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This is a short story I had to write for my Creative Writing class. I turned it in today and hope to get a good grade on it. Anyways, sorry if the formatting is kinda rough. I'll look over it before I hit submit. Anyways, here we go.
Bad Memories
Damian caressed the soft skin of the woman’s neck lightly, tracing intricate patterns down her back with the fingertips of his left hand as his right hand fingered along the pulsing artery in her neck. She was a delicate
thing, made of long, slender limbs and black lace. She sighed, slowly relaxing in his arms, but not because she was content. The woman in Damian’s arms did not know him. In fact, she had never seen him before in her life. A multitude of thoughts raced through her head. ‘Who was this man?’ and ‘How had he gotten in? Was it through the windows? Yes, that must be it! Why is he here? He shouldn’t be!’
She could see, out of the corner of her eye, the details of the room. A plush Victorian style chair was askew, angled poorly against a dark mahogany armoire. From the other corner, she could see her bed, the sheets and the slightly rumpled blankets that sat atop it. ‘Why aren’t I in bed?’ she asked herself. ‘Why am I on the couch?’ The few small things that she knew one moment passed away to be replaced by others, like a dream; it receives nothing more than a moments notice before it is replaced by some seemingly more pertinent information.
Damian had spent the past few minutes simply enjoying the woman’s scent, the scent of her hair, of her body. He felt the over-stuffed couch cushions that seemed to give way, until supporting one’s body at the last second. He saw the way the moonlight spilled through the lattice-like shutters that tattooed shadows across her face. All this he took in, transferring his feelings of calm and serenity into the woman in his arms. He bent his head close to her neck and smelled her light perfume before placing his mouth closer.
She cried out slightly as a sudden, sharp pain stabbed into the vulnerable flesh of her neck. Her hands clutched into fists and pulled at the folds of cloth covering the couch beneath her. With the first hot gush of blood, Damian began to learn all about her.
The woman’s name was Lilia Carter, Damian knew that much before the second wave flooded into his mouth and he was lost to the swirling, uncontrollable chaos that was her entire life’s memories. Many of them were not happy. Damian’s mind reeled with the sudden rush of information, driving to the edge of insanity, filling his mind with visions. The first showed a small and cozy two-story house. In the front yard was a large oak tree, with a small circle of yellow and white flowers around the base. It seemed normal enough, until a frightened eleven-year-old version of Lilia burst out the front door. She ran out the front door and down the porch stairs, slamming the door behind her, and well she did.
Right behind her there followed a giant, beast of a man, wearing a white wife-beater and reeking of alcohol. He clutched a glass beer bottle clumsily in his large right hand. He was bleary eyed and stumbled as he walked, but this did not take away from his menace; in fact, it made him seem larger, angrier. He yelled, but Damian was not able to hear what it was that he said. Lilia huddled on the ground at the foot of the oak tree, inside the little ring of flowers. Her father cast about for her and called out again. She huddled down lower, but her shaking had given her away, shaking the flowers in her father’s line of sight. He stamped over to her, grabbed her by her shirt collar and dragged her back inside before slamming the door.
Next, the scene switched to a dark park. Damian glanced around, wondering where Lilia was in this memory. He saw her walking briskly up a small dirt path, towards him. He judged that by now she must be about twenty by her looks. He caught himself attempting to catch a whiff of her perfume, before remembering that in memories, all of the viewer’s senses, besides sight, did not work. A small clearing that trees partially shielded from view was her destination. He followed closely behind, wondering where she could be going at such a late time. As she entered the clearing, he saw a young man, probably her boyfriend, call out to her and run up to her. Damian watched for a moment as they embraced and talked.
Suddenly, Lilia jumped. Damian turned his head the same way she did. There, coming from the trees, were two other men. She waved and said something, perhaps greetings, before turning back to the first man. Damian watched as he said something that caused her to back away. The two men who came out of the trees were behind her, and had grabbed her arms. Damian realized what was going to happen a second before it did. He lashed out violently at the man holding Lilia’s right arm. He passed right through. Damian swung violently at Lilia’s aggressors, doing nothing but fueling his own rage. Finally, he came to his senses and remembered that he was witnessing a memory, nothing more. This however, was still horrifying to him. He did not want to watch this; he could not, and would not. But he did. He tried to close his eyes, but he could not. He could do nothing but sit, weep, and watch as the three men defiled Lilia.
Suddenly and sweetly, the memory shifted again, showing him no more full scenes, but a rapid series of painful clips and pieces from Lilia’s past. Each of the memories sent him reeling, like a strong hit to the torso by a bat. After a few more moments of this, he realized that he would have to disengage himself from her neck if he did not want to kill her. It was the most painful thing for him to kill, because when he did, the ghost of his victim would appear before him and mock him or thank him, and that was the worst. He could not stand them thanking him for killing. It sickened him to the core of his being.
Lilia’s breathing was fast and shallow, her face was growing pale and her grasp on the couch was weak, far too weak. Damian relinquished her neck from his mouth and gazed into her glazed eyes. ‘Please don’t die,’ he pleaded in his own head. ‘Please, not another one!’ Lilia gazed dazedly up at him for a moment, before letting out a long, shuddering gasp, and she died. Bitterness filled the tears that welled up in his eyes. A horrid longing for more filled him, and he knew he could not have any more. ‘Master,’ he thought, sending up a silent plea. ‘Master, please come help me! I can’t handle this anymore; I can’t stand it at all!’ Damian gathered up Lilia, his long limbed, slender angel, into his arms and carried her over to her bed. He placed her gently among the pile of rumpled sheets and comforters and just watched her for a few moments, not doing anything besides fighting the urge to cry, and he lost.
Damian suddenly let out a great cry of sorrow and flung his arms out and across the dead girl, pulling her to him, embracing her as he wept. Her lucid eyes gazed out across the rest of the room, the part in her lips was ever so slight, as if she was just drawing breath and would spring to life at any moment. Damian felt her long black hair spilling over his arm and grabbed for it, as his own long auburn locks cascaded down her body.
“So, you’ve done it again, haven’t you?” came a familiar voice from behind Damian. As Damian lifted his head, he heard
“Stop! Do not move. Here it comes.” Before Damian’s very eyes, the ghost of Lilia materialized. She just stood and stared into Damian for a minute, simply into him, before he heard a thin whisper of,”Thank you, my deliverer!” and then she was gone, as ephemeral as the morning fog.
Damian watched all of this in horror, the very thing he wanted to avoid had occurred again, and this time, he could take it no more. With a loud bellow of his preternatural voice, he grabbed the body of the once beautiful Lilia and beat it. The bruises were instantaneous. Her bones began to creak and snap under the vicious fury of the enraged vampires blows. Finally, as he lifted her over his head to throw her against the far wall, he felt a strong hand stay his arm. He turned his head slightly and saw the disapproving face of his master, Victor.
“Damian, why do you act in such a shameful way? Is it not something you could have prevented? Take accountability for your actions and the results of them!” he commanded. Damian could only glare back up at him for a few seconds before quailing under the stern glare of his master. He lowered the body, and quickly buried his head in the folds of Victor’s soft silk shirt as he embraced him.
As he hugged his sire close, Damian found strength and fortitude in his unyielding embrace. Everything was fine, and seconds seemed to stretch into hours as he felt the facade of warmth flush his cheeks and soften the cold, hard skin that was his face and chest and body. His face burned with the blood of his latest kill, a stark contrast to the marble-cold skin of the statuesque vampire to which he clung.
In this, there was security. In him, there was solace and serenity. Victor gazed down at his fledgling uninterestedly.
“You never learn, do you, Damian?” he sighed. Damian let out a small guttural laugh.
“Always, Master. Always, they die. I cannot bear it any longer!” he sobbed into the soft, neatly pressed silk of Victor’s shirt. Victor laid a gentle hand on Damian shoulder and held him at arms length, examining the sobbing creature in front of him. Then, he pulled Damian back to his chest, shushed him, and stroked his hair, wanting only to have back his normally cheerful and audacious young pupil.
“There, there,” Victor whispered into Damian’s ear. “Hush now. Now, it is only a bad memory.”
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