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Oct. 29th, 2006 10:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sroniDude, go to this site, it’s stinking hilarious. I laughed my head off. It’s very tongue in cheek.
http://members.ozemail.com.au/~imcfadyen/notthenet/fantasy.htm
In other news, I got hit by an unwelcome story, and wrote it in one draft. Here it is. Warning, it’s not my usual thing at all. Despite having written Buffy fanfic for over six years, I’ve never actually tried to write from a vampires stand point. Or a male. Or first person in a long time.
It’s also not a Buffy story. This one is original. Obviously, influenced by Buffy, as well as fanfic authors (most notably![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
aadler_, like always).
I scrub at the spot on my hand. It will never come off. Never, never, never. Blood sinks in through your clothes into your skin, from your skin to your blood, and from there, it contaminates your mind. If I were human, I’d fear for the ruination of my soul. I’m not, and I’ve long since dealt with the knowledge that my soul is beyond salvation, and far from redemption.
The spot is still there. It’s still there, and will always be there. Always, always, always. Even if I can manage to cover it up so that no one else can see it, it’ll still be there, and I’ll know it. After two hundred years, I’ve collected a great many bloodstains, and I still see them all. All of them are still there, still there, still there. Even if other of my people are too polite to mention it, they know, too. They see the evidence of my guilt as clearly as they see the moon.
The moon is my saving grace. Without it, I would surely go mad. Bad enough that the sun looks at me with scorn and contempt. But if the moon loathed me, too, and hid its face from me, I’d begin a slow descent into insanity. I depend on the comfort that the night brings. When the ghastly bright light fades, and its softer, gentler twin rises, I can leave the confines of my house and walk through the city. I like the clubs; there are so many bodies shoving against each other that no one notices me, notices that I’m much colder than them. I can disappear into social anonymity. In the early hours of the morning, their minds are too far gone because of exhaustion, wasted adrenaline, and alcohol to put up a fight against me. Not that they would if they could. I’m very discriminating in my choices. I seek out the lost, the lonely, and the unwanted. The ones that no one will miss. I show them that they do exist, and convince them that I notice. They soak up the attention the way dirt soaks up the life sustaining liquid: blood. I choose the invisible ones, the ones watching life, and I invite them to participate in it with me. They do not see the stains that I am covered in, do not recognize that I am not one of their own. I am a twisted, tainted, damned version of them, and I would not wish this existence on anyone. I have never created another being like myself, and I never will. I refrain from giving absolutes; I cushion them by opinions. But that is one that has been true since my rebirth, and will remain true until my final death. I will not condemn anyone else to my life.
I am not like the others of my kind. I hide this difference as well as I can from them. I feel regret. I feel emotional pain and turmoil. They would never understand the concept of that, and they would turn on me in an instant if they realized that I have something they do not, and never can. I seek forgiveness, and know that I will never deserve it, and thus will never receive it. I try to earn it, and never will. I know that. Still, I continue to reach for it, but I can no longer even see it, it is too far away from me.
I am not like the others. I am not like the others. I am not like the others.
I am at the club now, still staring at the damned spot that refuses to go away, and is mocking me. I don’t know why it bothers me so much when I know, and I knew, that it will continue to be there as long as I exist. I am distracted from it by a spectacularly beautiful woman. Not my type, not in the slightest. She’s beautiful and she knows it. That’s probably about all she knows. I don’t like beautiful people; I never have, and I suspect that I never will. When I was still human, they spent too much time looking in the mirrors, and too much time completely ignoring me and others like me. Prejudices die hard, even when you’re already dead. There’s a reason that I can charm my choices, and it’s a very simple one. I managed to hold onto sincerity and honesty, and I use those weapons to the best of my abilities: with lethal precision and fatal accuracy. I show them, through my eyes and my voice, that I know what it’s like to continually be on the outside looking in, and to not have any true hope of breaking free of that. They absorb the gift that I offer them - acknowledgment - transfixed and completely accepting.
I see a real one, not the gorgeous shell of yet another dull, empty, vapid person. She’s watching the world that the club presents from a corner, feigning disinterest, but even from here, I can see in her eyes the hunger that she’s trying to repress. I sit and watch her for a few minutes, just to make sure that it’s not simply an act. I’ve been taken in before, but not for a long time, and I don’t see any reason to let it happen again when a mere matter of time will take away my doubt.
My choice looks like she’ll be easily flattered and easy to convince. It’s not that she’s ugly; she’s just so utterly plain with her mousy brown hair and unremarkable face. Unremarkable, that is, except for her eyes. They are large, wary and hopeful at the same time, and taking in everything around her. She strikes me as the type that, if you asked her next week what kind of shoes someone who appeared here for three minutes were wearing tonight, she’d be able to give a complete description. She is smart, that one, it shows in her eyes. Intelligence won’t help her tonight. I am what she’s spent years telling herself doesn’t exist. I’m what her nightmares have created. I’m a monster, and I know it. I just wish I were not a coward, and had the strength to die.
I approach her cautiously, almost timidly. Since my transformation, I’ve held onto who I used to be more vigorously than others like me. When it first happened, the way I carried myself changed, and it was weeks before I realized it. I had started to walk like the predator that I am. Now, I’m back to looking like prey. The best way to catch a rabbit is to look like a fellow rabbit, not a cat.
She’s watched me come up almost fearfully, but the hungry spark of hope shines through despite herself. I speak first, offering her my shy smile as a peace offering for breaking her solitude. “Hi, I’m Jason. I saw you from over there, and thought that you looked lonely. So I thought ...” I let myself trail off, shrugging uncomfortably.
A smile has bloomed on her face. It’s not a particularly nice one. “What you mean to say is that you were over there, trying to find a shy wallflower to approach, and I looked to be your best bet.” She motioned to the other chair. “Go ahead, sit. I’m just warning you in advance that I’ll say whatever pops into my brain, and very little of it even remotely flattering.”
I allow my shy smile to turn into one of gratefulness as I take the offered seat. “On the contrary, it’s refreshing to hear someone be so honest. And I consider myself duly warned.”
“My, but you know how to talk pretty. What, did you go to prep school?”
I duck my head, seemingly out of embarrassment. That was stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She’s thrown me off guard, something that never happens, and I’ve started the conversation sounding like I would have back when I was truly alive. No more stupid mistakes. “No. Too much time reading, not enough time interacting with people. Doesn’t really help me much on the dateless Friday nights.”
“There’s an alternative to coming here on those dateless Friday nights.” She waits until my head comes up again, making sure that she has my attention, before continuing. “You can spend that time reading another book. Preferably one about other people dealing with the dateless Friday nights.” She shrugs, shaking her head ruefully. “Not that I take my own advice.”
* * *
I leave her apartment, whistling a jaunty tune. I haven’t whistled in ages, but there’s something freeing about doing it now. I wish I felt free more often. Maybe then, I’d get up the courage to take a nice walk in the sunlight. But that’s a long ways away; I’m too much of a coward.
I have another bloodstain to add to my collection. I scratch at it, hoping that maybe this time it will come off. It won’t, it will never come off. Never, never, never. It’s still there, and it’s always going to be there. Always, always, always. I’ll never be rid of the guilt, never be rid of the blood, never be rid of the people that I’ve drunk from. If there’s one consoling thought, it’s that I’ve never killed. I put my choices into a trance, one of the talents that I gained when I was reborn, and I only take enough to get me through a night. Never enough to harm, never enough to kill. I’m a monster, I’ll always be a monster, but at least I’m not a murderer.
It’s not a consolation. I’m haunted by my choices. They follow me everywhere, and I see their faces. They taunt and mock me with their blood on my hands. They’re still there, still there, still there.
End
There you are, hope you enjoyed. Feedback, as always, is appreciated.
http://members.ozemail.com.au/~imcfadyen/notthenet/fantasy.htm
In other news, I got hit by an unwelcome story, and wrote it in one draft. Here it is. Warning, it’s not my usual thing at all. Despite having written Buffy fanfic for over six years, I’ve never actually tried to write from a vampires stand point. Or a male. Or first person in a long time.
It’s also not a Buffy story. This one is original. Obviously, influenced by Buffy, as well as fanfic authors (most notably
aadler_, like always).I scrub at the spot on my hand. It will never come off. Never, never, never. Blood sinks in through your clothes into your skin, from your skin to your blood, and from there, it contaminates your mind. If I were human, I’d fear for the ruination of my soul. I’m not, and I’ve long since dealt with the knowledge that my soul is beyond salvation, and far from redemption.
The spot is still there. It’s still there, and will always be there. Always, always, always. Even if I can manage to cover it up so that no one else can see it, it’ll still be there, and I’ll know it. After two hundred years, I’ve collected a great many bloodstains, and I still see them all. All of them are still there, still there, still there. Even if other of my people are too polite to mention it, they know, too. They see the evidence of my guilt as clearly as they see the moon.
The moon is my saving grace. Without it, I would surely go mad. Bad enough that the sun looks at me with scorn and contempt. But if the moon loathed me, too, and hid its face from me, I’d begin a slow descent into insanity. I depend on the comfort that the night brings. When the ghastly bright light fades, and its softer, gentler twin rises, I can leave the confines of my house and walk through the city. I like the clubs; there are so many bodies shoving against each other that no one notices me, notices that I’m much colder than them. I can disappear into social anonymity. In the early hours of the morning, their minds are too far gone because of exhaustion, wasted adrenaline, and alcohol to put up a fight against me. Not that they would if they could. I’m very discriminating in my choices. I seek out the lost, the lonely, and the unwanted. The ones that no one will miss. I show them that they do exist, and convince them that I notice. They soak up the attention the way dirt soaks up the life sustaining liquid: blood. I choose the invisible ones, the ones watching life, and I invite them to participate in it with me. They do not see the stains that I am covered in, do not recognize that I am not one of their own. I am a twisted, tainted, damned version of them, and I would not wish this existence on anyone. I have never created another being like myself, and I never will. I refrain from giving absolutes; I cushion them by opinions. But that is one that has been true since my rebirth, and will remain true until my final death. I will not condemn anyone else to my life.
I am not like the others of my kind. I hide this difference as well as I can from them. I feel regret. I feel emotional pain and turmoil. They would never understand the concept of that, and they would turn on me in an instant if they realized that I have something they do not, and never can. I seek forgiveness, and know that I will never deserve it, and thus will never receive it. I try to earn it, and never will. I know that. Still, I continue to reach for it, but I can no longer even see it, it is too far away from me.
I am not like the others. I am not like the others. I am not like the others.
I am at the club now, still staring at the damned spot that refuses to go away, and is mocking me. I don’t know why it bothers me so much when I know, and I knew, that it will continue to be there as long as I exist. I am distracted from it by a spectacularly beautiful woman. Not my type, not in the slightest. She’s beautiful and she knows it. That’s probably about all she knows. I don’t like beautiful people; I never have, and I suspect that I never will. When I was still human, they spent too much time looking in the mirrors, and too much time completely ignoring me and others like me. Prejudices die hard, even when you’re already dead. There’s a reason that I can charm my choices, and it’s a very simple one. I managed to hold onto sincerity and honesty, and I use those weapons to the best of my abilities: with lethal precision and fatal accuracy. I show them, through my eyes and my voice, that I know what it’s like to continually be on the outside looking in, and to not have any true hope of breaking free of that. They absorb the gift that I offer them - acknowledgment - transfixed and completely accepting.
I see a real one, not the gorgeous shell of yet another dull, empty, vapid person. She’s watching the world that the club presents from a corner, feigning disinterest, but even from here, I can see in her eyes the hunger that she’s trying to repress. I sit and watch her for a few minutes, just to make sure that it’s not simply an act. I’ve been taken in before, but not for a long time, and I don’t see any reason to let it happen again when a mere matter of time will take away my doubt.
My choice looks like she’ll be easily flattered and easy to convince. It’s not that she’s ugly; she’s just so utterly plain with her mousy brown hair and unremarkable face. Unremarkable, that is, except for her eyes. They are large, wary and hopeful at the same time, and taking in everything around her. She strikes me as the type that, if you asked her next week what kind of shoes someone who appeared here for three minutes were wearing tonight, she’d be able to give a complete description. She is smart, that one, it shows in her eyes. Intelligence won’t help her tonight. I am what she’s spent years telling herself doesn’t exist. I’m what her nightmares have created. I’m a monster, and I know it. I just wish I were not a coward, and had the strength to die.
I approach her cautiously, almost timidly. Since my transformation, I’ve held onto who I used to be more vigorously than others like me. When it first happened, the way I carried myself changed, and it was weeks before I realized it. I had started to walk like the predator that I am. Now, I’m back to looking like prey. The best way to catch a rabbit is to look like a fellow rabbit, not a cat.
She’s watched me come up almost fearfully, but the hungry spark of hope shines through despite herself. I speak first, offering her my shy smile as a peace offering for breaking her solitude. “Hi, I’m Jason. I saw you from over there, and thought that you looked lonely. So I thought ...” I let myself trail off, shrugging uncomfortably.
A smile has bloomed on her face. It’s not a particularly nice one. “What you mean to say is that you were over there, trying to find a shy wallflower to approach, and I looked to be your best bet.” She motioned to the other chair. “Go ahead, sit. I’m just warning you in advance that I’ll say whatever pops into my brain, and very little of it even remotely flattering.”
I allow my shy smile to turn into one of gratefulness as I take the offered seat. “On the contrary, it’s refreshing to hear someone be so honest. And I consider myself duly warned.”
“My, but you know how to talk pretty. What, did you go to prep school?”
I duck my head, seemingly out of embarrassment. That was stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She’s thrown me off guard, something that never happens, and I’ve started the conversation sounding like I would have back when I was truly alive. No more stupid mistakes. “No. Too much time reading, not enough time interacting with people. Doesn’t really help me much on the dateless Friday nights.”
“There’s an alternative to coming here on those dateless Friday nights.” She waits until my head comes up again, making sure that she has my attention, before continuing. “You can spend that time reading another book. Preferably one about other people dealing with the dateless Friday nights.” She shrugs, shaking her head ruefully. “Not that I take my own advice.”
* * *
I leave her apartment, whistling a jaunty tune. I haven’t whistled in ages, but there’s something freeing about doing it now. I wish I felt free more often. Maybe then, I’d get up the courage to take a nice walk in the sunlight. But that’s a long ways away; I’m too much of a coward.
I have another bloodstain to add to my collection. I scratch at it, hoping that maybe this time it will come off. It won’t, it will never come off. Never, never, never. It’s still there, and it’s always going to be there. Always, always, always. I’ll never be rid of the guilt, never be rid of the blood, never be rid of the people that I’ve drunk from. If there’s one consoling thought, it’s that I’ve never killed. I put my choices into a trance, one of the talents that I gained when I was reborn, and I only take enough to get me through a night. Never enough to harm, never enough to kill. I’m a monster, I’ll always be a monster, but at least I’m not a murderer.
It’s not a consolation. I’m haunted by my choices. They follow me everywhere, and I see their faces. They taunt and mock me with their blood on my hands. They’re still there, still there, still there.
End
There you are, hope you enjoyed. Feedback, as always, is appreciated.
