"In the thousands," he whispered.

She nodded. "I can never be entirely sure. We weren't always keeping count, you know. I lived before your Gregorian calendar. We measured time through harvests, or full moon cycles, if we were even counting at all. At this point I'm already too old to remember how long it has been. And there comes a point where age becomes entirely irrelevant." There was a note of finality in her tone, and he knew he'd get no further elaboration from her. At least not tonight.

She then raised her hand and very deliberately lifted his chin, inspecting his throat in vague concern. Her gestures reminded him of the tentative, nonthreatening movements one uses with a skittish dog to keep it from running away. Her grip was firm enough that he knew he couldn't easily break free, but gentle enough that there was almost something erotic about the way she touched him. "You're still a little bruised," she said idly, her cold thumb grazing over the spot where she'd bitten him the night before.

She must have felt the sudden erratic rhythm of his pulse against her fingers, because she smiled widely in satisfaction, showing her fangs to him for the first time since she'd bitten him. They were truly an unnerving sight, though subtle enough that a modern skeptic would never consciously notice. The canines were the longest and sharpest, but they continued back to her molars, which neatly descended in length the farther back they went. This was no doubt nature's way of avoiding a spectacle, to offset the prominence of the fangs in general. Her smile faded as she self-consciously ran her tongue over them before once again hiding them behind her frown.

"You know, on some level, you all know," she continued, keeping her gaze locked downward. "It's that basic instinct that simple biology has given every living organism. You can still smell a threat when it's nearby, even if you don't consciously smell anything. But when your hairs stand on end and you don't know why...it's probably because one of us is around. It's an age-old evolutionary principle that's stayed after all of these years. I hate to admit it, but I still feel slighted when a human trembles as I pass."

He swallowed, trying to make the reaction as subtle as possible, but of course it wasn't. Her eyes lingered approvingly on his throat and she inclined her head as if in preparation to bite, but refrained. Doubtless she could hear his heart racing, and he blushed at the thought. She searched his face in amusement and ran the back of her finger down the line of his throat.

"You want me to do it, don't you?" Her voice held genuine surprise.

He knew that lying would do him no good. "Yes."

A coy smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, and one finely pointed canine came into view as she briefly chewed on her bottom lip. She leaned in so that the tip of her nose was just barely touching the skin at the base of his throat, and she inhaled slowly. "Where?"

"What?"

"Where do you want it? Here?" She brushed her lips lightly across the skin of his throat. "Or somewhere less conspicuous?"

He clenched his jaw against the anticipatory tingling in his groin. "What are my options?"

"Well, there's the obvious one, though that one tends to hurt a bit more...and so does this one..." She lightly kissed the place where his neck met his collarbone, which inspired something between a moan and a whimper from him. She gently took his wrist and turned it so that his palm faced upward, then lightly traced the lines of his veins and tendons. "This one is the most painful," she said idly. "Only a select few favour that one. Though this one's a favourite." Her fingers glided up the inside of his forearm and she wrapped her hand around his elbow, where her thumb traced small circles on the inside crook of his arm. "The absolute favourite, though?" She laughed quietly, and calmly snaked her hand between his legs. "There's a juicy little artery that runs just up the inside of the thigh...here." Her grip tightened around the underside of his thigh with just enough pressure for him to feel the tingling sensation as his circulation began to slow.

He closed his eyes and let his head fall back in defeat, not caring about the involuntary moan that issued from the back of his throat. It was a defeated sound, and could have been mistaken for one of pain. She kissed his exposed throat lightly enough that he almost didn't feel it. The teasing near-miss kiss. Deliberate torture.

"You're still afraid." She said it flatly against his ear, her hand coming to rest over his racing heart.

"A little."

"It only hurts for the first few seconds. Once it hits your heart, it'll feel much better."

"It paralyzes me."

"It's supposed to. Humans panic, the heart beats faster and you lose more blood. It's meant to calm you so we can avoid an accidental death. You'll still be fully conscious, though. And you'll feel everything. You just won't be able to do anything about it. Come now, you've been through this before." There was an obvious tone of suppressed jubilation in her voice. Her lips parted and he felt the points of her teeth pressing firmly into his skin.

"Oh God, just do it," he gasped.

She did nothing. His hands dropped to her waist and he toyed with her belt, but before he could attempt to unfasten it, she took his hands and firmly removed them. "Don't do that," she said softly, pulling away from him.

He frowned in disappointment. "You can't...it's not possible?"

"Oh, we can. But since we aren't capable of procreation, it's an instinct that doesn't drive us the way it does with humans. We really have no need for it, other than to please our humans as best we can. We express our actions of love and lust through...a different kind of fluid exchange." She smirked.

He hadn't even seen her move before he felt her teeth in his throat, and just as his heart began to fight against her, the familiar sense of tranquility hit him, accompanied by the vague sense of being underwater. The inability to move no matter how hard he willed his body into action would have caused him to panic, had he been capable. It was pleasant. It was like that peaceful moment floating on the verge of sleep, trapped just on the edge of unconsciousness but unable to quite get there.

He was still floating when she pulled back and gracefully wiped a small drop of blood from her bottom lip, and the most he could do was mutter a desperate, "Don't stop..."

"I had to, kid. Any more and you'd be nearer to death than is comfortable." Her voice was subdued, remorseful almost.

"I feel fine."

She let out a forced chuckle. "You do now. It'll hit you when you stand up - which I do not recommend," she finished warningly. "I've already taken too much from you in a single day than I should have. Rest. For now. And eat something as soon as you wake up."

He opened his mouth to protest, but her cool fingers lightly touched his forehead, and everything faded.

19 weeks ago?

Tue, 12 Feb 2008 06:35:34 GMT

Oi. Hi. So I fail at updating this journal. Fail. So bad. I upgraded it to a paid account months ago, thinking it would inspire me to write more in it. Unfortunately, I draw my inspiration from a very dark place that seems to have disappeared some time ago. And that sucks. And there's so much shit in here that I've started and haven't finished. I can't make any promises, but I'm going to read through some of my notes and see if I can be arsed to finish them. Maybe I'll actually start updating this side of my internets. kl;j;klj;klj;klj;klj

Tue, 25 Sep 2007 09:34:08 GMT

We're all up to no good, no one cares what becomes of us. Perhaps some of us will be killed next.

Inspector Reid, Detective Sergeant Enright, Sergeant Goadby and other officers then worked on a slight clue given them by 'Pearly Poll.' It was not thought much of at the time; but what was gleaned from her and other statements given by Elizabeth Allen and Eliza Cooper of 35 Dorset Street, Spitalfields, certain of the authorities have had cause to suspect a man actually living not far from Buck's Row. At present, however, there is only suspicion against him.

It was somewhere around five in the morning when they realised that the vagrant that had been sleeping on the first floor landing for the past hour was lying in a pool of blood - dressed as a commoner, positioned as a whore. Possibly more disturbing than the lewd fashion with which she had died were the multiple stab wounds.

Witnesses mentioned the questionable types of people the woman kept in her company. Her profession was discussed, the people shook their heads in polite mock-shame, and it was waved off as an occupational hazard. Evidence and circumstance suggested that the perpetrator was a sailor, though the woman's clients from the night turned up valid alibis.

What a shame, that crime was one's only means for survival in the less affluent areas of the district.

A single gas lamp on the far end of the narrow street provided the only illumination. She had come staggering down the road highly intoxicated, bellowing to another woman that she'd just drunk away her doss money three times in a row within the previous hours. The church clock struck two-thirty at that moment, and the noise made the woman lose her balance, so inebriated that she had to clutch at the wall to keep from falling into a heap on the ground.

He had gone to considerable lengths to get her this way after spotting her across the tavern earlier in the evening. Tattered sketchbook and charcoal clasped firmly in his left hand, he had languorously made his way over to her dirty table in the corner, feigning shyness to gain her trust. Her eyes swept once over his pristinely stitched waistcoat and crisp trousers, and out of anticipation of gaining a wealthy new client, she placed her foot on the seat of the chair across from her and coyly pushed it out from under the table, silently inviting him to sit down.

"You have very charming features," he had said. "Would you mind at all if I sketched you?"

She had smiled, leaning in a bit to show her cleavage. "You're an artist?"

"Trying to be. It's a divine way to fully appreciate and understand the human body." He flashed her a timid half-smile, avoiding prolonged eye contact.

Like the rest of them, she obliged to the subtle flattery, drawn in by the counterfeit boyish blush, and downed drink after drink that was bought for her. It only took an hour to get her completely drunk. That was when she took note of the time and declared that she still had money to make and clients to indulge. She had offered him her services in return for his artwork, but he politely declined and she left, only to have him follow at a safe distance.

He twitched when she yelled over her shoulder, "It won't be long before I'm back," before moving on down the street. She saw him then, and smiled. "Change your mind, did you?" Before she could even attempt a licentious advance at him, he had his knife in her throat, making such a deep gash that she choked on her own blood. With no ability to scream, they were never noticed by the constable who passed them on the other side of the street, the gas lamp having faded enough to hide them in sufficient shadow. She clawed at him in the dark, and the moment the constable was out of sight, he threw her to the ground and began lashing at her stomach until she stopped moving. He stared dispassionately at her face, frozen in agonised horror, and began to straighten himself when he was startled by an individual slow clap echoing off the buildings.

He turned on his heel and nearly dropped the knife he held as an immaculately dressed lady slowly approached him from across the street. She mockingly applauded him, boldly approaching him with a determined footstep that disturbingly made no sound on the cobblestones. "And a fine job you've done, victimising the only people no one would miss." She laughed, coming to a stop just feet in front of him. "So what three-pence wench gave you largepox, you have to exact revenge on the lowly destitutes of the East End?"

He shuddered, having noticed a considerable change in the air. There was no longer a light breeze blowing, though it was noticeably colder. Much colder, in fact. The sporadic pools of water in the gutters had iced over almost instantaneously, and the flame in the solitary gas lamp ceased to flicker, leaving them in a dull, motionless glow. And here was this lavishly dressed woman - or girl, even, possibly only recently become old enough to marry - with her clean skirts and fine-tailored jacket, her bonnet neatly arranged on her head. She was obviously no resident of these slums; at the very least, she was the daughter of a rich bourgeois, possibly even distant nobility. Upon meeting any other female witness, his first instinct would have been to kill her as well - but this one - an unaccompanied girl from a comfortable household who was brave enough to walk the night streets of one of the shadiest parts of the district sent off an alarm in his head. Her face was kept in shadow, and it seemed no matter in what direction he moved or how hard he strained his eyes, he couldn't get a clear view of her.

"I admire your skill, though," she continued, after it was clear he had nothing to say. "Lacking in originality, but you make up for it in elusiveness. Changing your MO with nearly every victim, that's commendable. I'd imagine that ambidexterity is convenient for a murderer, don't you? At the rate you're going, no one will figure out who you are or even which victims are yours. Have to keep these common constables on their toes, hm?" She paused, gloating in the horrified confusion he displayed, his knuckles white as he gripped his blade but with no intent of using it. "I've been watching you since that Millwood woman. I kind of knew she wouldn't be your last." She paused, and he could feel her inspecting him in the dark. "Happy accident, for you. If I hadn't been helping you this whole time, surely you would have been caught by now. Widow Green is a light sleeper," she declared, nodding toward the nearest terrace house under which the corpse lay.

He shuddered again, avoiding the thought of what the statement implied. Why couldn't he see her face? The moon was hidden behind sporadic clouds, but it should have been enough. She played the shadows so easily, it was almost as if they behaved at her will alone. His instincts told him that there was something really, really wrong. Not human. "What are you?" He said it so quietly, he was sure he only thought it.

He saw only her mouth in the dim light, smiling briefly, a gesture that horrified him for some unknown reason. Like something that had gone wrong but too fleeting and too vague for him to figure out what it was. She moved so quickly that he had no time to react when her icy hand closed on his throat, violently slamming his back against the wall with a force that no human being could manage. The pressure of her palm against his trachea was agonising, and he began to swoon from the suffocation. As soon he was sure he would pass out, her grip on him loosened, and there was a sharp pain in his throat that preceded a pleasantly numb, euphoric sensation. What a happy feeling imminent death was.

Poison. Her bite was poisonous so her victims couldn't fight back. He would have laughed at the sheer brilliance of it if he hadn't felt so sedated. No, I'm fine, thank you, I think I'll just keep floating...

"Mama, I don't want to be a doctor, I want to draw."

"Gentlemen don't draw," she said, the contempt seething in her tone. "You're going to Edinburgh, like your father."

"Why is it so important to be like my father? Do you seem him around?"

"Don't argue. I've arranged for you to start apprenticing under Dr. Hoyland, you're old enough now. It's common work, but it's a start."

He stared at her in horrified disbelief. "Don't you know what they do? It's monstrous!"

"It's a profession, and hopefully someday, you'll become an actual physician. You're going, I've already paid the man to let you watch him practise. If you prove yourself competent, perhaps he'll let you assist him."

Dr. Hoyland's quarters were marked with the stench of death tinged with the suffocating aroma of laudanum and opium. It was hard not to cringe at the sight of a surgical utensil laying haphazardly on a table, its purpose vague yet still subtly horrifying.

"What do you know about the practises of hypnosis, boy?" the doctor had asked him the very first day.

"Er, nothing, sir."

"Well you're going to learn today. You'll find it's most effective in amputation patients, you don't have to worry about them squirming around."

Which it was - and he quickly learned of its effectiveness on the general populace as well. Cheating the seafarers at the local pub, luring a pretty lady away from her chaperone, anything that one would deem suspicious from the likes of a teenage boy was not a problem, thanks to Dr. Hoyland. He exploited his newfound talent to its fullest.

The time came where he had to learn the dirty work, the grotesque workings of the anatomy, where to make an incision based on any given ailment. Weeks passed, and he became immune to the smell. The sight of blood no longer sent a chill down his spine. He could easily locate and extract a person's liver on demand.

When Hoyland was out, he would employ his tattered sketchbook and carefully commit the deceased patients to paper. It eventually became filled with detailed drawings of amputations, cutaway illustrations of muscles, tissues, the grotesquely morphed ribcage of a customarily corseted woman. Each corpse inspired a new curiosity that never seemed to go away, a lingering desire to have been there when the person died to better understand the workings of a dying body...

To be continued, of course. I was going to do the whole thing in one post, but I've been working on it for the better part of two weeks now and it's starting to kick my ass. Hopefully I can finish the last part by next week, but work has been highly demanding of my time lately.

And her name shall be Recompense.

Sun, 09 Sep 2007 12:15:16 GMT

It has no relevance to anything, it's just a random idea I had.

She had always been a light sleeper. Wakefulness came in an instant at the smallest disturbance. She wasn't alone.

She kept still, trying to relinquish what weak grasp on sleep she had before, convincing herself it was just her old incubus coming back from the depths of her imagination. She'd kind of missed him. It had been some time since she'd felt him whisper her name against her ear, the faint grip of his hand around her wrists, the dull soreness inside her the next morning. She knew he wasn't real. She'd conditioned herself not to start awake every time she felt him. Instead she ignored him, or idly let her subconscious deal with him while she slept, and then the moment she'd wake up, he would be gone without a trace. There was the familiar weight of him on top of her...the same old waking dream, it had gotten dull. She shifted in her sleep to get rid of the bored routine, but she couldn't move. The confines of unconsciousness were belligerent that way - she willed herself awake. She only had time to gasp before his hand was over her mouth. Why he bothered to do so was beyond her, he knew she wouldn't scream. She knew this dream. Try to scream and your voice is gone.

"It isn't a dream."

The same hollow voice, a sound in a place where it doesn't belong. The sound of something unreal trying to be real in a physical world. Was he actually speaking, or was it in her head? She stared up at him, unable to see anything in the pitch black save for a pair of amber eyes. She'd never seen him before, only felt him. His fingers were cold against her cheek. He used enough force to let her know she had no choice, but not enough to hurt her. She tried to control her breathing, fighting against showing any sign of fear. Play along, maybe he'll go away. I just want to sleep.

"And you will." The tone of someone who was sneering at her in the dark.

For a fleeting moment, she considered fighting him. She knew how. She weighed her odds, wondering if it would be futile to struggle. If it would be a losing battle, she wouldn't bother. But if she was angry enough...if she was provoked...

His fingers were tightening around her arm, and she felt the sharpness of his thumbnail puncture the inside crook of her elbow. She made a half-hearted moan, but didn't flinch.

"You never did respond properly to pain. It's what takes all of the fun out of it, with you." He was laughing in her ear. "You're not going to fight me, are you?"

She felt a faint trickle of blood running down her arm, but as she went to wipe it away she found she couldn't move. He was no longer holding her down. She was bound by a sudden surreal lethargy. Oh god, it's real. How long had it been real? It had always been real. She tried to hide her state of panic, but her racing heart gave her away. Just don't make a sound, don't give him the satisfaction.

"You never did enjoy sex, did you? There is no pleasure in it for you. You find it invasive, unnatural. It hurts, doesn't it? Doesn't it!"

She clenched her teeth and turned her head away, determined not to make a sound when she felt him force himself into her.

"No matter how many times you're used, you'll forever be a virgin."

The tears fell silently from the corners of her eyes, but she would not sob or whimper. Something about how he did it wasn't right...he wasn't rough or violent enough, it wasn't the way a proper assault should be. But it was still force...right?

He was still laughing. "A gentle rape always hurts the most, doesn't it? You can't decide whether to fight it or enjoy it. Tell me you hate me. Say it. I want to hear the words."

She shook her head. I don't lie about a virtue so important as that. She said it mostly out of spite, but there was some truth to it. That's right, be angry. What will you do?

His fingers tightened on her arms, his nails digging deeper into her flesh. She felt the little pinpricks of blood rise to the surface of her skin, but she stared unflinchingly back into those amber eyes, the only things visible in the dark.

"You know what I am, don't you? ...Out of all of them, you're the closest to understanding."

She didn't acknowledge it. I just want to sleep.

"And that's why I chose you."

And she slept.

It's not death. But it isn't life, either. Not really. And it's not even somewhere in between. It just...is.

He hated those feelings. The type of feeling that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, the chill that came despite how warm it was, the unnatural stillness in the air...she was here. He whipped around just in time to see her perched innocently on a ledge, gazing at him with that expressionless stare.

"Jesus." He said it more out of surprise from his own intuition than out of being startled.

A quaint crease furrowed her brow as she looked at him, aware of how he came to sense her presence. It was a quality about herself she'd learned to deal with. "I'm not one to doubt a sixth, or even sixteenth sense, but I must admit, you guys are astoundingly clever with it."

"What?" The familiar nervous twinge in his gut told him he didn't want to know what she implied by the term you guys. "What are you doing here? How long have you been here? What...questions are fruitless with you though, aren't they. Never...never mind. I - it's good to see you."

"Yes."

He tried to control the shudder that overcame him, but she saw it anyway. There was that look again - the one he felt doctors gave to condemned patients. He wished she wouldn't look at him that way. He couldn't bring himself to look at her. And in that one instant, it seemed she manifested on the ground right next to him, despite the considerable distance between himself and the ledge. Instinct told him to jump back, but fear - or something else - kept him rooted to the ground. He regarded her with an open display of apprehension.

"I'm sorry." She stepped back, and he relaxed slightly. "I'm...I've been getting better at it, at least."

He looked at her - really looked at her - for the first time since he'd known her. It was something he'd always avoided, because there was something...not right. She was pretty, yes, but that type of pretty that never seems to wear out, the type that isn't real. The kind of pretty that makes one stare just long enough to realise the little things that should be there but aren't. The nearly seamless features, the lack of expression around the eyes and mouth, like a China doll that's suddenly become animated and is horrifically beautiful. She'd always looked like she'd been cut out of a painting somewhere and then haphazardly placed in the real world.

"You always seemed to have just seen the deepest depths of hell," he said finally.

She fixed him with the soberest stare he'd seen on her yet. "And what if I told you there was no hell?"

"I'd listen to whatever startlingly convincing wisdom you'd have to support that, and I'd believe you." He paused, taking comfort in the small smile that tugged the corners of her mouth, artificial though it may have been. "I'm tempted to ask something terribly tactless like 'what are you,' but I fear you'd take offence."

There was a brief moment where she twitched, making a move as if to touch him in her best effort at comforting him, but rethought the gesture and abandoned it halfway through. "Well, see, that's part of the reason why I'm here. ...You know, I always admired your openness, at least. It's appreciated."

An awkward moment of silent tension, they gazed at each other in a travesty of mutual understanding, and then, more naturally than it had ever been, they embraced. "Tell me, then," he whispered. "I promise not to be afraid."

She looked upward, at something in the air around him that he obviously couldn't see. Whatever it was she saw, she regarded with an expression of detached tragedy. "Be glad you can't see them," she said airily. "I think it's too terrifying for humans."

"What are they?"

"I would say 'the damned,' but it's far too melodramatic, and not entirely correct. But maybe it is. It has nothing to do with religion, or god, because none of it was ever real. Not in theory, anyway. The way it works...is more about basic altruistic principles. They are the ones that failed. The ones that caused more anguish than hospitality, they are forever stuck in an eternity of nothingness."

"And they haunt the earth?"

"Haunt," she laughed, "no. They don't see us. They don't see the physical. I don't even think they know it exists. It's just blind hopelessness for them, nothing they do can affect the physical."

"And you...?"

"I represent a concept. I suppose if there was a word in existence to describe what I am, it would be Recompense. I choose the ones who deserve punishment, and what that punishment will be. And then it is distributed to them in life. I think humans are calling it Karma now. It's so the ones they've wronged will have a sense of closure toward those that transgressed against them, so that they may have the peace in life that will enable them to have peace in death. ...When a person dies, they leave a sort of...an imprint of themselves behind, one that is immortalised outside the realm of the tangible...a one of peace and virtue generally fades into oblivion - peacefulness begets peacefulness. But the anguished, the torn...they leave a stain of themselves, forever susceptible to despair and monotony. The torture I distribute to the transgressors in life carries on into their death, incidentally. It's...a demanding job."

He lightly gripped her shoulders, running his thumbs over her skin as if trying to convince himself she was real. "You don't really look like this, do you?"

She smiled. "No, I suppose not. We can take on any form, I guess. But my true form is not something that a human mind could comprehend. There really is no physical form we have, we're more a manifestation. Not deities. Not spirits or angels or demons. Just...concepts. They tell us that in our previous human years we were diplomatically apathetic, with a penchant for revenge. I suppose it would make sense."

His head snapped up and he suddenly held her back at arm's length. "Human years? You were human once?"

"Some of us. I've been made to understand that I was, though I remember nothing of it. I think I may have looked something like this when I was, but it's just an educated guess on my part. They say we're supposed to lose all sense of our human qualities."

"What does that even mean? Supposed to?"

The furrowed brow, the gaze of the condemned again. He wished she wouldn't look at him that way.

"Which would imply that it doesn't always work that way," she said quietly. "Love, hate, and everything in between, it's simply impossible for us, as impartial creatures. Unfortunately, in my case, I fell for a human who could never be expected to return the favour, and who would eventually die and be lost to the depths of oblivion. I look at you the way I do because all I see when I look at humans is inevitable death. Just looking at you, I can tell you how much time you've got left. I can tell you the exact day it will happen, and how. And it tears me apart. And...I figured you had a right to know. I...I don't think there's really any way I could explain any of it to you that would make you understand."

His expression of suppressed horror softened. "I understand." He was telling the truth. "But you said...you said you didn't love me."

"Sometimes we're obligated to lie, for comfort's sake." Her tone was apologetic. "For what it's worth, you won't...you won't be with...with them." She gestured to the empty air around them.

He nodded numbly. "So what do we do now? With the time we...with the time you have with me."

She smiled, the closest to a genuine expression he'd ever seen on her. "Enjoy it."

Thu, 31 May 2007 09:23:29 GMT

"Quinn, wake the hell up."

Someone roughly nudged his shoulder. His head ached and just thinking about getting up made him want to vomit. He pushed away the intruder and turned away.

"Quinn, you've been asleep for eleven hours, are you okay?"

He slowly opened one eye, his eyeliner having nearly glued it shut. The digital clock on the bedstand was nearing three p.m., and he tentatively sat up. His temples throbbed and he swallowed a brief sensation of nausea behind clenched teeth.

"Dude, how much did you drink last night?"

He closed his eyes, as keeping them open hurt. "I didn't."

"Well that's one hell of a hangover you've got."

All of the previous night was a blur, and it took some deep concentration to even remember the band that performed. There was an entire half hour that had disappeared last night, and he vaguely remembered a female, but he couldn't even remember what she looked like. The thought of date rape crossed his mind, and he would have smiled had the throbbing in his temples not prevented it. He absent-mindedly touched his throat as he forced himself out of bed, avoiding the mirror before heading toward the shower. He imagined he looked as bad as he felt.

The dizziness slowly wore off after a moment under the warm water, and eventually the throbbing in his temples subsided to a dull ache. He resolved to lay off the violent concerts for a while.

An apprehensive palm across the foggy mirror revealed a slightly paler complexion than he was used to, and as he wiped off the last vestiges of eyeliner with the corner of a towel, he noticed that his eyes were rimmed in pale reddish purple. He smiled. Not bad enough that he looked convincingly sick...he just didn't need to wear makeup today.

He was supposed to be scouting out a good location for a photo shoot with his band.

The White Sands was the perfect place. The alabaster gypsum contrasting with the black adornments of he and his bandmates would look good on a promo poster, if only the sun wasn't always so glaringly bright...

He followed a pair of ATV tracks in the sand, trying to stay on the compact rivulets of the dune so he wouldn't sink too deep in. In a place like this, it was easy for one to find a place to be alone. Despite that it was something of a common tourist and camping attraction, it was enough desert placed in the middle of civilisation that would allow privacy and security in nature. How quaint, that it was so close to civilisation yet so distant. First-time visitors would be uneasy, not immediately realising what was missing, until it became apparent that the everyday sounds of city life - cars, a neighbour's dog, a loose rain gutter tapping on an eave in the wind - were all unheard here. The only sounds were the grains of sand whispering over each other in the light breeze, or perhaps the faint buzzing of an insect. It was ideal for creative inspiration. He stopped momentarily after reaching the top of a particularly steep hill, panting lightly before he descended into a small basin just on the other side. Just a few steps down the hill and he stopped abruptly.

Sitting just at the bottom of a dune on the other side of the basin, partially hidden by a naked cottonwood bush, was a waif of a girl, her back turned to him with her knees hugged loosely to her chest. It was isolated enough that he could hear she spoke, but she was too far away for him to make out her actual words. He stood frozen there, staring inquisitively at the long ribbons of her hair blowing gently in the breeze like a field of untamed wheat. He chanced a few steps closer, knowing he was most likely intruding on something very private, but curiosity preventing him from propriety. He was only steps away from the bush that separated them, but she hadn't sensed his presence. He was close enough now that he could hear what she said, and that the other side of the conversation -- simply wasn't there.

She was holding a conversation with the air. Against his better judgment, he listened.

"...if I die, would you be so kind as to tell the people who would deserve to know?"

Her voice was airy, and tentative, as if she wasn't in the habit of speaking much, and it invoked a strong sense of timidity about her nature.

"I feel what soul I have left would be too much of a cunt to stick around and haunt the people who would care."

A pause as she listened to what would have been a response. The pause was broken by a forced and cynical laugh.

"I don't have any."  Her voice became even more subdued. "It's impossible for one to love a crazy person.  But sometimes, we're allowed to pretend. And even though I know it isn't real" - her voice wavered, as if she held back tears - "I do cherish those moments when I get them. I've learned to live every day like it's my last." She hesitated, running her fingers through the sand at her sides. "When you know it won't last forever, why even bother? ...You promised you'd never leave me," she whispered.

He didn't have to see her face to know that she silently cried.  And then, as if informed by the imaginary person on the other end of the conversation, she turned her head right in Quinn's direction. He stiffened, his instincts telling him to just walk away, but instead he stood frozen on the spot. A pair of dark sunglasses covered her eyes, and one solitary tear slipped out from behind them and down her pale cheek. Close up, she was a fragile wraith of a human being, her body not quite emaciated, but on its way there. She held a sort of tragic prettiness, caught in that transition from girl to woman, reminding him of a flower that was caught in mid-bloom but had begun to wilt instead. She raised one hand to shield her eyes from the sun as she looked up at him, and for a split second he caught a glimpse of the four-inch scar on the inside of her wrist, running parallel with the vein. It was healed enough for him to know it had been some time ago, but noticeable enough that she had truly meant to do some damage.

He didn't need her to explain for him to understand.

"You speak to dead people, don't you?" he asked gently.

Her expression didn't change, and she remained motionless. She was assessing the situation, wondering whether to be embarrassed, enraged, or afraid. After a long awkward silence, she lowered the hand that shielded her eyes and wiped away the stray tear, breaking her gaze from his.

"Don't patronise me," she said blandly.

"I wasn't..." He didn't bother to refute it, for it was obvious she'd dealt with enough naysayers in her life to be so completely jaded against someone who would finally believe her.

"No one believes in ghosts anymore," she continued, pushing herself to a standing position. "You shouldn't either."

"You were speaking to one."

"No. I'm a crazy person. I was speaking to an hallucination."

She made to walk past him, but he put a hand on her shoulder. She cringed, but stopped.

"What's your name?"

She kept her gaze toward the ground. "Chance."

He smiled a tragic smile at her and gave her shoulder a light squeeze. "It's nice to meet you, Chance. My name is Quinn."

So I'm not quite sure about this one, I may end up tweaking it a bit when I'm less...under the influence of sedatives. I had to force the last bit out because...damn I need sleep.

Wed, 25 Apr 2007 08:21:24 GMT

By midnight she ached. It amused her that it was a hunger that felt exactly the same as it did during her human years. It was nature’s way of letting her keep some hint of human sensations, and she enjoyed it. She was drawn to an outside venue hosting live music, overflowing with enough bodies in prime youth to satiate her for the night. It was a good place to be invisible. It was a good excuse to get close enough to someone to take what she needed.

The elitist in her was repulsed by the pretentious moshers, violently pushing everyone in reach for the sole purpose of looking ferocious. Their faux-fearlessness and sickening stench repelled her. She kept a considerable distance from the front so as to avoid them, but rather found an inconspicuous vantage point close to the wall. They were better behaved there. It wasn’t a spot immune to the invasion of personal space or the too-intimate press of a stranger’s body, but it was good enough. She followed every passerby with her sober gaze. She avoided the surreptitious glance. It never allowed her to adequately size up her next victim. It was this part of the hunt she enjoyed the most. Most of the clientele was a disappointment to her, however – the kind one would envision slumming in their parents’ basement. Some returned her stare, obviously uncomfortably flattered that she so openly watched them.

Doubtless she looked as though she didn’t belong there. She certainly wasn’t dressed for the occasion. Considering her attire, she would have been better suited for a polo club than a tempestuous performance by a local band. She was skilled enough at this that it didn’t make her stand out, and she was regarded with substantial respect by anyone who did notice her. Throughout her practised hunting, she probably never even would have noticed him had the aroma of his fresh leather jacket not given him away. She turned her head slightly to follow the scent, and smiled at the creature that had sidled up next to her. He didn’t see her. He was focused on the show. A strong human heartbeat in him, she could feel it as strongly as she could hear it. He was close enough to her that the leather of his sleeve brushed against the bare skin of her arm, yet he still took no notice. Perfect. He was a young slender thing, no older than twenty-five, with a precious, innocent profile and pale skin. She openly stared when he stretched to his full height, lifting his chin and exposing the lines of his throat to see over the heads of those in front of him. She closed her eyes and smiled. God yes. When he reached up and idly touched his throat, her hunger lurched violently inside her. Bait. There’s no way...

She looked around, half-expecting to find another one somewhere in the shadows, another like her, who had sent this lovely youth over to her to tempt her. No. All human. She was the only immortal there that night. The scent of him made her fangs ache. She chewed her bottom lip, one fang clearly visible were anyone to look at her. She casually looked away when he turned in her direction, but only to look at something behind her, possibly a friend, still not seeing her. The movement caused a strand of dark hair to fall into his eyes, and he subtly tossed his head in the coquettish fashion typically seen on girls to get it out of his face. The predator in her stirred violently. His eyeliner was rather becoming on him. Oh, she would have this one. The thought of her marks on his throat made her smile. Her eyes wandered to his wrists, where just a small bit of tender white flesh was visible above the hem of his jacket. Oh, beautiful. She hadn’t seen a pretty young thing like this in weeks. Staying out of his peripheral view, she carefully reached up and toyed with a strand of his hair, then dared to pull the collar of his jacket back, but gently enough so that he wouldn’t notice. The artery in his neck flashed momentarily, and she closed her eyes. Good god, the goth ones knew how to tease…how convenient for her, she didn’t look anything like the creature she was.

At this point, she figured it was only polite to make herself known. She leaned in so that her lips were close enough to brush his ear and shouted over the music, “You are very beautiful.” It was more of an assertion than a compliment. Her hand rested lightly on his arm, teasing him. He gave her a timid and flattered smile, and she noted his apprehension when the unconscious human instinct in him recognized her as a predator.

The temptation had become too much for her, she had to touch him. She reached up and lightly pinched the bit of flesh of his throat, just beside the curve of his trachea. The sound of his heart skipping at the gesture drove her mad. His breath caught in his throat at the icy touch of her fingers. She pushed the thought into his subconscious: Alone. Away from these people. Ah, the power of silent suggestion, the gift she cherished most about her kind. Within moments, she had disappeared from his sight. Eventually he emerged into an unoccupied area, hidden from the mob of spectators where she waited for him. She didn’t hide in the shadows, but instead made it look like happenstance that they had both opted for fresh air at the same time. His timid smile became a confident one, and he advanced on her in an imitation of what her kind was wont to do.

Cute, he thinks he’s the hunter, she thought.

She had him backed into a dimly lit corner before he could speak, his eyes glazing over and his breath catching in his throat. She pressed against him so she could feel his heart beating frantically against her own. Oh, he was lovely…in the prime of youth, peak health…his thoughts whispered secrets to her, secrets she would never tell. It was impressive how quickly he figured it out, before she could even show her fangs. The one coherent thought from him that stood out among the rest: not human. She caught his mouth with hers so he wouldn’t speak, sucking on his bottom lip as a delightful moan died in his throat. He trembled at the touch of her cool fingertips against his jawline, and she felt his manhood harden against her thigh when her lips grazed his throat, anticipating what he knew was about to happen.

She laughed in his ear, flattered at his response. “No beautiful, I’ll only be taking one fluid from you tonight…I’ll make this as painless as possible,” she whispered, feeling his pulse race against her lips.

He cringed when she pierced the flesh of his throat, an astonished gasp coming from him once the blood began to flow. She idly stroked his neck with her thumb and permeated his thoughts: Yes, I know, it always hurts more than you would expect. Relax, it will be over soon. The tension in his body eased a bit. He tasted as wonderful as she thought he would. His heart fought against her, and she struggled against her own ravenous will to forcefully draw the life out of him. No, I won’t kill you, not you. You are too beautiful. Do not be afraid. His fingers had become entwined with her hair, and he held on to her as if he would never let go. She took only enough to weaken him for the next couple of days. A young, healthy thing such as this…he would survive. Albeit a bit drained for energy temporarily, he would be just fine.

Her tongue ran over the open wounds and he gave another of his delightful trembles. He was at a loss for words. He leaned his head back against the wall and attempted to catch his breath. She held him until his heart returned to a normal pace, admiring the two quaint little marks she left on him. You’re real, his thoughts said to her. You’re real and I love you. She smiled wide enough to give him a glimpse of her fangs. “Yes, we are real,” she whispered against his ear. “And I chose you for tonight, and I love you too. And tomorrow…you will wake up, and you’ll be weak, but you won’t remember why. In a moment, you will forget me.” She lightly kissed the wounds in his throat and watched them seal themselves.

She left him there, alone, having disappeared too quickly for his human senses to detect, and with no recollection of the past half hour. He would return safely to that throng of mortals, if not slightly weakened and dazed. For the moment, she delighted in the taste of him lingering still in the back of her throat, memorizing the scent of him were she ever to hunger for him again. She would know where to find him.

“And how long has it been since you’ve actually killed a human being, Ash?”

The familiar empty voice overflowing with unction caused her to pause and tilt her head back in amused perturbation. She waited to face him until he was just behind her, stiffening when his long-nailed fingers closed firmly around her shoulder. His faux charm was in place, as always, and she couldn’t hold back her smile. Deceitful though he was, he certainly was better at appearing in human form than the other one. On this particular night he assumed a masquerade of shoulder-length mahogany hair pulled back in a ponytail and skin so pale it glowed in the moonlight. And by tomorrow he will have changed the appearance entirely.

“What do you care?” She then hesitated, regarding him with open speculation.

“Where is he? Did you do anything with him?”

He laughed, a sound that would have sent chills through any human, had there been one present. “You don’t trust me,” he answered flatly.

“Where is he?” It was more of a stern request than a question.

“He’s safe with his fellow humans.”

“I certainly hope so.” She paused a moment, then added half-heartedly, “Your style is centuries old,” and idly gestured his waistcoat.

“You told me yourself it was flattering on me.”

“Yes, but that was centuries ago.”

He laughed his trademark counterfeit laugh, and she managed a half-chuckle herself. Her smile quickly faded and she resumed her stoic countenance. “All right, Mephis. What do you want.”

This time it was his turn to hesitate, and he admired her with what could have been interpreted as offense. “You know, you always liked him more than me.”

“Oh come now, I hold equal amounts of contempt for you both.”

He smiled down at her, taking her shoulders in his hands and giving them a gentle squeeze. “Indeed, indeed. That’s why they call you the diplomat, isn’t it then? My original reason for coming to you…did he talk to you tonight?”

“Mm-hmm,” she said with a curt nod and a cocky raise of her eyebrow, a hint of mischief in her tone.

“Then you’d appreciate my concern for the fact that it would seem you haven’t had it in you to kill a human being for…what is it, decades now?”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“It’s not patronizing when it’s true. You feed lightly on the pretty ones and leave everyone else. As much as you think you can get away with crediting that little habit of yours to the snob elitist in you, it certainly doesn’t fool me. My question is…are you up for it? The proposition, that is.”

“Oh please, Mephis. Ever the drama queen, you have to blow everything out of proportion. Of course I can kill a human being. Did it ever occur to you that perhaps it was laziness that attributed to my failure in kills and not ethics? For the sake of everything that isn’t holy…”

“That’s not funny anymore.”

“Indeed.”

An awkward pause followed, each of them staring the other down with rivaled annoyance.

“Ash, righteous indignation alone is not going to solve this problem for you, regardless of how much you think that.”

“I’m aware. I think I’d appreciate it if you left this up to me, being as it’s my job. Mine. This is an earthly quarrel, it’s not even your jurisdiction.”

“It isn’t God’s jurisdiction,” he hissed, clearly peeved at this point.

“Mephis, for fuck’s sake! You’re mistaking this for a question of pride, when it’s a question of the rules. I thought you’d be wise enough to stay out of it. I don’t even understand why something like this should concern you. I’ve known you for quite a while, it should be something you express apathy toward.”

He took a step back, his brows coming together in confusion. “It has nothing to do with that. I’m concerned for you. Do you truly believe you are capable of handling this?”

She rolled her eyes and turned away. “I’m insulted that you think I’m not.”

“I’m just reminding you of the resources you have available.”

“I’m guessing you’re suggesting that you are one of them?”

“I can assure you victory.”

She whirled back around, her eyes glinting angrily in the light. “Remember with whom you speak,” she hissed. “You underestimate me and I have duly taken offence.”

“Forgive me for doubting your credentials,” he muttered. “But I never saw anything in your damn rules that forbade me to be involved.”

“I was convinced it was understood.”

“Ash…” He was pleading now, his fathomless black eyes searching hers. “If you lose, I will never see you again.”

She smiled wryly, tilting her head back in sudden revelation. “Ah yes, that’s what this is about, how could I have missed it? We’ve been promised oblivion, as opposed to eternal boredom in one realm or eternal torture in the other.” Her smile faded when she saw the hurt look on his face at the comment.

“Sometimes I think you enjoy torturing me this way – you’d be better suited for my job, I’d wager.”

She pursed her lips and nodded. “Touché.”

“I’d rather you not disappear from existence if you lose.”

Her eyes quickly shifted downward and she gave an impatient sigh, then composed herself and closed the small distance between them. She took his face in her hands and brought her mouth so close to his, he was sure she would kiss him.

“Lucifer, whose name means bearer of light,” she mused, her eyes searching his.

“I don’t go by that name anymore,” he whispered.

She smirked up at him. “I find it intriguing that you are the most audacious of entities, yet you search for companionship when you could just as easily wander alone.”

“Ever the cynic, Ash…did it ever occur to you that even I am capable of loving?”

“I figure you’re about as capable of loving as the other one is of hating.”

He closed his eyes for patience. “Ever the lover of cryptic irony, Ash…you insult me, you really do.”

“Notice I never said it was impossible, don’t take me out of context. You were one of them at one point after all, I’m not so ignorant as to underestimate you there.”

“No, I understand exactly the point you are making, and I appreciate it, if not bitterly. At least know that I love you.”

She frowned, then took a step back. “You think you do.”

“You were the only one who never feared me. You understood me.”

“That’s the job of a diplomat. And you’re doing a job that no one else is willing or capable of doing. I would never assume otherwise.”

“Yes, better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven,” he mused.

She couldn’t help but smile at the quote. “Now if you’ll excuse me…I’m still hungry and dawn is not getting any farther away. We can talk about this later.”

“When is later?”

“Never.”

Thu, 05 Apr 2007 03:52:13 GMT

All right I've done some redrafting, because my first attempts at this story sucked. But...I think this one is...fair. Perhaps now I can be arsed to actually finish the story, considering it's been in the works for the better part of five years.

She sat in the back pew of church at evening mass, a sullen image in a human world of chaos. Despite the multitude of people, her presence did not go unnoticed, at least not subconsciously. She winced when she noticed the subtle shivers that overtook these innocent people the moment she slid through the closing doors. She tried to ignore the way one’s breath became shallow as she passed by, or the hollow look in the eyes of someone who is frightened but can’t explain why. Even in a church, humans could feel threatened.

In this world of skepticism and logic, vampires didn’t exist anymore. There was the usual double take as she passed, but a polite nod and a subtle smile small enough to hide her fangs and she was yet another seemingly normal human. But that never stopped their subconscious instincts for them to prepare for fight or flight in the face of a predator. All prey could sense a predator, especially humans.

She sat among these humans now, her intense stare fixed on the priest. She had guiltily pried his thoughts earlier, finding him to be an honest man of modest convictions. His thoughts revealed him to be a culturally adept person of an eclectic educational background, advised by a defrocked Jesuit priest, a Cistercian monk, and a German rationalist at different points throughout his education. A man of God, yes, but no narrow-minded religious fanatic. A leader, an inspirer, an adjunct professor as a favor to the university, and a dynamic enough lecturer to hold the attention of any audience, classroom and fellowship hall alike. A true Renaissance man. Living in the wrong century. Like her. He could be a potential reformer, only educated enough to know what notto do. Not many humans were of his caliber. He would make an ideal vampire…

She promptly averted her gaze when his eyes met hers from across the sanctuary. She always imagined the clergy could see right through her, into her soul, could see her for what she truly was. It didn’t help that she kept prying their thoughts like a secretive little rat, especially when they turned out to be pure of character, like this one.

“Don’t feel guilty with him, he’s one of the very few of this faith that won’t judge you,” whispered a subtle reverberating voice in her ear.

She turned her head to look at the nondescript figure that had manifested next to her – brown hair, brown eyes, medium height and complexion, and surrounded by a slight haze, as if one could never focus their eyes when looking at him.

“You look good in human,” she mumbled airily, nonchalantly turning her attention back to the priest.

“Why are you here, Ash?”

She took a deep breath and looked down at her feet, her overwhelming sense of guilt gnawing away at her conscience. “I’m old enough to remember a time when the pagans laughed in the face of the Christians, waving them off as members of a cult that would never last. Old enough to see the birth and death of multiple gods, the morphing of religions, and the changing faith of those who invented them. All of which never brought them closer to understanding the concept you resemble. Even you are notorious for sitting in on their latest interpretations, why shouldn’t I do the same? Humans are rather creative when it comes to manifesting myths concerning organised religion.”

“Something tells me you’re not here merely for a good story.”

“What makes you think that?” she asked dryly.

“I’m an omniscient entity.”

She didn’t reply.

“It looks to me like you’re doing recon work,” he continued.

She snapped her head up from its bowed position and glared at him reproachfully. “Recon work for what?”

“You’ve been glaring at that priest and his white-collared throat for almost an hour now, contemplating how great of a vampire he would make. You aren’t the only one who can hear thoughts, you know.”

She bowed her head again and returned her stare to her feet, unable to refute it. “Your point?”

“Don’t do it, Ash. I can see you working it out in your head right now, waiting outside his office and transforming him right there. Imagine the guilt you would feel if you accidentally spilt blood on that white collar, you would drive yourself mad with your precious guilt.”

Her jaw clenched in agitation.

“I’m telling you this because I’m the only one who can see that he would better serve this world as a human than he would as a vampire.”

She nodded stiffly, still glaring at her feet. “Well I appreciate your insight, but I’m sure that’s not the reason why you’re here now.”

He paused and glanced around the sanctuary, then: “Perhaps we should go outside.”

She hesitated, making no immediate gesture to follow him out. She heard the priest’s words, but she wasn’t listening. Instead, she stared blankly at the back of the pew in front of her. With marked disdain, she lithely stood up and slipped out the door, wincing at the frigid draft that caught her once outside. He didn’t look at her for a while, but stared at their surroundings with deep satisfaction. She slid her hands into the pockets of her full-length coat, keeping her solemn stare on him in patient expectance.

“How comfortable are you here?” he finally asked.

“What kind of question is that?”

“Do you feel at home, enough to consider it your turf, so to speak?”

“It suits me just fine, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Suits you enough to enable you to conduct warfare?”

The light breeze suddenly stopped, the slightest sound audible in the abrupt silence. The change of atmosphere was so in sync with her growing sense of disdain, it could have been caused by her.

“Warfare?” she repeated. The word should have echoed, but it didn’t.

“You really have gotten powerful in your age,” he said idly, addressing the still air.

“What do you mean, warfare?” she asked sternly, ignoring the statement.

“I’m surprised you haven’t heard.”

She kept her gaze on him, only her rigid stature giving away her growing sense of apprehension.

“The humans are threatened by your people.”

“When haven’t they been?”

“They know about you. You have been careless. You all have become so dependent on scepticism and logic and rationality that you think you can flaunt your existence in front of them.”

“Well that’s just silly,” she said with a laugh, her fangs briefly glinting in the moonlight.

He studied her closely, concerned by her permanent state of candor. Her tone was always so sullen and hollow, as if she hadn’t the energy to add some kind of inflection to her voice. She certainly wasn’t sad, but she wasn’t entirely happy, either.
“I understand how age tends to make you cynical,” he said quietly. “You know there are thousands of humans who think themselves…mystics.”

“Thousands,” she repeated.

He gave a curt nod. “Not everyone in this world is as open-minded as that priest. Pragmatics is not befitting for humans, Ash, you know it never was. There are too many zealots who are aware of your people’s existence or are coincidentally aware in their feverish fanaticism to secure your race’s safety anymore. Religion is too quickly transforming into cult obsession and irrational persecution, it’s causing more conflict than resolve, as it should. Evil, as they have interpreted it, must be eradicated.”

“But we’re not evil,” she said hollowly.

“That’s why I’m asking you to convince them. You’re a perfectly capable warrior because of your negotiation skills. You can force the most irrational people to see the pragmatics of a situation.”

“And if I can’t?”

“Then I ask that you spare as many human lives as possible.”

Ash closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. “Ah,” she said quietly, “of course. You said as many. If I’m only up against the mystics – ” she spat this word with obvious distaste – “then it’s only a few thousand. Why can’t I just take out the stupid ones now? The humans certainly need it, natural selection for them is proving…less than successful, at the moment.”

“Ash. You are my greatest diplomat.” His tone was subdued just enough for the statement to be only almost scathing. “I figured you would understand. You’ve become a bigot in your cynicism.”

“Elitist,” she corrected curtly.

He soberly stared.

“I’m not sure I have that kind of power, you’re aware,” she continued.

“Remember why your people are here in the first place,” he said vaguely. “If you’ve proven successful at that, this should be simple.”

“No. Humans are impulsive and irrational, they have no sense of order. How am I supposed to incite peace in them?”

“I trust your discretion.”

“Why can’t you take care of it?”

“This is an earthly battle, I can’t show favoritism.”

She put her forehead in her palm, closing her eyes for patience. “Somehow I find you playing the jurisdiction card fairly reprehensible.”

“Come now, Ash, imagine if I intervened in the Crusades, or the Protestant reformation. It would have created a lot of chaos. No, it would be too unfair. But I have worked too hard creating a civilisation as complex as this just to watch them destroy themselves for a trivial problem that could have been easily avoided. I trust that you can keep them from destroying everything. You have your entire race at your side, you won’t be alone.”

“I’ve made my fair share of enemies, you know.”

He pursed his lips in a rather human fashion. “I’m aware,” he said darkly. “But having like enemies puts you on the same side with them. I’m sure you can make amends, you’re good at getting people to like you again. I’ve seen that quality in you plenty.”

She didn’t reply, but stared in the opposite direction, her countenance a reflection of her burdened conscience. “Somehow I doubt some of them will be as forgiving as others.”

Closure: Part V

Fri, 27 Oct 2006 10:05:41 GMT

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV

I left for the bank alone the next afternoon. It was something I wanted to do by myself. It would only take me a few minutes to rummage through the safe deposit box and see if my ring was there. Dmitri would meet me there after I was finished, and we would have a quick lunch, maybe do some touring of the city, then take the red eye back to Sibiu.

Needless to say, I wasn't expecting to physically bump right into the one person I least wanted to see. He had apparently been waiting around all morning, and I didn't protest when he gripped me painfully by the upper arm and dragged me into the alleyway hidden from the street. I didn't even fight him. It just took one look at the expression in the eye he had left to know that if I fought...

He shoved me backwards against a cinder block wall and I splayed my hands out behind me so the back of my head wouldn't come in contact with the surface. I surreptitiously looked around for anything I could use for a potential weapon, counted all the possible exits. I knew by the way he narrowed his eyes at me that he was aware of what I was doing. I couldn't rule out the fact that he was probably armed. How he had gotten out of the United States was beyond me, and why he came back here, and how he knew I would be there...up until that moment, I thought I was the one good at reconnaissance.

I just stood there, breathing heavily, afraid that my usual stoic expression was probably giving away how terrified I was. I stared up at him, not saying anything, just waiting for him to speak. I figured the ball was in his court, I'd have to make a good defense. Or just give in. Which wasn't something I'd ruled out. I've been taught to know when I've lost a battle even before it's started. It would be foolish to act like I had a chance.

And then he spoke.

"I saw you before I ordered my drink in the lounge..."

Of course I'd said something I shouldn't have - but, in retrospect, I don't think I could have said anything at that moment that would have warranted a different response. I could have claimed the position of a cowardly sycophant and fed his ego, and I imagine that he still would have backhanded me across the face, probably even harder. Laying facedown on the ground, my palms stinging from the impact with the gravel, I hesitated, wincing as I regained my composure. I half expected to feel his boot in the small of my back at that moment, but he did nothing.

I realized that he was waiting for me to get back up. He was waiting for that spitfire temper of mine. He was very well aware that doing that sort of thing would piss me the fuck off, provoke me. He wanted a fight. He wanted a fight. The reason I was left alive for so long last time was because he was punishing me for not fighting back. I never once fought back. I recognized defeat when I saw it, and I accepted it. And it had been a disappointment to him. I turned my head and saw the twisted smile on his face, pleased that he had a second chance.   I took my time getting up. I was suddenly glad for airport security, that I'd had to take out all my body jewelry to get through the metal detectors. I hadn't got a chance to put my jewelry back in, and it would be one less weapon he could use against me. I don't know what it feels like to have one's belly ring or nose stud ripped out, and fortunately I won't ever have to.

"How'd you get out of the States, Yasi?" I asked flatly, then spat blood.

He didn't even answer me, he only slapped me again. I had no control over my reflexes. I impulsively grabbed his wrist in a flare of anger, but he only twisted my arm back and threw me on the ground again. I hoped he would spare me just two minutes, because then Dmitri would be here, and he would be intuitive enough to know where to look the moment he realized I wasn't where I was supposed to be. Lying on the ground, I saw near my head a piece of broken glass, but Yasi must have seen it before I did because he was already bearing down on me with a blade of his own.

"You're not gonna do it in this alleyway, are you?" My tone was matter-of-fact. "Anyone can see you, there are too many witnesses. You know Dmitri's coming, you'll never get away quick enough."

Apparently that was something he didn't know, because I caught the very momentary pause in his gesture. A spark of skepticism crossed his face. "I never pegged you for a liar...or at least a liar for the sole benefit of bargaining."

He didn't know I was here with Dmitri. Apparently he thought I'd come to the country alone. All of his blessed reconnaissance had taught him I was a solitary fighter, I worked alone, I traveled alone...I would ideally die alone. When he'd seen me at the hotel lounge, he must have slipped out before Dmitri came down to meet me. And that would have alotted time for him to spot his brother approaching the hotel lounge just as he left, which would have tipped him off to the fact that I would most likely be getting information about my ring from him...reconnaissance is as reconnaissance does, I suppose.

And I gloated over the fact that Dmitri scared the living piss out of Yasi...if there was anyone aside from my old bodyguard that would make this guy shit his pants, it was Dmitri. I still have yet to know why that is, but apparently they have a history that goes back before my first acquaintance with him. I just looked straight up at him and clenched my teeth to prevent my inevitable smirk. Suppressed jubilation is always a dead giveaway that someone is telling the truth. I think I heard his heart stop beating for a moment.

And then I laughed. The laughter I'd been trying to hold in for so long just erupted out of me, and I laid there on the ground, shaking with fits of uncontrollable laughter. The man was probably about to fillet my trachea and I was in hysterics. I hoped I'd still be alive enough by the time Dmitri got there to see what he'd do to the fucking camel dick. "Tu prost nefolositor batjocorire de războinic," I cursed between laughs. Eşti nimic dar ţăran soldat, tu debil mintal. Sper vei muri din a ta propriu fecale." I covered my face with my hands and resigned to my hysterics, shaking uncontrollably on the ground like an insane person. I waited for him to slap me. Then I remembered he didn't speak a word of Romanian. Fucking stupid bastard.

He backed away a bit. He must have really thought I was mad. I forced myself off the ground and straightened just as he began to turn away from me and right into Dmitri, who, from the looks of it, had just snuck up without either of us knowing and had been standing there for some time, waiting for the asshole to turn around.   He was standing so close that Yasi's nose nearly touched his chest, and both of us gave a surprised yelp at his unexpected appearance.

I kind of see now why Dmitri scares the shit out him. The hard-nosed, steely-eyed stare Dmitri gave him damn near made me shrink back in terror. I'd always known he had the obligatory douchebag streak in him when he felt like being an asshole, but this...this was something entirely different, that I'd never seen in him before. I just hope that look, the warning he exerted with that look, will never, ever be directed toward me. I don't think I've ever even seen my grandfather or Radescu look so formidable. Yasi began to inch back from him, and Dmitri grabbed him by the shoulder to keep him from backing any farther away. "Shivawn was speaking to you," he said softly. I shivered. I tried to convince myself it wasn't from his tone.

There was an awkward silence where I looked blankly from Yasi to Dmitri. Dmitri's expression had melted into a stoic aloofness as he looked to me briefly, then looked away. "Uh. I was...done." I winced at how awkward it had come out.

"Mmm," Dmitri grunted with a curt nod. He looked down as if in deep thought for a moment, then arbitrarily punched Yasi between the eyes. I heard a sickening sound that was no doubt Yasi's nose breaking from the impact. I came to stand over him and saw the imprint mark from Dmitri's own ring embedded in the guy's face. He had taken my wrist and was placing something cold and hard in my hands, and when I looked down I saw that he had handed me a pipe. I looked up at him and he just nodded once. I raised it over my head and put my full weight into the swing, but stopped just before the pipe could come in contact with his face. I just smiled at the way he cringed and shook in frightened anticipation, then I dropped the pipe with a loud clatter next to his head, causing him to jump again. "You're not fucking worth it," I said, then spat blood in his face. I gave him a swift kick in the ribs, then another, and on the second impact I felt the bones crack against my foot. Dmitri was tugging on my arm when sirens sounded in the distance, and we were running off toward the other end of the alleyway and headed back to our hotel before anyone could see us.

"We still have to get the safe deposit box -- "

"No. We have to go now. The plane's already fueled, we're leaving."

He just dragged me back to the hotel, swiftly packed up our few items and we were in a cab to the airport within the hour. I broodily boarded the plane and sulked at the window, avoiding making eye contact with Dmitri. It felt good to kick that asshole in the ribs, just like he did to me years ago, but I still didn't have what I'd come for. He leaned toward me and brushed my hair away from my face, but I pushed him away before he could kiss me. I felt him stare at me a moment, then he gently took my hand, and I felt something small and cold against my palm. I jerked my head around and looked down at the cornish crow, captured in flight over the deer. It had been four years since I'd seen it. A great sense of pride filled me when I once again saw my father's surname emblazoned across the bottom.   I silently slipped the ring back onto my right hand, and resolved not to ask how or when he did it.

Closure: Part IV

Sun, 22 Oct 2006 04:01:11 GMT

Part I | Part II | Part III
I hadn't expected my sleep to be so restless that night. I was exhausted and terribly inebriated, so I had no problem falling asleep - the trick was staying asleep. It's kind of like when you're semiconscious, and you're in that waking dream state, where you dream you're just walking along the street and then you trip and fall, and just before your face comes in contact with the pavement is the moment you awake with a very obvious jump, awakening anyone else who is in bed with you.

It was like that every two hours. He must be a rather light sleeper, because each time it just took one sharp intake of breath and he was awake, asking what was wrong, not to lie to him, he could tell when something was wrong...when really nothing was wrong. I wasn't nervous and I wasn't afraid. Honestly - and I would hate to have to admit this to him, of all people - I'm just unaccustomed to having a bedmate. When you've grown into the habit of sleeping alone, and not ever spending the night with anyone save for once in your lifetime...it's quite hard to successfully fall asleep when those habits are disrupted. It was something of a distraction, having his heartbeat pounding in my ear and his arm around me, invading my space...yes, those things are comforting, to a point, but then there's a time when you just have to go to sleep.

I figured I'd let him take advantage of the situation and I'd sleep later. Besides that, it had really settled in what I was going to do, and I was a little too excited to sleep anyway.

We were on a short flight to Ankara the next day. I stared at my open passport on my lap, trying to see my last name from a Turkish point of view. My Austrian name is the one I have displayed there now. My Romanian accent is long gone now...unless of course I've been back home for some while and temporarily picked it back up, which I always do...I mentally went through American phonetics, focusing on all of the sounds I had trouble with when I first learned English, making sure that when I spoke I hid the slight roll of the R, the overemphasis on accented syllables, remembering not to subconsciously pronounce my w's as v's...If I had to, I could always exaggerate the southern accent I've learned to mimic from living in Texas so long.

I looked to Dmitri, who was sitting calmly next to me. I surveyed him when he wasn't paying attention, thinking to myself that this is the most Romanian person I've ever seen in my life, how in the hell is he ever going to get past customs? The long dark hair, the white skin, the sharp features, the piercing green eyes, his calm yet rigid posture, holding himself like a prince and dressing like one as well...and the accent...he could never hide his accent, no matter how much I coached him. His last name would be a bit of a problem, because nothing is more Romanian than Ionescu, but I figured they certainly can't be as militant as they were that last time.

With Turkey's accession to the EU on the distant horizon, but not before that of Romania and Bulgaria, officials seem to have learned to be a bit more civil for tourists who have Romanian stamps in their passports. A single frown from the official after glancing at our passports, and Dmitri was behind me, his cold, menacing stare daring someone to so much as say something derogatory. I turned and looked up at him, his warning glare at the official nearly making me stop breathing altogether - the brows resting heavily on the bridge of his nose, his eyes cold and unyielding, his expression unreadable, his lips parted as though ready for something to say. I was glad that he reached down and subtly took my wrist just before it could be seen that I was unconsciously reaching for a weapon that wasn't there. Before any tension could build, Dmitri's hard gaze turned into a quick and most convincing smile as he said in broken Turkish that we were graduate students, traveling to do research.

No one so much as looked at us as we passed, and we were treated with the utmost respect as our accommodations were arranged. Our suite was beautiful, and I was impressed that Turks could have such class. Dmitri, ever the fucking genius, had somehow arranged a tour with a Turkish Embassy employee, having requested that it be Omer Yasi, if he was at all available. Our first meeting with him would be that evening, in the hotel restaurant.   I dressed myself appropriately, throwing on a black tailored blazer and pinstripe pants, refusing to wear a gown for these people. Pinstripes were classy enough, I figured, and I went down to the restaurant alone, telling Dmitri that he could meet me there. I tried not to really look at anyone, self-consciously monitoring my gestures for fear that something might give me away as a filthy Romanian. Which was a silly thing to do, because Romanians are just as free to enjoy Turkish tourism as anyone else, but I couldn't quite forget the isolated incident from four years ago.  I was seated and ordered a drink.

Dmitri joined me moments later, a glass of scotch already in his hand. I raised an eyebrow. "Scotch, really?"

He shrugged. "It's trendy. And classy."

A tall, darkly tanned man with way too much beard and a good-natured smile was later shown to our table, and he introduced himself in flawless English as Omer Yasi. We were high-paying students on a private tour, we would be sure to receive only the best of hospitality on our vacation. I studied him in silence, realizing that he looked and acted nothing like his brother. This was a man of rounded culture and education, an apt diplomat with amazing credentials. I wondered how it was that this man could have been raised by such a militant and bigoted family. How could the parents that spawned Ahmet Yasi have produced this? Did he still talk to his brother? Did he know where he was? Or, more like...did he know where my ring was...Neither of us dared to ask the question that begged to be asked. Instead, we just politely answered his questions about the direction of our studies, what made us choose this particular field, etc., etc. And then the first bombshell of the evening:

"I hear a hint of an accent in your tone, would I be correct in addressing you as domnisoara?"

I could swear I felt my heart slide somewhere into the depths of my stomach. Dmitri slowly lowered his glass to the table. Yasi must have seen the color drain from my face because he immediately dissuaded us from feeling threatened. He informed us that "Turkish diplomacy is currently doing its best to improve foreign hospitality, and that crooked officials have since been removed. It still isn't at its best, but the animosity that was prevalent fifty (and even five) years ago should be on the decline," and that he was terribly sorry for any problems anyone may have given us on our current visit. But that just to be safe, it would be wise for us not to flaunt our nationality.   We both nodded in grim acknowledgment. It was at this point that I'd tired of the meaningless banter, and politely interrupted him.

"If I may...could I ask you a question of a more personal nature?" I didn't wait for his response. "You have a brother. I think his name is - "

"Ahmet is my half-brother," he corrected, then gestured for me to continue. Dmitri and I exchanged a glance. It certainly explained one question that was on both our minds.

I hesitated, having no idea how I would even begin to explain my next question. I tried the ambiguous approach. "I think that he has something of mine."

Before I even finished my sentence, he sighed heavily and looked down. "Christ," he breathed. Dmitri and I exchanged another look.   From the sound of Yasi's tone, he was suddenly aware of the nature of my acquaintance with his brother.

"What is it he took from you?"

"My paternal signet ring. It was of an edged shield displaying a cornish crow flying over a deer, in maroon and gold colors. I don't think you've seen it...?"

He tilted his head to the side for a moment, thinking, then smiled. "One who will not fight unless provoked, a strategist in battle, perceptive to allies. This signifies your father's family?"

I looked away. "It did. Many years ago." I almost said centuries, but it would have sounded dramatic. As if this all wasn't dramatic enough.

"I studied genealogy as an undergraduate," he explained. I learned some of the meanings of the symbols in my research. If you don't mind my asking -- what is the crest of your maternal side?"

I saw Dmitri very subtly shake his head just a millimeter in each direction. His eyes had that warning look to them. Yasi must have caught it because he quickly replied with a knowing "Ah," and gestured for me not to answer the question. "And no, I am afraid I haven't seen it, but I will see what I can do to get it back to you."

"Do you know where it is?"

"I have an idea." He pulled a notepad from his jacket pocket and began to scribble on it. "This is the address of a bank, where he keeps a safe deposit box with the contents in question. I will make arrangements tomorrow so that you will be allowed access to it." He tore off the paper and slid it across the table toward me. Below the address was the security code. Doubtless he didn't want to say it aloud. I simply folded it and slid it into my own pocket, surprised at how trusting I was of a complete stranger.

But I am perceptive to allies, after all. It runs in the family.

Closure: Part III

Mon, 16 Oct 2006 09:35:51 GMT

Part I | Part II

Because of parents that were rarely available, most of my days were spent being escorted to and from school by a bodyguard. Just a precautionary action that most parents with a considerable amount of disposable income did in case someone wanted to ransom their child. Later on in my teen years, Radescu was the one who looked in on me periodically, since I was considered too old for a nanny, but not quite old enough to be fully independent. Occasionally he would appear at school events in place of my parents, such as parent-teacher open houses, football games, etc., and basically just intimidate the hell out of everyone. Not so much out of size -- he wasn't really a big mafia thug type, but mostly out of the way he would hold himself, and generally just because he looks like an important person who could probably kill you if you gave him a reason. Which he could.

He taught me how to defend myself under the possibility that he wouldn't be available to protect me. By the time I reached the age of seventeen, I was considered old enough to be fully independent, therefore no longer needing the assistance of a bodyguard.

It was around this time that I decided to visit home, because I hadn't been back in a couple of years. My grandfather made all the proper arrangements for my return, seeing this as another opportune moment to try and coax me into marrying Dmitri. I liked the guy as a friend and a companion to get into trouble with, but we always had our disagreements, and I didn't see us lasting as an actual couple. He was an alright guy when it came to helping me commit petty theft or pulling practical jokes, but other than that there were moments where I realized that he was an unbelievable asshole. We had explosive arguments, to say the least. He was cunning, and vindictive, and cocky -- pretty much all of the defining factors I had, but at the time was unwilling to realize it about myself. I tried to avoid the subject of marriage with him at all costs, because I knew it would lead to another fight, and I pretty much kept to the subject of devious behavior when with him.

My third day back, he came up with the brilliant idea of stealing some object from some guy he knew that was living in Ankara at the time. For the life of me, I can't remember what the hell it was we were stealing, but it was apparently going to be one helluva laugh by the time he found out it was missing.   Naturally, I accompanied him there to do it. Somehow we got separated at customs; he got through, I didn't. I was put in a little room with no windows and told to wait for some official to come question me.

Apparently being "questioned" means being starved, beaten, then forgotten about for six days. All I remember was some disgusting cow of a man growling obscenities at me in a language I couldn't understand, with the slur "Hun" occasionally thrown in. Which really wasn't an insult, because technically, it's what I am, but the way he spat it at me, it was intented as a derogatory remark.   He smelled of sweat and raw meat, and his front teeth were graying. I called him a camel jockey, which got me a nice swift kick to the ribs while I was already down. I thought for sure that he would rape me, but he made it clear that nothing would ever compel him to stick it in a filthy Romanian. I didn't have the heart to point out that the word he was looking for was impel, nor the irony in him regarding me as the filthy one. Needless to say, his English was shit. That first day, I figured they just wanted to teach me a lesson. Get caught somewhere where your kind isn't welcome, centuries old antagonism, get knocked around a bit just enough to scare me out of ever coming back, hey, culture, I understand. We're both very territorial peoples, I couldn't argue with that.   I didn't fight back. Despite the fact that I could do considerable damage from what Radescu had taught me, I figured it wasn't wise. If I fought back, it would only piss him off more, or even give him some sick satisfaction and cause him to be even more brutal. It would have been a losing battle anyway. I just took it, and waited for him to throw me out the door, drag me to customs, and tell me never to come back again.

By the time the second day rolled around, I understood that this wasn't the case.   This was more of an excuse to take out an instilled hatred of my culture on an easy target that conveniently fell in his lap. These camel countries, crooked officials with personal vendettas are constantly overlooked. That type of behavior is not condemned. It is treated with a shrug, and then the subject is changed.   I got thrown around a little more, left in the dark again, denied any food. It became a routine. The signet ring I wore on my right hand, the one that I was given on my sixteenth birthday from my father as a symbol of his family, which had the family crest on it, was confiscated. He had a thing for keeping souvenirs from the people he abused.

By the fifth day I was delirious, wandering in and out of lucid moments, and at the point when the excruciating pain from being beaten was beginning to turn into a lingering numbness. The numbness was what scared me. I was wise enough to know that no matter how discomforting pain was, it was at least a reminder that you were still alive. I tried to concentrate on where I felt pain. I couldn't feel it. I probably should have fought back. I laid on the floor and coughed. Blood. There was blood in my lungs. It also hurt to breathe, and I had a hard time focusing. I was pretty sure I had a concussion, and I forced myself to stay conscious. I started having delusions. Then I would shake uncontrollably. It was fucking freezing in that room. I accepted the fact that I was going to die. And then, I wasn't afraid anymore. I was ready.

I didn't cringe, didn't move, didn't even blink when the door opened, and I expected he had come back to finish.   I just laid there and stared forward. I couldn't even feel myself breathe. I felt footsteps coming toward me, and didn't even brace myself for the kick I knew was going to come. It didn't. The feet stopped, just in front of me, and the person crouched down, and said --

"Dulce."

"She's alive."

"And this is surprising to you?" Followed by the bitterest laugh I would ever hear.

I remember hearing my grandfather's voice somewhere outside, followed by Radescu's. I will never forget the cold fury I heard in their tone. I will never forget the strangled scream that came shortly thereafter. (Years later, when I would see the official again for the first time since he beat the shit out of me, I would notice his disfigured face and the fact that it was missing a left eye. It is rather ambiguous, but I'm convinced Radescu did it).

I had slept for quite a while. I suffered three broken ribs, multiple lacerations, a broken ankle, a dislocated shoulder, internal bleeding, and pulmonary edema. And the memory of what happened. I would like to point out that when one has gotten themself into the mindset to die, it is rather hard to go back. You make amends with your inner demons, god, etc., etc., and prepare yourself to go. You don't fight back when they beat you some more. You stop being afraid and let Death take its toll. You can imagine my disappointment when I woke up, and very aware of all the various aches and pains throughout my body, reminding me that I was very much alive. I numbly listened to Dmitri giving me the unnecessary details of the Turkish official who, from early childhood, was raised in a culturally inept environment that encouraged the persecution and eradication of any person of Slavic descent. Whatever. I was tired of it all. I was disgusted. And that nostalgic feeling of apathy was beginning to creep over me. I could feel the hollow sensation in my stomach that was an indicator that I could care less, and that this was a moment where I would close yet another chapter of my life, and forever put the event behind me. I instinctively went to fidget with the signet ring on my right hand, and then felt the sickening sink in my chest at the realization that it wasn't there. That bastard was still alive, and he had my fucking ring. Apathy would cause me to turn numb toward an event that should have scarred me for life, but pride would prevent me from getting closure from it, knowing that that worthless bastard had it.

I eventually healed, to the point where the physical scars had faded enough to hardly be noticed unless one knew where to look, and the emotional scars were nonexistent. But then there's still that empty space in my jewelry box where my signet ring should reside next to the large horrendous costume jewelry I've accumulated over the years. Every time I open that box, I see that empty spot. And it reminds me of something I should probably go do, but never actually make plans to do, because of this reason or that reason.

I want my fucking ring back.

Closure: Part II

Thu, 12 Oct 2006 21:12:31 GMT

Part I

I had flown commercial before, but never internationally. Otherwise I would just fly on my grandfather's company jet. Dmitri and I went with American Airlines, departing from DFW in Dallas at seven in the evening, layover in London, Bucharest by afternoon the following day. A tiring drive the rest of the way to Sibiu.

Needless to say, roughly 40 hours travel time is enough to dissuade one from traveling commercial.

Judging from the mildly pissed expression on my grandfather at our unexpected arrival, he had some notion as to why we were there. He didn't speak a word to us, just motioned us inside and offered us the obligatory glass of slivovitz. I politely accepted and took a sip, then took it up to the bedroom suite reserved for me when I visit, locked the door, and immediately dumped it in the sink in the adjoining bathroom. It's a stupid drink with a stupid popularity. And I've always preferred Scotch or Stroh, because I'm the shittiest Romanian ever. The only thing that lured me back out of my isolation was the smell of food, and I saw that two extra seats had already been arranged for us at the table. Dmitri was already settled next to an empty seat that was meant for me. My grandfather serenely watched me from his seat at the end of the table as I sat down, and I tried not to look at him. I could feel his expressionless eyes on me, his unsmiling yet unfrowning mouth patiently waiting to speak. I knew he wasn't going to say anything until I did, and that the stare -- the one that I've been told by others that I mimic flawlessly, yet unconsciously -- would last until I spoke.

"Opreşte asta," I said quietly. Stop that. I didn't look at him. I saw Dmitri raise his head out of the corner of my eye, and he was frowning.

"Veniţi subit. Aş putea a întreba de ce?" You have come unannounced. May I ask why?

I winced when Dmitri slapped his hand flat on the table. "Nu fii sfios." Don't be coy. "And don't patronize Shivawn, she is above that."

"Don't speak for me," I snapped at him.

"Imi pare rau." I apologize. He was always humble when rebuked or inadvertently insulted. I knew him well enough that that was the time to fear him the most.

I rolled my eyes. "You two are making a big deal out of nothing."

"It is a big deal," Dmitri said matter-of-factly.

"It's not."

I finished eating in silence, then proceeded to get delightfully drunk. I thought about it more, considered whether their apprehension was rational, and the more I thought about it, the more annoyed I became. I raided the liquor cabinet when no one was looking, and much to my delight, I found a welcoming green bottle of Pernod Fils hidden near the back. Cheap, horrid shit, so it would achieve a very particular type of inebriation. I found a sugar cube and the required spoon and prepared the first of what I conceived would be many, many drinks.   I downed it with a wince, steadying myself against the counter as it burned my stomach and seemingly exploded behind my eyes.

I took the bottle, the spoon, and several sugar cubes back up to my bedroom to finish my night in peace. After the second drink, I hazily recall Dmitri slipping into the room. He came up beside me and leaned against the dressing table, his back turned to the mirror, and stared at me. I didn't stare back. After a couple of minutes of silence, he reached over and picked up the bottle, took a look at the label and made a disapproving sound. "Trying to kill yourself off before he does, are you?"

I didn't answer. My head was starting to hurt and the room was swimming. He mistook my queasiness as cold disgust.

"I don't mean to blow things out of proportion. He was arrested weeks ago. Forgive me if I have a hard time forgetting the image of you four years ago when he was through with you."

His words were starting to echo. Everything had a hazy halo around it, and I had a hard time focusing.

He took the glass from my hand and serenely stared at me as he took a drink, then winced. "Jesus. Did you dilute this properly?" He coughed a bit, then downed the rest of the glass and rested it on the dressing table, still calmly watching me. His tolerance for hard liquor had always been much higher than mine -- he did spend most of his former years in Russia, after all.

"He wants Radescu to accompany you to Ankara," he said matter-of-factly, coming around behind me to rub my shoulders.

"I knew he would," I managed to say, enunciating my words carefully as I could hardly find the mental capacity to even speak.

"I told him I'd accompany you instead."

I turned around a little too quickly, and he put a hand out to steady me. "No. You're terrible at hiding your accent, I don't want there to be any problems at customs."

He stared at me in irritation. "I can easily pass as a Russian, if I have to."

"Yeah, that'll go over loads better with them, you know." My tone was as bitter as the taste in my mouth. I felt dizzy. I could hear my own slowing heartbeat as a defeaning repetitive thud in my ears, and it was making my headache worse. I clenched my teeth when the chills started. Absinthe is bad. It was the extent of coherence my mind was capable of producing at the moment. Dmitri was talking at me. Absinthe is bad. He was holding me by the shoulders and was attempting that surreptitious guy thing, the thing where he lightly tugs at you firmly enough that you just kind of fall right into him, without it looking intentional. Of course there could only be one true reason for why he'd come to visit me tonight. After all, the forty hour trip and the exhausted night in the hotel in London certainly didn't permit time, and I'd always figured Dmitri too classy for the Mile High Club. It was awkward for me, because I'd always sort of seen him as sexless, and I'd assumed he'd felt the same of me. My forehead somehow found its way to Dmitri's shoulder, and he smelled good. I focused on his dark hair falling over his shoulders. I felt his cool fingertips fidgeting with the hem of my shirt, and all I could think was I suppose, in some sort of defeatist, apathetic consent. I fought to stay conscious.

"Aflu ea dificil a-şi aminti ca guşti aproape miroşi," he whispered. I find it hard to remember if you taste as good as you smell. I was too drunk to suppress the derisive snort that was muffled by the fabric of his blazer. His nose was in my hair, and he inhaled deeply. Seriously, not now. He moved my hair away from my shoulder, and his lips brushed against my neck. I rolled my eyes and pushed him back. I fucking hated that shit. The dull throbbing in my temples became a searing pain, and along with every terrible migraine comes the nausea, and I took slow, deep breaths to try and get rid of it. I briefly mused over how simple it would be for this situation if I just threw up on him, but then I was finding it hard to stand.

"Dulce -- " I heard him say, his voice somewhat urgent. It's the name he sometimes calls me, which literally translates into sweet or lovely.   He was holding me firmly, and looking at me with slight concern. My legs must have given out.

"How much did you have to drink?" He waved off the notion as soon as he asked it. It was obvious I was no longer capable of speaking.

I think that was about the time I passed out.

Closure: Part I

Wed, 11 Oct 2006 06:25:02 GMT

Dmitri has helped me recount some of the parts that were hazy to me, and I've created it into a sort of narrative to distract from its seriousness. And, you know, to make it not boring.

I saw you before I ordered my drink in the lounge. I saw you before I even walked through the door. You were coming down the stairs. I didn't even have to see your face to know it was you. That undeniable swagger. You were following your own self-important no-eye-contact rule -- you didn't even look the waiter in the face as you ordered your drink -- and then you pushed through everyone, regardless of who was in your way, you just forced them aside like you do with everyone else, staring down that godawful hawk nose of yours. I hate you, but I was glad to see you. You must have forgotten. The scars have healed. Shall I reopen them? Perhaps make a few new ones? You know what your problem is. You've always ever been so close but not quite, and that every time, you're so persuasive -- or lucky -- you are actually convinced that you cannot die. You can still bleed. You smirk because you think you're just going to walk away from this one like you always do. I understand though, that you are truly honest when you say you aren't afraid of death. You're not. But you would probably be afraid of being brutally tortured, if that was on the menu -- which it is. You were right when you said that the best way to avoid death is to want it too badly. How satisfying, I don't think I've ever seen your face without the smirk.

I was silent for a full minute, then nodded in approval. Your English has improved, I see.

I was kind of satisfied when he backhanded me across the face.

[[guestbook]]

Fri, 15 Sep 2006 05:49:35 GMT

Because the disabled comments can be annoying sometimes, yeah?