2011-10-07

[Requiem] Life Moves On

Being dead is like being cursed only to ever feel the reflections of life. Being dead is like being cursed to only feel the hollow, empty echoes of emotion that we once felt. Being dead was one long, boring eulogy for the life that we once lived. And being dead was greatly improved by him.

Even as the emotional and physical ties that had made Danny cling to him faded, and the chasm left in Danny’s chest began to heal, there was no denying that for a short while, his life was better because Corben had loved him. He remembered the anger hot in his gut, the rage that he felt that forced him to make stupid decisions. He remember heading back to his flat that night and forcing that scumbag Gangrel to flee. Even that act of spiteful, pitiful revenge did nothing to take away the pain.

Soon, solace was sought in the veins of other, at first the living and then the dead. He endlessly bound himself to others, drinking their vitae in the hope it would numb the pain. The truth was, it did a little, if only at first, but the reality was that all he really wanted to taste Corben one last time.

He remembered visiting his grave, a place where he should have felt at home, but he soon found himself being cast out by Stefan. He remembered that night well, as he wandered the streets for hours, trying to find something to do, searching for anything that would make him feel alive again.

He remembered the blood on his hands as he hacked that poor woman’s body into pieces, hoping that the thrill of holding a life in his hands would have been enough to rekindle a fire in his chest. The flesh tore so easily and blood flowed so freely. That night dragged on as he dumped the bags around the small town, and the bathroom still had to be cleaned...

There was only one thing that brought back the feeling of Corben’s love, that made his memory stand out against the every decaying and savage backdrop of his mind, and that was the feeling of aggression and anger he felt as he beat that savage Gangrel to submission. The feeling of hatred he had felt the night that Corben had died came back to him as he tore away chunks of the savages flesh.

One year, more or less, since Corben’s death, and he was not about to let it go yet. Being is dead is shit, unless you have something to hold on to.

September Challenge - All hallows eve

The soft glow from the candle flame flickered through the carved turnip lantern sitting on the window sill. It was the only light in the sparse kitchen.  The figure at the table sat looking at the various items arranged before her. The glasses standing in a in a line, their dark liquid taunting her with their heady scent. She felt something in the back of her mind scream with rage and hunger.
 
Shut it and wait your turn.
 
Picking up the silk sash she held the fine material to her face, the scent of him still clinging to the fibres after all the years. William. My Sire, my lover, my salvation. She replaces the item picks up the glass and swallows the liquid. It is bittersweet and burns through the system. She returns the glass to the table.
 
As she looks at the pendant, the circle of silver with runes etched into the surface his leering face swims into view. She can almost hear the lecherous tones as he browbeats her into remembering. Zagreus. My mentor, my guide, my salvation. Putting the pendant down she picks up the shot and chugs it back. Thick like molasses but choking and oppressive the liquid is hard to take, but well worth the effort, the taste and effect sublime. The glass comes down with a heavy thud.
 
The necklace is beautiful. The biggest emerald you can imagine worked into a silver setting of such organic grace it is breath-taking to behold. Sebastien. My downfall, my lover, my obsession. Looking at the plant in the pot behind the glass a faint smile creeps over her lips, tugging gently at the corners. The dark red of the pitcher shows even in the dim light of the candle, a beetle has ceased its struggle and is still in the noxious liquid pooling at its core. Taking the glass carefully in her hand she takes a sip. The silky smooth taste floods her mouth, overwhelming her senses, underneath there is something bitter, twisted, unclean. The rush is immediate; she grins to herself and finishes the contents.
 
The fourth and final station at the table is simple. A ruby, clean pure and unadorned on a simple chain. The contents of the glass behind it gives off a mellow scent, opium, cigars and motor oil. Closing her eyes she can picture a smoky bar, a piano and a man with a rough voice singing songs only crooners remember.
 
The glass remains on the table untouched. I thank you for one more year.
 
She picks up the smooth carved stone from the table. It is no bigger than a pound coin. Her fingers toy with the etchings on its surface as she walks over to the turnip lantern. Tossing the stone into the receptacle and replacing the lid she watches for a moment as the smoke starts to collect on its surface. Tomorrow we shall see what the New Year will bring.  
 
Leaving the candle burning she exits the house and heads into the woods, voices echoing in her head.