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myfanfictiongarden · 7 months

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The Last Day of Violet Sedley- Dracula (1897)

Rated M just in case (although its more T)

Because we are all concerned for the pretty girl in the cartwheel hat on September 22nd.

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Violet Sedley is having a great day. Most days are great if you decide to make them so- at least, that is the way of thinking she was brought up with and so she made it her way of living too. How wouldn’t it be a great day when the soft autumn sun is caressing her face as she comfortably drives in her victoria through the finest streets of London? Her father may have startet out as a simple merchant but his clever wit and a good marriage had led him to the best circles of Society, and with it his only daughter too. And what better ways to celebrate and expand that good fortune, than with a party like the one she is to organise for today evening? It has long been planed and the scullery maid send out to the butcher first thing this morning. The cupboard had been filled with fresh vegetables and ousters, fruit and wine were waiting ready, and the whole house was made as perfect as could be.

So now she is driving through the streets of Piccadilly, having made one social call long overdue to the good Mrs. Wallace (the old lady tended to be a bit tiresome but she had been her mothers closes friend) and stopping only for a moment at Guiliano’s for a parcel she had ordered previously to be ready for her when driving back home. She loves driving to town, it offers such a welcoming change to her usual duties, not to mention one can dress up nicely and enjoy the looks of admiration that come with it. That is why to today she wears a dress of sunny yellow and a complementary jacket embroidered with sunflowers and tiny bees, and of course her new cartwheel hat- a gift of her brother directly from Paris. She doesn’t consider herself vain, for she knows, she knows beauty alone does not bring happiness or a long life. But if the world of God´s creation was filled with so much beauty why not rejoice in it? That is another reason why she loves to go to town, for here one has an overflow of beauty in various forms, be it the stores with dresses and jewellery, shops with cakes and pastries, or simply the abundance of all sorts of people, both from the isles and those foreigners from exotic places. Her brother had invited her to join him in India, but she had immediately declined, unwilling to leave their father alone, and maybe also a little bit afraid to travel to the far unknown. There was little that lacked in her current life, her position allowing her to lead her own household without even being married, although she was very well in the age of marriage. But no, she couldn’t as yet leave her father alone. If a fine man came into her life he would need to wait.

The merchant comes out with her parcel and she pulls out some coins from her purse and accompanies them with a smile before telling the coachman to drive on. It is a busy day in the streets, people crossing from one side to the other, always moving, full of life. For a moment her eye catches sight of a man with the looks of a foreigner like she had never seen before, hard eyes, a dark moustache and pointed beard. It is only for a moment that she sees him but she thinks that this may be an exotic encounter she would gladly like to avoid.

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By the time the first guests arrive everything is ready. She herself is welcoming them, now dressed in an evening gown of soft blue, lace around her shoulders, her neck bare but pearl earrings swinging joyfully while her dark hair is made in the latest fashion. Her father is dressed in the best way as well, his tall thin frame having at least lost the ghastly palour that had accompanied him throughout most of the past three years, his smile warm and gentle once more. She is proud of her father for making it out through the worst of times after their loss, but sees her own accomplishment in it as well for having firmly taken care of all matters that he could not by himself. With brother away, it was just the two of them after all.

Dinner goes smoothly and everyone is enjoying themselves, she included, for she does notice young Mr. Norris glancing more than once in her direction across the table. He is a fine man she knows, his family being well established in ship building business, his own taste in music having been a wonderful topic for their last conversation. When at last the last fork is resting she leads the women to the drawing room where the men are shortly to join them for coffee and cherry. The fire in the mantelpiece is radiating a warm glow as she leads polite small-talk, all while glancing at the door eager for the gentlemen finally to enter, only to be disappointed when Mr. Norris is immediately encircled by Mrs. Bentley and Mrs. Hunt while she has to wait for her turn, if she doesn’t want to be included in their gossipy circle.

The day has been unusually warm for this time of year and the air in the drawing room becomes too heavy and stuffy for her. Excusing herself for a moment she makes her way out to the hallway and then out to the garden. Yes, outside it’s better she thinks as she draws a deep breath of clear fresh air. It is a clear night, with stars shining brightly and a young moon giving out a pale soft light, only a few clouds marring the skies. The scent of late autumn flowers and freshly fallen leaves in nearly intoxicating, and she thinks she will leave her window open tonight. Just as she is about to turn back and go inside, out of the corner of her eye she notices movement in the shadow of the house, before the figure moves forward and she is faced with the shape of a man. It is dark but she can see he is nicely dressed. One of fathers guests? Have I noticed him inside or did he come only later in?

“A beautiful night, isn’t it?” He speaks, and by his accent she notices that he isn’t English.

“Yes, indeed, a fine night for this time of the year, Mr. …?”

“Mr. Balaur. Forgive me miss if I had startled you. I only just arrived and needed, although the company is fine inside no doubt, a bit of refreshment.” As he spoke he moved even closer and in the pale light of the moon and lights from the house she had now a better look at him. He was tall, with raven dark hair, strong brows, a thin moustache and a pointed beard, his clothes black and elegant, the neckcloth darkly red, held together with a pin that looked very much like a winged snake. His face seemed familiar but she simply could not place it so she decided He must be one of fathers business partners from abroad.

“Yes, a fine night, a night that reminds us that Night is older than Day, and as that the true form of everything.”

It is at moment that she registers that something is off, something is very off about all of this, for, while she wanted to go inside a minute earlier, she finds herself now firmly rooted to the ground, listening to Mr. Balaur yet unable to answer him back. Stange that my tongue and my legs are so heavy. Yet, it takes only one slight touch of his hand of her arm and her legs respond, and she finds herself walking, walking outside of the garden gate.

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It is already late in the night and the streets are empty as the two of them walk through them, his arm firm around hers, improper in any way but even stranger as she doesn’t know why she complines. Their footsteps are the only sound heard, the world has fallen so very quiet, and she glanced up at his face, trying to remember. He doesn’t look very old, more the age of Mr. Norris perhaps, and … Could it be that I am walking with Mr. Norris? But no, Mr. Norris has curly auburn hair, while Mr. What’s His Name has long dark. What was his name again?

They walk and walk, and vaguely she notices that they have left the inhabited area somewhere behind, wild fields surrounding them, the road not longer even but turned to rough gravel. There is a numb pain in her legs, her shoes not for walking, and it seems to her like blisters have opened up and blood is beginning to soak her thin stockings and expansive shoes. Yet she keeps walking, guided by some silent command, the pain nothing more than a vague feeling unconnected to her.

And when he stops and takes her hand in his she follows dutifully as if she had been asked for a dance, the same excitement in her, although she cannot phantom why. I should be home, although I don’t know where home is… her mind says but her body doesn’t respond.He leads her to a tall old oak, its breaches wildly stretching in all directions, its crown like a tent shielding everything into darkness. Her mind, her mind is so foggy and unclear, Maybe it was that one glass of punch too much, but no, everything is odd and queer, and her passiveness most of all. He had let her all into the shade of this great oak, her back resting on its bark, He towering tall above her. Bits of moonlight come through the branches as his right hand with its long pale fingers caresses her cheek, placing a silencing finger on her lips, as if to quiet a protest she cannot make herself do. She notices herself leaning her head to the other side without her will while his fingers trace her bare neck, and coming upon the lace on her shoulders He moves it down, night air making her shiver. Her gaze is locked in his, in anticipation of something she does not know, yet which makes her heart beat fast and faster until she can hear blood rushing loud in her ears. His eyes are horribly dark, his face as pale as the moon, and as his lips move into a sly smile his teeth come bare, sharp and white. He leans in as she closes her eyes, his lips on her neck, one hand on her shoulder the other on her back. And then his teeth pierce her skin and a pain, a horrible pain shoots through her body. Unbearable heat is in her veins and she is burning, burning from the inside as both her eyes and mouth shot open. She wants to scream for help but her voice deserts her, her lungs in desperate need for air. Help!, she needs help, she wants to fight and move, yet her arms hang limb by her sides. His grip on her is still firm but the burning ceases, replaced by unnatural cold and emptiness. Desperately she tries to force that dark vail from her mind, the one that’s holding her in this nightmare. A face dances in front of her, the face of an old man broken and in tears. She cannot remember who that man is, but a silent tear escapes her empty eyes as well.

This is how ends Violet Sedley’s not so great day.

#dracula #dracula daily #bram stoker´s dracula #september 22nd #fan fiction #my fanfiction #sorry I´m not sorry #probably one of the darkest things I've ever written

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lovethistoomuch · 2 years

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I've been on a bit ob a Russell Crowe movie binge in the past few weeks and since he is almost sixty now, many of the movies I've watched were consequently older movies. and when I watched them, it struck me again, how much hollywood has changed in the last few decades when it comes to depicting men.

take Gladiator for example from the year 2000. Russell Crowe plays basically an action hero in it. he is a big, muscly dude, who is very strong and uses that strength to defeat his enemies. and this is what he looks like:

looks like a strong man, right?

in the same year, Hugh Jackman as Wolverine looked like this in the first X-men movie:

in 2013 the same character played by the same actor looked like this:

it's a bit much, isn't it? I mean, he looks so skinny.

and if we go even further back: look at what the womanizer character Face from the A-team looked like in the 80s show vs the 2010 movie reboot:

maybe the difference isn't that big but it really startled me when I watched that movie for the first time. in my mind there was no reason why Face should be particularly muscular since he is the charming one not the one known for being particularly strong.

if we go even further back, look at the charmin womanizer character Hawkeye in M*A*S*H from the 70's.

I know he's a doctor and there is no reason for him to be ripped but I got the feeling if they did the show now, he would be.

I don't know what my point really is I'm just saying I got a bit nostalgic when watching these men. I cannot be the only one who'd rather see more of this:

than this:

also, as a sidenote: Russell Crowe gained a lot of weight for the nice guys and he is a fucking powerhouse in that film, like, when he punches someone, you really feel it because of the weight that is behind it and the shere mass of his body.

(even if this may look different, he's about to break Ryan Gosling's character's arm. I couldn't find a gif of him punching someone but I swear it looks painfull as hell.)

so, in short: can we get big, heavy action guys back? cause I'm tired of seeing these skinny, despite being muscular dudes who look dehydrated as hell and on steroids.

and can we stop making characters ripped just for the sake of it? cause I'd rather cuddle with a guy looking like Hawkeye than one looking like Face from the new A-team movie.

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