Unhinged {Roderic}

[River]

This is it.

The knowledge that her death was coming settled over her at the first bite of his blade. The pain set her nerves on fire, and she snapped her teeth together without a sound. He could take her life from her, suck the soul from her very being, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of breaking. Forcing herself to remain still, she kept her mismatched gaze locked on his as though she could see his thoughts. Are you really going to accept your death so easily, Danika? As the thought circulated through her mind, she kept her eyes locked on his, her resolve stronger than ever. What choice did she have? She tried to run, she tried to fight. Sometimes, there was strength found in facing the inevitable. She couldn’t discern how she knew, but there was something different about this man. The strength he possessed was dark, and it pulsed from him in a way that sent a shock down her spine. Even if she were to flee, he would catch her.

There is no escape.

Her heart slowed as the blood warmed her chilled skin, and with a defiance she wasn’t sure she should possess in that moment, she tilted her head back and smiled. It was the moment her lips curved that he attacked, his blade flashing in the moonlight a second before it sliced through her throat. The shock registered briefly on her face, and it was then she moved. Her hands shot up, fingers clawing at her blood slick through, as if she could piece the pieces together. It didn’t matter how strong someone might have been a moment before their demise - death was undignified. It was ingrained in the very soul to survive, and even with the acceptance of the end, it wasn’t easy to go out without a fight. It was as if the mind refused to accept what the heart already had. Her fingers slid across her skin as her blood stained her shirt and pooled at their feet, but her eyes never wavered from his. The emotions flickered like a kaleidoscope; rage, grief, hatred, and finally, relief. Relief that she would no longer have to carry the burden of her mistakes, relief that she would no longer have to wake up in a cold sweat, with tears on her cheeks.

Relief that she would finally be free.

It was with that final flicker that the light began to dim, and she could no longer support her own weight. Her knees buckled, and she felt the warmth of her blood as it seeped into her jeans a second before everything turned dark.

[Roderic]

The inevitable was on the woman in front of me. I watch her facial features, letting her death; the knowledge in knowing her death was approaching, sink into those features. When people realize they are going to die, there are a series of emotions, supposedly. There are seven of them, I learned my first year in college, but I could debate there's probably more like five. Six tops. I fail to see the boundaries with some of those stages, or people could some time experience a couple at one time. The brain is a funny and mysterious thing and no two are alike. People can share characteristics-but no two people experience their onward demise in the same exact way.

There's shock. You just got some bad news. You don't know what to say or what to do. I don't think I ever experience that. I recognize things are bad or need to be fixed, so I ******* do it. Denial. I don't think I experience this one either. If things seem to be different-they typically are. You have to trust your gut and your experiences. You remember where things are; keys just don't wander off. They don't have legs. You can see someone looking old or tired. Your eyes (unless blind), see a a lot-don't mistrust your own perceptions. You know when things aren't right or don't look right. You can't deny it in my mind. Trust your instincts and perceptions and it's next to impossible to deny anything. Anger. I can't admit to never being angry-I've been angry. If anyone gets in my space; in my territory, I'm going to protect that area. Make you get out. I sort of get why people get angry about the whole dying thing-someone is invading their life. Trying to modify it. I wouldn't appreciate that either. Bargaining. I don't really understand that either. Promising some entity who has millions of lives on the planet-isn't going to work, assholes. You aren't special. So special he or she or whatever is listening to you when he's got to work on everyone and everything. If the guy even exists at all. Sister B and I have differing opinions on that. Moving on.

Depression. What's there to be depressed about? No one ever told anyone, that I know of, that you weren't ever going to die. Sure, maybe in movies and books, but that crap isn't real. But, I can see how people in this city might be depressed if they knew about vampires and hoped that one day they might become one. A get out of death free sort of card. We do die, but we come back too. I can sort of understand being depressed then. From there, most people attempt to find a solution to their problem. Maybe by taking this pill, or this shot they might get better or be cured enough to see another ten or fifteen years. It don't matter to me, because we're all dead anyways. Unless you become a vampire. Promised ten years might realistically only be five and then you need to look at quality of health. Is it worth living five or ten more years just to drink my meal from a bag and lay in bed all day, letting someone else wipe my ***? Shoot me now. Send me to hell right now because it can't be any worse than what that might be about. And the one I can relate to the most-acceptance. We all do this at different times. We accept out fate and move the **** on. Life is life, it's short and done with in a span of a clap compared to how old our planet is. And that's all I see from this woman in front of me. She's accepted her fate. Good on her.

While I wait for her to hit the floor, I grab a cigarette out from my pack, put it between my lips and light it. It shouldn't take too long. Two, two and a half minutes at most. I severed a pretty big vein in her neck. We've only got about ten pints in us-but she's been cut a couple times so that will help with the drainage. I slowly shrug out of my coat, one arm at a time and then let it drop to the ground at my feet. I never cared about being dirty before, or my clothes being dirty either, so for it to be on the damp concrete on the ground is no big deal to me. From there I kick the thing aside, as to not get any of her blood or hairs on it-just in case things go south. I don't want her body follicles and other things on my coat. That's just asking for a whole lot of trouble in my opinion. The small blade is dragged across my palm at about the same time she hits the concrete with her knees. I drop to my knees in a similar fashion and then do what I'm supposed to do. My palm is clasped over her mouth, as if I'm preventing her from screaming and wait. I count in my head to twenty-eight and then stand and clutch my palm closed. Can't be seeping inky black stuff everywhere. I finish my cigarette and just stand there, looking at her. It will either take, or it won't, which is her problem. I grab my half finished pack of cigarettes, pull them all out and stuff them in my pocket and then begin to use the black substance that is coming from my palm to write a simple message. Here. Tomorrow. Eight p.m. 'Til then stay indoors'. With that done and the hard pack ripped open so I could write the message on the inside, I drop the pack besides the woman's head and then tome to the Eyrie.