Path of the Vampire forum

It had been two days since the ill-fated encounter with Baxter. Their contact in the hours since had been minimal, regulated to the terse exchange of one meal tray for the next. Aleksei didn’t begrudge the man his anger. There were those who might have been taken aback by the display; recoiled from the scorn that seemed to seep from his pores. A manifestation of rage that was caustic by design; capable of blistering the paint on the walls. It had fascinated him. It had given way to a fixation, a relentless curiosity, insidious and insatiable. His attempts to occupy himself were feeble and short lived. A sliver of the man had wormed its way beneath his skin, irrevocably embedded like a month’s old splinter that had forgotten to fester. That kind of curiosity was dangerous. More to the point, it was irritating.

It had brought him to a determination. He’d broken the corner edge of the mirror that morning; no easy task, as it turned out. The first obstacle was the decorative border that edged the glass. The gilt that lined the glass was authentic; weighted and impervious to his first handful of attempts to slip his fingers beneath its edge. Aleksei had searched blindly for weakness in the framework; places where the adhesive had grown thin over the years, an exposure to moisture at last taking its toll. It proved fruitless; by the first quarter of the morning, he had nothing to show for his endeavors but the split nail of his middle finger. The flesh under the nailbed had quickly darkened, taking on the color of a plum that had begun to go soft, flooding the nailbed with a half moon of crimson.

He’d settled on breaking it with his fist, in the end. The glass had buckled, hairline cracks forming in jagged spiderweb patterns. It had jarred a single shard free; roughly the size of his index and middle finger joined together. He’d caught it deftly, palming it thoughtfully. A knife would have served better, but he quickly dismissed the thought. The handful of knives he received alongside his meals were either butter knives - their teeth far too soft for the purpose he had in mind - or quickly conficiated, falling under the umbrella of a tool or weapon. By mid-afternoon, he’d returned to the bedroom.

The center of the floor was dominated by the liner of the shower curtain, its surface a virginal shade of white. He was poised as he stepped onto it; the material pleasantly cool beneath the bare soles of his feet. He inhaled sharply through his nostrils, the sound thin and slightly muffled. The handle of a toothbrush was cradled between his teeth. It wasn’t ideal. Far too brittle for his intended purpose. But it would serve.

Aleksei’s touch was clinical. There was a pronounced detachment to the idle count of his fingers as his fingers grazed the faint impression of each rib, pausing at the twelfth. He paused, briefly distracted by the sound of a familiar tread. A thin smile played around his mouth. He’d discarded his clothing; folding his shirt neatly on the bed. The slacks he’d donned were, in a rare considerate moment, his own, tattered and bloodstained.

The task proved easier in theory than execution. His movements were deft as he pressed the jagged edge of the shard against his skin, drawing in a shallow breath. The fingers of his opposite hand flexed, drawing the skin beneath the point of the shard taut. The incision was shallow, at first; a sudden pressure as the flesh parted around the uneven edge, the touch of oxygen coaxing an immediate stinging sensation. Blood welled to the surface, staining the underside of the shard, before washing over his fingers in a steady trickle. It was sluggish in its flow, at first; snaking towards his hip. The second stroke was firmer, slightly faster than the first. Much too quick, as it turned out; the outer edges of the wound widened, the ragged edge of the glass abruptly turning sideways, severing the flap of skin. The result was immediate; the once sluggish flow grew faster, coating his fingers. He hissed lowly - the sound closer to one of frustration than discomfort. The glass was slick against his palm, his grip less certain.

His fingers curled, the pressure unrelenting, seeking, in that moment, a peculiar assurance. The echo he sought registered belatedly; he could feel the give of flesh as the upper edge of the shard bit into the underside of his fingers, sinking in easily just beneath the joint. The fingers of his opposite hand released their grip a heartbeat later, in favor of burrowing themselves to the knuckle. His jaw clenched around the handle of the toothbrush caught between his teeth. There was a dull sound as his molars connected with the outer casing, sinking into the malleable plastic, feeling its give between his teeth. He brought his opposite hand into play once more, no longer slicing, but sawing, the motion continuous as the point of the glass sank home. There was a smoothness under his touch; a slickness countered by the barest hint of tension. He’d reached the intercostal muscle; the tissue that stretched between the ribs. It was supple; just enough give to allow the chest cavity to expand and shrink.

He realized his error almost immediately. The point of the glass was too dull to cut through muscle. It had embedded itself, inching roughly four inches before it stalled, unable to breach further. The edges of his vision had begun to darken, slightly; vision abruptly narrowing, a strangled noise tearing free of his throat. So be it, came the thought. His right hand abruptly punched forward, knuckles flush against his side, wrist angling upwards. The vertical rise caused the tip of the shard to rip upwards, the answering agony nearly blinding, threatening to drop him to his knees. The fingers of his free hand widened in tandem - a clenched fist unfurling, fingers blindly seeking. The tips grazed along the edge of a rib a moment. The bone was wet; slick beneath his touch.

The steady patter of blood was loud in his ears as it struck the shower curtain, forming wine dark, stagnant pools at his feet. His fist curled around the center of the rib a heartbeat later, wrist twisting upwards sharply. There was a dull, wet snap. The sound felt concussive; violent, rolling up his spine, etching a line of fire in his wake. Another twist, counterclockwise, bone grating over bone, vision briefly going white.

And still, his task was not finished.

There was a common lie that, in moments of extreme duress, the world grows silent. Baxter’s presence was not heralded by an absence of sound, but an abrupt muting. There was a rush of static in his ears. The sound around him had subsided into a dull, crackling hiss; dissolving into an atonal ringing. “Be with you...in a minute.” He spoke haltingly, the words slurring slightly. There was an echo of the same wet crack that had signaled the fracturing of his rib, but thinner; closer to the worn, heavy sound of a needle against the grooves of a vinyl record; gaps and pauses that hissed and popped. It was difficult to speak. His tongue felt foreign in his mouth; as cold and unresponsive as marble. The nerves were deadened; the muscles weak. The beginnings of shock, seeking a foothold. Pain was an abstract concept. He’d crossed that threshold long ago. He wasn’t impervious; he was aware of it, but the acknowledgment was remote, almost bored.

His gaze fixed on Baxter, narrowing slightly, as if reading the intent behind every taut line, in the Morse code of his stride, the pervasive tension in the set of his jaw. He took a single step backwards, listing like a drunkard. He managed to correct his balance - though narrowly. The taste of copper was oppressive in his mouth - a sudden dampness flooding his mouth, trickling down the back of his throat as his lips drew back, the pale gleam of his fangs emerging through their ruptured gumline, streaked a pale, anemic shade of pink. It left a trace of foam - equally tinged - against the swell of his lower lip. It was the hallmark of something feral, cornered and defiant. The caged beast that bared its fangs at last. He faltered under a rasping sort of pain that made his lungs clench, fist-like.

All the same, he withdrew his bloodied hand from the freshly inflicted, ragged wound that graced his side, the sharp, metallic scent of the blood that coated both the liner as well as his skin nearly overwhelming. He would need to move quickly. The wet fingers of his right hand resumed their count, trailing streaks of red in their wake. His gaze sought Baxter’s once more, level and steady, as the nails of his left bit into his skin, drawing it tight, before those fingers busied themselves with a firm, pointed drag of the drenched edge of glass across his skin, fingers burying within the shallow cut and twisting.

The damage had been done by the time Baxter reached his side. The first four fingers of Aleksei’s right hand had buried themselves to the second knuckle. The edges of the wound gaped bleakly, resembling, in its contrasting reds, a halved pomegranate. Baxter’s grip around his wrist arrested his movements; the pressure against his wrist enough to cause his grip to slacken. The room abruptly shifted into focus, A hiss of protest escaped his lips, the noise thin. It was hardly the display he’d been aiming for; particularly as all it did was encourage more of his saliva to take on a light pink cast, bubbling unpleasantly as it welled from his ruptured gumline. There was an uncomfortable weight in his mouth; a foreign obstruction that Aleksei rolled briefly with the stiffened tip of his tongue before ejecting it with a violent spat. The broken casing of the toothbrush landed on the floor. It was a clean break; the sheer edges nearly identical. The shard of glass followed suit, slipping from his nerveless fingers with a muted sound of impact.

He tensed, muscles coiling beneath his skin. In that frozen moment, he was very much the fox freed from the trap; a single moment of weakness. Of mercy. A lack of foresight when those jaws sprang wide to close around the jugular of its would-be rescuer, heedless of the benediction it had been granted. A captive fox knows when it has exchanged one trap for another. There was no opportunity to retaliate. The sudden barrage of Baxter’s thoughts struck Aleksei’s own with the elegance of a right hook, leaving him equally reeling. His own thoughts lashed out blindly; honed but chaotic, softening within seconds, dulling with confusion. His vision had begun to dim; it was difficult to distinguish the details of Baxter’s face as it drew close to his own. His pupils were blown wide - impossibly dark. He was aware, distantly, of the way the other man’s fingers tightened around his jaw - the pressure coaxing a shallow exhale - before falling away.

An immediate sense of vertigo gripped him as he was lowered to the floor. It caused his breath to seize in his lungs, a sharp, bitter taste at the back of his throat. It subsided as quickly as it registered, replaced, instead, by the sudden agony that scored along his side. His intercostal muscles - what remained of them - expanded weakly, forcing against the splintered edge of his rib. A hushed sound slipped from him; a brittle, oxygen-starved note that caused his jaw to nearly lock, buckling under the pressure. “Did you…”He asked in a whisper, the words scoring his throat raw, “think I’d extend my wings to be clipped by someone else's hand?” He was silent for a moment. “You could. But that would be letting me get away with another theft. That, and…”

There was a sudden intensity to his gaze; a clarity that seemed out of place. “If I were interested in escape, I’d have done it by now.”

There was a curious difference between wild birds and their domestic counterparts. When death claims a caged bird, more often than not, its owner will find it at the bottom of its cage, its wings folded. Its feet are often stiff with rigor mortis, pointed skyward. A submissive, meek ending. When death comes for their wild cousin, however, their body shudders in their final moments, wings unfurling like the blades of a fan, frozen in a final flight. As if the gloaming of death were something to embrace. To challenge. “Who’re you…” He began, “to decide the bird’s misery?” The question was slightly arch; a quiet defiance to the question. The pressure of Baxter’s palm against his wound made him tense, drawing in a sharp breath. It was reflexive; a shallow intake of breath through his teeth. He regretted it immediately. The effect was similar to swallowing gasoline; his lungs seizing briefly, expanding to press against his ribcage. The pressure jarred the outermost edge of his broken rib. He would have been forgiven, in that moment, for succumbing to the tide of black that edged his vision. As it was, it gave way to a dull, brittle sound, the edge briefly protruding from the wound.

Aleksei’s eyes nearly rolled, the whites briefly flashing. For a split second, it nearly resembles an exorcism; a laying of hands that left his spine curving in a pronounced arch. It took a handful of minutes for him to regain his composure. “The results wouldn’t have been as satisfying.” He countered dryly. The volume of his voice was softer; less coherent. There was a subdued quality to it, borderline drowsy. It was growing increasingly difficult for him to keep his eyes open. They drifted shut for a moment, seeking a reprieve from the strange, oppressive sense of heaviness that gripped his limbs. “Take a guess.” He replied, gaze drifting to Baxter’s. He held it for several long seconds, watching the change in his facial expression with something approaching a wry acknowledgment.

His pulse had begun to slow, its pace sluggish. The sound of it in his ears was muted, less frantic. The blood that had once flowed so freely had slowed to an anemic trickle. He'd told himself he could endure. That he understood the limits of what the human body could take. It was particularly experimental. Yes, he understood the limits of a human body, but he'd never had the opportunity to test the limits of someone who was no longer quite. It was both peace offering and challenge. As Baxter’s voice rose - strangely distorted and distant - his fingers hooked into the edge of the wound, tugging sharply. It had the opposite effect he’d intended. He caught a fragment of Baxter’s words before the rolling black of unconsciousness seized him in its jaws at last.