Bang! Bang! Bang! The door shook under the force of the knocking, which vaguely resembled the sounds of gunshots ringing in the air. Ishaq wanted to tell the person behind the door to stop; that it was too much for his ears to handle in the small bathroom. He was quite surprised that the lighting still worked. The man had no clue how long the house had been without occupants but it couldn’t have been that long. He gripped the edges of the sink and rocked on back and forth on his heels, sniffing several times between deep inhales. The smell of his own vomit was pungent in the air, teasing the hair of his nostrils right down to the lining of his stomach. In other words, he wanted to throw up yet again.
Bang! Bang! Bang! The ferocious knocking picked up once more once the person on the other side realized he wasn’t going to respond to the first series. “Yo! Alex! What the **** are you doin’ in there?! We’re going up in like five!” He rolled his neck so that his head was face the door, opening his eyes to stare at the door now, envisioning just how pissed off the Asian male hidden behind could be. Rightly so. Alex, whose real name was Ishaq but allowed no one but his own mother to call him such, locked himself in solitude the minute they as a band stepped into the abandoned house. Of course, everyone knew exactly what he had been doing behind closed doors. Everyone knew that Ishaq needed a little bit of white powder encourage to make it past the shakes he was plagued with right before any performance. Or so he said. Deep down though, they all knew…just like he knew, that the dependency of the powder was deeper and darker than that.
It was like getting caught in a spider web. Most of the time, you think you could prevent yourself from getting up in it. You swear you could see the web from a mile away, depending on how the glimmer of the sun hit it. But when you get up front and personal, you get tangled. Once you’re tangled, you’re fucked. You swear that a spider is crawling on you; you can’t seem to get the web and its entirety off. After a while, though, you become perfectly content with just carrying on the rest of the day despite knowing traces of the web is still on you. Despite the fact you never found the spider, you can’t help but be delusional of the idea that the spider is no where on you and if it is, you’re safe anyway. The whole time you’re in that delusion, the spider could be laying its eggs beneath your skin, making a home out of you.
It was a rather disgusting thought and Ishaq had no clue why he was even thinking about such at thing. Alas, often his mind wandered into scenarios most people would rather not spend a second of their time tossing over in there mind. Yet his mind felt elevated when he went there.
What had he been originally thinking about? Yes! The angry Asian male behind the door, yes, that’s what he had been thinking about. Dizzy, poor Dizzy. Ishaq closed his eyes and rubbed at his face, wishing the water was turned on in order to feel the cool liquid upon his skin. It was time-past the time actually. He should have been out of the bathroom ages ago, but he just needed a bit more time. Now, he could feel time slipping through his fingers. No- He opened his eyes and could see time slipping through his fingers. No matter how much he tried to close the gaps between those slender phalanges, time kept slipping by. It reminded him a lot of sand. Yes, time was like san-
“For ****’s sake, Alex! Get the **** out here!”
….There was plenty of time for one last thing, he thought. Digging his hand into his back pocket, he pulled out the small vial. There was no time to be absolutely neat about it. His fingers worked to quickly twist the cap and tossed it to the side. Ishaq considered the back of his hands and made the choice to go with his right. He was a lefty anyway; so; he found much confidence in the fact he could pour a straight line with his left hand. Disposing the vial much like its cap, he plugged up his left nostril and….
“Ale-”
“What the ****, Dizzy. Keep your panties on,” the man laughed out as he swung the door of the bathroom open. Patting the Asian man on his cheek, he leaned in and planted a loud kiss on his opposite cheek. Before the other could reply, Ishaq was shooting off past him toward the packed living room. Yes, yes. There were so many people squished inside the abandoned house, he couldn’t help but to find comfort in the smell of musk and sweat. The smells lingered in the air together, much like tangled lovers in a cave of sheets. There was no way he could make it through the actual crowd, so Ishaq cut through the kitchen. The clanging of bottles rang out one after the other accompanied by the slurs of conversations. It was only ten o’ clock and most were either drunk, high, or a combination of both. Trash cluttered the corners of the house, mingling with the dust and mold which had already made their home in the place. It look like **** but to Ishaq, it was the most warming sight because this is what he woke for every day. The promise of music and the fellowship of the degenerates who came along with the scene. So when he finally stepped into the dining room, which was connected to the living room, he couldn’t help but want to burst.
The rest of the band members, who had been done with set up for a good fifteen minutes, were standing with their instruments.
“Jesus, Alex. You look like ****…” muttered Nicky, adjusting the strap of his guitar on his shoulder. Dizzy finally joined the rest of them, taking his seat behind his drum set. Ishaq knew they were pissed. He knew they were tired of his charades. They enjoyed the party that came along with being in the metal scene but probably not at the level as him. And sure, they considered, hell, even threatened him on several occasions to remove him from the band. Yet, they couldn’t deny the fan base came mostly for Ishaq but stayed for the music. He was their main draw, getting rid of him, meant defeat in the scene.
They couldn’t deny there was a certain magic that sparked when Ishaq stepped up to the mic and picked it up to wrap his fingers around it.
“Harper Rock…” he barked out, pacing back and forth on the carpeted floor while pointing at the crowd, “ I want to see your fuckin’ feet movin’! I want your energy to tear this fuckin’ building’ down!” Jerking the mic’s cord, he wrapped it around his right hand as he stepped up into the face of a fired up fan. Once the possession of the mic had been switched to his right, he pulled the fan by his shirt and screamed…into his face and into the mic.
Just another Saturday night at a Terminal Winter show.
Dirt and Filth ( Jesse Fforde)
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Ishaq (DELETED 4744)
- Posts: 446
- Joined: 10 Sep 2013, 23:07
Dirt and Filth ( Jesse Fforde)
"You're a wolf, boy, get out of this town."
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Jesse Fforde
- Registered User
- Posts: 3487
- Joined: 30 Jun 2012, 09:32
- CrowNet Handle: Fox
Re: Dirt and Filth ( Jesse Fforde)
Life, you know. It’s this thing that doesn’t really exist anymore. As far as I am concerned, the definition of life is one in accordance with time. Life is something that has an expiry date—a beginning and an end, and a whole lot of ******** in the middle. Life no longer applies to the thing that I am living. I do not see the sun, I do not have a day job. I like to kill people for fun. I like to drink their blood—because it is their blood that allows me this thing resembling life. But it’s not really life. I’m not saying that it’s inferior to life. In my humble opinion (though who am I kidding – it’s not so ‘humble’ an opinion when I have forced this ‘life’ on three other people thus far, assuming that they’ll love it as much as I do), this ‘life’ is far superior to any that I have lived before.
In saying that, however, some habits just cannot be kicked. I am who am. I am a man with certain desires, certain cravings. I’ve always been a little bit mentally messed up. Says the guy who’s been psychologically mute since he was eight years old. Yes, there’s something not right there, from the very beginning. But I don’t know whether it’s just that, or whether it’s just who I was bound to become, regardless. Had I had a normal childhood, with no psychological trauma, would I have turned out any different? You know what? I hope not. And I don’t think about it, because I love who I am. I wouldn’t change myself for the whole damned world—and trust me, there’ve been people who have tried. They think I might be superior if only I had a voice. They put me down, because they think, somehow, lacking the faculty of speech somehow makes me weak. A liability. Well. **** them all.
Anyway, doesn’t matter. I rose above their ********. I was never a ******* boy scout, but this whole business about being ‘Owl of the Month’ for Tytonidae? I just want to throw that in the faces of the unbelievers. And I feel like celebrating.
Odd of me to want to celebrate on my own. I suppose a group thing can be organised for a later date. But here I am, full of I don’t know what. Following my old contacts, finding out where the best gigs are to be found. I don’t like this pansy crap they play on the radios these days. I prefer the heavy metal. The stuff most people can’t stand, because it’s too much. Too overwhelming. Too much noise. They just don’t understand. It’s an artistic expression, just like every other form of music. And it’s the kind of artistic expression I enjoy most.
Avoiding most of my old circles, I still manage to find the old, abandoned house within which some wily person has organised a gig. I’ve come just in time—I slip through the front door and weave my way through the crowd. I pluck a cigarette out of a drunk girl’s fingers. She doesn’t fight for it. She only manages a slurred “Heeey” before I’ve slipped out of earshot, and she’s far too unsteady on her feet to follow me. I take a long drag on the cigarette just as the lead singer shouts into the microphone. The sound of his voice—immediately captivating—reverberated around the thin walls of the house. I smirk, imagining the place falling down around us. Now that would be some powerful music.
I finally find myself in a position to see properly—the people crowd down in front of me, all pushed toward the makeshift stage. I’m in an arch, which stands a little higher. The kitchen, or what used to be a kitchen, is behind me, a little more elevated than what I suppose must have been an open dining/lounge plan. This house might have been nice once. Now it’s home to delinquents and savages. Just my kind of place.
I have come for the music, of course. But I also know that I have to feed—and whilst reveling amongst the rest of them, I’ll be scouting for my next victim. The prey to my predator. For now, though, I watch the stage. I wait for the music—the soundtrack to my hunt. I wait for it to rumble, like an earthquake, through the floor, and fill me with its energy. And by the looks of the lead singer—and the crowd do seem to surge toward him, as if they are the zombies and he is the prime cut, juicy red meat. I am intrigued by his allure. I want to see whether he’s really worth it.
In saying that, however, some habits just cannot be kicked. I am who am. I am a man with certain desires, certain cravings. I’ve always been a little bit mentally messed up. Says the guy who’s been psychologically mute since he was eight years old. Yes, there’s something not right there, from the very beginning. But I don’t know whether it’s just that, or whether it’s just who I was bound to become, regardless. Had I had a normal childhood, with no psychological trauma, would I have turned out any different? You know what? I hope not. And I don’t think about it, because I love who I am. I wouldn’t change myself for the whole damned world—and trust me, there’ve been people who have tried. They think I might be superior if only I had a voice. They put me down, because they think, somehow, lacking the faculty of speech somehow makes me weak. A liability. Well. **** them all.
Anyway, doesn’t matter. I rose above their ********. I was never a ******* boy scout, but this whole business about being ‘Owl of the Month’ for Tytonidae? I just want to throw that in the faces of the unbelievers. And I feel like celebrating.
Odd of me to want to celebrate on my own. I suppose a group thing can be organised for a later date. But here I am, full of I don’t know what. Following my old contacts, finding out where the best gigs are to be found. I don’t like this pansy crap they play on the radios these days. I prefer the heavy metal. The stuff most people can’t stand, because it’s too much. Too overwhelming. Too much noise. They just don’t understand. It’s an artistic expression, just like every other form of music. And it’s the kind of artistic expression I enjoy most.
Avoiding most of my old circles, I still manage to find the old, abandoned house within which some wily person has organised a gig. I’ve come just in time—I slip through the front door and weave my way through the crowd. I pluck a cigarette out of a drunk girl’s fingers. She doesn’t fight for it. She only manages a slurred “Heeey” before I’ve slipped out of earshot, and she’s far too unsteady on her feet to follow me. I take a long drag on the cigarette just as the lead singer shouts into the microphone. The sound of his voice—immediately captivating—reverberated around the thin walls of the house. I smirk, imagining the place falling down around us. Now that would be some powerful music.
I finally find myself in a position to see properly—the people crowd down in front of me, all pushed toward the makeshift stage. I’m in an arch, which stands a little higher. The kitchen, or what used to be a kitchen, is behind me, a little more elevated than what I suppose must have been an open dining/lounge plan. This house might have been nice once. Now it’s home to delinquents and savages. Just my kind of place.
I have come for the music, of course. But I also know that I have to feed—and whilst reveling amongst the rest of them, I’ll be scouting for my next victim. The prey to my predator. For now, though, I watch the stage. I wait for the music—the soundtrack to my hunt. I wait for it to rumble, like an earthquake, through the floor, and fill me with its energy. And by the looks of the lead singer—and the crowd do seem to surge toward him, as if they are the zombies and he is the prime cut, juicy red meat. I am intrigued by his allure. I want to see whether he’s really worth it.
FIRE and BLOOD
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Ishaq (DELETED 4744)
- Posts: 446
- Joined: 10 Sep 2013, 23:07
Re: Dirt and Filth ( Jesse Fforde)
His momma always told him he had a presence about him. He, at times, was very genuine with people, those who were able to endure his 'what you see is what you get' mindset. Ishaq didn't know how to be anyone but himself. Ishaq was the same as Alex, despite the fact his shorten middle name was known more but most. There was such a drawl to him that couldn't be denied. Sure, his mother thought it was his genuine nature, but he liked to think it was the reputation he had built up for himself in the underground scene. Ishaq had to be the best at everything. He had to show everyone that not only could he out perform any vocalist from any band in the scene, but that he can party harder than anyone. If he was going to drink, he was going to drink every one under the table to the point of alcohol poisoning. He didn't care; if he can do it, he will do it. Drugs, sex...everything.
Of course, over indulgence would soon bring about his death but he wasn't afraid to die young..or to die at all. At least, outwardly, he wasn't afraid. His fixation on dying young was a fertile breeding ground for the lyrics he wrote. All the feelings that came from dying: anger, fear, disappointment. Whatever he could pull from the subject he would. He was his own muse. His darkness is something he wanted to share with everyone. Every time he stepped in front of the crowd and he screamed until his throat was hoarse, it was him sharing a piece of him to everyone else. It was the only time he could say his genuine nature came out. Every thing else, he lived a lie; a life he thought he was suppose to live. But music..that was real.
When he performed, he had to be among the crowd. He had to touch each and every person he could get his hands on. Whether they wanted him to do so or not, he needed to. He had to look into their eyes. Hell, he wanted them to look into his eyes. He wanted them to feel every bit of his heart being vomited out of his mouth through his screams, through his words. Ishaq grabbed them and pushed them, wanting them to move. They were the toy airplane to his battery. If he was pumped, they were pumped. Being on the floor among the degenerates told them he was one of them too.
They played through three songs, one right after another. The combined sounds shook the very foundation of his body, until he too felt like he was going to collapse under the weight of it all. Turning his back, he made his way back to the band, sniffing and wiping at his nose. Even in the eerie light, his eyes could make out the traces of blood on the back of his hand. No one had collided with his nose at any point in the three song set. No, he just knew he was there. He was there. Gripping the bottom of his shirt, he jerked it up to wipe at his nose vigorously. He alternated between each hand until he successfully removed his shirt. Sweat, blood, and maybe a few tears stained the shirt. Ishaq chucked it out at the crowd, pacing about in little space provided while wiping at his nose again.
"For those who don't know, we're Terminal Winter," he paused to clear his throat, "We've been playing together for...******* ever. I see some familiar faces out there tonight. Thank you for coming out. " There was a man standing in the arch of the kitchen. He couldn't make out much of his features but he could see him enough to make out where his head met his body. Ishaq wandered over to him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders before patting the furthest from him.
Wiping the sweat from his forehead with his right forearm, he continued to address the people, "If this is your first time out. Welcome, I hoped we delivered. We got...three more songs before Thrones of Hell comes up." Ishaq released the stranger from his grip to return to his place and jumped up and down to get himself pumped. But more so to remind him his feet were still on solid ground. Right now, he felt like he was about to float away. Perhaps he did too much earlier, but then he thought...Nah, could never do too much. The man immersed himself into the crowd once more, needing to feel their dirt and filth mingling with his.
His hand balled into a fist before it thumped upon his chest much like a gorilla, the opening lyrics erupting from his throat, "I've ******* had enouuuuughhhhhhh....!" And his very core was shaken once again by the volatile presence of the backing instruments.
Of course, over indulgence would soon bring about his death but he wasn't afraid to die young..or to die at all. At least, outwardly, he wasn't afraid. His fixation on dying young was a fertile breeding ground for the lyrics he wrote. All the feelings that came from dying: anger, fear, disappointment. Whatever he could pull from the subject he would. He was his own muse. His darkness is something he wanted to share with everyone. Every time he stepped in front of the crowd and he screamed until his throat was hoarse, it was him sharing a piece of him to everyone else. It was the only time he could say his genuine nature came out. Every thing else, he lived a lie; a life he thought he was suppose to live. But music..that was real.
When he performed, he had to be among the crowd. He had to touch each and every person he could get his hands on. Whether they wanted him to do so or not, he needed to. He had to look into their eyes. Hell, he wanted them to look into his eyes. He wanted them to feel every bit of his heart being vomited out of his mouth through his screams, through his words. Ishaq grabbed them and pushed them, wanting them to move. They were the toy airplane to his battery. If he was pumped, they were pumped. Being on the floor among the degenerates told them he was one of them too.
They played through three songs, one right after another. The combined sounds shook the very foundation of his body, until he too felt like he was going to collapse under the weight of it all. Turning his back, he made his way back to the band, sniffing and wiping at his nose. Even in the eerie light, his eyes could make out the traces of blood on the back of his hand. No one had collided with his nose at any point in the three song set. No, he just knew he was there. He was there. Gripping the bottom of his shirt, he jerked it up to wipe at his nose vigorously. He alternated between each hand until he successfully removed his shirt. Sweat, blood, and maybe a few tears stained the shirt. Ishaq chucked it out at the crowd, pacing about in little space provided while wiping at his nose again.
"For those who don't know, we're Terminal Winter," he paused to clear his throat, "We've been playing together for...******* ever. I see some familiar faces out there tonight. Thank you for coming out. " There was a man standing in the arch of the kitchen. He couldn't make out much of his features but he could see him enough to make out where his head met his body. Ishaq wandered over to him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders before patting the furthest from him.
Wiping the sweat from his forehead with his right forearm, he continued to address the people, "If this is your first time out. Welcome, I hoped we delivered. We got...three more songs before Thrones of Hell comes up." Ishaq released the stranger from his grip to return to his place and jumped up and down to get himself pumped. But more so to remind him his feet were still on solid ground. Right now, he felt like he was about to float away. Perhaps he did too much earlier, but then he thought...Nah, could never do too much. The man immersed himself into the crowd once more, needing to feel their dirt and filth mingling with his.
His hand balled into a fist before it thumped upon his chest much like a gorilla, the opening lyrics erupting from his throat, "I've ******* had enouuuuughhhhhhh....!" And his very core was shaken once again by the volatile presence of the backing instruments.
"You're a wolf, boy, get out of this town."
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Jesse Fforde
- Registered User
- Posts: 3487
- Joined: 30 Jun 2012, 09:32
- CrowNet Handle: Fox
Re: Dirt and Filth ( Jesse Fforde)
I watch the lead singer as he throws himself into the performance. I stand absolutely still, unless buffeted by the people thrashing and thriving around me. My head cocked to the side, like a dog trying to understand something. I like to watch people. It’s a favourite past time of mine. And it’s people like him that seem to be a rarity in this world. He’s singing as if he doesn’t care about anything, but simultaneously it’s like he cares far too much. I narrow my eyes as I watch, as if I’m trying to see past the guy’s skin. As if underneath I’m going to see another person, clawing and tearing and trying to get out, like the world this guy lives in is just far too small. And this whole act, the music, the way he rampages around the crowd pushing and shoving at them to get some reaction out of them, is his way of bashing against the glass of his invisible cage, waiting for it to crack. And upon cracking, will shatter, and allow his freedom to come flooding in.
Maybe it’s something about the way I’m watching him so intently, but that lead singer pushes his way through the crowd to stand right beside me. His arm around me, he talks to the crowd as I am his comrade. In a way, I suppose that I am. I can relate to his state of being. In a way, I have gained my freedom. A red-head gave it to me by slashing my throat in a bathtub. But I’m still trapped by a past that I cannot remember. I fight against it every day. I don’t want to remember, but my subconscious seems to have other plans.
My subconscious is sleeping right now, though. I’m assaulted by the scent of the singer; all blood, sweat, and tears. Nostrils flare at the scent of him—not that I find it particularly alluring. Not all of it. Just the blood, that drips steadily from his nose, that clings to the shirt that he flings into the audience. I take a deep breath that I do not need, and the scent of that blood attaches itself to my throat, to my tastebuds, inspiring the ever-present bloodlust to rear its ugly head. So, so very tempting to grasp that guy by the scruff of the neck and hold him tight in place as I tear into his neck. A crowd such as this? They’d surely appreciate it. But I don’t. That would be a most grievous break of masquerade.
It seems, in that moment, that I know exactly whose blood I want. I want the singer’s blood. I want that violent desperation for life and death, intertwined and pushed together like some deadly, addictive concoction.
I can’t exactly pull the guy away from the stage, though. And the hunger that I now feel—because of the scent of his blood—is a ravaging, demanding thing that is only fuelled by the crowd and the music. The bass thumps heavily in my chest, and though the music has not yet succeeded in bringing the house down, it has succeeded in tearing down the outer layer of my control. Finally, I push away from the wall. I delve into that crowd, slipping through it easily due to their sweat, slick against bare arms and bare shoulders.
I dance with the crowd, I thrash and thrive along with them, allowing the chaos to infect my soul. At the same time, I push toward the edge, keeping my eyes open, a predator amongst unsuspecting prey. A couple of songs pass—and then I find her. A girl, who looks as if she’s trying very hard to be Amy Lee—there’s a bright butterfly tattoo etched across her shoulders. It’s like a beacon. I take her hand. She resists, to begin with, but I pull her close. I smirk, I hold her gaze. She softens, she gives in. She follows my lead. I take her down the hall. I lead her through the maze until I reach the bathroom. I can smell the lead singer in here—his scent is strong. He’s been in here recently. There’s someone at the sink, and I push them out. I close the door—in all my hunger, I fail to lock it. I life the girl up onto the sink—she thinks she’s getting lucky. I do not kiss her, though. Instead, I roughly push her head aside and tear into her neck. She hasn’t got the chance to scream. And even if she does, it won’t be heard.
Maybe it’s something about the way I’m watching him so intently, but that lead singer pushes his way through the crowd to stand right beside me. His arm around me, he talks to the crowd as I am his comrade. In a way, I suppose that I am. I can relate to his state of being. In a way, I have gained my freedom. A red-head gave it to me by slashing my throat in a bathtub. But I’m still trapped by a past that I cannot remember. I fight against it every day. I don’t want to remember, but my subconscious seems to have other plans.
My subconscious is sleeping right now, though. I’m assaulted by the scent of the singer; all blood, sweat, and tears. Nostrils flare at the scent of him—not that I find it particularly alluring. Not all of it. Just the blood, that drips steadily from his nose, that clings to the shirt that he flings into the audience. I take a deep breath that I do not need, and the scent of that blood attaches itself to my throat, to my tastebuds, inspiring the ever-present bloodlust to rear its ugly head. So, so very tempting to grasp that guy by the scruff of the neck and hold him tight in place as I tear into his neck. A crowd such as this? They’d surely appreciate it. But I don’t. That would be a most grievous break of masquerade.
It seems, in that moment, that I know exactly whose blood I want. I want the singer’s blood. I want that violent desperation for life and death, intertwined and pushed together like some deadly, addictive concoction.
I can’t exactly pull the guy away from the stage, though. And the hunger that I now feel—because of the scent of his blood—is a ravaging, demanding thing that is only fuelled by the crowd and the music. The bass thumps heavily in my chest, and though the music has not yet succeeded in bringing the house down, it has succeeded in tearing down the outer layer of my control. Finally, I push away from the wall. I delve into that crowd, slipping through it easily due to their sweat, slick against bare arms and bare shoulders.
I dance with the crowd, I thrash and thrive along with them, allowing the chaos to infect my soul. At the same time, I push toward the edge, keeping my eyes open, a predator amongst unsuspecting prey. A couple of songs pass—and then I find her. A girl, who looks as if she’s trying very hard to be Amy Lee—there’s a bright butterfly tattoo etched across her shoulders. It’s like a beacon. I take her hand. She resists, to begin with, but I pull her close. I smirk, I hold her gaze. She softens, she gives in. She follows my lead. I take her down the hall. I lead her through the maze until I reach the bathroom. I can smell the lead singer in here—his scent is strong. He’s been in here recently. There’s someone at the sink, and I push them out. I close the door—in all my hunger, I fail to lock it. I life the girl up onto the sink—she thinks she’s getting lucky. I do not kiss her, though. Instead, I roughly push her head aside and tear into her neck. She hasn’t got the chance to scream. And even if she does, it won’t be heard.
FIRE and BLOOD
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Ishaq (DELETED 4744)
- Posts: 446
- Joined: 10 Sep 2013, 23:07
Re: Dirt and Filth ( Jesse Fforde)
He could perform in his sleep if he had to, which is why performing high wasn't a problem from him. It was second nature after all. He was high all the time these days it seemed. The accompanied nose bleeds were regular visitors during a performance. No one in the crowd was worried about him. Blood made him look dangerous, passionate, and just straight up crazy; they got a kick out of that . It made him appear to be a bad ***. Ishaq like being a bad ***. The last three songs went by in a blur. He felt like he was floating among the crowd while watching his body thrash about the crowd. He was the floating device and they were the waves, tossing him in whatever direction they decided to go and he, of course, went with it. He didn't forget the lyrics though; he didn't dare to forget the lyrics. He almost started into a fourth song but once he noticed his band had stopped playing, he just allowed his voice to fade out.
Departing from the crowd was easy enough since he had to return the mic back to its original resting position. As gently as he taken hold of it into his grasp, he laid on the ground. No closing remarks. No sweet introduction speech about the next band following after them. Actually, what he really desired to do was get the **** off the make shift stage as quickly as he could. The last thing he desired was to encounter Bret from Thrones of Hell. Bad blood couldn't begin to describe their feelings toward each other; each time they were in the presence of each other, an explosion happened. Ishaq considered Bret to be a dick; Bret never forgave Ishaq of taking his girlfriend from him.
His hand wiped at his nose again. It was a little damp from blood but most of it had crusted over, looking like dark dried up red clay. "Hey...great shows, guys. You fuckin' killed it," complimented the man, patting the backs of each and every one of his band members. Some of them mumbled thank you; well, Nicky and Philip mumbled thank you. Rebecca, their bassist, had wandered off with her bass in hand toward the kitchen. Dizzy...Dizzy blatantly ignored him, tucking his drumsticks in to of his belt loops. He too wandered off toward the kitchen, leaving him to stand there awkwardly. Ishaq felt the need to catch up to him and work things out. But he didn't care at the moment. They'll work out their issues later on. He turned and went the opposite direction, back into the flow of traffic. Back into the crowd of sweaty pumped up forms. He waded through the bodies, receiving pats on the back and complimentary devil horns.
Those "You're fuckin' awesome" down to the "You guys should fuckin' sign to a label." Ishaq, being the genuine person that he was, couldn't find it in himself to ignore the fans. He really wanted to be in the bathroom, alone with his thoughts. He did have to piss. But, he acknowledged the degenerates anyway, hugging them and thanking them for coming out. He addressed them as brothers and sisters because despite it all, he did see them as an important part of the dysfunctional family he had created with his band members.
Finally, he made it to his safe 'haven' and pushed opened the door, quickly turning around to close the door. Pressing his head against the door, he took a deep breathe and let it out. His eyes drooped until he could no longer see through them. Ishaq shifted to press his back against the door and decided to rest there for a moment. The roar of instruments blasted through the door, being the only thing he could hear even over his constantly inhaling and exhaling. The aroma in the bathroom was different this time now that his nose had a second to process it. Sure, it smelled horrible..no, horrible wasn't even the correct word. But even over the musty fragrance of long sitting vomit, he could pick up a metallic...almost coppery scent too.
Unlike earlier though, Ishaq had experience a few nose bleeds. Thinking about that reminded him why he even came into the bathroom in the first place. His eyes were met with...an embarrassing site, though he wasn't surprised at all. Not that the vocalist made it a habit to walk in on couples in the bouts of sex; the revealed scene wasn'y uncommon at a show. He was mostly embarrassed since he didn't check the bathroom before stepping in, having been consumed within his own mind.
"Holy ****," he laughed, pivoting toward the right side of the room and being met with a view of the wall. "Sorry, guys. My bad. I was just coming in to get my **** together."
Departing from the crowd was easy enough since he had to return the mic back to its original resting position. As gently as he taken hold of it into his grasp, he laid on the ground. No closing remarks. No sweet introduction speech about the next band following after them. Actually, what he really desired to do was get the **** off the make shift stage as quickly as he could. The last thing he desired was to encounter Bret from Thrones of Hell. Bad blood couldn't begin to describe their feelings toward each other; each time they were in the presence of each other, an explosion happened. Ishaq considered Bret to be a dick; Bret never forgave Ishaq of taking his girlfriend from him.
His hand wiped at his nose again. It was a little damp from blood but most of it had crusted over, looking like dark dried up red clay. "Hey...great shows, guys. You fuckin' killed it," complimented the man, patting the backs of each and every one of his band members. Some of them mumbled thank you; well, Nicky and Philip mumbled thank you. Rebecca, their bassist, had wandered off with her bass in hand toward the kitchen. Dizzy...Dizzy blatantly ignored him, tucking his drumsticks in to of his belt loops. He too wandered off toward the kitchen, leaving him to stand there awkwardly. Ishaq felt the need to catch up to him and work things out. But he didn't care at the moment. They'll work out their issues later on. He turned and went the opposite direction, back into the flow of traffic. Back into the crowd of sweaty pumped up forms. He waded through the bodies, receiving pats on the back and complimentary devil horns.
Those "You're fuckin' awesome" down to the "You guys should fuckin' sign to a label." Ishaq, being the genuine person that he was, couldn't find it in himself to ignore the fans. He really wanted to be in the bathroom, alone with his thoughts. He did have to piss. But, he acknowledged the degenerates anyway, hugging them and thanking them for coming out. He addressed them as brothers and sisters because despite it all, he did see them as an important part of the dysfunctional family he had created with his band members.
Finally, he made it to his safe 'haven' and pushed opened the door, quickly turning around to close the door. Pressing his head against the door, he took a deep breathe and let it out. His eyes drooped until he could no longer see through them. Ishaq shifted to press his back against the door and decided to rest there for a moment. The roar of instruments blasted through the door, being the only thing he could hear even over his constantly inhaling and exhaling. The aroma in the bathroom was different this time now that his nose had a second to process it. Sure, it smelled horrible..no, horrible wasn't even the correct word. But even over the musty fragrance of long sitting vomit, he could pick up a metallic...almost coppery scent too.
Unlike earlier though, Ishaq had experience a few nose bleeds. Thinking about that reminded him why he even came into the bathroom in the first place. His eyes were met with...an embarrassing site, though he wasn't surprised at all. Not that the vocalist made it a habit to walk in on couples in the bouts of sex; the revealed scene wasn'y uncommon at a show. He was mostly embarrassed since he didn't check the bathroom before stepping in, having been consumed within his own mind.
"Holy ****," he laughed, pivoting toward the right side of the room and being met with a view of the wall. "Sorry, guys. My bad. I was just coming in to get my **** together."
"You're a wolf, boy, get out of this town."
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Jesse Fforde
- Registered User
- Posts: 3487
- Joined: 30 Jun 2012, 09:32
- CrowNet Handle: Fox
Re: Dirt and Filth ( Jesse Fforde)
The girl writhes beneath my grasp, though she cannot get out of it. It could be that I’ve got her held so tight that all struggle is in vain. But maybe there’s not really much of a struggle. Maybe she’s struggling against her enjoyment of the pain and terror of impending death—and from experience, I wonder whether she’s even experiencing any kind of terror. My fingers rake over the skin on her back—the skin that’s been infused with ink. My nails dig in, and her back arches, her body colliding with mine, moulding with it. And then her legs wrap around my torso, her fluttering arms finally deciding that they won’t push me away, but instead cling tighter. In this enclosed space, even with the sound of the heavy music outside, I can hear her gasp. It is like a butterfly of sound, escaping from soft lips, caged and amplified by the relative silence of this room compared to the chaos outside.
I’ve also got hold of her hair, tugging at it, so that her neck remains exposed, that vein pulsing sweet, pounding life which swallow, insatiable mouthful after mouthful. I can feel the pulse as it struggles against the loss of blood—I don’t need to take it all. I don’t need to be so greedy. But I recently learned that whatever magic others seem to possess is lost on me. I cannot leave this girl alive. She’ll remember every moment of this encounter, and I’ll have broken masquerade. I cannot allow that to happen.
As I’m in the middle of contemplating gluttony, the relative silence and the magic of the moment of feeding is lost; the door opens, the bubble breaks, the chaos is let inside. The door closes again, and I expect some kind of horrified expression of surprise as, whoever has interrupted us, realises what they’ve walked in on. When I turn to the door, however, I find that the person who entered hasn’t even looked. They’ve got their back to me—but even so, I know who it is. I can tell, just by the scent that wafts in with him, billowing up and out from his overheated human body.
It’s the lead singer.
Finally, the guy turns around. There’s no horror in his reaction, though. Only amusement as he just as quickly turns his back again. The guy has assumed he’s walked in on me copulating with this human. How quaint. And I suppose understandable – I might be doing just that, if I didn’t crave her blood more than any other pleasure she could give me. I smirk and wipe the blood from my lips. The girl groans in my grasp, and I turn back to her, eyes narrowed as I lift her chin to look in her eyes. She’s still alive, very much so. I know that if I let her go, she’ll be absolutely fine. She’ll move on with her life. But she’s seen me. She’ll remember me. She may not know my name, but that doesn’t matter so much. It’s not just about me. It’s about secrecy as a whole.
I should feel some kind of remorse as I place a hand on either side of her jaw, and as I give a vicious twist to the right, and up a bit. Snap. There goes the spine, all broken and ****. All life leaves the girl as her body slumps—I take a step back, and she falls to the floor like a discarded ragdoll.
And even though her blood is still on my lips, still thick and congealed like honey in the back of my throat, that hunger still burns fierce. It’s this lead singer who inspired that thirst to begin with. This guy, who I intended to be my meal – and now he’s walked right into my trap. Not that it was a conscious trap, but nevertheless.
I take a step toward the door, to ensure that it’s locked this time. My first instinct is to attack before the guy has the chance to blink—but I don’t. I’m curious. This guy who seemed to fight so damned hard against life…hell, I want to know how he’ll react to a dead girl on the floor of the bathroom. Is he really worth his salt, or is he like every other plebeian out there? All the while I stand steadfast, blocking any attempt he might make at a hasty exit.
I’ve also got hold of her hair, tugging at it, so that her neck remains exposed, that vein pulsing sweet, pounding life which swallow, insatiable mouthful after mouthful. I can feel the pulse as it struggles against the loss of blood—I don’t need to take it all. I don’t need to be so greedy. But I recently learned that whatever magic others seem to possess is lost on me. I cannot leave this girl alive. She’ll remember every moment of this encounter, and I’ll have broken masquerade. I cannot allow that to happen.
As I’m in the middle of contemplating gluttony, the relative silence and the magic of the moment of feeding is lost; the door opens, the bubble breaks, the chaos is let inside. The door closes again, and I expect some kind of horrified expression of surprise as, whoever has interrupted us, realises what they’ve walked in on. When I turn to the door, however, I find that the person who entered hasn’t even looked. They’ve got their back to me—but even so, I know who it is. I can tell, just by the scent that wafts in with him, billowing up and out from his overheated human body.
It’s the lead singer.
Finally, the guy turns around. There’s no horror in his reaction, though. Only amusement as he just as quickly turns his back again. The guy has assumed he’s walked in on me copulating with this human. How quaint. And I suppose understandable – I might be doing just that, if I didn’t crave her blood more than any other pleasure she could give me. I smirk and wipe the blood from my lips. The girl groans in my grasp, and I turn back to her, eyes narrowed as I lift her chin to look in her eyes. She’s still alive, very much so. I know that if I let her go, she’ll be absolutely fine. She’ll move on with her life. But she’s seen me. She’ll remember me. She may not know my name, but that doesn’t matter so much. It’s not just about me. It’s about secrecy as a whole.
I should feel some kind of remorse as I place a hand on either side of her jaw, and as I give a vicious twist to the right, and up a bit. Snap. There goes the spine, all broken and ****. All life leaves the girl as her body slumps—I take a step back, and she falls to the floor like a discarded ragdoll.
And even though her blood is still on my lips, still thick and congealed like honey in the back of my throat, that hunger still burns fierce. It’s this lead singer who inspired that thirst to begin with. This guy, who I intended to be my meal – and now he’s walked right into my trap. Not that it was a conscious trap, but nevertheless.
I take a step toward the door, to ensure that it’s locked this time. My first instinct is to attack before the guy has the chance to blink—but I don’t. I’m curious. This guy who seemed to fight so damned hard against life…hell, I want to know how he’ll react to a dead girl on the floor of the bathroom. Is he really worth his salt, or is he like every other plebeian out there? All the while I stand steadfast, blocking any attempt he might make at a hasty exit.
FIRE and BLOOD
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Ishaq (DELETED 4744)
- Posts: 446
- Joined: 10 Sep 2013, 23:07
Re: Dirt and Filth ( Jesse Fforde)
He felt stupid standing there in the bathroom with a couple getting their rocks off together. A part of him thought about slipping out of the bathroom, figuring neither one of them really noticed his presence at all. Or perhaps they did and just didn't care there was now an audience. The little teenage part of his psyche was curious, wanting to take a peek just to say he did. But who would he tell anyway? Though besides the point, Ishaq still continued to stand there, facing the wall. What should he say? Hey, I need to wash my face because I snorted a little too much and my nose was bleeding? "Hey," he called out, shifting to shove his hands into his pockets, " I just really need to take a piss...if you guys don't mind.." Yes, he was really willing to take a piss while being sandwiched between the wall and a couple having sex on the sink. Desperate times call for desperate measures they say, right?
His plea, at first, wasn't met with words of acknowledgement. Instead, he just heard a sound. A thump. He could his breath and held it. It was then he had realized he had blocked out all the sound happening beyond the bathroom door. He hadn't been conscious of it but figured it was so he could concentrate on hearing the couple's responses to his presence. He wasn't sure what the thump was. It could have been numerous things. The sink could have finally been pulled from the wall. They, the couple could have moved their festivities to the wall. Or maybe they moved to sit down on the toilet. Whatever the thump was, Ishaq's mind just raced with endless possibilities.
Shifting a little, he tilted his head down to stare at his feet before he cleared his throat. The man shook his head and brought his hand to the back of his neck. A shiver ran down his spine as his hand grazed against the raised hairs. An eerie feeling started in his chest and slithered down to make a home in the pit of his stomach. But why? Perhaps it was paranoia..or the drugs. Maybe a combination of both; whatever, it was, it just felt unsettling. As if someone was standing behind him. Yet that couldn't be right because the couple were on the sink...unless they moved. Taking a chance, Ishaq turned around and nearly ran into the male. "Holy ****..." he gasped out, stumbling back against the wall. "****, nearly gave me a heart attack..." It was always better to joke than to get pissed off about things.
He decided that if they were done, he was just going to go ahead and take a piss. He took a step toward the toilet and nearly fell, grabbing ahead of the sink's edge. A slew of curses filtered from his mouth before he peered down and stared at the girl. "What the ****..." he blurted out, falling on his *** instantly. Was she dead? Was she passed out? He couldn't tell nor did he want to tell. He wasn't a paramedic; he wasn't trained for this ****. Nor was he trained to deal with **** like that. Scooting back quickly with the use of his hands, he scrambled to his feet and turned around to face the guy. The other male had no concern on his face for the woman he had just been with.
"We need to call...someone...what if she OD'd? I ...I " Ishaq spun back around to stare at the girl. But there she laid, in the same position...like a crumbled doll. When the man made no movement, he reached out to grab at the door to attempt to open it, but it was locked. He shook his head and glanced toward the other as if to ask him what the deal was. Why in the hell were they locked in the bathroom with a possibly dead girl on the floor? What did that mean for them? For him?
His plea, at first, wasn't met with words of acknowledgement. Instead, he just heard a sound. A thump. He could his breath and held it. It was then he had realized he had blocked out all the sound happening beyond the bathroom door. He hadn't been conscious of it but figured it was so he could concentrate on hearing the couple's responses to his presence. He wasn't sure what the thump was. It could have been numerous things. The sink could have finally been pulled from the wall. They, the couple could have moved their festivities to the wall. Or maybe they moved to sit down on the toilet. Whatever the thump was, Ishaq's mind just raced with endless possibilities.
Shifting a little, he tilted his head down to stare at his feet before he cleared his throat. The man shook his head and brought his hand to the back of his neck. A shiver ran down his spine as his hand grazed against the raised hairs. An eerie feeling started in his chest and slithered down to make a home in the pit of his stomach. But why? Perhaps it was paranoia..or the drugs. Maybe a combination of both; whatever, it was, it just felt unsettling. As if someone was standing behind him. Yet that couldn't be right because the couple were on the sink...unless they moved. Taking a chance, Ishaq turned around and nearly ran into the male. "Holy ****..." he gasped out, stumbling back against the wall. "****, nearly gave me a heart attack..." It was always better to joke than to get pissed off about things.
He decided that if they were done, he was just going to go ahead and take a piss. He took a step toward the toilet and nearly fell, grabbing ahead of the sink's edge. A slew of curses filtered from his mouth before he peered down and stared at the girl. "What the ****..." he blurted out, falling on his *** instantly. Was she dead? Was she passed out? He couldn't tell nor did he want to tell. He wasn't a paramedic; he wasn't trained for this ****. Nor was he trained to deal with **** like that. Scooting back quickly with the use of his hands, he scrambled to his feet and turned around to face the guy. The other male had no concern on his face for the woman he had just been with.
"We need to call...someone...what if she OD'd? I ...I " Ishaq spun back around to stare at the girl. But there she laid, in the same position...like a crumbled doll. When the man made no movement, he reached out to grab at the door to attempt to open it, but it was locked. He shook his head and glanced toward the other as if to ask him what the deal was. Why in the hell were they locked in the bathroom with a possibly dead girl on the floor? What did that mean for them? For him?
"You're a wolf, boy, get out of this town."
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Jesse Fforde
- Registered User
- Posts: 3487
- Joined: 30 Jun 2012, 09:32
- CrowNet Handle: Fox
Re: Dirt and Filth ( Jesse Fforde)
The girl is dead, there’s no doubt about that. And the singer is at first a little confused, and then reasonably and significantly freaked out. I suppose it’s too much to expect, that he’ll be a complete freak from the get go—that being locked in the same room as death doesn’t make him swoon in some kind of fangirl ecstasy. No, I’m not saying that I’m death. I have an ego, but it’s not quite that big. I’m a cause of death, but not the big guy himself. Maybe a minion. Though I don’t work for anyone but myself.
Reasonably, I suppose, the singer thinks that we ought to call the ambulance. I know that there’s no coming back for the girl. She’s dead dead. Soon-to-be-stone-cold dead. Her soul has already flown the coop, no doubt screeching and screaming into the ether, hurling curses back toward the life she just left. Curses at me. I do wonder, sometimes, what if? What if all these people I’ve killed come back with a vengeance? Vampires come back from the dead. Vampire raise wraiths, who were once dead. So much other **** has turned out to be real, so why not an angry hoard of vengeful ghosts?
There’s that thought in my head that this guy is about to become another one. I nudge at the dead body with my foot, frown, and shake my head. There’s nothing that can be done. The guy is looking at me as if I have the answers for him. I do not. The door is locked, but only to keep the rabble out. Already there’s a knock at the door—someone wanting to get in to go to the toilet. If I had a voice, I might tell them to **** off and find a bush. I don’t have a voice, however. I have just my actions. I have to be swift, before the singer figures out that he can in fact get out. Before he figures out that I am the reason the girl at our feet is dead. Before he tries to flee and alarm the masses.
With preternatural strength I push the guy up against the door. I hold him there, my fingers curled around his neck. I don’t play with my prey. Not often, anyway. Most of the time I’m far too ******* starving to play with my food. Before he can scream—again, not that I think anyone will be able to hear him anyway, above the noise of the band playing outside—I cover his mouth and shove his head to the side, tearing into the rough, salty, inked skin over the vein of his neck. His blood spills onto my tongue. It’s tainted with drugs and alcohol. It’s almost bitter, but it’s bitter in the way a long black coffee might be bitter—it’s smooth, and robust. A nice, clean Arabica bean.
This is what all blood ought to taste like. There’s something about it, something nostalgic, as if in swallowing it, I am forced to remember the life I once led. I might not have been in a band. I might not have been able to make as much noise as this guy can, but I fought for life but craved after death in very same way. I pushed and shoved at the walls of my existence like they were closing in on me, and the further I pushed, the more likely they’d all come crumbling down. And they did, that night that bitchy red-head wandered into my tattoo parlour. Oh, of all the luck I could have had…
…and it’s in that moment, realising how rare this blood is to find, that I realised this guy does not deserve to die. Not completely. I feel as if, in tasting his blood, that I can sense a certain rightness. I bet he can be a hell of a lot of trouble, should he want to be. And this might not turn out as perfect as Axel, or Felicity, or Abigail—my three rough gems in an ocean of fakes. A thrill of impatience forces me to pull away. I cannot kill him. And I won’t let him pass out. I pull him, push him, shove him over to the bathtub. With superior strength I hold him there, over the edge of the tub. With finger and nail, I widen the wound in his neck, forcing the vein open so that the blood pumps into filthy bottom of the tub.
And as he bleeds out—something I know has to happen, and I no longer have the capacity within me to drain him dry, as I had with the others—I tear into my own wrist, into the vein there. With one knee on the singer’s back to hold him in place, I lean over him, hold my bleeding wrist to his mouth. This is a little awkward, I know. But I figure it might work. Maybe. If not, I’ll just have to flip him over and make a mess on the bathroom floor.
Reasonably, I suppose, the singer thinks that we ought to call the ambulance. I know that there’s no coming back for the girl. She’s dead dead. Soon-to-be-stone-cold dead. Her soul has already flown the coop, no doubt screeching and screaming into the ether, hurling curses back toward the life she just left. Curses at me. I do wonder, sometimes, what if? What if all these people I’ve killed come back with a vengeance? Vampires come back from the dead. Vampire raise wraiths, who were once dead. So much other **** has turned out to be real, so why not an angry hoard of vengeful ghosts?
There’s that thought in my head that this guy is about to become another one. I nudge at the dead body with my foot, frown, and shake my head. There’s nothing that can be done. The guy is looking at me as if I have the answers for him. I do not. The door is locked, but only to keep the rabble out. Already there’s a knock at the door—someone wanting to get in to go to the toilet. If I had a voice, I might tell them to **** off and find a bush. I don’t have a voice, however. I have just my actions. I have to be swift, before the singer figures out that he can in fact get out. Before he figures out that I am the reason the girl at our feet is dead. Before he tries to flee and alarm the masses.
With preternatural strength I push the guy up against the door. I hold him there, my fingers curled around his neck. I don’t play with my prey. Not often, anyway. Most of the time I’m far too ******* starving to play with my food. Before he can scream—again, not that I think anyone will be able to hear him anyway, above the noise of the band playing outside—I cover his mouth and shove his head to the side, tearing into the rough, salty, inked skin over the vein of his neck. His blood spills onto my tongue. It’s tainted with drugs and alcohol. It’s almost bitter, but it’s bitter in the way a long black coffee might be bitter—it’s smooth, and robust. A nice, clean Arabica bean.
This is what all blood ought to taste like. There’s something about it, something nostalgic, as if in swallowing it, I am forced to remember the life I once led. I might not have been in a band. I might not have been able to make as much noise as this guy can, but I fought for life but craved after death in very same way. I pushed and shoved at the walls of my existence like they were closing in on me, and the further I pushed, the more likely they’d all come crumbling down. And they did, that night that bitchy red-head wandered into my tattoo parlour. Oh, of all the luck I could have had…
…and it’s in that moment, realising how rare this blood is to find, that I realised this guy does not deserve to die. Not completely. I feel as if, in tasting his blood, that I can sense a certain rightness. I bet he can be a hell of a lot of trouble, should he want to be. And this might not turn out as perfect as Axel, or Felicity, or Abigail—my three rough gems in an ocean of fakes. A thrill of impatience forces me to pull away. I cannot kill him. And I won’t let him pass out. I pull him, push him, shove him over to the bathtub. With superior strength I hold him there, over the edge of the tub. With finger and nail, I widen the wound in his neck, forcing the vein open so that the blood pumps into filthy bottom of the tub.
And as he bleeds out—something I know has to happen, and I no longer have the capacity within me to drain him dry, as I had with the others—I tear into my own wrist, into the vein there. With one knee on the singer’s back to hold him in place, I lean over him, hold my bleeding wrist to his mouth. This is a little awkward, I know. But I figure it might work. Maybe. If not, I’ll just have to flip him over and make a mess on the bathroom floor.
FIRE and BLOOD
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Ishaq (DELETED 4744)
- Posts: 446
- Joined: 10 Sep 2013, 23:07
Re: Dirt and Filth ( Jesse Fforde)
This all was playing out like a B- rated horror movie...even if Ishaq didn't realize it himself. It had all the makings of one: he was in a bathroom with a strange guy with a dead body on the floor. Even if he wanted to leave or tried to leave, he wouldn't be able to explain the situation. Who would believe him? What if she had come with someone? Her friend or friends could be searching for her in the crowd right now. He was no where near being in the correct state of mind. If the cops were called, who would they believe? Not only that, but Ishaq has had a few run ins with the Harper Rock police department, who was always looking for a while to put him away. There was no way he was going to get out of here scott free and that terrified him.
The man placed his hands on his head, frantically pacing in the little provided space. What the hell was he going to do? His breathing began to pick up; hell, he needed to get out of the bathroom right now. Maybe he could just dip out as quickly as possible, not looking back, not saying a word. He'd tell the rest of the gang that he needed to sleep off the drugs and the alcohol. Or that he wasn't feeling well and needed to sleep it off. Any and everything that could be used as an excuse Ishaq was willing to use. He wouldn't even call the police! He'd let the guy escape out of the bathroom before him if it meant getting out without a thought or a question. There had to be options and he was going to use every one of them.
There was a knock at the door, causing him to spin around. Oh no, no. He turned back toward the guy to ask him, plead with him to do something anything. Hide the girl in the bathtub! No one would think twice about it, figuring she passed out and was in the process of sleeping it off.
Obviously, no words even projected from him when he was slammed up against the door. Any thought he had burst into nothingness in an instance. He attempted to fight him off naturally, but...goodness. The scene played much a like the horror movie it was. Ishaq wasn't an oversized muscular man, yet he wasn't without his own strength either. Nor did the man who held him against the wall looked to be stronger than him. He could probably take him on his worst day, or so he thought. There was no budging this guy and that....
Heartbreaking. Frighte-
A muffled cry tore from his throat at the bite. Who in the hell was this ******* guy on his neck? Why...why..
It felt a lot like dying. It looked a lot like dying. Maybe he'd actually die this time around.
His life didn't flash before his eyes. He didn't see the "light". There were no singing angels or an "Ahhh ahh ahh" moment to this feeling. He didn't think about how his mother or father would feel when he died. What Lynda...or Dizzy...Nick..no one crossed his mind in this moment. No. He focused on the feeling because he remembered it all too clearly. Ishaq only remembered the one instance in his life where there was a chance life would no longer exist within him. The instance where he found himself unable to breathe. He couldn't remember the pain the pouring out of his body. Actually...he just remembered how it looked.
He never told anyone about his outer body experience during his overdose. He couldn't tell him how he saw them crying and pleading for him to wake up. The panic that erupted from their pores nearly drowned him as they played the waiting game with the police and the ambulance.
Ishaq didn't know exactly how to feel as...this monster drank his blood. He knew everyone was super crazy about the vampire trend that had been going on for some time around the world. Of course, a lot of vampire inspired underground bands started to pop up, wanting to get a piece of the action. But the man never realized anything of that nature was real. Well, his eyes were opened now and he figured it would be too late for him now. This was something no one would actually believe...if he survived!
If he survived...he'd put himself in an asylum.
Ishaq decided perhaps it was time for him to give up. He wouldn't be able to explain it if he lived or how others would be perceive it. They'll knock it to the fact he was high and that he probably fucked his own self up. Maybe it was just time, he thought, as he watched his own body get tossed toward the bathtub without..much effort. His mind couldn't- he needed to know who this guy was. Who the **** was this guy? Where the hell did he come from? ****, he'll never know at his point. He was just going to watch himself die.
He led himself right into the hands of a butcher, being bled out in the tub in the same fashion of a pig. Fitting. Very fitting.
Yet the strangest...sensation took over him. It was a numbing sensation at first, very dull but there. He didn't know if it was him completely letting go and allowing his soul be pulled away from the realm. Or...if it had something to do with the fact the man was pressing his bloodied wrist to Ishaq's mouth. Why the hell he was doing it, he didn't know nor did he want to know to be honest. Well, that was a lie. He did want to know; the curiosity in him hadn't died yet. For every bit of blood of the other's the fell into the tub, mingling with his, a little bit lingered in his mouth.
The more it lingered, the more Ishaq felt this odd tug. This tug that started to turn into this euphoric feeling in him. Was this what death really felt like? Or what life was suppose to feel like? His essence drew closer to his own body as if saying...no, no it wasn't time yet. No, there was something more to this. What is this? It felt a lot like dying but in the fashion he could only dream about. He let a bit more of himself pour back into his body, gaining a bit more mobility.
Just enough to open his mouth more to this...wondrous blood...more like a drug..opening himself to feel that...euphoria. It was starting to feel like the best high of his life.
The man placed his hands on his head, frantically pacing in the little provided space. What the hell was he going to do? His breathing began to pick up; hell, he needed to get out of the bathroom right now. Maybe he could just dip out as quickly as possible, not looking back, not saying a word. He'd tell the rest of the gang that he needed to sleep off the drugs and the alcohol. Or that he wasn't feeling well and needed to sleep it off. Any and everything that could be used as an excuse Ishaq was willing to use. He wouldn't even call the police! He'd let the guy escape out of the bathroom before him if it meant getting out without a thought or a question. There had to be options and he was going to use every one of them.
There was a knock at the door, causing him to spin around. Oh no, no. He turned back toward the guy to ask him, plead with him to do something anything. Hide the girl in the bathtub! No one would think twice about it, figuring she passed out and was in the process of sleeping it off.
Obviously, no words even projected from him when he was slammed up against the door. Any thought he had burst into nothingness in an instance. He attempted to fight him off naturally, but...goodness. The scene played much a like the horror movie it was. Ishaq wasn't an oversized muscular man, yet he wasn't without his own strength either. Nor did the man who held him against the wall looked to be stronger than him. He could probably take him on his worst day, or so he thought. There was no budging this guy and that....
Heartbreaking. Frighte-
A muffled cry tore from his throat at the bite. Who in the hell was this ******* guy on his neck? Why...why..
It felt a lot like dying. It looked a lot like dying. Maybe he'd actually die this time around.
His life didn't flash before his eyes. He didn't see the "light". There were no singing angels or an "Ahhh ahh ahh" moment to this feeling. He didn't think about how his mother or father would feel when he died. What Lynda...or Dizzy...Nick..no one crossed his mind in this moment. No. He focused on the feeling because he remembered it all too clearly. Ishaq only remembered the one instance in his life where there was a chance life would no longer exist within him. The instance where he found himself unable to breathe. He couldn't remember the pain the pouring out of his body. Actually...he just remembered how it looked.
He never told anyone about his outer body experience during his overdose. He couldn't tell him how he saw them crying and pleading for him to wake up. The panic that erupted from their pores nearly drowned him as they played the waiting game with the police and the ambulance.
Ishaq didn't know exactly how to feel as...this monster drank his blood. He knew everyone was super crazy about the vampire trend that had been going on for some time around the world. Of course, a lot of vampire inspired underground bands started to pop up, wanting to get a piece of the action. But the man never realized anything of that nature was real. Well, his eyes were opened now and he figured it would be too late for him now. This was something no one would actually believe...if he survived!
If he survived...he'd put himself in an asylum.
Ishaq decided perhaps it was time for him to give up. He wouldn't be able to explain it if he lived or how others would be perceive it. They'll knock it to the fact he was high and that he probably fucked his own self up. Maybe it was just time, he thought, as he watched his own body get tossed toward the bathtub without..much effort. His mind couldn't- he needed to know who this guy was. Who the **** was this guy? Where the hell did he come from? ****, he'll never know at his point. He was just going to watch himself die.
He led himself right into the hands of a butcher, being bled out in the tub in the same fashion of a pig. Fitting. Very fitting.
Yet the strangest...sensation took over him. It was a numbing sensation at first, very dull but there. He didn't know if it was him completely letting go and allowing his soul be pulled away from the realm. Or...if it had something to do with the fact the man was pressing his bloodied wrist to Ishaq's mouth. Why the hell he was doing it, he didn't know nor did he want to know to be honest. Well, that was a lie. He did want to know; the curiosity in him hadn't died yet. For every bit of blood of the other's the fell into the tub, mingling with his, a little bit lingered in his mouth.
The more it lingered, the more Ishaq felt this odd tug. This tug that started to turn into this euphoric feeling in him. Was this what death really felt like? Or what life was suppose to feel like? His essence drew closer to his own body as if saying...no, no it wasn't time yet. No, there was something more to this. What is this? It felt a lot like dying but in the fashion he could only dream about. He let a bit more of himself pour back into his body, gaining a bit more mobility.
Just enough to open his mouth more to this...wondrous blood...more like a drug..opening himself to feel that...euphoria. It was starting to feel like the best high of his life.
"You're a wolf, boy, get out of this town."
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Jesse Fforde
- Registered User
- Posts: 3487
- Joined: 30 Jun 2012, 09:32
- CrowNet Handle: Fox
Re: Dirt and Filth ( Jesse Fforde)
The going is slow, and at first I wonder whether this will be my first failed attempt. The human’s blood, thick and gelatinous, throbs and sloshes into the bathtub. The scent of it overwhelms the small space; the smell is hot, delicious. All the violent warmth that had once occupied the singer’s limbs is now a part of the atmosphere, fleeing from the dying blood. At first there is no movement from the body beneath me. The guy must have passed out, or something. Although I try to force my blood into him, the position isn’t so great. With him leaning over my wrist, it’s not likely that any of my blood will slide down his throat. It’s not likely that he’ll inadvertently swallow.
And how will I feel, if this doesn’t turn out the way I plan it to? Why is it that I so suddenly changed my mind? I know it’s an addiction, now. I had an inkling that there’s something about this process that I cannot get enough of—it happened with Abigail, and now it’s happening again. I won’t be so crass as to compare it to a climax, but…how else to explain it? It’s this striving after something greater, an explosion of sensation that can only be experienced in this one specific way.
If this fails… I won’t get to experience that forging of a connection. When my blood brings this man back to life, he will be connected to me, forever. And when that happens, when his body finally accepts the change, when the blood finally takes over and renovates the core of his humanity to become something grander, well. I don’t know how to explain it. But I want it. I want it, oh so badly. I want to add this personality, this singer, this passionate violent man to my cohort, my entourage, my collection. Oh, of course he’ll be far more than that. He won’t be just an object. And because of that…
… if this fails, I might have to find someone else. The idea is there in my head, now. I can’t get free of it.
But it won’t fail. It won’t, because his lips move. He begins to take the blood of his own accord. I grin, and to make it easier for him, I pull him away from the tub. I throw him to the floor, onto his back. I sit down beside him, legs crossed. I widen the wound on my wrist, and as the blood begins to flow, I hold the flood over his tongue. He won’t need to ingest too much more, but it’s better to be on the safe side. Better too much than not enough. And with each mouthful he swallows, the more I can feel it—that tugging on my soul. Whatever magic it was that made me what I am, I am now passing on to him.
Maybe I was deprived as a child. Maybe, subconsciously, I’m seeking the connections with others that I never had growing up—those connections that are crucial to a healthy and thriving psyche. Well, my psyche is not healthy. It’s hardly thriving, in any normal sense of the word.
Whatever the case, I wait until I think enough of my blood has been taken. And when it is done, I sit back, leaning up against the cupboard, arm resting on my knee. I watch, idly curious, as the slashed wound on my wrist heals. I ignore the bashing on the door—if people really need to piss, they’ll go elsewhere. The body of the dead girl is lank and motionless beside my new progeny—she lucked out, where he had hit the jackpot.
I wait for the change to begin.
And how will I feel, if this doesn’t turn out the way I plan it to? Why is it that I so suddenly changed my mind? I know it’s an addiction, now. I had an inkling that there’s something about this process that I cannot get enough of—it happened with Abigail, and now it’s happening again. I won’t be so crass as to compare it to a climax, but…how else to explain it? It’s this striving after something greater, an explosion of sensation that can only be experienced in this one specific way.
If this fails… I won’t get to experience that forging of a connection. When my blood brings this man back to life, he will be connected to me, forever. And when that happens, when his body finally accepts the change, when the blood finally takes over and renovates the core of his humanity to become something grander, well. I don’t know how to explain it. But I want it. I want it, oh so badly. I want to add this personality, this singer, this passionate violent man to my cohort, my entourage, my collection. Oh, of course he’ll be far more than that. He won’t be just an object. And because of that…
… if this fails, I might have to find someone else. The idea is there in my head, now. I can’t get free of it.
But it won’t fail. It won’t, because his lips move. He begins to take the blood of his own accord. I grin, and to make it easier for him, I pull him away from the tub. I throw him to the floor, onto his back. I sit down beside him, legs crossed. I widen the wound on my wrist, and as the blood begins to flow, I hold the flood over his tongue. He won’t need to ingest too much more, but it’s better to be on the safe side. Better too much than not enough. And with each mouthful he swallows, the more I can feel it—that tugging on my soul. Whatever magic it was that made me what I am, I am now passing on to him.
Maybe I was deprived as a child. Maybe, subconsciously, I’m seeking the connections with others that I never had growing up—those connections that are crucial to a healthy and thriving psyche. Well, my psyche is not healthy. It’s hardly thriving, in any normal sense of the word.
Whatever the case, I wait until I think enough of my blood has been taken. And when it is done, I sit back, leaning up against the cupboard, arm resting on my knee. I watch, idly curious, as the slashed wound on my wrist heals. I ignore the bashing on the door—if people really need to piss, they’ll go elsewhere. The body of the dead girl is lank and motionless beside my new progeny—she lucked out, where he had hit the jackpot.
I wait for the change to begin.
FIRE and BLOOD