Entry 02 : I wish I Knew How to Quit You
Title: I Wish I Knew How to Quit You
Entry Number: 02
Author: saraste_impi
Original:
Rating: R (even when it's not that explicit)
Genre: angst, fem!slash, horror
Warnings: horror
Word Count: 1204
A/N: I took the protagonist of my still unfinished vampire story which could best be categorized as post-apocalyptic-pre-industrial- fantasy/horror. Around the 22nd century there was a day when the whole world changed, it's like the Industrial revolution never happened, nothing modern doesn't work, there's no electricity and things are basically like they were around the 18th century... and all of the knowledge anywhere which lead to the Industrial revolution has been wiped clean. And the supernatural community “came out”, too. Yeah, convoluted, I know. This story is a flashback into the life of my protagonist Aamu. Title blatantly stolen from Brokeback Mountain.
Sometimes I wish that I'd never even met you. It would be easier that way. For me, at least. I don't know how long I can keep being with you, I want to leave for your sake, to save you the sadness of seeing me being sad, yet I love you all too much to let go easily. I wish I had met you when I was still human, that way I wouldn't need to feel this way, clinging to every precious moment like it's our last, watching as you get older, a little bit every single day, whereas I remain the same, trapped in this preternatural flesh.
You wake up and smile at me, face lit by the myriad of candles I've scattered around the room. Your room, ours, in the house that you live in. The house where your family has lived for a hundred years. Sometimes you sigh and moan over all the electrical gadgets and gizmos that have become useless ever since the Shift. You listen rapturously as I share stories of how the world was over two centuries ago. To you it's like a fairytale. For me, it was the reality, a world of industry which I grew into, having been born to an agricultural world. You are so like I was on the advent of the Industrial revolution, having then already lived far longer than any normal human being. I still cannot say if being bitten was a curse or a blessing in disguise.
You always say it is a blessing, a gift to you, because we never would have met otherwise. You curl against my side as we lie in bed, hiding from the world outside with it's harsh realities, so much having gone wrong when the world was shaken and thrown backwards. It is a mystery to you, as much as it is to me, how the world was advanced and then... it wasn't. One day of tumultuous uproar and all of humanity was rooted, human civilization as we knew it then grumbling down, being replaced with a world where there was no modern things, and where the fantastical things roamed free.
I have often been called a fantastical being myself. I am not human, I will admit to that. As to fantastical? Doubtful. I am merely a creature of the Old World trying to make her way in a world that doesn't always accept me. There are creatures of the supernatural who still cling to their old ways of secrecy and hiding, unhappy with how all humans now know that there always was more to this world of ours that ever met the eye, that the creatures of folklore had come to life and had always been a part of the world.
“What are you thinking about?” you ask, shifting so the quilt covering your body rides down, exposing your bosom. The familiar cadence of our shared mother's tongue, a language I lost for so long, soothes my troubled mind. One more night, I promise myself, as I am wont to do every single night.
“How the world has changed, my dearest,” the endearment rolls off my tongue easily enough. I rise from the chair I've been sitting in, watching you sleep, waiting for you to wake up, and stretch. Your eyes glide over my flesh and your lips quirk up in a smile.
“Isn't it a bit cold to go naked?” You ask, sliding the blanket aside and offering the warmth and companionship under the quilted rectangles so lovingly crafted by your grandmother.
I sigh, for I realize that I might never be able to leave you and that I might have to watch you die of old age if I can't force myself to go. I can't see old age in you yet, not really, yet you are mortal and a mortals life is short. You are the first to make me wish ardently that I was mortal, that I could change back and grow old with you. A fools hope.
I shift, blocking your view with the shadows the candles cast, glancing at the valleys and hillocks of your body, the soft bends of your flesh. “I don't feel the cold, Sofia. I don't think that I can even remember how it feels.” It is a sentimental lie, for there is a memory, deep in my mind, of the terrible coldness of death as it encroached on me, just before I was yanked back, my soul tied to my flesh by blood and magic. A sentimental lie and a seduction, even when we've played this game many a time before this night.
“Come warm under here, or if I can't warm you up, come anyway...” you state it so boldly, looking at me with a challenge. You draw the quilt down even more, I can see the goosebumps forming on your thighs.
I sit on the edge of the bed and reach out to stroke your arm. “I wish I...” I leave the words unspoken, it's better that way. I know that you know that this is not forever, that there will be a night when you will wake up alone, never to see me again. I bend down and claim your lips, my kiss bruising you, my grip on your shoulders leaving angry red marks on your pale skin. Your hands are around me and I feel that you don't care, I don't know why I'm even rough and ease up. Then I know and curse softly as I steal your breath.
Your blood sings in my ears like a siren's song. My body is pressed against yours, my mouth seeking out your inviting neck, licking the skin a little. I will not sip too much, just a little bite. My head feels heavy, I didn't drink enough before, all I want is to sink my fangs down and drink past your struggling until you are dry and motionless, gorging on your sweet blood until you are no more.
This is why I need to go. Not because I will grieve for you when you are gone, but because I might become the reason of your untimely demise. It is so close, your pulse beating wildly beneath your skin, thrumming through me, my lips on your skin, head buried in the crook of your neck. I want to sink my fangs there and drink, but I'm not sure if I can stop. Your fingers curl in my hair, massaging my scalp, that touch grounds me.
“Take it,” you urge, your pulse quickening under my lips. “I can handle it,” you say, barely a tremor shaking your voice. So brave, always, yet flirting with the death I present to you.
“You're too good to me,” I murmur against your alluring skin, clearing the fog of my mind, letting myself be the monster that I am, if for a moment, as I let my fangs pierce your flesh.
As your body arches under mine, rubbing against me, your pulse singing inside my head, your breath ragged, blood flowing into me, I hope that I love you too deeply to stop myself from draining you.