Location: Somewhere in Honeymead || WEARING
Robin couldn’t say that he was depressed. Not really. Not on the surface – not that anyone would ever see, or know. Least of all Lorelai. She would think it was her fault. Although they didn’t talk about it too much, Robin knew that Lorelai still felt guilty about his turning. It wasn’t something they would ever agree on. Lorelai said it was her fault, Robin said it was his. And he had to fight to convince her that it wasn’t exactly something he hadn’t wanted. Eventually, he knew he’d have asked for it. Who better to turn him that one of his closest friends?
It wasn’t his state of vampirism that had Robin depressed. Not that he would admit to depression, anyway. He was a writer, and any state of grief was something that could be used. For a while he’d written articles for literary journals; these days, he wrote reviews for the books he read and published short stories under a pseudonym. They weren’t very good, but at least they brought him some money. There was less pressure to write a masterpiece, these days. The very foundation of the meaning of life had been rocked; he had lived and worked under the assumption that the fear of death was what drove the human spirit. Now that there was no fear of death, what drive could he possibly have?
It was drive that Robin was lacking. Although he hadn’t lived with much enthusiasm as a human, now he lived with nearly none. He was still able to laugh and have a good time, but he didn’t feel as if his life had much worth. Not only that, but he was a failure as a vampire. He’d been waiting for the authorities – for someone – to come knock down the door of Lorelai’s apartment and drag him out into the sunlight.
Turned out, he didn’t need to be dragged out into the sunlight; the first night was a slash across his throat. The next, a bullet to the chest, directly through the unbeating heart. And yet, it still felt like he was dying. The loss of blood was what did him in; he felt weak, dispossessed. He looked like some wide-eyed zombie as he shuffled down the street, irises rimmed in red and hair barely brushed upon his head. He had at least managed to dress for the weather. Kind of. The leather jacket hung upon his body, depleted of blood and thus seemingly depleted of flesh. He didn’t know where he was – somewhere in Honeymead, probably. It was his usual haunting ground. It made sense, if he made his way there, subconsciously.
He needed blood. He needed not to be seen. He needed, somehow, to lay low and shake their attention. But, first – he needed to feed.
It wasn’t his state of vampirism that had Robin depressed. Not that he would admit to depression, anyway. He was a writer, and any state of grief was something that could be used. For a while he’d written articles for literary journals; these days, he wrote reviews for the books he read and published short stories under a pseudonym. They weren’t very good, but at least they brought him some money. There was less pressure to write a masterpiece, these days. The very foundation of the meaning of life had been rocked; he had lived and worked under the assumption that the fear of death was what drove the human spirit. Now that there was no fear of death, what drive could he possibly have?
It was drive that Robin was lacking. Although he hadn’t lived with much enthusiasm as a human, now he lived with nearly none. He was still able to laugh and have a good time, but he didn’t feel as if his life had much worth. Not only that, but he was a failure as a vampire. He’d been waiting for the authorities – for someone – to come knock down the door of Lorelai’s apartment and drag him out into the sunlight.
Turned out, he didn’t need to be dragged out into the sunlight; the first night was a slash across his throat. The next, a bullet to the chest, directly through the unbeating heart. And yet, it still felt like he was dying. The loss of blood was what did him in; he felt weak, dispossessed. He looked like some wide-eyed zombie as he shuffled down the street, irises rimmed in red and hair barely brushed upon his head. He had at least managed to dress for the weather. Kind of. The leather jacket hung upon his body, depleted of blood and thus seemingly depleted of flesh. He didn’t know where he was – somewhere in Honeymead, probably. It was his usual haunting ground. It made sense, if he made his way there, subconsciously.
He needed blood. He needed not to be seen. He needed, somehow, to lay low and shake their attention. But, first – he needed to feed.
