Title: Prettiest Mess
Author: Scynneh
E-mail: scynneh@yahoo.com
Disclaimer: *reaches for a tissue to stifle her laughter* Yeah, sure, and if I own them, please vote for me in the next presidential election- which I shall win by a landside- being female, liberal- and do I need to go any further?
Feedback: Good grief, of course I like that- who doesn't?
Improv 14: hidden, jade, memento, possession
Rating: I shall go for R, a very strong dark 'R', with naughty bits. *eg*
Spoilers: This is in my series after the Darla fiasco.
Author's Notes: I know where I want to take this, but damn it, the bloody vamp is intent on melting everyone into a soppy slushy goodness knows what with his voice. And, y'know what, I shan't complain.
April 2001
*
If
you were an idiot in high school, chances are that no one will take you
seriously, even after you're dead. That truth is beginning to weigh most
heavily on the mass of gelatinous matter that is my brain at the moment.
Having overachieved to compensate for my poverty, I know that my intelligence is
not an acknowledged fact in this city; otherwise how would I have ended up where
I am now, with this fiend of all fiends lounging on my new leather sofa, his
boots propped up on the glossy granite tabletop that I thought clearly showed my
status while not being overly pretentious.
But Angelus, is too comfortable within this setting; one which he has doubtlessly gotten down to a new art form during his tenure as the 'most bloodthirsty vampire ever on The Continent'. A bit of intimidation, overt or not, the temperament of both participants, willing or not, determined that, then seduction drawn sleekly over nerves like the strokes of an accomplished violinist's bow on wires tightened for maximum receptivity.
And that is how I feel when I look at him; no jangle of loose notes in me, no, I am waiting for the first touch of horsehair or the scoring or claws on my body, to let me know that I have veered to far off as to never seen the highway again, or if I do, not with eyes that have been so damaged by life's little lessons.
It's hard to examine a moving target, any predator knows that; the gazelle bleeding on the grass is much easier to eviscerate than one which stands on the fringes of the plains, lamed though it may be.
My assumption about the world is that it isn't there. Humans are pattern recognizers- the first homo sapiens able to identify the scent of a Saber-toothed tiger was going to survive longer than his fellows who did not share his senses.
We create our reality. And we know we're right because others of our kind confirm what we have seen and heard. If you learn something, it will change you, without that result, there is no point in the learning process.
Certain beliefs have come clear to me upon my arrival into the bosom of L.A.'s darkness: vampires make poor clients, and even worse enemies. If they're not killing civilians right and to both lefts, then they are after your heart, never mind who you happen to be. Your boss will not understand your fascination with the lover of your enemy, be that as it may that such an association may well give all included a better means of securing interests.
Pathetic in my fragility, I lusted after Darla, no, not that frigid heat, but what she and he had together, not just the certainty, the ability to defend oneself from anything, but their careful proximity to damnation.
Humans cannot be pulled into that vortex without spiraling into some sort of vertigo, madness and a total disregard for life being the most common ones seen just in the past year. But a demon can; or a human/demon hybrid, which is what some researchers still contend that a vampire is. I believe that they might re-evaluate that were they in my position- about to engage the subject in non-recommended contact, or something suitably idiot. And with one of the most well-researched and speculated over subjects ever to stalk this earth.
He only sniffed at the brandy, giving it the attention that good liquor deserves, then deciding to move at last; setting the glass down on a woven coaster, a courtesy that I wasn't expecting, for my furniture as opposed to the inconsideration about to be visited upon my more weak flesh? I want to know, but this full disclosure might give me some sense back, and that is not on my list of needs or wants right now. Steeply sloping roofs and tiles that are too slick to maneuver safely down on are not what I am meant for tonight. Besides, I know that those plans are of no use to me- they wouldn't do good, only more unpleasant ill.
Though what does a vampire like? Blood is on the top of that tray's pile, but what is it that makes vitae so enticing and needed among the undead? I've read accounts covering the phenomenon of being a vampire's paramour, or puppet, crimson mannequin, was one of the terms thought up by New Age bloodsuckers, I think that the Old Ones simply termed them: slaves.
Scholars speak of revitalizing flesh that should not be walking, but they are repulsed by the instances of which they speak, all things inhuman were no good in their eyes, and the totality of their writings only ever touched so little of the deepest experiences one may have. That is what I was most interested in; never was too sensible. Darla's cool palms over my cheeks, her exultant humming voice as she came closer to me and my mortality.
'Warm,' she declared of me. Yes, I was meat sentient and willing there, adamantly opposed to the suggestions of embarking on one of the 'healthy relationships' that Mr.. Manners hinted would lead to my advancement in the company. I'd much rather be embroiled in a thrilling misadventure of the spirit, a collaboration of lovers that sought to seep principals straight out of my marrow and out into the wicked night than starched, laced and false encounters designed to appeal to my superiors. It is true that I made myself another limb on the Darla tree, an unwanted lichen that she tolerated until there was naught else I could provide her with- that I would surrender without stipulations that is. Angelus has wants which may be more explicit, or games may yield up pleasure more easily than those with his Sire.
I look at Holland's death as a necessity for growth; tyrants stay too long in office and have to be thrown out for the whole's survival. With the four year revolution in this country, there is a semi-peaceful transition of power. Yes, people die, because to be out of office is to be deceased in the eyes of the all-important public. Here in L.A., the distinction is much more evident. We just put the bodies in the morgues instead of backrooms after things have been shaken up.
He conquered my personal space as if no lines had been scribbled out from past conversations, and then discovered hidden places under my collar worth sniffing.
"Shall I do to you what the Anabaptists suffered when they attempted to set up a haven for themselves; one which began to have a large following after awhile? The Pope and allied forces took umbrage with a man declaring himself 'King John' and establishing such laws as polygamy. Probably because the thought of someone like this fellow getting so much tail when it was what the other Churchmen couldn't have was a real zinger.
So when one of the leaders of this idyllic community had a vision stating that it was his duty to go outside the safety of the city gates and perform bravely, there was a heap of nastiness waiting for him. He and a group of followers stormed out to heroically save everyone. They were literally slaughtered , cut to pieces, and shot over the wall with slingshots."
That voice tumbled over my ears like the bourbon over heated ice.
Icy fingers brushed over one ear while lips practiced indecency on the other lobe.
"And do you know how they deterred others Lindsey?" I didn't answer, he would tell me, no sense in forgoing the chance to deliver a speech and a mild contemplation at the same time.
"The leaders were tortured. To death." Scratch of nails; an edge found the ticklish joining of neck and shoulder. "They used red-hot irons on those dreamers, can you imagine that Lindsey? Having a metal rod heated past the point of searing, punched through here.." A palm whisked over the flesh of my stomach. "John didn't make a sound throughout his death." More touches, plucking at the shoulders of my shirt; I was glad that I had a hefty clothing allowance, judging from the sounds behind me, Angelus had every intention of tearing my clothes off, and slowly too.
"You'd look so beautiful like that Linds," continued that voice. "Pain and that intolerable desire, hips gyrating in a dance that you can't help but promote, begging, you'd bring an audience ever inwards with your last puff of breath."
I knew the rest of the tale; the remains of the religious deviants were put inside iron cages and hung over the gates of the city as a warning. Was that how I would be left once this Clan had tapped their fill of me?
Sounded alright because I was, when things were left fluttering in the breeze, competent and capable of fanaticism. Angelus surely recalled my exchanges with Angel as he clung to the edge of righteousness. The 'right way' will not work the system. Wolfram and Hart knew that, and if the entire setup is epileptic, the most humane thing to do is blot up the excess and build from the soil upwards, fresh.
Somehow, while I was revising and filing rationales and consequences off in the corners of my mind, Angelus had discovered weakness in the manufactured garments concealing my body from him and he had simplified things by shredding the fabric that hampered his survey. Bizarre recollections were stirred up from the flotsam clouding my consciousness-descriptions of what the vampire's fingers were doing to me eluded me until a middle school dance burbled in, beat of music cheerful and upbeat, the swaying of a timid boy against his date, becoming more sure, then, there it was:
There was no hindsight bias present, no ‘I knew this would happen sooner or later’, because I hadn’t. Simply nothing was even in the same dimension as what was happening now; my sick amusements were but the flavors of someone who was sick and slurping up fouled life. I had been warned, and prepared for a gruesomely predictable death, in court after a defeat, or in an alley, at the hands of a drunk unaware of my importance. Neglectful those higher powers were, not to inform me in the change of my mien: that I would be found by Darla, that my ever tenuous sense of self would be sheared off at the taproots and I would be tossed out of the wagon to be retrieved by whomever saw something salvageable in the wreck of my pride, stowed as a memento for what uses nothing could tell me.
I had nothing to hold me back, no reflection that would yield up answers; except those eyes of the demon who had found me.
Brown eyes, like finely stirred chocolate, with butterscotch nuggets occasionally revealing themselves in the heights of emotion, ancient, knowledge crystallized in sugar. And that candied quality was dabbed over his alabaster skin so neatly as to make one wonder if it was perfume or his natural scent.
It was an analogy- the shell was mottled, cauterized, and unnoticeable in the mud, but cracked open, the meat inside was so tender, ready to be torn out and devoured.
****
****
He stared at me for a long second, what he thought I didn't know, but I held still under the large, hauntingly fashioned hand that descended on my head, feeling tufts no longer neatly held up.
****
A negligent hand sent him into the embrace of the wall, which seemed to go concave, rejecting him and mercy, endorsing my hold on his flesh.
Freud was right in that, in the West, sex is what makes the world go 'round. Or the lack thereof. Without it, this boy quivered, and as it was held for him to inspect, he was only an infinitesimal distance from what he had attempted to raise, naked and trembling from the miasma that was Soul and Demon, he thought that it could be easily molded, something that would take orders and then submit itself to punishment as neatly as the regretful hound who erred. The mistake was his and experiencing that was clearly paramount on his list of 'Things to Do.'
I swiped a palm across his back and then the cheek that rested on wallpaper that had some inane pattern. His blood looked nice on that surface though, and even more so on my hands as I pulled his head back to get at the dribbles around his mouth. All concerned were lucky- there would be a feast tonight.
Fin