Devolution
Feb. 22nd, 2010 10:50 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
annwfyn.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
writing_shadowsHorcón, Chile: 1969
It's dusk and the air is blue. Blue like lilac and blue like spindrift, spinning madly in the evening breeze. There's still a faint trace of the day's stinging nettle rays, rubbing painfully across my skin to remind me that I'm not really alive.
Cold thoughts. Morbid thoughts. But they won't last for long.
Cold clay tiles beneath my feet, and then the warmth of the kitchen heat. Someone is cooking, and I can smell the wine that she stirs into a pot. It feels like she is stroking me with velvet as she does so.
They are both there.
Pretty is standing at the counter. She was pretty when she came to me. She is soft, and smells of rosemary, for all the memories she doesn't carry with her. She tends to pick up the scent of hearth and home, mixed with money, which makes her feel extra secure to me.
Money can buy you security. Anyone who says different is either deluded or just lying.
Paint is perched on a bar stool beside her, leaning in to say something. He was painted when he came to me, and beautiful when I could still see him clearly. He has never been soft, but rather he is my steel. He is rust and leather, blood and steel, and that constant tantalizing touch of the colours that run beneath his skin.
He'd kill for me, you know. I like that. I have no interest in those who are willing to die.
Pretty notices me first. I can tell because she stops pouring out the wine.
"Madame?" she says, and there's a flurry of movement as Paint turns around as well. The warmth and comfort in the kitchen is disrupted briefly. I don't want that to happen. I don't want it to change. I want to breathe in the wine and melting butter, while the smell of the sea floats in on the wind.
"Don't stop," I say, padding across the kitchen floor. I linger beside Pretty, letting my hair trail across her cheek as I bend across to sniff at the wine and the bolognaise she's cooking. "I love the smell of food cooking."
Paint's hands land firmly on my waist, pulling me away from Pretty and closer to him. He's been with me a long time, and sometimes shows odd flickers of possessiveness. I let him bury his face in my hair for a while, raising a hand to touch his cheek lightly.
"Is the moon very bright tonight?" I ask, absent mindedly. Lately, my eyesight has been failing, and the moon is very far away.
"It's beautiful," Pretty says, and I can still hear the smile in her voice, even thought I can't see it clearly.
I tilt my head back a little, so I'm resting against Paint's chest, and close my eyes.
"Open the window?" I say, and wait. Sure enough, the window opens. There's a wind coming in from the sea, and it will show me everything I need to see.
I'm happy here, in this rambling little house beside the sea.
*********************************
Horcón, Chile: 1971
Voices. Somewhere. They are talking. No. Shouting. They must be shouting. Otherwise I wouldn't be able to hear anything. My hearing has become so very bad of late.
"She's covered in blood!"
Pretty is upset. I don't know why. Why is she screaming?
I rest my head on my knees, and feel the cool wetness of the blood on my skin rubbing against my cheek. Is that what has upset Pretty? But she can't be upset. She loves me.
Paint's voice is lower. He's as sharp as a chainsaw. Paint won't be upset. He never is. He'll come through in a minute and clean me up. Why am I covered in blood?
I rub some of the blood into my skin. I remember once someone told me that everyone bleeds the same. It isn't true. I can still scent the man who's blood this is. Still smell the coldness, still smell the gun-metal stench that settles at the back of my throat.
Footsteps. A shadow. I can see that well at least. God, there's too much blood. I can't smell anything else. Paint. It must be Paint. Too tall to be Pretty.
"Let's get you cleaned up," he says, soft and gentle.
"I found him," I said.
"Tell me about it later, love," he says. He shouldn't really talk to me that way, but I've never really wanted to be anyone's mistress at home. And he's been with me a long time now. I don't reprimand him, but when he lifts me up, I say again "I found him.
"I remembered, you see. He came for my mother, in 1940. He smelt of gun metal, and had no sweat on him."
Paint strokes my hair and doesn't say anything.
I smile, a strange feeling of joy coming over me.
"I found him," I say again, and tilt my head up, glorying in the scent of my perfect ghoul, and my perfect kill. "And if Pretty doesn't like it, you can send her away."
*********************************
Patagonia, 1974
"So," the Sundown Man says, with a kind of wearied good humour. "You reckon we're close,"
I ignore him entirely. I know we're close. The scent has become to almost overwhelm me. Why on earth would anyone wear cologne that strong? I've already had to tie a scarf around my nose to protect myself.
I dislike this kind of work, but I want my reward at the end of it. There's another man who's scent I remember and I will have his hide.
I'm told that they took our skin, in their camps and in their prisons. Maybe that's just one of those horror stories that come out of every war, although what need is there to make up stories about them, about the living skeletons that they found shambling the dust?
I don't know. I don't think I care. Now I can take their hides, and it feels good.
The Sundown Man is talking again. I can't hear him. I have difficulty hearing anything these days, unless I concentrate very hard. It doesn't matter.
Up ahead. G-d, we're close now. Soon I'll hang back. Point the way. Then the Sundown Man goes in. There will be blood, and screaming. Later tonight, I'll go home to the house with the corrugated iron roof, where Paint has been playing with knives and he'll clean me up, with half cold water in a rusty tin bath. It's just the two of us now, and most of the time I try and not think about that.
Ghouls shouldn't be able to leave.
Yet they do.
My Sire said that to make a ghoul was to make a slave.
He lied.
I miss the house by the sea. I miss the smell of the sea, mixed with the smell of wine. I miss clean bed linen, and soft wool blankets. I miss flowers from the garden and I miss being able to laugh.
"Look," the Sundown Man says. "Are we nearly there? Coz I'm getting kind of edgy if you know what I mean."
I stop and kneel down. Mud, wood, flowers. All strong, but not as strong as the bad cologne I'm tracking. I wrinkle my nose in disgust.
"Just up ahead," I say. I close my eyes for a moment, and then, underneath it all, I catch another scent. Cold gun-metal lingers in the air, and I inhale until my empty lungs are full to bursting with that stench.
"Be careful how you kill them," I say, and open my eyes for a moment to smile at the Sundown Man. "I don't want you to ruin the skin."
It's dusk and the air is blue. Blue like lilac and blue like spindrift, spinning madly in the evening breeze. There's still a faint trace of the day's stinging nettle rays, rubbing painfully across my skin to remind me that I'm not really alive.
Cold thoughts. Morbid thoughts. But they won't last for long.
Cold clay tiles beneath my feet, and then the warmth of the kitchen heat. Someone is cooking, and I can smell the wine that she stirs into a pot. It feels like she is stroking me with velvet as she does so.
They are both there.
Pretty is standing at the counter. She was pretty when she came to me. She is soft, and smells of rosemary, for all the memories she doesn't carry with her. She tends to pick up the scent of hearth and home, mixed with money, which makes her feel extra secure to me.
Money can buy you security. Anyone who says different is either deluded or just lying.
Paint is perched on a bar stool beside her, leaning in to say something. He was painted when he came to me, and beautiful when I could still see him clearly. He has never been soft, but rather he is my steel. He is rust and leather, blood and steel, and that constant tantalizing touch of the colours that run beneath his skin.
He'd kill for me, you know. I like that. I have no interest in those who are willing to die.
Pretty notices me first. I can tell because she stops pouring out the wine.
"Madame?" she says, and there's a flurry of movement as Paint turns around as well. The warmth and comfort in the kitchen is disrupted briefly. I don't want that to happen. I don't want it to change. I want to breathe in the wine and melting butter, while the smell of the sea floats in on the wind.
"Don't stop," I say, padding across the kitchen floor. I linger beside Pretty, letting my hair trail across her cheek as I bend across to sniff at the wine and the bolognaise she's cooking. "I love the smell of food cooking."
Paint's hands land firmly on my waist, pulling me away from Pretty and closer to him. He's been with me a long time, and sometimes shows odd flickers of possessiveness. I let him bury his face in my hair for a while, raising a hand to touch his cheek lightly.
"Is the moon very bright tonight?" I ask, absent mindedly. Lately, my eyesight has been failing, and the moon is very far away.
"It's beautiful," Pretty says, and I can still hear the smile in her voice, even thought I can't see it clearly.
I tilt my head back a little, so I'm resting against Paint's chest, and close my eyes.
"Open the window?" I say, and wait. Sure enough, the window opens. There's a wind coming in from the sea, and it will show me everything I need to see.
I'm happy here, in this rambling little house beside the sea.
Horcón, Chile: 1971
Voices. Somewhere. They are talking. No. Shouting. They must be shouting. Otherwise I wouldn't be able to hear anything. My hearing has become so very bad of late.
"She's covered in blood!"
Pretty is upset. I don't know why. Why is she screaming?
I rest my head on my knees, and feel the cool wetness of the blood on my skin rubbing against my cheek. Is that what has upset Pretty? But she can't be upset. She loves me.
Paint's voice is lower. He's as sharp as a chainsaw. Paint won't be upset. He never is. He'll come through in a minute and clean me up. Why am I covered in blood?
I rub some of the blood into my skin. I remember once someone told me that everyone bleeds the same. It isn't true. I can still scent the man who's blood this is. Still smell the coldness, still smell the gun-metal stench that settles at the back of my throat.
Footsteps. A shadow. I can see that well at least. God, there's too much blood. I can't smell anything else. Paint. It must be Paint. Too tall to be Pretty.
"Let's get you cleaned up," he says, soft and gentle.
"I found him," I said.
"Tell me about it later, love," he says. He shouldn't really talk to me that way, but I've never really wanted to be anyone's mistress at home. And he's been with me a long time now. I don't reprimand him, but when he lifts me up, I say again "I found him.
"I remembered, you see. He came for my mother, in 1940. He smelt of gun metal, and had no sweat on him."
Paint strokes my hair and doesn't say anything.
I smile, a strange feeling of joy coming over me.
"I found him," I say again, and tilt my head up, glorying in the scent of my perfect ghoul, and my perfect kill. "And if Pretty doesn't like it, you can send her away."
Patagonia, 1974
"So," the Sundown Man says, with a kind of wearied good humour. "You reckon we're close,"
I ignore him entirely. I know we're close. The scent has become to almost overwhelm me. Why on earth would anyone wear cologne that strong? I've already had to tie a scarf around my nose to protect myself.
I dislike this kind of work, but I want my reward at the end of it. There's another man who's scent I remember and I will have his hide.
I'm told that they took our skin, in their camps and in their prisons. Maybe that's just one of those horror stories that come out of every war, although what need is there to make up stories about them, about the living skeletons that they found shambling the dust?
I don't know. I don't think I care. Now I can take their hides, and it feels good.
The Sundown Man is talking again. I can't hear him. I have difficulty hearing anything these days, unless I concentrate very hard. It doesn't matter.
Up ahead. G-d, we're close now. Soon I'll hang back. Point the way. Then the Sundown Man goes in. There will be blood, and screaming. Later tonight, I'll go home to the house with the corrugated iron roof, where Paint has been playing with knives and he'll clean me up, with half cold water in a rusty tin bath. It's just the two of us now, and most of the time I try and not think about that.
Ghouls shouldn't be able to leave.
Yet they do.
My Sire said that to make a ghoul was to make a slave.
He lied.
I miss the house by the sea. I miss the smell of the sea, mixed with the smell of wine. I miss clean bed linen, and soft wool blankets. I miss flowers from the garden and I miss being able to laugh.
"Look," the Sundown Man says. "Are we nearly there? Coz I'm getting kind of edgy if you know what I mean."
I stop and kneel down. Mud, wood, flowers. All strong, but not as strong as the bad cologne I'm tracking. I wrinkle my nose in disgust.
"Just up ahead," I say. I close my eyes for a moment, and then, underneath it all, I catch another scent. Cold gun-metal lingers in the air, and I inhale until my empty lungs are full to bursting with that stench.
"Be careful how you kill them," I say, and open my eyes for a moment to smile at the Sundown Man. "I don't want you to ruin the skin."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}