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blood lust chapter 1

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posted on Mar, 26 2005 @ 02:53 AM
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Blood Lust.Part 1

When he lies his body down in early morning to fall into a deep sleep, to get away from the blinding light, he dreams. He dreams in color. A mix of reds and beige, blurs of yellow and greens. Sometimes he dreams sepia dreams, but those are few and in between. Splatters of colours, he dreams of killing. He dreams of sex.

When he awakes the colours fade. Greys all mix together, and the juxtaposition is well noticed. He feeds off redless blood, it is cold and finite. He thinks of love and the colours is may bring. But, who would want such a un-desirable creature? In this stone building he is just a corpse under the artificial lights.

When it gets too much, he closes his eyes. He thinks of other things. How this place smells of bitter despair, and he can taste it on his tounge. He breathes it in on his tounge.
Does he breathe? He doesn't remember. All he knows is this place isn't home.
He pushes himself so far into dreams that when reality finally hits him hard like a brick stick, he can feel the misery residing in the back of his throat.

Sometimes when he awoke he found a familiar body lingering above him. Hitting him, over and over. He would stay still. Silent. It was a ritual for this man to do this to him. Nothing would stop him. When he finally left he would look down on himself, a blur of blood and bruise. He learned over the years the different shades of grey that certain things were. Blood, tears, cuts, and hate.

He was the one who had created him, if you could use the word 'create' for such a disaster. It was late, after a show in Helsinki and they had known each other for a few years before that. Their bands were friends. He had spent most of his living years singing to a crowd that didn't know the real him. He prayed for death daily. Begged for something, anything to take him out of this cold world.

It was a vampire who had heard his call. His name was Jussi.

He was almost prone to scream and kick, as Jussi cut deep into his neck. Telling him it only hurts for a few moments. The moments you die. When your hearts slows, and your breathing comes in ragged sighs
He remembered Jussi's breath smelled of expensive bourbon and misplaced lust.
His hands were cold, too cold.
They wrapped around him, cradleing him in his last moments of life.
"You have no need to be afraid.. soon we will be together for eternity."
Tears welled up in his dying eyes. Fear was placed on his face, and a smile on the other man's.
Just as he was taking his last breaths he felt the warm liquid of red infinite touch his lips. He tried pushing his mouth to the side. He didn't want his.

If this is what dyiing is, take me back.

Soon he felt the need rise in him to drink, and before he could reach ecstacy, the wrist was pulled away from him and he suddenly felt weightless. He rose, looking at his now transparent skin and the blue veins almost popped.

That was years ago, and he had long since forgotten what it felt like to bathe in sunlight. What colours looked like in a kiss shared between two lovers. What it felt like to be loved in colour.




posted on Mar, 26 2005 @ 02:55 AM
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Ville spent his time in a small town in europe, hiding out. He couldn't be seen. What would they make of it? Years ago he had disappeared. Run off. The tabloids all over were aware, and after a year people just gave up the search. Which, didn't bother him much then, but now it does. Didn't they care enough to devote their lives to find him? He was marked as dead. Which in the long run was true. But.. only certain parts of him were dead. His heart, not beating, but still feeling. If possible. He felt insanity almost daily. He needed to see someone.

Years ago, he had been in love. Un-requited, it's true. He never spoke of his feelings, or who his songs were about. But it all boiled down to one person.
Bammie.
It has been so long since he felt the knot in his stomach when the man would smile.

So, here he is. In West chester. Hoping to catch a glimpse of him. He came a few days ago. He would have walked right into his house, and demanded love. Demanded to see colour. But, Bam is alive. And the living sleep during the night.
Plus, Bam was no longer living at home. He had moved out, quit the show. Quit skating. He moved into a small apartment across the town, it was dark and dingy and Ville often wondered why he had suddenly changed.
He spied on him once. He was flicking a lit cigarette on the ground, and walking towards his apartment. It was dark out, but not so dark that Ville could come into the main streets and in the open. So he stayed in the shadows and watched him walk up to his apartment. He watched him through the windows on the side of the building, while he went up the stairs.


If my heart could beat, it would break my chest..

Bam had grown older. He must be 29 now. Older than him, which is odd, becuase he was use to being the older one. The wiser one.
Now he was the dead one.

He was 27 when he died, and he's going to be 27 forever. He whimpers in his sleep, the way he noticed Jussi did when they shared a silk lined coffin together his first night dead. Now he was walking the streets, spying on a man who probably didn't even remember him. He imagined him tasting of buttermilk. He wonders what it would be like. To taste him. He can try to imagine the simple things ( things that end ). But he wouldn't be able to hit it dead on.
But, he could do it. He was made to do it, after all. Because he died pretty. He died becuase he was pretty. And he was going to be !@#king pretty until he was a pile of dust and ash.





It starts as an itch on his palms. Strange, for it to begin there of all places. One would think his gums would itch or his teeth would hurt, the way they do before the fangs descend. Perhaps there would be a dull ache in the center of his chest where the heart sits, silent and still. Maybe his @#ck would just stand up and point due North. But no, it`s in his palms, and it`s always been that way. When he is called his hands begin to sweat, then they itch, finally they turn an angry red and the skin just peels away. Invariably it makes him wonder if his demon resides somehow in his hands.

The drive to his house is just long enough to ponder upon his stupidity. Why did he keep going back? It wasn't love. It was noting but pain and blood. Greys and whites. Colourless sex.
He pulls onto the interstate and wonders why the false lights on this side of town always seem to sputter like dying stars. Neon signs with letters missing ` OTEL! VA NCIES!` By some peculiar design, the exclamation points always work.

When he finds the correct one, he will loosen the grip on the leather steering wheel and wonder for the millionth time how his hands always know exactly where to go.

Pulls into the darkened lot, the wonder gone with the slam of a door. Turns the key in the lock and steps into the dimly lit room. Flips off the lamp, strips out of his clothes.
Flicks on the ceiling fan, listens to the motor sputter and start, the whirp whirp twisting the stale air inside the room. Half a dozen cigarettes half smoked on the bedside table. Blue smoke sucked toward the whir of fan, disincarnate ghosts spinning in the pitch.

And he can shed humanity at the door like snakeskin. Layers and layers of too many skins finally, but the man in the bed only wants one. Wants to peel away the one closest to the bone, closest to the pit inside; wants to tear it back and let the juices flow from the cracks. Tear it back and swallow it whole, lick the dribbles of juice from his chin, and choke on the smallest of seeds.

Sheets cool and wrinkled, blanket of red, rough wool. Naked skin beneath them crafted from hail and cotton. Smooth, chilled flesh of cheek and thigh and chest to quiet angry palms. Kisses with eyes pressed shut and mouth wide open. Here, taste it, taste me from the inside.

Drink here and live forever.

The demon is in every cell, isn`t it? It must be, to keep the corpse walking. To keep it unchanged, unmarred and beautiful despite the passage of so much time. It animates blood, muscles and sinew; it sits, eternal and merciless in his every pore. The demon regenerates him, it animates him, but it cannot create. It cannot make him into something which was not present before. Some little seed of anger and rage which had always been thus. Had always been his.

Snapping bite to lower lip, draw First Bloode.

Grab for a length of hair that is no longer there, a sable braid, a chestnut tail, and growl at its lack. Grab a fistful of short brown locks instead, and pull...pull the head back and drink the absence of the past.

It`s just blood. Familiar blood, sweet and cool and thick as maple syrup, but just blood. It has no inherent meaning, it changes nothing. It isn`t sacrament. Oh he wishes it was, wishes it was ritual and holy and full of ancient intent. Wishes the sacrifice would alter some grand design. Wishes it would soothe his soul and his heart. But all that is soothed here is the Hunger and the burn in his hands. And even that lasts only a moon.

Still, if he breathes deep and swallows fast, he can almost catch it. Almost smell sunshowers and fire on the man beneath him, because Ville has had only half as much time to acquire the scent of the dead.

He will remember this, much later. He will forget the name of this motel, and the scratch of dirty coverlets on his back, and the sound of the headboard banging against the wall. But some night, when he conjures the image of fair hair and gray eyes, if he holds his breath and sinks his fangs into his own tongue, he will smell blue flames and Communion Wafers.

He runs from the hotel, drives as far away as he can. He abandons his car by the motel he is staying at and goes off walking. Clearning his mind. Erasing away Jussi.
He will keep walking. Keep waiting for the next evening when his palms itch to distraction. Keep the bit of crimson covered broken glass in his pocket until then.
He is running a hand through his hair, a smoke dangling from his lips and his other pale fingers clutching the neck of a brown beer bottle.
He is thrown to the ground as he suddenly bumps into a hard body, too far into the shadowns to recognize his face.






We all come into this world in the same way. Naked. Covered in blood. Screaming.

No one really remembers birth. Which is good, he supposes, because who wants to remember that? The cold, the violence. The feeling of alone-ness chewing up your cells.
But after, if we are blessed, we aren't alone anymore. After, there are warm blankets and the steady thrumming of a heart. Milk and lullabies. The safety of being kept, the surety of being held.
He dreamt of Bam. All the memories he previously had of him. The concerts he'd attending with him, including his own (seeing him backstadge, or in the crowd, singing along.). The nights living he spent wishing he could kiss him, just once. Just to know what it was like. How good it would feel to run his lips over his, the feel of his hands.

The man he now looked up at. His eyes closed for a moment. Could it be?
Bammie, was here. Infront of him. He stands, mesmorized by the shades of grey that surround him. They seemed to glow more than others. He adored the way he shined.
As if he was a moon, all on his own. Countless night's Ville had spent under the moonlight, contemplating staking himself. Knowing he could never love him like this. He might have had a slim chance when he was living, but now. Nothing.

Bam doesn't speak. His words are caught in his throat. His heartbeat is racing a mile a minute. It was Ville. But.. it wasn't. He looked different. He looked.. paler than normal. He looked sad.
A clentched fist, and a few fought back tears later, Bam looked deep into his eyes.
"V-Ville..?"
His voice came out harsh, and almost un-audible.
Ville was entranced by the more grown up version of Bam. His eyes were wiser. He was more mature. Bams eyes drifted closed, he shook his head slightly. A light pink is in his cheeks, almost like he was blushing.

Ville stood up, almost standing close enough to touch him. He smelt of lonliness. Something Ville knew too well. When he thought of him, closed his eyes, he was no longer reminded he was dead. He made him feel alive. He cannot blush. He bears none of the imperfections, and wears none of the colors of man. But he can hollar and he can scream and he can love.
And he can close his eyes. Just like Bam.

He often felt like a monster without insight into the desperations of men who too quickly grow old.
Bam grew old too fast. There was lines under his eyes that Ville would never know of personally, but it made his stomach churn all the same.
"Bammie." Ville smilea slightly, he could hear his heartbeat. It was rapid. Fast.
"I-I thought.."
His eyes were begining to grow watery, his hands shaking and his mouth forming a frown.
Ville stepped more closer to him, his own body would shake if he would let it. He felt the heat on Bams body radiating towards his own.
He felt colder than normal now, and he didn't mind.. becuase Bam was warming him.
His shakey hand was moving, reaching up to his Villes face. The heat coming off him in waves, like sunlight that Ville could never touch. But Bams heat was touching him.
And soon enough Bams hand was on his neck.. still shaking, still giving off heat. Ville sucks in air, savoring the moment.The glorious touch of Bam.
He would definatly give up sunlight for this, if he had it.

Bam placed a hand on his neck, and instantly felt his body temperature go down a few shades. Ville looked like he hadn't eaten in years, slept in weeks, and smiled in a lifetime.
He hadn't seen Ville in years. Not after he disappeared after that show. It had been so long, and there was so many thing he should tell him, but he couldn't. Not now at least. He needed to bask in this moment.
"I.. can't believe you're here.."
Ville pushed his neck towards Bam's hand, smelling the cologne on him.
"I.. thought you were dead."
Ville looked up, and for the first time spoke to him.
"I am."



[edit on 26-3-2005 by angeleyes101]



posted on Mar, 26 2005 @ 03:33 AM
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Wow!! That's a great story!! You should post in the fiction/short stories forum at ATS.

Are you an Anne Rice fan? Masquerade?



posted on Mar, 26 2005 @ 03:42 AM
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Yes, but more of a steven king fan, and sydney sheldon, suspense and mystery are what I am into....chapter 3 will be tomorrow.



posted on Mar, 29 2005 @ 03:15 AM
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His dreams were paler once. Ghost-dreams, white half-shades of guilt and ache and misplaced lusts. Dreams of longing and Never Will and Not Quite There. And it was easier that way; easier to drift the night away in the land of what once had been, and what could never be.

But Villes dreams of late have been soaked in blood and decorated with strips of torn flesh, and it's all beginning to feel just a little too real. He blinks his eyes upon waking- one, two, three times, just to make sure the walls aren't spattered dark and red. The air tastes like roses.

Why, everytime he awoke to the smell of roses was beyond recognition. Jussi had roses scattered across every motel they had done it in. He's sick of the !@#king roses. Such a goddamn cliche. Romantic, are they? But they never were, not to *them.* All he can remember is the pressing of thorns into flesh and how much that made them all laugh. Blood-spattered leaves and the choking scent of perfume, burning his throat and strangling his words. Petals closed tightly, whispering secrets.

He greets the waking; he's relieved, at least for a moment, to hear those voices fade away into silence. What he can't admit to himself is that he misses them as soon as they're gone, and the days are so dam *long.* His band mates, soon after finding out about his new lack of colour.. so to speak.. wanted nothing to do with him. He's gotten over it somewhat in the passing years. No pain inside, no contact outside, and he can't quite feel his limbs anymore, or remember the sound of his voice.

Some nights he dreams that Bam is chained to his bed, writhing and struggling against his restraints and screaming obscenities that he can't quite hear. He pins Bam brutally to the ghost-white bedsheets and drives into him with harsh, unforgiving strokes, beats him so hard that he begins to bleed from the inside out. He smells of blood and cologne and he screams his name.

He suddenly remembers where he is. Asleep on the couch in Bams dark and dreary apartment. It is daytime, he can tell by the musty looking sunlight poking in through the dark blinds. His is thankful for his dark apartment, as he gets up and walks towards the bathroom.

Bam awakes and looks at the beeping clock beside him. In pale red numbers, it said 2:09pm. Great, he slept in. Again. Just like the last few weeks. It's too much. Bam is exhausted and he has had *enough.* He steps into the shower in the bathroom across the hallways, turning it on and letting the hot water burn his skin. He turns the cold water on shortly after, letting it mix with heat, cooling him off. He picks up the soap, trying to scrub away the lonliness residing inside of him. Everyone he ever loved.. they.. were gone. He is caught off guard when he hears the bathroom door swing open, and awaits to see the intruder. Before he can see his face, he is aware of who it is. He remembered all of last night. The way he didn't let him explain why he was 'dead'. He just took him by the hand, led him to his apartment and told him to rest on the couch.

Shades of ebony leather and death white skin, the smell of cigarette smoke and whiskey. He can see Villes silhouette, blurry through the shower door as black clothing falls away to reveal white skin.

Ville hears the shower going, but faintly. He pushes it aside, and steps in anyways. Taking his coat and shirt off. He uses the wet cloth by the sink to scrub his upper torso, and arms. His face was last, and he pulls his shirt back on and walks out of the bathroom.

Bam tightens his leg mucsels, as he hears the door close. Oh, how long he had waited for this man, how he went through the torment of thinking he was dead for so long. The funeral, the sudden outburts of his friends, saying they never wanted to talk about him ever again. About how he they couldn't believe he did this to them. And.. now it all made sense to Bam. They knew he had run away.. and they never told him. He felt anger residing in him now. He turned off the shower and stepped out, drying off his body and then applying clothes. He wore a tight black shirt and a pair of black dress pants. Nothing was adorned with patches or lyrics. He was plain. He had left the old Bam behind years ago. Left his family, left his home. He left himself.

Walking out into the living room he saw Ville sitting down, watching the static on the television screen.
"Yeah.. I never got around to paying the bill yet." Bam stated, sitting on the chair opposite Ville.
Ville nodded, still staring at the screen.
"Ville.. how?"
Bams question seemed to strike Ville like a hard hand on his face.
"Im dead."
"No.. your not. Your here.. with me."
Ville shook his head.
"No."
"Yes Ville, you are. Your alive, and your back. I've missed you.. so mu-"
"No Bam. Im not alive. I may bear skin, and a soul.. but i am far from living. Im stuck between human and vampire. I belong nowhere."
Bams eyes studied him for a moment, wondering.
He.. was a vampire?
He thought they only existed in Anne Rice novels and Joss Whendon sitcoms.
His browns furrowed and he titled his head.
"I-I don't understand."
"Then i'll show you.."



posted on Mar, 31 2005 @ 10:23 AM
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Delete this. It's not yours.just kidding........lol

[edit on 31-3-2005 by Griffin master]



posted on Mar, 31 2005 @ 03:41 PM
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Locked for investigation of allegations of copyright violation.



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