S u m m a r y
From the Lost Days
Chapter o1 : Sanctuary From the Storm
The heavy pitter-patter of rain, cold rain. He inhales slowly, the tip of the cigarette igniting like some self-destructive firefly. Thunder rumbles in the distance. The night itself is pitch black with a moon veiled by heavy storm clouds and a vicious wind gusting through the trees. He swallows the thick taste of nicotine. He’d needed to kick the habit for some time now, but he wouldn’t. The habit itself is a reminder, a reminder of a sacrifice he had been willing to make… for someone.
Outside, a flash of lightning rips across the stygian darkness, illuminating Cross Academy. Thunder soon follows, low and angry-a monstrous purr. He smiles a hollow smile. She’d like tonight. The rain, cold and biting. The wind, brutal and unforgiving. The night, alive and vivid. Not that he cared to think about her right now. He hadn’t cared to think about something that had died long ago. Why let your mind wonder on the past? It couldn’t be changed. It couldn’t be mended. The scars will forever be a souvenir of mistakes made and happy moments tainted with bitter endings.
He inhales deeply, lighting the tip of the cigarette again, and his eyes linger on the flame of the lamp at his nightstand. It dances lazily, teasing. Another flash… much more insistent than the first. The thunder is so loud and encompassing that it rumbles up the soles of his boots, causing his spurs to jingle softly. His gaze focuses on the blue center of the fire. The color itself is hypnotizing, summoning a long hidden hunger in his heart. He pulls the cigarette from his lips and sighs in annoyance. It’s always like this, slow and painful, but you get used to it after a while. The feeling travels along his veins, beckoning hot memories of rain kissed skin, sweet moments of a caring hand combing through dusky hair, and a vision of violet-brown eyes alive with a smile.
He stabs the cigarette into the ashtray on the windowsill, the ashes smearing a half circle on the old ceramic. The thoughts are vaguely smothering and he walks over to the door, his spurs clinking. His hand lingers on the doorknob. He needs a walk tonight. He doesn’t care where, just anywhere away from these thoughts.
Lightning splinters from behind the trees up into the heavens as he closes the door roughly behind him, his gun in his hand. The center strip of the carpet mutes his footfalls, but his ears are trained solely on the heavy downpour. It had been a while since a lightshow like this had taken place.
“Touga,” a voice calls from behind him.
“I’m just taking a walk.” The hunter whispers.
“With that?” Kaien Cross indicates the anti-vampire weapon in his hand.
“Old habits die hard.” Toga pauses at the head of the stairs.
Kaien glares warningly from behind his spectacles. “Which part of the habit?”
Touga glances back at him, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Uneasy, Headmaster?”
“These are my students, vampire hunter-the Day Class and the Night Class.”
Touga starts down the stairs. “You should know by now that your precious students aren’t in any danger, even the Night Class. . . I just need some air.”
The former vampire hunter watches him until he disappears out the door and into the squall. “Taking a breather in a wild storm like this? I suppose old habits do die hard, if they die at all.”
Outside, the sky cackles and flickers akin to a livewire. The wind whistles from under the rooftops and his jacket suddenly feels ten pounds heavier as it clings to him, now wet and cold. His hat is nearly taken away with the storm, but he quickly grabs it and holds it to his head. His hair whips about his face, raven bangs stinging his eyes. More thunder. It awakens more memories. If only he could escape his own mind, just for a little while. In times like these, when little sleep and even the promise of another hunt for the next name on the executioner’s list doesn’t overshadow them, he finds himself wishing they never existed.
It’s not easy, pretending to forget an old life and live on passed that life, especially when it contains remnants of reverie one can’t find anywhere else. The gun weighs heavily in his hand, his fingers cold and stiff around the stock. His index finger itches near the trigger.
That life is dead.
This is what he’d been born to be. His pleasure is his own bane. Her voice echoes in his mind. . .
If I’m such a monster, what does that make you, vampire hunter? You are no different than me. You were born to killers and you yourself will one day be a killer. . . and you’ll enjoy it, because you are a murderer. . . just like me.
Touga growls at the storm and quickens his pace, hoping for a second that he can actually walk away from her lethal whispers. It’s almost like she’d become a part of his subconscious, always there, the bitterness and hurt of betrayal in her tear-stained allegations. He stops. His jaw clenches. Her eyes are looking at him, warm, welcoming. . . suddenly frigid, black.
“Stop it!” he mumbles in annoyance and starts his walk again, faster now.
In the distance, the massive entrance of Cross Academy looms over him like a phantom shadow in the demented cadence of lightning strikes. It’s as if the sky itself is a warzone. The hunter moves quickly, exiting the school and creeping down the long path of stairs. He senses a pair of eyes on him, but he disregards them. They aren’t human eyes, nor are they vampire. With the rain, his sense of smell is hindered, but it doesn’t matter. He knows the scent. He knows it well. Deciding to ignore it, which has been the norm for quite some time now, he enters into the little neighboring town with one location in mind. It should still be open, hopefully. With this storm the way it is, Tanaka might have closed early. It’s not like everyone will be scared away because of a raging storm. The old man hopefully knows that, for Touga’s sake.
On any normal day, these secret memories are vague clouds of smoke that only a trained eye can see, yet tonight they are… insistent… and intense. He needs to take the edge off, just a little. Ahead of him, a father and his daughter hurry away from the blustering wind, the little girl’s arms wrapped securely around her father’s waist.
The hunter’s eyes follow her momentarily before he takes a sharp left to the only building in a row of buildings that’s illuminated by muted yellow lights.
Fragments of the Heart