Post by Tennessee Whiskey on Mar 12, 2016 9:43:33 GMT -8
The feeling makes little sense without the physical symptoms that used to accompany it: Heart pounding, mouth dry, breaths heaving, pulse buzzing like flies at her fingertips. Her room is as dark and silent as it always is, ringing in the aftermath of the single ragged gasp that had broken out of her when she'd sat up. Now there's no sound at all, not even her heartbeat in her ears. The last time she felt like this she was trapped in a burning car while winged monsters carried her friend away, and she's well aware that without a functioning endocrine system it doesn't make sense, but that's the least of her worries.
Carefully, she touches her hand to her mouth and is a little surprised when it comes away dry, when she can't find gore slicking her to the elbows. She'd told them she didn't remember the deed, and much of that was true, but she remembers the aftermath like someone who saw it happen to someone else, from the command that locked her spine and yanked her out of her furor to the first detached observation of alarm in the eyes of her sire and, on the rest, mingled disgust and approval. His body hadn't been much of a body anymore. The part of her that had once answered to a name was reminded of pulled pork.
Somewhere, the part of her that had once answered to him was still screaming.
Now, in her cold and silent room half a world away, Whiskey almost remembers what that screaming had felt like, the recollection as distant as she was from her home. They hadn't made her do it again, not the same as that first time, and not for the first time she finds herself wondering if she'd even be capable of it. Not the murder, of course: that she had been training for ceaselessly both before and since. No, it's the rest that might be beyond her now, both the parts that had been a lie and the parts, both before and after, that had not. Lying with her words and actions through an open heart. She doesn't know if she can do it again and, worse, she doesn't know when, not if, they're going to ask it of her.
Carefully, she touches her hand to her mouth and is a little surprised when it comes away dry, when she can't find gore slicking her to the elbows. She'd told them she didn't remember the deed, and much of that was true, but she remembers the aftermath like someone who saw it happen to someone else, from the command that locked her spine and yanked her out of her furor to the first detached observation of alarm in the eyes of her sire and, on the rest, mingled disgust and approval. His body hadn't been much of a body anymore. The part of her that had once answered to a name was reminded of pulled pork.
Somewhere, the part of her that had once answered to him was still screaming.
Now, in her cold and silent room half a world away, Whiskey almost remembers what that screaming had felt like, the recollection as distant as she was from her home. They hadn't made her do it again, not the same as that first time, and not for the first time she finds herself wondering if she'd even be capable of it. Not the murder, of course: that she had been training for ceaselessly both before and since. No, it's the rest that might be beyond her now, both the parts that had been a lie and the parts, both before and after, that had not. Lying with her words and actions through an open heart. She doesn't know if she can do it again and, worse, she doesn't know when, not if, they're going to ask it of her.