Post by Roger Clemmings on Dec 18, 2013 10:45:58 GMT -8
The man bent over the desk was barely past thirty, but looked ten years senior. The piles of books around him suggested his scholarly lean. The candle flickered in the draft that the pieced together home allowed past the shoddy workmanship.
Muttering under his breath, the long haired gentleman with ink stained fingers fervently scribbled in multiple languages at once, jumping from one of the five half-written in tomes on the wide platform that was an insult to true desks everywhere.
The year was in the late 1800s, and the time was well past nightfall. The crunch of frozen grass outside was ignored, another sound that was lost in the ever changing and constantly interrupting world outside the 'library', as he was oft to call the ramshackle place he resided.
A voice called out of the darkness, one he knew he should know, but didn't. 'Are you ever coming home?' She spoke with more chill than the wind blowing outside, and while the question was posed, she knew the answer without him having to speak. Knew it by heart, and even mouthed the words as he said them, without looking up from his pile of pages.
'I'm almost done..' Was all he'd offer, a tiny portion of his attention trying to place the important voice, and why it sounded so displeased.
'I'm sure you are, Roger, I'm sure you are.' The woman said, bitterly, as she turned to let the crumbling door slam behind her.
He continued writing, once the annoying intrusion was gone, it ceased to matter any longer.
Then, there was a piercing scream that shattered the pleasant quiet he'd just attained once more. The man furrowed his brow, and concentrated with more intensity, blocking out the shouts and pleas that were far too close for his liking.
Then, the screams quieted, thankfully. A few moments later, another shrieking plea for help erupted from a nearby location. In frustration, he scrubbed his head, smearing ink and ashes in his hair and on his face. Much more quickly, these were silenced, earning a thankful sigh from the writer.
Hours later, the figure straightened up from the table, groaning as the pain in his back lessened. Something faded into view, just at the edge of the candle's light. Narrowing his eyes, he focused and realized someone was standing there, watching him with what could only be described as fascination.
'You..' The unknown intruder spoke softly. 'You were motionless, except for your hand, for the last three hours.' It sounded like awe, to the author's ears.
'I only need to move my hand, when I'm writing.' Came the response, a mixture of annoyance and pleasure in his tone. 'If I were to move anything else, it would waste energy, thus causing the process to take even longer.'
The person nodded and inched forwards, further from the darkness and into the light. There was an ethereal beauty to the woman, despite her being covered in blood.
This was registered as the man neatly sorted the books he'd been working with, glancing up once more of the woman was visible. 'You seem to have injured yourself. I have knowledge of the medical field, perhaps you could tell me what injury you have...'
The woman giggled, a sound that was slow to begin but rapidly became rapid fire sounds of mirth, before being silenced in a sudden 'Ha! I'm not hurt. There was a woman nearby, and her kid, I was hungry.' The dainty shoulder shrugged, indicating her indifference to the deaths she caused.
'A woman you say?' He echoed, then somewhere in the recesses of his fact filled brain, he remembered that he was married. He heard the screams that had bothered his writings, and identified them as his own wife and their child.
Tapping a finger on the desktop, he calculated the possibility of their being alive still, considered the amount of blood on the woman before him, and decided that the chances of that being possible were slim. 'They're dead.' He said, his voice calm yet final.
A nod is what he received in return. 'Yesssir, both`a`them.' The sing-song voice confirmed his thought.
A distracted thought suggested he should be bothered by this, but there was no real reason for him to follow it, with the current conversationalist before him. He would pursue that thought in private.
'Well then, what do you want? Am I to be the next streak on your tattered wardrobe?' His brow raised, as he looked her over with great scrutiny.
'Nope! I have a better idea for you!' She explains, and leaps atop the table, barely causing it to sway with her added weight.
Again, a portion of his brain told him that this shouldn't be possible, as the weight bearing amount of the desk was minimal, and the books were already straining it. Thus, the piles of books strewn on either side of the table and chair, and the large thrown together bookshelves within easy reach.
Self-preservation caused him to lean back, but the movement was slow and studious, as if he'd performed it in molasses. 'What, if I may ask, is that, then?'
Giggling once more, the woman bit her own tongue, causing it to bleed profusely. His brows narrowed, a flicker of concern fled across his face before he realized she was going to kiss him.
The rustic taste of blood being forced into his mouth was a surprise, along with the iron hard grip that the woman held his head in, while she stuck her bleeding appendage down his throat.
Choking on the blood, he did the only thing he could thing of, he swallowed. And, swallowed, as the surprisingly tolerable liquid seeped down his throat.
Finally releasing him, the woman placed a bloody kiss on his forehead, and smiled a broad smile. 'I'll see you again!' She said, and darted out through the door before he could say anything in response.
Sitting there, stunned and silent, it dawned on him as the sun's first light crept through the broken boards of the shack, that his family was dead. Their killer had forced him to drink their blood, and then escaped.
Reaching out for a fresh pile of pages, he began to mutter to himself. Without looking, he grasped for a quill, and stirred the ink.
The smell of urine that he didn't remember releasing, didn't bother him, because he once more bent over the desk and began to urgently scribble a new bit of text, unaware that his entire life had been altered in a single evening.
Muttering under his breath, the long haired gentleman with ink stained fingers fervently scribbled in multiple languages at once, jumping from one of the five half-written in tomes on the wide platform that was an insult to true desks everywhere.
The year was in the late 1800s, and the time was well past nightfall. The crunch of frozen grass outside was ignored, another sound that was lost in the ever changing and constantly interrupting world outside the 'library', as he was oft to call the ramshackle place he resided.
A voice called out of the darkness, one he knew he should know, but didn't. 'Are you ever coming home?' She spoke with more chill than the wind blowing outside, and while the question was posed, she knew the answer without him having to speak. Knew it by heart, and even mouthed the words as he said them, without looking up from his pile of pages.
'I'm almost done..' Was all he'd offer, a tiny portion of his attention trying to place the important voice, and why it sounded so displeased.
'I'm sure you are, Roger, I'm sure you are.' The woman said, bitterly, as she turned to let the crumbling door slam behind her.
He continued writing, once the annoying intrusion was gone, it ceased to matter any longer.
Then, there was a piercing scream that shattered the pleasant quiet he'd just attained once more. The man furrowed his brow, and concentrated with more intensity, blocking out the shouts and pleas that were far too close for his liking.
Then, the screams quieted, thankfully. A few moments later, another shrieking plea for help erupted from a nearby location. In frustration, he scrubbed his head, smearing ink and ashes in his hair and on his face. Much more quickly, these were silenced, earning a thankful sigh from the writer.
Hours later, the figure straightened up from the table, groaning as the pain in his back lessened. Something faded into view, just at the edge of the candle's light. Narrowing his eyes, he focused and realized someone was standing there, watching him with what could only be described as fascination.
'You..' The unknown intruder spoke softly. 'You were motionless, except for your hand, for the last three hours.' It sounded like awe, to the author's ears.
'I only need to move my hand, when I'm writing.' Came the response, a mixture of annoyance and pleasure in his tone. 'If I were to move anything else, it would waste energy, thus causing the process to take even longer.'
The person nodded and inched forwards, further from the darkness and into the light. There was an ethereal beauty to the woman, despite her being covered in blood.
This was registered as the man neatly sorted the books he'd been working with, glancing up once more of the woman was visible. 'You seem to have injured yourself. I have knowledge of the medical field, perhaps you could tell me what injury you have...'
The woman giggled, a sound that was slow to begin but rapidly became rapid fire sounds of mirth, before being silenced in a sudden 'Ha! I'm not hurt. There was a woman nearby, and her kid, I was hungry.' The dainty shoulder shrugged, indicating her indifference to the deaths she caused.
'A woman you say?' He echoed, then somewhere in the recesses of his fact filled brain, he remembered that he was married. He heard the screams that had bothered his writings, and identified them as his own wife and their child.
Tapping a finger on the desktop, he calculated the possibility of their being alive still, considered the amount of blood on the woman before him, and decided that the chances of that being possible were slim. 'They're dead.' He said, his voice calm yet final.
A nod is what he received in return. 'Yesssir, both`a`them.' The sing-song voice confirmed his thought.
A distracted thought suggested he should be bothered by this, but there was no real reason for him to follow it, with the current conversationalist before him. He would pursue that thought in private.
'Well then, what do you want? Am I to be the next streak on your tattered wardrobe?' His brow raised, as he looked her over with great scrutiny.
'Nope! I have a better idea for you!' She explains, and leaps atop the table, barely causing it to sway with her added weight.
Again, a portion of his brain told him that this shouldn't be possible, as the weight bearing amount of the desk was minimal, and the books were already straining it. Thus, the piles of books strewn on either side of the table and chair, and the large thrown together bookshelves within easy reach.
Self-preservation caused him to lean back, but the movement was slow and studious, as if he'd performed it in molasses. 'What, if I may ask, is that, then?'
Giggling once more, the woman bit her own tongue, causing it to bleed profusely. His brows narrowed, a flicker of concern fled across his face before he realized she was going to kiss him.
The rustic taste of blood being forced into his mouth was a surprise, along with the iron hard grip that the woman held his head in, while she stuck her bleeding appendage down his throat.
Choking on the blood, he did the only thing he could thing of, he swallowed. And, swallowed, as the surprisingly tolerable liquid seeped down his throat.
Finally releasing him, the woman placed a bloody kiss on his forehead, and smiled a broad smile. 'I'll see you again!' She said, and darted out through the door before he could say anything in response.
Sitting there, stunned and silent, it dawned on him as the sun's first light crept through the broken boards of the shack, that his family was dead. Their killer had forced him to drink their blood, and then escaped.
Reaching out for a fresh pile of pages, he began to mutter to himself. Without looking, he grasped for a quill, and stirred the ink.
The smell of urine that he didn't remember releasing, didn't bother him, because he once more bent over the desk and began to urgently scribble a new bit of text, unaware that his entire life had been altered in a single evening.
