Bird in a Basement
Posted: 13 Mar 2017, 14:55
T H E . F I R S T . N I G H T
Best laid plans, and all that. Well, they never quite go to plan.
The musician took nothing with him. His guitar was left in the attack of Lancaster’s, gathering dust. The journal he’d not-so-assiduously written in was pushed between similar tomes in a bookshelf in an apartment that only he and Pi ever visited. The suitcase he’d used to fly to Australia and back was discarded inside the apartment door; there were no clues that he had been there except for a scent, an aura that would quickly fade.
A portal was taken to the sewers. There was a portal that led straight to the catacombs and his underground apartment there, but that was too close. With the way his throat itched, the way his rage burned and simmered beneath the surface – a hangry vampire, if you will – he counted himself as a danger, a liability. What if someone slipped through that portal out of curiosity? He had offered the mausoleum apartment to all those whom he had sired or taken under his wing. What if one of them took him up on that offer, belatedly? What if they slipped into the darkness to find a ravaged old Lancaster, all fangs and thirst, ready to tear out their neck regardless of who they were and what they meant to him?
Lancaster could feel his control slipping from him and the stench and dank dimness of the sewers were a welcome reprieve. They were like open arms and he was stepping into the tunnels where he belonged. This is what he’d been fighting all along, wasn’t it? All inhibitions were dropped. Could he ever deny it? Killing was second nature. Slaughter was something that he was good at.
When his booted feet his the brick floor, Lancaster’s intention was not to let loose. He did not come down here to join the ranks of the wild undead. He had come down here to traverse the maze that would eventually lead him to the cold hovel that was his first ever dwelling purchase. An apartment in the sewers that couldn’t be called an apartment. It had no ventilation. It was a bunch of rooms, unfurnished, ungarnished. It would be his tome, except he did not intend to die. He wanted only to sleep, and to imagine he had never been turned.
It was a cowardly thing to do, this he knew. He was running away from his problems, but the weight that dragged him down could no longer be carried. He was tired, his legs were sore. He couldn’t take another step without collapsing. This was where he would collapse.
The creature’s head was connected to its neck only by skin and muscle, half the support torn free by teeth desperate for sustenance.
The vampire had to have been a young one. It had no sire – at least, none willing to help it. The sewers had become its home and it did not have an identity anymore. It was the epitome of gluttony, of thirst and hunger. Its blood now dripped from Lancaster’s chin; his teeth were stained red and his Adam’s apple bounced merrily in his throat as he swallowed the thick, sweet cruor, as he licked his lips and sucked his teeth, only wanting more.
The cold dead eyes of the creature would once have inspired pity in the musician, but there was nothing. Clothes that had been clean were now saturated. Best laid plans came unhinged. The destination was forgotten. Now, there was only thirst.
The musician took nothing with him. His guitar was left in the attack of Lancaster’s, gathering dust. The journal he’d not-so-assiduously written in was pushed between similar tomes in a bookshelf in an apartment that only he and Pi ever visited. The suitcase he’d used to fly to Australia and back was discarded inside the apartment door; there were no clues that he had been there except for a scent, an aura that would quickly fade.
A portal was taken to the sewers. There was a portal that led straight to the catacombs and his underground apartment there, but that was too close. With the way his throat itched, the way his rage burned and simmered beneath the surface – a hangry vampire, if you will – he counted himself as a danger, a liability. What if someone slipped through that portal out of curiosity? He had offered the mausoleum apartment to all those whom he had sired or taken under his wing. What if one of them took him up on that offer, belatedly? What if they slipped into the darkness to find a ravaged old Lancaster, all fangs and thirst, ready to tear out their neck regardless of who they were and what they meant to him?
Lancaster could feel his control slipping from him and the stench and dank dimness of the sewers were a welcome reprieve. They were like open arms and he was stepping into the tunnels where he belonged. This is what he’d been fighting all along, wasn’t it? All inhibitions were dropped. Could he ever deny it? Killing was second nature. Slaughter was something that he was good at.
When his booted feet his the brick floor, Lancaster’s intention was not to let loose. He did not come down here to join the ranks of the wild undead. He had come down here to traverse the maze that would eventually lead him to the cold hovel that was his first ever dwelling purchase. An apartment in the sewers that couldn’t be called an apartment. It had no ventilation. It was a bunch of rooms, unfurnished, ungarnished. It would be his tome, except he did not intend to die. He wanted only to sleep, and to imagine he had never been turned.
It was a cowardly thing to do, this he knew. He was running away from his problems, but the weight that dragged him down could no longer be carried. He was tired, his legs were sore. He couldn’t take another step without collapsing. This was where he would collapse.
___________________
The creature’s head was connected to its neck only by skin and muscle, half the support torn free by teeth desperate for sustenance.
The vampire had to have been a young one. It had no sire – at least, none willing to help it. The sewers had become its home and it did not have an identity anymore. It was the epitome of gluttony, of thirst and hunger. Its blood now dripped from Lancaster’s chin; his teeth were stained red and his Adam’s apple bounced merrily in his throat as he swallowed the thick, sweet cruor, as he licked his lips and sucked his teeth, only wanting more.
The cold dead eyes of the creature would once have inspired pity in the musician, but there was nothing. Clothes that had been clean were now saturated. Best laid plans came unhinged. The destination was forgotten. Now, there was only thirst.