Post by Barnaby Cuthbert on May 5, 2005 14:01:06 GMT -8
Thursday, April 29th 2005
Seattle, Washington
Outside of the Malkavian Elysium
(Last Saturday)
Charisma had been talking about the Painter. I could smell her perfume on the wind, drowning out the city smells, curling around her wrists and throat and sliding into my awareness unbidden. Just then, I knew I didn't want to concentrate on smell of her hair as she pushed the stray strands away from her face to sit behind her ear, but there was something comforting about the smell, something real. On the road of my lost life, it was a signpost I couldn't ignore.
She was talking about the pictures that had appeared all over the Rack over the last few months, images cut from the hidden unlives of the Kindred of Seattle, full of subtle, and not so subtle warnings and metaphors. More signs, more portents.
I wanted to pay attention to them, but in her presence, things changed. What was important became less so, and what was impossible became a persistant increase in gravity, pulling me down like the daysleep, inevitable in it's coming, and impossible to deny.
This, I decided, was precisely the reason that I would deny it to my bones, even as the sound from her rich voice walking next to me resonated through the blood and useless muscles of my body to vibrate against them.
Especially now that the visions had come into my waking hours.
She was talking beside me and I was responding to her, but my mind was elsewhere, feeling her voice and answering in simple grunts and hums. I was thinking about earlier in the Malkavian Elysium, where my madness had shown itself in the form of a blindingly painful flash of red-washed light and a blistering chorus of screams. A face in the darkness, twisted in agony, blood running down his chest. The noise was agony, fear, brutal pain and anger all rolled into one, and it tore through my mind like a flash flood, washing away my hold on reality.
Stacy had been standing right there when it had happened, watching me like she could see inside my head. As the sound of screams had abated, she looked at me and rubbed her temples as if suffering from a headache. At that moment, I had wanted to be miles away from her. Fearing that she had seen through me, into the hollowness that was left behind in my mind.
I feared that she knew, so I made a ridiculous excuse, low blood sugar, and asked to be excused. Charissma had insisted on taking me out to 'get some air', and to spite the lack of breath, it was exactly what I had needed. I tried to ignore the look of knowing suspicion that played on the edges of Stacy's eyes as we left.
So we had walked down the road from the Malkavian Elysium, chatting as we went, and I realized that she, and a few others were the only thing 'real' to me.
That's when it hit me again.
A man on a table - blood and smoke - the smell of burned flesh - the sound of laughter and terror - the smell of rust and oily water - the scrabbling of rats on a stained, concrete floor - leather straps cutting flesh - blood sweat and the taste of knives
I nearly stumbled over on the sidewalk.
"Oh my god." she said, reaching out for me. "Are you all right?"
I drew away from her touch. I could still feel the images of torture crawling like maggots behind my eyes.
"I... I'm fine. I just have... migranes. It's nothing." I lied. My head was pounding. If my heart still beat it would have been slamming against my chest.
"Are you sure?" she asked, concern knotting her face into a pretty scowl.
I continued to lie to her, to tell her that everything was fine. She continued, to spite what she was, to care.
I changed the subject once, twice, three times, and she brought it back to me each time, not pushing, but not letting me get away without knowing that she was there for me, a killer whom she hardly knew.
"I... feel like I can just talk to you. I know it sounds strange but it's been so long since I felt that way about anyone."
It was dangerous. I ignored her insistance, kept the subject on the painter. Kept my mind off of her perfume.
When it struck me a third time, the ground beneath me gave way and I fell through the sidewalk and landed hard on a rusty butcher's table. Leather straps, wet with blood held me down, cutting into my flesh. Burns from candles, cigarettes and the searing burns of holy water marked my chest.
"You know what I miss?" came a woman's female growl. "Leeches."
There was blood, and screams I couldn't help but make, and the dark laughter of someone I couldn't place, even as she cut strips from my skin and laid them in whimsical patterns across my chest.
I came to on the sidewalk with Charisma standing over me, fear covering her features, and mine.
I couldn't help but think that even if I could trust her, it was wrong to put such a burden on her shoulders. I changed the subject again, and barely even smelled her perfume when she bent down to help me up.
Yes. I told myself. This is better.
I hardly smelled her at all.
Seattle, Washington
Outside of the Malkavian Elysium
(Last Saturday)
Charisma had been talking about the Painter. I could smell her perfume on the wind, drowning out the city smells, curling around her wrists and throat and sliding into my awareness unbidden. Just then, I knew I didn't want to concentrate on smell of her hair as she pushed the stray strands away from her face to sit behind her ear, but there was something comforting about the smell, something real. On the road of my lost life, it was a signpost I couldn't ignore.
She was talking about the pictures that had appeared all over the Rack over the last few months, images cut from the hidden unlives of the Kindred of Seattle, full of subtle, and not so subtle warnings and metaphors. More signs, more portents.
I wanted to pay attention to them, but in her presence, things changed. What was important became less so, and what was impossible became a persistant increase in gravity, pulling me down like the daysleep, inevitable in it's coming, and impossible to deny.
This, I decided, was precisely the reason that I would deny it to my bones, even as the sound from her rich voice walking next to me resonated through the blood and useless muscles of my body to vibrate against them.
Especially now that the visions had come into my waking hours.
She was talking beside me and I was responding to her, but my mind was elsewhere, feeling her voice and answering in simple grunts and hums. I was thinking about earlier in the Malkavian Elysium, where my madness had shown itself in the form of a blindingly painful flash of red-washed light and a blistering chorus of screams. A face in the darkness, twisted in agony, blood running down his chest. The noise was agony, fear, brutal pain and anger all rolled into one, and it tore through my mind like a flash flood, washing away my hold on reality.
Stacy had been standing right there when it had happened, watching me like she could see inside my head. As the sound of screams had abated, she looked at me and rubbed her temples as if suffering from a headache. At that moment, I had wanted to be miles away from her. Fearing that she had seen through me, into the hollowness that was left behind in my mind.
I feared that she knew, so I made a ridiculous excuse, low blood sugar, and asked to be excused. Charissma had insisted on taking me out to 'get some air', and to spite the lack of breath, it was exactly what I had needed. I tried to ignore the look of knowing suspicion that played on the edges of Stacy's eyes as we left.
So we had walked down the road from the Malkavian Elysium, chatting as we went, and I realized that she, and a few others were the only thing 'real' to me.
That's when it hit me again.
A man on a table - blood and smoke - the smell of burned flesh - the sound of laughter and terror - the smell of rust and oily water - the scrabbling of rats on a stained, concrete floor - leather straps cutting flesh - blood sweat and the taste of knives
I nearly stumbled over on the sidewalk.
"Oh my god." she said, reaching out for me. "Are you all right?"
I drew away from her touch. I could still feel the images of torture crawling like maggots behind my eyes.
"I... I'm fine. I just have... migranes. It's nothing." I lied. My head was pounding. If my heart still beat it would have been slamming against my chest.
"Are you sure?" she asked, concern knotting her face into a pretty scowl.
I continued to lie to her, to tell her that everything was fine. She continued, to spite what she was, to care.
I changed the subject once, twice, three times, and she brought it back to me each time, not pushing, but not letting me get away without knowing that she was there for me, a killer whom she hardly knew.
"I... feel like I can just talk to you. I know it sounds strange but it's been so long since I felt that way about anyone."
It was dangerous. I ignored her insistance, kept the subject on the painter. Kept my mind off of her perfume.
When it struck me a third time, the ground beneath me gave way and I fell through the sidewalk and landed hard on a rusty butcher's table. Leather straps, wet with blood held me down, cutting into my flesh. Burns from candles, cigarettes and the searing burns of holy water marked my chest.
"You know what I miss?" came a woman's female growl. "Leeches."
There was blood, and screams I couldn't help but make, and the dark laughter of someone I couldn't place, even as she cut strips from my skin and laid them in whimsical patterns across my chest.
I came to on the sidewalk with Charisma standing over me, fear covering her features, and mine.
I couldn't help but think that even if I could trust her, it was wrong to put such a burden on her shoulders. I changed the subject again, and barely even smelled her perfume when she bent down to help me up.
Yes. I told myself. This is better.
I hardly smelled her at all.
