#Windowco

[lestatdelioncoeur]

You know that room you think about sometimes? The one away from the world, where the rain falls outside and inside is only warmth? I've been there. I entered through the window.

This is the opening of a story I've written for Vamptember and it just occurred to me - it would be really fun to see it used as a prompt / opener. As if each responder has entered the room through the window / post :)

I'd love to see what @hekateinhell @redversaillesrose @monstersinthecosmos @desertfangs @meerawrites @rainynightsontherueroyale @breakfast-skies @vivienne1996 @prouvaireafterdark @dead-and-loving-it @innocenceinyourarms do with it ❤️

#windowco

[innocenceinyourarms]

Some more fiction

Perhaps it’s a stretch, but I typed this out from the prompt that @lestatdelioncoeur gave a bunch of us. The one about the window.

This draft was sitting in my notebook for a couple days, but I revisited last night. Its still a little rough around the edges, but I think it’s worth giving y’all a peek.

I’ve called it “Some words we shared one night”, It is written from the perspective of Penelope in the present day.

~~~~~~~~~~

“I do believe that I am the culmination of everyone I’ve ever loved,” Ezra said into the darkness, his voice so quiet yet there was none of the horse strain that I associated with his whispers. I almost didn’t even think he had truly said anything until he continued, the words kind of melting together as he slurred  “You know, Someone said that to me once. I didn’t believe them then, but I do think now that they’re right.” 

“Who did?” I rolled onto my right side, towards his voice. In the blackness, I fumbled to find him, his waist, any part to touch and reassure that I was here. His left hand met mine. He was freezing, no doubt hungry. My Poor baby, let me help you. For a moment, there was a flash of a scenero. He takes me up in his arms and purrs against my throat, kissing and nuzzling tenderly as he always does before finding his favorite spot just above my clavicle and then…

“Katie” another woman’s name fell out of Ezra’s mouth. 

“Katie?!” I couldn’t hide the tinge of disgust that colored the name. 

“Yes, my maker, you know” Ezra didn’t seem to detect anything strange about my tone. The benefits of having ingested half a bottle of pure ethanol. I couldn’t help but laugh. 

“You’re drunk,” I say. 

“Yes,” 

I laugh even harder, which makes him start to laugh, too. It’s not long before the two of us are barking like sea lions, tears stream from my cheeks as I shout “It’s not that funny, it’s not that funny,” between the lulls of hilarity, which only serves to get us giggling like idiots again. 

After the laughs have died away, I roll onto my left side. My heart is still pounding from the excitement, but it’s time to settle down. Time to sleep. I look up, my eyes intently focused on the window that I can’t see, but I know is there. I imagine the piece of pressboard covering it. Thick, large, and taking up a huge chunk of the wall, it was drilled into the cinder blocks with far, far too many long, black screws. 

I find myself remembering a conversation. The one we shared the night he showed me his sleeping arrangements:

“Go on, inspect my work,” Playfulness mingled with the modest pride coloring his voice. 

I stood on the edge of his bed on tiptoe, walking my fingertips along the screws as I fingered them, counting in my head One, two, three… I couldn’t help but wonder about the logistics of how he managed to do it. I’m a head taller than him, and it still took some effort on my part to reach the highest point on the board. All the while, he stood below, offering his outstretched hand to me, though I didn’t need it. 

“You sure are thorough,” I said at last

“Did I do it wrong?” He was wearing a look on his face that I’d only seen on guilty basset hounds wear. So I said:

“Well, Like my momma always told me: There’s no kill like overkill” 

The comment elicited a dark little chuckle. 

“Come down,” he said “ I don’t want to see you get hurt,” 

I told him I was going to paint it, so he had something nice to look at, but that was weeks ago. I still had no idea what he might like, or if I could even make something worth looking at in the first place. I never was the artistic type. Not that way. 

Just then, I felt Ezra’s cool arm snake around my waist, finding the dip where I'm at my narrowest with no effort. Muscle memory I smirked.

 He scooted closer to me, so close that our heads were sharing the same pillow. I felt his breath, as cold as if I were lying just millimeters away from an air conditioning vent. It smelled like alcohol. I didn’t mind. 

I relaxed into him, easing back like he was a favorite chair, sliding down so that I came to rest on his chest. He liked to feel taller when we were like this. His heartbeat was slow, slow, slow. His breathing has an easy rhythm. He’d be asleep soon. 

I placed my hand over his, wrapping my fingers around it gently. I gave it a light squeeze. 

“But it’s true, is it not?” I could hear the sleep in his voice and had no idea what he was talking about 

“What is?” 

“About love.” 

“I’m sorry, tell me again,” 

“That I am the culmination of everyone I’ve ever loved.” 

“Babe, I don’t know. I never met those people,” again, my voice betrayed me. There was a clear annoyance expressed that I immediately wished to take back the second it left my mouth.

“Oh… Right” It was like listening to someone letting the helium out of a balloon. “And I suppose you never will,” 

What am I supposed to say? My mouth felt terribly dry all of a sudden. 

“I’m sorry” were the only words I could find 

“There’s nothing to be sorry for, heart.”

No more words were spoken after that. 

We just lay there in the pitch dark, holding each other, our breaths coming and going in tandem. Slow, easy. I was cold, and yet still my cheeks burned. 

 I don’t know which of us fell asleep first.

[klean4u]

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[lestatdelioncoeur]

@vamptember 09/22. 25. Gift

You know that room you think about sometimes? The one away from the world, where the rain falls outside and inside is only warmth? I've been there. I entered through the window. 

That fateful night, I'd followed Armand. Like lovers, we'd ascended the tower to a sanctum of solitude. He'd been haunting the place for years but I was not yet a ghost.

I was naive. He showed me my strengths and I believed in his mastery. In the hours after, did that mastery prevail or fail? All I know is; his acolytes stole the last of my life when they took Claudia. 

What a fool I'd been for that incubus Armand - the sweet-talker's sleepwalker. I meant to plunder what little pride could be recovered. 

Without his spell, the room was a shadow of its former self. Just facts and litter. A fireplace. The old desk. A few books... I righted a foot-stool and sat down. What was all this shit anyway? I picked up a piece of paper. It was an invoice, pertaining to the delivery of paint to an address in Venice. I wondered… I picked up another scrap. A note from Marius to "Amadeo", slightly burnt but still with a date several centuries prior. Was the monster sentimental? 

I walked to the window and took to the air. The wind grew warmer as I flew south and when I saw the lights of St Mark's Square, I landed silently atop the campanile. 

Once I'd located the site of the old palazzo, I listened. It was empty. The porta d'acqua alone was original. I accessed the little entryway and looked around. Frescoed saints stared back at me through the gloom. Here was Saint Nicholas, the gift giver, I smiled at him wistfully. 

Ignoring the new interior gate. I stroked the peeling walls. I knew the way the "old ones" thought - their smug deceptions. Here it was, the secret door. I reached beneath the ledge on which I stood and down into the water. There was the mechanism. Laying on my front, I turned the hidden lever until the wall shuddered and with a nod to St. Nick I slipped into the secret passage. 

Down I went, into the dark below. The hidden depths in the heart of the home. 

And there were the coffins, vulgar things of ornament upon a dais. I sighed. I had no taste for desecration but I'd come this far. The larger box was empty. I left it intact. The smaller one was uninhabited but for a bit of old pelt - treasured as a child's blanket. I pulled at it reluctantly. It tumbled undone and revealed a painted egg - deepest crimson with a pointed star. 

I reached in and at my touch, the brittle shell was broken. A mess amidst the satin. 

"We're even", I whispered. 

A sob resounded around me as finally the tears fell and then, at last, I walked away. 

[washninja]

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[washninja]

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[washninja]

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