Memories of Smoke
It was her sixth attempt in escaping. The dirty blond human was pinned against a corner against some dilapiated rocks. Her beautiful blue eyes were wide and dedicated in only one direction, His direction. Like a looming willow, his long bony fingers reached out in her direction. Like a snake, the clawed finger tips that had been long since filleted of skin throttled her throat.
He proceeded to beat her head to a bloody pulp. He hit her, slapped her, boxed her, always her head - screaming at the top of his raspy voice, "You want to escape, don't you. You can't escape now. You are going to burn like the others." As I watched, I saw her two beautiful, intelligent eyes disappear under a layer of blood. And in a few seconds, her straight, pointed nose was a flat, broken, bleeding mass. Half an hour later, Vogath returned to the cabin. He took a piece of perfumed soap out of his traveling bags and, whistling gaily with a smile of deep satisfaction on his face, he began to wash his hands.
There were others, of course, to attend to. Like there always had -- live subjects were always sought, and more often than not, I could only bring him the war's dead. He often spoke of a wonder he had only seen three in his career, and always pressed me to try and find such an unusualness. "Twins...such living wonders", he would breath as he caressed his bony jaw line. He'd injected blood samples from one twin into another twin of a different blood type and recorded the reaction.
This was invariably a searingly painful headache and high fever that lasted for several days. In order to determine if eye color could be altered, Vogath would have dye injected into the eyes. This always resulted in painful infections, and sometimes even blindness. If such twins died, Vogath would harvest their eyes and pin them to the wall much like an herbalist pins fresh flowers to dry.
He had his Zoo, his stability in his unlife. Even if his Zoo existed and he to them to keep them healthy enough for twisted and pointless experimentation; a place where Vogath himself escorted his beloved "subjects" to the pitted black doors of the cellar behind the cabin, referring to their walk as a game he called "on the way to the chimney."
Black smoke would rise shortly, filling the air of Silverpine with a murky, unsettling smell.
He proceeded to beat her head to a bloody pulp. He hit her, slapped her, boxed her, always her head - screaming at the top of his raspy voice, "You want to escape, don't you. You can't escape now. You are going to burn like the others." As I watched, I saw her two beautiful, intelligent eyes disappear under a layer of blood. And in a few seconds, her straight, pointed nose was a flat, broken, bleeding mass. Half an hour later, Vogath returned to the cabin. He took a piece of perfumed soap out of his traveling bags and, whistling gaily with a smile of deep satisfaction on his face, he began to wash his hands.
There were others, of course, to attend to. Like there always had -- live subjects were always sought, and more often than not, I could only bring him the war's dead. He often spoke of a wonder he had only seen three in his career, and always pressed me to try and find such an unusualness. "Twins...such living wonders", he would breath as he caressed his bony jaw line. He'd injected blood samples from one twin into another twin of a different blood type and recorded the reaction.
This was invariably a searingly painful headache and high fever that lasted for several days. In order to determine if eye color could be altered, Vogath would have dye injected into the eyes. This always resulted in painful infections, and sometimes even blindness. If such twins died, Vogath would harvest their eyes and pin them to the wall much like an herbalist pins fresh flowers to dry.
He had his Zoo, his stability in his unlife. Even if his Zoo existed and he to them to keep them healthy enough for twisted and pointless experimentation; a place where Vogath himself escorted his beloved "subjects" to the pitted black doors of the cellar behind the cabin, referring to their walk as a game he called "on the way to the chimney."
Black smoke would rise shortly, filling the air of Silverpine with a murky, unsettling smell.