Jean-Pierre
City CouncilMember is offline Stupid and Against the Rules
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Posted: Jul 5th, 2008 at 04:43 pm
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Disaster. That was what it was, what all of it was and always had been. Francois was right, wasn't he? People like Jean simply would not be happy. It wasn't plausible, it wasn't sensible, it just didn't happen. He was weighted with the guilt of driving Zillah away again for the second time, and it ached terribly alongside the ache of not seeing him, not being with him. Disaster!
In Zillah's wake there was left only a silence and an emptiness which could not be filled with alcohol, much as he had tried. Alcohol just wasn't cutting it, which was perhaps why he'd been so easily swayed. That and the fact that he had remained completely disaffected since Zillah's departure. Frankly put, he didn't give a damn about anything or anyone, least of all himself. He'd been at one of the innumerable fancy bars north of the Seine, trying in vain to fill that void with Boru vodka. And -he- had appeared. Francois Laurent Patin. Francois, the bastard, Francois, the silvertongued master of destruction. It had been so ironic that Jean had almost laughed bitterly when the man had appeared at his shoulder. Almost. But not quite. Instead, he had eyed him coolly.
But it hadn't remained like this. It all seemed a blur, too fast to keep up with. One minute he was sitting at the bar, and the next he was in one of the upstairs rooms with a rag-tag bunch of other flakes who were in the industry, and Francois was tying a tourniquet around his upper arm carefully...
And it had all gone downhill from there. Jean didn't know how long it had been. Weeks maybe? Months more likely. The nights had all begun to blur into one. He didn't even know what day it was let alone what date! It was some other night, and that was all he knew. He hadn't fed in days, but it hadn't mattered, because the pain of the hunger was muted by the thickness of the drug in his system. Being immortal had it's perks. No such thing as overdose.
He was sprawled on one side of a long sofa that lined the far wall of the VIP room of the little high-end club. Wraiths of men and women occupied the other spaces here and there. A den of sin and degradation to be sure! The glass table at the centre of the room was laid out with cocaine, of which a young woman and a young man were partaking. Jean didn't see them, he didn't see anyone. His eyes were fairly-well lifeless behind the black sunglasses he wore to hide them. The usually brilliant, glassy green had muted into a dull, sickly olive colour and lost it's lustre. The hunger was starting to break through, but again it didn't matter, because Francois was there, sitting at his elbow as he tied the tourniquet and slid the needle into a bruised vein. Jean barely felt it, or if he did, he made no attempt to complain, merely glanced at Francois slowly. His eyes drifted closed briefly as the initial surge of the drug sent his nerves buzzing deliciously. It was like cool water being pumped through his tired veins and arteries before the sensation mellowed into euphoria.
And yet it still didn't fill the void, it just made him not have to think about the ache, dulled it, pushed it aside carelessly like the rest of his life had been pushed aside. He was arm candy again really, though he hadn't been doing much wakling around for the past few nights, having devoted himself entirely to tryign to fill the void with this old vice. If Francois was worried about him, it didn't show in the least, and actually he wasn't. Jean had insisted he could handle it, and Francois didn't care enough to argue.
His head lulled back against the couch as Francois sunk into the sofa next to him and traced his fingertips against his pale jawbone idly. Jean looked gaunt and sickly, but then so did half the room's occupants, most of whom were also arm candy for this wealthy agent. Jean's hair was not braided, he hadn't been bothered tot ouch it in weeks save a shower now and then. It hung over his shoulder in brilliant waves of fiery auburn, the only splash of life left to him perhaps.
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Posted: Jul 5th, 2008 at 05:46 pm
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Another night alone in Paris. He couldn't keep track of how many nights had passed this way, yet he continued to stay. Why? Jean had pushed him away again, for the second time, but his feet didn't carry him back to New Orleans, where he might find safe haven again. He should have gone, he knew it, but he couldn't go, not when the only thing he cared about, the only thing he wanted, was somewhere in Paris.
After the rejection, Zillah had spent most of his nights lurking around Jean's apartment building, hoping to catch a glimpse of him through the bay windows, or even chance running into him as he came out. Each night, there was no luck to be found and he eventually gave up, finding a place to rent along the waterfront of the Seine and holing himself up until he could think up a solution to this problem, or a way to move on. The latter was impossible. Move on? How could he move on? The potential of something great still lingered in the air, still clouded his mind with pretty promises of unattainable happiness, but it was all a joke, wasn't it? Just a grand, elaborate tease designed to torture him, and others like him, for all eternity. There was no happiness to be found if it wasn't with Jean. He was impossible to get over. Zillah felt a fool for it. You should know better than this. You never got close to anyone else for a reason, and this is it. Do you see? You should have kept your distance. But he hadn't and now he was learning all over again what it meant to be heartbroken, discarded, uncared for and unloved...damaged goods. Useless. Worthless.
"Damn it!" He kicked a pebble down the street and watched it go for much longer than it should have, if a human had kicked it. He looked around him to make sure no one was watching, and, blessedly, no one was. It was late, even for a city like Paris, and Montmartre was nearly deserted. "I am none of those things," he reminded himself, squeezing his eyes shut. He'd had a lot to think about over the past few months, and one of the realizations he had come to was that, even though he still wasn't over Jean, he was none of those things he'd once thought he was, when the sting of rejection was still fresh. It was a dull ache now, something that resided in his gut and never quite went away, but he could forget it for a while, if he needed to. The taste of alcohol was sweet, and that was what he sought as he made his way to the seedy club just down the street. In the back of his mind, he hoped to find Jean there. That was another motivation of his, though the confidence he'd started out with was not quite as strong anymore. He hadn't been able to find him in any of the bars thus far, hadn't been able to tell him that he understood why he'd pushed him away, that he knew and he didn't care, that he would risk all the danger in the world if it meant being by his side. With downcast eyes, his feet somehow found the way to his destination.
No one bothered to check his ID at the door. These Parisian clubs weren't quite as strict as the ones back home. Immediately, he felt dirty upon entering, but he needed something different tonight, and this was one of the bars he hadn't haunted yet. For a good reason, too, he thought, drifting aimlessly around the sparsely populated room.
"Perhaps you would like to see our VIP lounge," a slithery voice hissed close to his ear. Startled, he pulled back, only to see a haggard-looking woman draw back a curtain to permit his entrance. Repulsed at her appearance, he edged his way around her, trying to be gracious at the same time by nodding a thanks in her direction. She only smiled wryly and let the heavy velvet curtain fall back into place. Oh, yes, this is the VIP room, Zillah thought sarcastically as he cast a glance around the place. Men and women of all shapes and sizes, though mostly gaunt as skeletons, lay prostrate on various couches and cushions in a drug-induced coma. The furniture and drapery was surprisingly luxurious for such a seedy place, but he supposed this was why it was called, after all, the "VIP room."
He made his way around gingerly, taking care to step over fragile bodies spread out on the floor. It wasn't long before a flash of red hair caught his eye. Stopping in his tracks, the room seemed to spin around him for a moment. Though his body was emaciated beyond adequate description, he recognized the form, and those black sunglasses, well enough - it was Jean. And to top it all off, he wasn't alone - idly stroking his face was Francois. The reaction came on sheer impulse. His hands clenched into fists, teeth bared. That bastard. That motherfucking, lowlife bastard!
With a renewed sense of purpose, he strode toward the man, kicking chairs and cushions out of his way, not caring who sit upon them and dizzily crashed to the floor in his wake. No one really seemed to notice or care, just sat up again, dazed, confused.
« Last Edited by
Zillah
Jul 5th, 2008 at 06:03 pm »
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Posted: Jul 5th, 2008 at 06:01 pm
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Francois leered arrogantly as he watched Zillah come toward him, as if to silently ask, "What? Mad I stole your 'boyfriend' away? Too bad." He went back to stroking Jean's jawbone, and he could not curtail his rage any longer.
He wished the man's death to be violent, bloody, something that would not wash off the walls or the fabrics for days to come. Unfortunately, he would have to make the job quick; there was no time for torture. And Zillah would have tortured him, for all the pain he had inflicted, for all the lives he had so nonchalantly destroyed. Jean's own life was on the brink. No, he couldn't die, but he looked to be at the lowest point he could reach.
Zillah's sharpened nails had dug into his palms while he stood there with his hands clenched, and he opened them and looked at his palms now, at the little pools of blood that had formed there. Suddenly, he knew how he would do it, and he would feel no remorse. His face was a mask of hard, cold indifference, and he held it that way as he slashed the front of Francois' throat with the fine points of his nails. The wound gaped opened and blood flowed like a river. He would have lowered his lips, his tongue, to lap at that sweet-smelling stream, but he had better taste than that and only watched with cruel satisfaction as the man bled out. On an afterthought, his right hand shot out and plunged into the depths of Francois' chest, tearing the still beating heart from within. He fell over, and Zillah kicked him off the couch, as far away from Jean as he could, and let his heart fall with a plop onto his stomach.
There was no time to savor the kill, not now. If he could, he would have stood there and arranged the corpse any which way he liked, taking satisfaction in the game and the thrill of ending the man's life. He couldn't think of anyone who had ever deserved it more.
Turning his back on the corpse, he turned to look at Jean. He nearly wept looking at him. The sight was truly pathetic and he wanted so badly for all of this to be a nightmare he'd soon wake up from. But it wasn't, and the anger at how he could do that to himself rose. He moved to stand over Jean, who still lay languidly on the couch, looking as though he had no clue of what had just happened. And perhaps he didn't. Zillah didn't want to be cruel, but he felt as if he had no choice. He tried shaking him first, to no response, and although he nearly cringed as he did it, his hand came back and smacked Jean as hard as he could. The sound rang throughout the place, but no one turned to look as those black sunglasses flew across the room.
« Last Edited by
Zillah
Jul 5th, 2008 at 06:07 pm »
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Jean-Pierre
City CouncilMember is offlineStupid and Against the Rules
Posts: 13
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Posted: Jul 6th, 2008 at 05:11 pm
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Seedy. Seedy was certainly the word that fitted the place. It was precisely the place that, months ago, Jean would have avoided, and seedy was precisely the word he had used for it often. And yet, as if it were some nightmare of a time since passed, he found himself there again. Or, more accurately, he was simply there, and there was no discovery to be made because nothing really seemed to matter.
It was a blur that he couldn't understand. The scent of blood was on the air all around him, but it was distant like a dream. There existed in that moment only the false reality of the drug haze, of his secluded realm behind dark glasses. He couldn't function to move, couldn't fathom to understand what was going on. It was simply impossible. The thickness of the drug in his veins would have killed any mortal to be sure!
Vaguely, reality tried to pierce through it, through the fog where sound and sight couldn't be understood. Someone was shaking him like his mother waking him for school years and years ago. Just five more minutes Maman. The shaking was negligible, a strange sort of sensation that made no sense, but then there was the sudden and violent crack of skin on skin and the ringing it left in his ears. He blinked against the overhead light, clearly bewildered, disconnected from what was going on. Those sickly, sad eyes blinked swiftly to try and catch up to what was going on.
He was staring right at another pair of green eyes. Familiar, so very familiar. He teetered on his feet as the sting of the slap suddenly blossomed across his face, and rose a hand suddenly to his cheek. The burn was piercing the haze, was letting the pain in. The nagging ache of the hunger, the need for blood, and perhaps above all, the need for the drug, the desire to be back in the warm arms of euphoria. He was being shaken out of a comforting dream and he didn't want to wake up.
He shielded his eyes behind a hand suddenly, not against the light, but against reality perhaps, or maybe to hide an emotional response that he didn't wish anyone to see. He let out a soft moan of discomfort and teetered on his feet violently again, finally losing his balance and toppling into his familiar aggressor. His hands grappled for a hold, finding it after a moment to keep him from hitting the deck.
Home... home... Zillah.
"Zillah..." he whispered, echoing the thought inside of his aching head. "Zillah..." His voice was barely audible, distant, dreamy. He peered at him with glassy, unhealthy eyes but it was clear that he was not yet completely seated back in reality. The scent of Francois' blood on the air was overwhelming against the backdrop of starvation. The pain of it ripped through his happy little numbness violently, soliciting a gasping sound from his lips. His hold on Zillah faltered as the blow brought him abruptly to his knees.
No! No pain, no! He didn't want it, couldn't stand it! He was crouched with his face in his hands, and if he was shrieking, he didn't hear it... and he was shrieking, with inhuman volume. He wanted to retreat back into the dream, but it was too late. Why, why had Zillah woken him? Why was he there? Jean had never expected him to come back, had expected only anger, only spite. And Jean would have deserved it too!
He grappled the floor until he found Zillah's feet. It was pathetic perhaps, but the shrieks died down to be replaced with a quiet desperation that bought his voice out in a strained hiss. "It hurts.." he wheezed, his fingers like talons on Zillah's ankles. He was lost here, in this reality outside of the dream he had come to know, and a pain he might ordinarily have been able to think through was now baffling and overwhelming. And he had never been so starved in his life, had never been so utterly owned by the need, by that scent on the air.
At that point, he still did not understand what had happened, or what the source of that maddening scent was. His pitiful eyes traced up Zillah's form. There was blood on his hands, dripping. Rich. Thick. Entrancing. Why was he covered in blood? What had happened? His brow ought to have knitted in confusion, but there remained nothing but the agony that had utterly shattered the lull of the drug.
"Oh god, it hurts, it hurts, oh god..." he groaned, reeling to try and look about the room. Mortals everywhere, and that scent. Blood was pooling on the floor. t was as if someone had taken a starving man and planted him in a room full of prime rib, fresh vegetables, bread, rice, all luscious things. There was no cognition. None. It dissolved entirely. He didn't even know how it happened, but his hands were suddenly clamped onto a wraith of a young woman, and there was blood pouring into his mouth, setting his veins on fire. And underneath was the buzz of the cocaine, counteracting the heroin that had filled him, chasing away the last fleeting ghosts of inebriation.
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Jean-Pierre
City CouncilMember is offlineStupid and Against the Rules
Posts: 13
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Posted: Jul 6th, 2008 at 05:13 pm
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Abruptly, he fell away from the quickly dead girl and turned to stare at the spectacle of Francois on the floor only a couple of feet away from him. Dead. No, not just dead, slaughtered. Part of him thought he ought to have been upset, but he couldn't feel anything, and in fact, a distinct voice somewhere in the back of his head said 'Huzzah!'
And Zillah, Zillah was there, Zillah had killed him, that was why he was covered in blood. Zillah had found him, had come back, had cared enough to kill Francois. And there was the weight of the guilt suddenly. Still half starved, it intertwined with the pain and doubled him over again with his face in his hands.
Utter. Disaster.
« Last Edited by
Jean-Pierre
Jul 6th, 2008 at 05:14 pm »
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Posted: Jul 6th, 2008 at 08:28 pm
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The eyes that stared up at Zillah in bewilderment were not the eyes he had become accustomed to seeing. They were sickly-looking, a dull, olive green, lacking all of the brilliant luster they'd held when he'd last seen them. It was painful to acknowledge. His stomach lurched and he fought to keep from doubling over from the terrible gravity of it. No, no, he couldn't let the pain rule him...he had to be the strong one now. The need to protect Jean was an instinct; not quite maternal, it was a different sort of protectiveness. He knew how it was to feel a familial instinct to protect friends and loved ones in need - this was different. For him, the bonds went much deeper, and even though a part of him was still dealing with unbearable rejection and scorn, he couldn't ignore the pain Jean was in. He didn't have a choice. Things weren't always as black and white as he wished they could be.
He couldn't let Jean see his weakness, even as he collapsed against him. Relieved, he could have crumpled to the floor when Jean whispered his name. He was recognized. It meant so much to him, to hear his name escaping on that staggered breath. The slap had hardly fazed him, but it had brought him back to some semblance of reality, and that had been Zillah's only goal. He needed to know what he was doing to himself, to see that he wasn't only hurting himself, but someone who cared for him beyond all comprehension. Zillah had always been loathe to use the world "love," but he couldn't put a name to his feelings for Jean and feared that "love" might be the only way to describe it. It terrified him, to be sure, but what had he to be scared of? He was a vampire, he was immortal! Maybe what scared him about that feeling was how unflinchingly human it was, how vulnerable it made him feel.
He caught Jean's shoulders with his hands, but that didn't stop him from falling to his knees. Zillah looked on, torn between letting him be and pulling him back to his feet. Perhaps this was something he just had to ride out. The shrieking that came afterward was the most piercing sound Zillah had ever heard, and perhaps the most painful. It was the sound of agony beyond measure, the uncensored, all-obliterating sound of an addict crashing hard, coming back into contact with the cold, unyielding prison of earthbound reality.
Zillah held his hands over his ears, his face twisted into a grimace - lips pulled back from the gums, teeth bared, eyes shut tight, searching for solace in the blackness behind the lids. But the wailing didn't end.
When it did, he opened his eyes to see Jean reaching for his feet, grabbing for his ankles. That strained voice emerged again, and Zillah wanted to stoop down and comfort him, whisper "I know" against the shell of his ear, but he remained immobile. He was rooted to the spot, unable to move.
Helpless to do nothing but watch, he could still feel the blood dripping from his hands onto the carpet below - now stained with the carnage he'd created. As Jean crawled to the emaciated form of an unconscious young woman and drained her, he suddenly realized how starved Jean was, not only from the heroin he'd been subject to for god knows how long, but from lack of blood as well. The blood of one wasted wraith of a human would not be enough for him to regain his sobriety and strength. It was obvious that the girl had drugs in her veins as well, and Zillah could only watch in terror as Jean drank from her, praying to a god he didn't believe in that it wasn't heroin.
Please don't let it be, please don't let it be...
It was a mantra that only ceased when Jean fell back and came face-to-face with the lifeless husk of Francois. Zillah watched as recognition dawned on his face and, although those green eyes were still dull and bloodshot, they were full of a clarity that hadn't been there before. The whoosh of a sigh escaped his lips in relief.
He watched as Jean doubled over again, holding his face in his hands. Zillah sprang into action now. The blood that had pooled around and under his shoes had nearly glued his feet to the floor, but he moved anyway, the sole parting from the congealed mess with a loud squelching sound. He was suddenly crouched in front of Jean, taking those stark-white hands in his own to lower them away from his face. "You're half-starved yet," he whispered urgently. "You need more. None of these strung-out humans can give you what you need." He hadn't needed to think of the words - they'd come pouring out of him instinctively.
Deftly, he opened the collar of his shirt, continuing to unbutton midway down his abdomen, revealing the smooth, unmarred expanse of his throat and chest. Cupping the back of Jean's head in his right hand, he took his left, and made a quick slash across the base of his throat, sweeping his hair to the side to allow for easier access. "Now drink," he whispered, and pushed Jean's head toward the flowing cut.
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Jean-Pierre
City CouncilMember is offlineStupid and Against the Rules
Posts: 13
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Posted: Jul 6th, 2008 at 08:54 pm
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It wasn't thought. It wasn't reality, it wasn't logic, nor reasoning. It was only instinct. Animal. Base. Inhuman. Unthinking. The cocaine made his veins buzz like electricity, chasing back the fog, but under the weight of hunger, it didn't matter and could not help him to think clearly. All he knew was that Zillah was there, and that there was this blood more sharp and staggering than human blood. He'd tasted this before, just a fleeting tiny taste many many nights before.
It was ecstasy. Sublime requiem. Sweet solace. And yet... and yet......... and yet. It crawled through his veins, and as it went, it set them alight. It was a terrible mingling of agony and bliss that he couldn't quite detach himself from, that he couldn't understand, couldn't do anything to save himself from. The powerful blood was diluting it, diluting the drug, pushing it away. It was achingly painful and beautiful all at once. His fingers were once again like talons on Zillah's shoulder before he found his mind enough to pull away from him abruptly, tumbling the short way over onto his back as he gasped for breath against the white hot lead pumping through his veins. he let out a strangled sort of sound, collapsed as he was amidst the gore of Francois' demise.
This pain, this pain was not a pain he did not know. It was no stranger to him, but an ever present companion who could only be sated by that precious vice. Withdrawal. Normally it took hours to creep up on him, but the very act of feeding itself was speeding up his frighteningly slowed metabolism. As if it were a story from a book of fairy tails, he seemed to be awakening. The pupils of his eyes were growing brilliant again, his lips flushing with the barest touch of rose petal pink... but he was writhing slightly. He didn't thrash, he didn't scream, but certainly he was writhing just a little, praying that he could crawl out of his skin.
He'd had worse, he reminded himself with far greater clarity than he had had for the past few months. Yes, he'd had worse, it was true. He could handle it, he could get through it long enough to sate it again... But things had changed, hadn't they? The situation had changed. Zillah. Yes, Zillah!
Abruptly he sat up, green eyes startled as he stared right at Zillah. Finally, his mind was reeling, connecting the dots, so to speak. What? Why? What is he doing here? Dear god, where am I? Is that Francois? Oh my god! Oh, my head! "Are you okay?" he suddenly spouted, as if he hadn't just moments ago, been the one crouched on the floor screaming. How much of his blood had he drank? He didn't even know! "Jesus Fucking Christ, what... what are you doing here? Fuck... fuck, we've gotta get out of here." The back of his shirt was wet and sticky from the pooling blood he'd collapsed back into. The smell of it was everywhere, utterly pervasive. "You.. do you need to feed?"Ohhhh, my head, my head. Zillah first though, then just something to take the edge off, just a little... just a.... what the fuck am I thinking? Oh god. Oh god... he scratched furtively at his arms for a moment as he staggered awkwardly up to his feet. He was shivering quite violently, a cold, faint sheen of sweat glimmering on his brow as he grabbed Zillah carefully by the arm and pulled him to his feet. They both looked like they'd spent a day working at the slaughter house.
"We have to leave. Someone's bound to call the cops sooner or later," and I've got enough heroin in my back pocket to kill a fucking horse. he searched for the door, not remembering how he'd gotten in, not remembering much of anything that had happened in the past few weeks for that matter.
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Posted: Jul 7th, 2008 at 11:02 am
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And so Zillah found himself acting as Jean's anchor, a weight to pin him down and keep him safe within the embrace of the earth's bosom. He had never used his blood to save someone's life before, but perhaps it was a bit of a stretch to call it "saving a life." No, that was sheer arrogance. But still, he had never offered another vampire his neck for a healing purpose. In fact, the number of vampires he'd offered his neck for any reason at all didn't even number into the double digits. The act of sharing blood was an intimate one, and he had only ever done so with those he had trusted, those he'd shared a bond with. He didn't trust many, and thus, did not get close to many.
The feelings he had for Jean were an enigma, nearly as much as Jean himself was, but somehow Zillah had come to trust in him and become close to him in an amount of time that had passed in a whirlwind. And now he was sucking hungrily at Zillah's neck, and he felt himself falling into a swoon.
The sounds of the world were far away - only the strong, steady beat of a strange drum echoed in his ears. Coarse strands of auburn hair brushed his cheeks, the feeling unusual. The drug had stripped it of its lustre, its decadent silken feel, during the weeks they'd been apart. It would have been unfamiliar to him if he hadn't already know that it belonged to Jean. The grip on his shoulders held him in place - their roles were reversing, and Zillah realized that the drum beat was not a drum at all. It was the beating of his heart, and that pulse was slowing down, weakening with the blood loss.
Before he could fully acknowledge this new awareness, Jean was pushing away, having taken enough. Zillah laughed giddily, and almost felt sorry that the moment had ended, but it had been well-timed. Any longer and Zillah might have found himself in a perilous position. He was weak enough, however, and the effort it took to hold his head up just to look at Jean was enormous.
His head swam in circles, spinning dizzily; the effects of the blood loss were settling in and it was becoming harder for him to focus as he watched Jean begin to regain his strength. His flesh filled out, his cheeks flushed pink, the dull hair and eyes regained their bright shine and Zillah heaved a relieved, weary sigh, letting his heavy head hit the floor with a thud.
The bones and muscles of his body felt fluid and gelatinous. He could feel Jean's eyes on him and felt remorse at not being able to meet them with his own. He lay limp and drained, but altogether the feeling was not bad. It was only the inability to move that was an inconvenience.
Suddenly, Jean's voice was filling the void around him, and he opened his mouth to respond, only to find that he did not have the strength to speak. He managed to sluggishly shake his head from side to side, groaning loudly in the process. But perhaps this wasn't so bad after all. He was supposed to be mad at Jean, wasn't he? Maybe he deserved the silent treatment, but at the moment Zillah didn't have the energy for anger and remained involuntarily hushed. Questions still raced through his mind, and he tried to quiet them, reassuring himself that answers were not far off. That conversation would come soon enough, once he had regained his strength in turn.
Yes, he needed to feed. He could feel his body's desperation for nourishment growing stronger by the second. The blood on the floors and walls had turned cold, but remained a reminder of the next step he needed to take.
When Jean helped him to his feet, he clung to him tenaciously, the grip of his fingers on his shirt stronger than steel despite his weakness. Leaning against him, the body supporting his felt as solid as a rock. In comparison, his own limbs trembled unsteadily. It was humiliating. The shame did not show on his face, only the visage of pain as he shuffled his feet forward. He winced, hissing with determination; even if his legs gave out from under him, he would not release his death-grip on Jean's shirt. It was the only stability he had. If he had to be dragged out of that place, so be it, as long as they put the stench of drugs and despair and dead flesh and congealed blood behind them. But if there was any mercy for Zillah in this world, it would not come to that.
And finally, as they made their first steps towards the door, Zillah found his voice. "I...yes. Blood. Hot. Can't stay here it's...need to feed. Please."
Whimpering like a child, he hungered for the hunt. But with Jean doing the hunting for him, it would be more like the mother bird bringing the worm home to the feeble, defenseless baby bird.
He couldn't help but feel a faint twinge of amusement at the thought of it. It was utterly ridiculous. But the laugh died in his throat and turned into a series of racking coughs, doubling him over. He moaned softly and whispered, "Quickly." If he didn't feed soon, he would pass out. It was only a matter of time.
« Last Edited by
Zillah
Jul 7th, 2008 at 11:09 am »
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Jean-Pierre
City CouncilMember is offlineStupid and Against the Rules
Posts: 13
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Posted: Jul 7th, 2008 at 07:28 pm
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Disaster! Disaster! It was a mantra that ran irritatingly through his head over and over again. Yes, I -know- it's a disaster thankyouverymuch! There's no time for this. We have to get out of here before the cops show up. But Zillah was sluggish, starved, moving too slowly, too drunkenly. Jean, even in a state of uncomfortable withdrawal seemed more cognitive, faster, more alert.
There was nothing for it. Abruptly, he turned to Zillah, bent to lodge his shoulder into his abdomen, and straightened his legs, lifting the other vampire easily off of his feet in a fireman's lift. He marched them purposefully toward the door and out of it, keeping a rather hasty pace until they hit the refreshing air outside of the seedy club. Each of them was spattered and covered in blood, and they looked a horrific fright with jean still carrying Zillah and marching quickly off down the road.
The nagging pain of the need, of the desire for the drug was a constant, and a blistering headache was forming behind his eyes as he strode swiftly toward a nearby alleyway... but not -too- near. He marched through it though, kept putting one foot infront of the other. Almost there, almost there, almost there, until finally they were within the seclusion of the shadows and he carefully let Zillah back to the floor, a steel grip on him as he lowered him to sit.
"Stay here, be quiet, don't move, okay? Just... just stay here." And with that, he simply disappeared for a few minutes, leaving Zillah alone in the whispering silence of the dark space between rows of buildings.
Jean had jogged out of there and crossed the street. He knew where he was, he knew where he was going, and he knew what he was doing, which was more than could be said of him only a half a hour prior to it all. He knew where the dealers lived, he'd been there countless times over the months, but this time, he wasn't going for drugs, but for something more important.
"Luic, open the fucking door, it's me you idiot."
"Jean, keep your voice down, what the fuck's the matter with you?"
"I've got something to show you. You're not going to believe it."
"What is it?"
"I cant tell you, I don't want to ruin the surprise, seriously. C'mon, hurry up."
Luic, in his quest for money, had destroyed countless lives by pedalling heroin, crack, cocaine, meth, PCP as well as numerous other substances. If anyone deserved it, and if anyone was guaranteed to be clean, it was Luic. He never dipped into his stash, eh didn't want to wind up like the people he was selling it to, and Jean knew this without a doubt.
It was about 5 minutes later by the time Jean jogged back into the alleyway with Luic in tow. Luic stepped forward as Jean slowed and veered in behind him. There wasn't time for Luic to question what the fuck was going on, because Jean's hands were suddenly around his throat, choking him into silence as he pushed him to his knees in front of the starved Zillah.
His green eyes bore into his companion purposefully, meaningfully, if not a little feverish looking. "Go ahead, he's a bastard, a scumbag..... He's my dealer."
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Posted: Jul 7th, 2008 at 08:11 pm
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Oh, he thought with a faint chuckle. Look at this, he's sweeping me off my feet. Don't I feel like a pretty princess. Somehow the fairy tale scenario didn't quite fit the scene around them. He sagged gratefully against Jean, his face buried into his neck as he carried him out of that place. It was a relief to leave the carnage behind them. The night air that met them outdoors wasn't pure by any means, but it smelled sweet to his nose. He gulped in large swallows of air, as if that were all he needed to get better, the ache in his gut told him otherwise.
He could have laughed to think of how, just minutes ago, Jean had been the helpless one. How quickly things change. Though the weariness and starvation cut through him like a knife, he was glad for what he'd done. There had been no other choice for him. It was help Jean, or leave, and perhaps Jean deserved to see Zillah leave, but the option just hadn't been feasible. It wouldn't have been right. And now, wasn't Jean aiding him? Wasn't he making up for the hurt he'd caused? It was much too complicated for a simple answer, but Zillah's mind, in contrast to his body, was still sharp; it was all he had to his credit right now. So it was all he could think about besides the need for sustenance. What if Jean helped him and left again? What if, when he was strong enough to stand on his own, he disappeared into the night again, feeling he owed Zillah nothing more?
No, no, he wouldn't do that...
But wouldn't he? Jean had not surprised him once, but twice; it was possible he would do it again. Zillah refused to entertain the possibility. The burden of the thought was too much to shoulder right now.
They moved through the streets in a blur. His eyes remained shut. The visions that danced behind his eyelids gave him the feeling that they moved as spectres in some sort of waking dream. But he was no longer floating now, he was sliding to the ground, and Jean was whispering to him, dashing off before he could protest.
Yes, he's going to leave me here, isn't he? Thought was irrational, drowsy. He's not coming back.
But he did come back, and he had brought someone with him. Without opening his eyes, Zillah could smell him. Human. It was a struggle, but he cracked his eyelids open, and met Jean's intense stare, boring into him with purpose. "Thank you," he mouthed, unable to rouse his voice, and pulled the man to him without protest.
So this was Jean's dealer. Another scumbug. Another worthless waste of space. Someone who didn't deserve the life he'd been given. "Behold, the vampire who rids the streets of the city's most notorious criminals!" Just doing my civic duty, he thought, with a weak laugh.
Ah, yes, that was it, the scarlet serum of dreams, life-giving, liquid ecstasy, flowing into his mouth in one hot gush. The drum of his pulse sped up again, growing stronger, beating loudly with each lovely mouthful. Oh, it was sweet! Now a second drum was rising up to meet the first - it was slowing as the other gained speed - the heart of the human. His pulse was erratic, wild; it fluttered to hold on. But Zillah's hunger was no match for its will, and he cast the man aside when the drumbeat seemed near to ceasing.
He gasped, the sound deafening in the quiet of the alley. His legs twitched, arms pushed him away from the grimy wall, and he staggered up to meet Jean. He was still out of breath when he spoke.
"Let's go get cleaned up, shall we?" It would take several minutes to regain his strength completely, the blood still working its way through its body, carrying signals throughout, but for now, he could walk, and that was good enough.
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