London by Night 5: The Nosferatu
Snow filtered down over London like the succulent brush of an angel's wings, covering everything in it's cleansing white purity. Those in the restaurant called Vivid laughed and clinked glasses and made marry. The light of the restaurant's huge bay windows spilled out into the street, illuminating the hustle of gift bearing marionettes on their way to this gathering or that party.
Across the street, crouched on a trash can, Bumhug watched the festivities.
Though he was in plain sight, he made little effort at concealment. Granted, anyone passing by that happened to look to the side and see the reed thin, blond-maned monstrosity of stretched skin and mashed in face would have run screaming, but nobody looked. Something deep in their minds, something primal, made sure they didn't look. Something the Nosferatu himself was triggering.
His watery gray-green eyes watched the revelers in the restaurant across the way, and he almost smiled. It was good to see people still enjoying the restaurant. His restaurant.
Thirty-seven years ago, he had been the talk of London. Before Gordon Ramsay, before Angela Brighton, before any of the so-called Celebrity chefs that haunted London streets now-a-days his hands had been the ones to revamp culinary refinement in London. He had studied under the great Escoffier, and from Vivid's kitchens came proscuttio stuffed with cream cheese and walnuts, braised quail with espigon sauce, steamed crudites with remoulade.
He looked down at the spidery, seven digit things that served him for hands now and he sighed. His heart broke.
Still, he took comfort in the fact that it was his food that sent the living home, satiated, from Elysium. He had nothing anymore, not his fame or his svelt good looks, but he still had his cooking. That was more than most Nosferatu could say.
But it wasn't the restaurant, or the gay people, that had brought him here tonight. It was her.
She was walking studiously toward the restarant, an umbrella sheltering her hair against the drifting snowflakes. His heart ached as he watched her, the woman that had once been his wife. He had been there the night the police told her he was dead, and he had sat directly behind her at his own funeral; always wanted to speak to her and touch her and assure her everything was all right. But if he had, Prince Camilla would have pitched a fit, which in turn would have cause Cesspool to pitch a fit. And nobody caused Cess to do that, not if they were smart.
But there were other things he could do.
She paused to close the umbrella, her back to the restaurant door. She was much older now and a bit more frail physically, but the fire of the savage determination that had attracted him to her in the first place was still there, and he loved to see that.
Wrapping himself in a new form, with a new face, Bumhug scurried across the street and opened the door for her.
"Let me get that for you," he said.
She smiled and verbalized her thanks sincerely, but she paused just a minute, her brows knitting slightly in confusion as her eyes drifted along his face. Every time he did this, impersonated someone and did her a small kindness, she would always have that look.
Yes, he thought. You know me. We were married once.
Then she was gone, swirling into the gaiety and the bright lights of the restaurant. Bumhug returned to his perch to watch, allowing the snow to cover him like some gruesome caricature of a gargoyle and willing those that passed to simply not see him.
Across the street, crouched on a trash can, Bumhug watched the festivities.
Though he was in plain sight, he made little effort at concealment. Granted, anyone passing by that happened to look to the side and see the reed thin, blond-maned monstrosity of stretched skin and mashed in face would have run screaming, but nobody looked. Something deep in their minds, something primal, made sure they didn't look. Something the Nosferatu himself was triggering.
His watery gray-green eyes watched the revelers in the restaurant across the way, and he almost smiled. It was good to see people still enjoying the restaurant. His restaurant.
Thirty-seven years ago, he had been the talk of London. Before Gordon Ramsay, before Angela Brighton, before any of the so-called Celebrity chefs that haunted London streets now-a-days his hands had been the ones to revamp culinary refinement in London. He had studied under the great Escoffier, and from Vivid's kitchens came proscuttio stuffed with cream cheese and walnuts, braised quail with espigon sauce, steamed crudites with remoulade.
He looked down at the spidery, seven digit things that served him for hands now and he sighed. His heart broke.
Still, he took comfort in the fact that it was his food that sent the living home, satiated, from Elysium. He had nothing anymore, not his fame or his svelt good looks, but he still had his cooking. That was more than most Nosferatu could say.
But it wasn't the restaurant, or the gay people, that had brought him here tonight. It was her.
She was walking studiously toward the restarant, an umbrella sheltering her hair against the drifting snowflakes. His heart ached as he watched her, the woman that had once been his wife. He had been there the night the police told her he was dead, and he had sat directly behind her at his own funeral; always wanted to speak to her and touch her and assure her everything was all right. But if he had, Prince Camilla would have pitched a fit, which in turn would have cause Cesspool to pitch a fit. And nobody caused Cess to do that, not if they were smart.
But there were other things he could do.
She paused to close the umbrella, her back to the restaurant door. She was much older now and a bit more frail physically, but the fire of the savage determination that had attracted him to her in the first place was still there, and he loved to see that.
Wrapping himself in a new form, with a new face, Bumhug scurried across the street and opened the door for her.
"Let me get that for you," he said.
She smiled and verbalized her thanks sincerely, but she paused just a minute, her brows knitting slightly in confusion as her eyes drifted along his face. Every time he did this, impersonated someone and did her a small kindness, she would always have that look.
Yes, he thought. You know me. We were married once.
Then she was gone, swirling into the gaiety and the bright lights of the restaurant. Bumhug returned to his perch to watch, allowing the snow to cover him like some gruesome caricature of a gargoyle and willing those that passed to simply not see him.