Mick St. John (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ownlittleprison) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
taxonomites2011-10-02 01:26 am
ownlittleprison) wrote in taxonomites2011-10-02 01:26 am
03: Fate forbids what you pursue [visual | location: Mick's apartment]
For Mick, the past week had passed in a blur of activity. Early morning saw him barricading the windows to keep out as much sunlight as possible, and his Extra neighbors had complained greatly to the Extra who kept tabs on everyone in the building. He'd been issued a warning, and informed that two more strikes meant he had to leave.
It had taken considerable effort on his part not to twist its neck.
He was rather proud of himself for behaving.
But that was then, and the past few days had been indescribably worse. The urge for blood had become to great, making him careless - he'd do anything, as long as he could get a taste. Just one drop. Just a mouthful. It got to the point where even the stop signs in the streets made him think of blood; so vibrantly red he wanted to climb up and lick them. It was the same with fire hydrants, tomato juice, anything even remotely resembling blood.
He knew he wouldn't last much longer. The first defeat came when he caught the faint scent of blood on the air, stalked one of the fake people through the night-- And then another. He wasn't sure how many he'd hurt since that night. Three? Five? Twice that?
It had to stop.
It had to stop before he hurt someone else. It was just a matter of time before he couldn't control himself any longer.
---
Hands shaking, body wracked with the shivers of fever and pain like he's never felt before, Mick takes out his tablet from his jacket and pokes it to life. He's shaking so bad he can't hold it still, but from the moment his feed starts transmitting, one or three things are blatantly obvious:
He's in real bad shape - pallid, sickly skin tone, dark circles around his (pale blue to the point of milky white) eyes and cracked lips. He's covered in a fine film of...is that ice crystals? And last but not least, if you're looking closely, his teeth are sharper, longer than ever before (all the better to eat you up, like the granny wolf said to a certain girl in a certain hood).
"...I'm sorry," he grinds out, breath stuttering out of him in little huffs of white smoke. "I-I didn't mean to hurt anyone. I-- I'm the one--"
He swallows, throat too dry to speak, lips too stiff. Heart racing wildly in his chest; the entire city must hear it, it's so loud. "I hurt the Extras. I didn't mean to, I, I couldn't--"
Missing the point here, Mickey, get to the point. Just say it. Out with it. I'm a vampire. You did it once, with Beth, you can do it again. 'I am a vampire'.
...I'm a vampire.
I'm a--
His breath stutters, his head twitches like a stop motion dummy stuck between one moment and the next. "I-I think you're going to have to kill me. I'm losing control. S-stake to the heart first, then fire. Cut off my head, burn the corpse. Stake won't kill me, j-just paralyze me.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
It had taken considerable effort on his part not to twist its neck.
He was rather proud of himself for behaving.
But that was then, and the past few days had been indescribably worse. The urge for blood had become to great, making him careless - he'd do anything, as long as he could get a taste. Just one drop. Just a mouthful. It got to the point where even the stop signs in the streets made him think of blood; so vibrantly red he wanted to climb up and lick them. It was the same with fire hydrants, tomato juice, anything even remotely resembling blood.
He knew he wouldn't last much longer. The first defeat came when he caught the faint scent of blood on the air, stalked one of the fake people through the night-- And then another. He wasn't sure how many he'd hurt since that night. Three? Five? Twice that?
It had to stop.
It had to stop before he hurt someone else. It was just a matter of time before he couldn't control himself any longer.
---
Hands shaking, body wracked with the shivers of fever and pain like he's never felt before, Mick takes out his tablet from his jacket and pokes it to life. He's shaking so bad he can't hold it still, but from the moment his feed starts transmitting, one or three things are blatantly obvious:
He's in real bad shape - pallid, sickly skin tone, dark circles around his (pale blue to the point of milky white) eyes and cracked lips. He's covered in a fine film of...is that ice crystals? And last but not least, if you're looking closely, his teeth are sharper, longer than ever before (all the better to eat you up, like the granny wolf said to a certain girl in a certain hood).
"...I'm sorry," he grinds out, breath stuttering out of him in little huffs of white smoke. "I-I didn't mean to hurt anyone. I-- I'm the one--"
He swallows, throat too dry to speak, lips too stiff. Heart racing wildly in his chest; the entire city must hear it, it's so loud. "I hurt the Extras. I didn't mean to, I, I couldn't--"
Missing the point here, Mickey, get to the point. Just say it. Out with it. I'm a vampire. You did it once, with Beth, you can do it again. 'I am a vampire'.
...I'm a vampire.
I'm a--
His breath stutters, his head twitches like a stop motion dummy stuck between one moment and the next. "I-I think you're going to have to kill me. I'm losing control. S-stake to the heart first, then fire. Cut off my head, burn the corpse. Stake won't kill me, j-just paralyze me.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."