Mercy is a Woman
folder
Vampire › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
1,302
Reviews:
7
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Vampire › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
1,302
Reviews:
7
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
Mercy is a Woman
This is was written for a creative writing class. It’s my typical fare. It’s kind of dark. I didn’t get good grades on it. Actually, I think the teacher was scared of me after this. As mentioned before, everyone else was 20 years older and was writing kids books and memories. Yah, I was a freak.
Written June 2, 2004
Mercy is a Woman
by
Derekica Snake (Kiix)
“You probably think that it’s something romantic. That it’s something to be desired. You want to believe that it’s like the stories in all those books - a brotherhood...a coven...a pack. An alpha male or female leading a herd of thin beautiful people throughout the world for all eternity. Bullshit. The Gift of the Family....gift?. Ha! It simply is.”
My eyes scan the darkness. Rats hunker down behind dustbins. Nothing frightens rats, but they know something is there with them. Something to be feared. I took a long look down at the huddled form at my feet. Exposed skin, blackened and yellowish, stretched tightly over the hallow of the clavicle then disappears into the torn collar of the faded shirt. There is an hidden elegance to the curve of the neck. Odd. It is odd to find a rare and precious thing in this rat infested part of the city. I watched a greasy imitation of a man drag her unconscious body out of the carnival lighting of the tavern to this side alley. Being the lesser being that he was, he dropped her, gave a soccer kick to her frail head, spat on her then turned and swaggered back into the hellish lighting. His stench hung in the air. Beer, cigarettes and....what was that...ah fear. The battered little boy has become the beating daddy.
She was awake by the time I came to her. Awake and aware. “I hunt the night. I hunt alone. I kill alone and when I do encounter one of my kind...it’s not a pleasant thing. My territory is well defined and any encroachment can only be seen as a challenge. I hunger, I feed. I lust, I take. There is no questioning or morality. I kill therefore I am. So why am I telling you this? Why haven’t I killed you already? I ask that question of myself. It is not that I do not think, in all my years, I believe that I have thought too much. Too much...ah that is it.”
I lean forward looking down at the frightened creature, who cowers like a puppy that has been kicked too much. “Once, I sat shivering in the dark, terror leaking from my pores leaving a sweet, ammonia tinted stench filling the dank. This memory is a rose plucked from the vine today - vibrant, colourful and oh, so full of life. My heart beat thundering so loud in my ears that I could barely hear my own labored breathing. I was dying - and I could feel each beat pushing me toward the abyss.”
She clings to my leg, burying her face against my knee with one hand up begging for forgiveness as she has been taught under the tutelage of the bruise artist. “Hush little one. This is not something that should be feared. Sssshhh, there are things you need to know before this night is out, and you need to listen. Your sucking dry heave cries are of no use here. The sweet beauty of your tears will not change the outcome. No bargains, no reprieve, no mercy. Remember that one - no mercy. It is a sensuous attack, the scent that first triggers the stalk of the path of fulfillment. Nights of darkness--no moon nor reflection of city lights on low hanging clouds–are the ones to recall on nights when hunting is not possible. Each hunt has is it’s own special thrill. Not one is ever the same – the hint of lilac perfume; the hanging trail of spicy aftershave; even the ammonia stench of urine leaves a lasting impression.”
Her cries are barely above a moan, “Why me? Why me?”
“It is fate. There is no other word for it. It was an act of fate that had brought me to this less than popular bar. This is not an area of the city that someone, such as I, would frequent. Fate brought you to my attention as you picked yourself off the bar room floor. That hand print glowing so brightly in the neon kaleidoscope lighting. The pure look of hatred that flared for an oh, so brief second. No one saw that sharp epiphany of emotion – no one but me. It was at that exact moment that your fate was decided. Behind that bruised yellow green skin, swollen lip -- tinted so crimson with natures’ own that even Max Factor couldn’t match it’s brilliance -- beat the heated heart of hatred.”
Reaching down, I catch her fragile little face by her chin and pull her off my leg. Her eyes are rheumy and red with agony but there it was again. That spark of life. I let my finger tips dance gently over her bruises along her cheek back to her jet tresses. Her hair is brittle, dry and stinks of old cigarettes. Her pale green eyes dartingly meet my own for a too brief second before searching for another place to latch onto.
I speak quietly as if to a lesser animal, which in all honesty, I am doing so. “Hatred is a necessity. Hatred is enduring. Love is all bloom and petals, but soon the edges curl and decay. It rots from inside -- sucking the beauty from the surface until it withers and dries to the touch. Love is a faint spring breeze. It brushes past you then is gone. Hatred is a burning ember that hardens internally to obsidian. It turns darkness into a mirror so it reflects. That is what is most terrifying...the image of what they really are – prey. But when hatred fades....nothing fills it. Nothing can exist in this world. Such am I. Nothing. When nothing exists, it is time to go. It’s time to meet your maker.”
She struggles with the knowledge that it is all over. The brutal existence beat her down over and over again. Her essence is harsh and bitter. She is wine tainted with antifreeze. A hint of greatness of what might had been if only it had been left to ferment to fullness in time. My act is murder most foul.
Her fist punches me in the throat and I drop her. She smashes to the ground hard. Her head bounces off the pavement with the ill sound of a melon that bounces off a produce truck. I cradle her against my breast. Her breathing is weak. Her heart is dying. Her spark is fading.
A broken shard of glass I picked up from the flithy street rips my throat wide and the pain. The glorious pain...drink from the fountain of youth. Live, my deadly daughter...
“Christ...fuck it.” I stagger back sort of stunned and sick at just what happened. There is a throbbing in my neck and..a fire in my veins. My lips are stained. I spit red...but for once, this time, it isn’t mine.
A woman lay sprawled on her back staring up at the night sky beside me. Blue eyes almost the same colour painted on the walls of the community pool stared up at the night sky. Her hair is so white blonde that it had to be a bottle. Nothing is that blonde. A scent rises up from her body...at first so strong then begining to fade. She smells like half a bottle of open wine with an exotic label on it’s curves. Stuff I couldn’t afford. A faint breeze whips down the alley and it hits me full force – the rotting garbage, the stench of wet rats and homeless box suites.
I wipe at my neck surprised that nothing shows on the palm of my hand. I coulda sworen the bitch bit my neck. What was a supermarket fashion mags photography laying in the filth of the alley for? A faint taste of copper fills my mouth but that was usual when Allen gets his mojo on. Serves her right for traipsing around out of her element. Some mugger must have got her. “Stupid drunk bitch.”
What the hell am I doing out in the alley? Allen must have dragged me here when I passed out. Asshole. My favorite t-shirt is ripped and covered with...god knows what. The grim reapers outline of my favorite tee is smeared with oil making it black and almost invisible. “Asshole.”
The Blind Dog Bar was only a few steps away. The light of the neon bulldog reflects in the pools of oil coated water. There are pinks and purples mixed with blues floating on the surface. The aches are fading. My wrist itches where the bones had broken as if they are healing in the fraction of a few seconds instead of weeks. Rotating my wrist, I’m surprised that it seems strong and healthy. Even my face doesn’t hurt any more. It has been broken for so long it’s finally healed over, or I just don’t feel the pain any more.
I got dizzy. I staggered to the wall and misjudged the distance. I hit the pavement hard. “Fuck.”
Memories crowd at my head. The dead woman standing over me, holding my face like a mother should have. Telling me secrets... giving me smells, showing me pictures of places I’d never seen or heard of. I feel dizzy with the sensation. I lay on my back staring up at the same eternal stars the dead woman watched. I just lay there in the muck. The warmth of the asphalt seeped into my skin, warming me from the outside in.
I climb to my feet and breathe in brother night. Laughter careens out of the open door of the Blind Dog. Allen is still sitting at the bar with that shit kicker grin on his face. “That’s what you got to do to those bitches to show them who wears the pants. A few little love taps and that takes them down offin’ their high horse.”
She was right. Love is fleeting. How could I have invested my time, my body and soul to that...lesser being. His hair is stringy, just shy of being greasy enough to require a wash. His face holds weasel eyes and a beak that belongs on one of those baboons I’ve watched on tv - the ones with the Jimmy Durante nose. His knuckles are still stained with my blood as he tips his brown bottle skyward.
“Yup...she don’t dare talk back to me any more....”
Laughter floats forward from the pool table. Rednecks are wearing their badges of plaid and blue jeans, as they laugh at my expense. She was right, their scent was a warm plate presented at the dinner table. My nose twitched - waves of beer and self satisfaction...and a side dish of fear emanates off of dear asshole Allen. Why didn’t I see it before?. He reeks...there’s nothing there but fear.
The bartender notices me first. I don’t know what’s happened between the alley and the bar, but I feel like an avenging goddess. A red tide of anger washes along my veins. I can hear the bartender’s steady thump.........thump, thump..........thump, thump......thump,thump...thump, thump. The smirk fades from his face as that beat increases. His scent is warm, spicy. A curry, pepperoni mix that doesn’t match the pallor of his skin. I can see the air shimmer around him as the scent radiates from him...my own little pizza oven. Not so funny now. Is it.
Allen turns and smiles that wicked little smile that used to send my heart into spasms of fear ‘cause he was about to start wailing on me, “You’re back for more bitch? Come crawling here on your knees and maybe I’ll let you have some of this.” He grabs his jeans and tugs on his crotch. What a little man he is. I stalk forward. The heel of my boot rings out on the tiled floor with the bang of a silver spur. I am walking tall. I am less than three feet from asshole Allen when he finally notices the change in me. The pupils of his eyes dilate to midnight black. The beer bottle falls from nerveless fingers and shatters on the floor. Amber liquid mixes with the sawdust, peanut shells and urine then drains in clumps toward the gutter in the centre of the floor. A killing floor...how appropriate.
My voice is a whisper, “May God have mercy on your soul, cause I won’t.”
I killed them all. I made my mother proud.
Written June 2, 2004
Mercy is a Woman
by
Derekica Snake (Kiix)
“You probably think that it’s something romantic. That it’s something to be desired. You want to believe that it’s like the stories in all those books - a brotherhood...a coven...a pack. An alpha male or female leading a herd of thin beautiful people throughout the world for all eternity. Bullshit. The Gift of the Family....gift?. Ha! It simply is.”
My eyes scan the darkness. Rats hunker down behind dustbins. Nothing frightens rats, but they know something is there with them. Something to be feared. I took a long look down at the huddled form at my feet. Exposed skin, blackened and yellowish, stretched tightly over the hallow of the clavicle then disappears into the torn collar of the faded shirt. There is an hidden elegance to the curve of the neck. Odd. It is odd to find a rare and precious thing in this rat infested part of the city. I watched a greasy imitation of a man drag her unconscious body out of the carnival lighting of the tavern to this side alley. Being the lesser being that he was, he dropped her, gave a soccer kick to her frail head, spat on her then turned and swaggered back into the hellish lighting. His stench hung in the air. Beer, cigarettes and....what was that...ah fear. The battered little boy has become the beating daddy.
She was awake by the time I came to her. Awake and aware. “I hunt the night. I hunt alone. I kill alone and when I do encounter one of my kind...it’s not a pleasant thing. My territory is well defined and any encroachment can only be seen as a challenge. I hunger, I feed. I lust, I take. There is no questioning or morality. I kill therefore I am. So why am I telling you this? Why haven’t I killed you already? I ask that question of myself. It is not that I do not think, in all my years, I believe that I have thought too much. Too much...ah that is it.”
I lean forward looking down at the frightened creature, who cowers like a puppy that has been kicked too much. “Once, I sat shivering in the dark, terror leaking from my pores leaving a sweet, ammonia tinted stench filling the dank. This memory is a rose plucked from the vine today - vibrant, colourful and oh, so full of life. My heart beat thundering so loud in my ears that I could barely hear my own labored breathing. I was dying - and I could feel each beat pushing me toward the abyss.”
She clings to my leg, burying her face against my knee with one hand up begging for forgiveness as she has been taught under the tutelage of the bruise artist. “Hush little one. This is not something that should be feared. Sssshhh, there are things you need to know before this night is out, and you need to listen. Your sucking dry heave cries are of no use here. The sweet beauty of your tears will not change the outcome. No bargains, no reprieve, no mercy. Remember that one - no mercy. It is a sensuous attack, the scent that first triggers the stalk of the path of fulfillment. Nights of darkness--no moon nor reflection of city lights on low hanging clouds–are the ones to recall on nights when hunting is not possible. Each hunt has is it’s own special thrill. Not one is ever the same – the hint of lilac perfume; the hanging trail of spicy aftershave; even the ammonia stench of urine leaves a lasting impression.”
Her cries are barely above a moan, “Why me? Why me?”
“It is fate. There is no other word for it. It was an act of fate that had brought me to this less than popular bar. This is not an area of the city that someone, such as I, would frequent. Fate brought you to my attention as you picked yourself off the bar room floor. That hand print glowing so brightly in the neon kaleidoscope lighting. The pure look of hatred that flared for an oh, so brief second. No one saw that sharp epiphany of emotion – no one but me. It was at that exact moment that your fate was decided. Behind that bruised yellow green skin, swollen lip -- tinted so crimson with natures’ own that even Max Factor couldn’t match it’s brilliance -- beat the heated heart of hatred.”
Reaching down, I catch her fragile little face by her chin and pull her off my leg. Her eyes are rheumy and red with agony but there it was again. That spark of life. I let my finger tips dance gently over her bruises along her cheek back to her jet tresses. Her hair is brittle, dry and stinks of old cigarettes. Her pale green eyes dartingly meet my own for a too brief second before searching for another place to latch onto.
I speak quietly as if to a lesser animal, which in all honesty, I am doing so. “Hatred is a necessity. Hatred is enduring. Love is all bloom and petals, but soon the edges curl and decay. It rots from inside -- sucking the beauty from the surface until it withers and dries to the touch. Love is a faint spring breeze. It brushes past you then is gone. Hatred is a burning ember that hardens internally to obsidian. It turns darkness into a mirror so it reflects. That is what is most terrifying...the image of what they really are – prey. But when hatred fades....nothing fills it. Nothing can exist in this world. Such am I. Nothing. When nothing exists, it is time to go. It’s time to meet your maker.”
She struggles with the knowledge that it is all over. The brutal existence beat her down over and over again. Her essence is harsh and bitter. She is wine tainted with antifreeze. A hint of greatness of what might had been if only it had been left to ferment to fullness in time. My act is murder most foul.
Her fist punches me in the throat and I drop her. She smashes to the ground hard. Her head bounces off the pavement with the ill sound of a melon that bounces off a produce truck. I cradle her against my breast. Her breathing is weak. Her heart is dying. Her spark is fading.
A broken shard of glass I picked up from the flithy street rips my throat wide and the pain. The glorious pain...drink from the fountain of youth. Live, my deadly daughter...
“Christ...fuck it.” I stagger back sort of stunned and sick at just what happened. There is a throbbing in my neck and..a fire in my veins. My lips are stained. I spit red...but for once, this time, it isn’t mine.
A woman lay sprawled on her back staring up at the night sky beside me. Blue eyes almost the same colour painted on the walls of the community pool stared up at the night sky. Her hair is so white blonde that it had to be a bottle. Nothing is that blonde. A scent rises up from her body...at first so strong then begining to fade. She smells like half a bottle of open wine with an exotic label on it’s curves. Stuff I couldn’t afford. A faint breeze whips down the alley and it hits me full force – the rotting garbage, the stench of wet rats and homeless box suites.
I wipe at my neck surprised that nothing shows on the palm of my hand. I coulda sworen the bitch bit my neck. What was a supermarket fashion mags photography laying in the filth of the alley for? A faint taste of copper fills my mouth but that was usual when Allen gets his mojo on. Serves her right for traipsing around out of her element. Some mugger must have got her. “Stupid drunk bitch.”
What the hell am I doing out in the alley? Allen must have dragged me here when I passed out. Asshole. My favorite t-shirt is ripped and covered with...god knows what. The grim reapers outline of my favorite tee is smeared with oil making it black and almost invisible. “Asshole.”
The Blind Dog Bar was only a few steps away. The light of the neon bulldog reflects in the pools of oil coated water. There are pinks and purples mixed with blues floating on the surface. The aches are fading. My wrist itches where the bones had broken as if they are healing in the fraction of a few seconds instead of weeks. Rotating my wrist, I’m surprised that it seems strong and healthy. Even my face doesn’t hurt any more. It has been broken for so long it’s finally healed over, or I just don’t feel the pain any more.
I got dizzy. I staggered to the wall and misjudged the distance. I hit the pavement hard. “Fuck.”
Memories crowd at my head. The dead woman standing over me, holding my face like a mother should have. Telling me secrets... giving me smells, showing me pictures of places I’d never seen or heard of. I feel dizzy with the sensation. I lay on my back staring up at the same eternal stars the dead woman watched. I just lay there in the muck. The warmth of the asphalt seeped into my skin, warming me from the outside in.
I climb to my feet and breathe in brother night. Laughter careens out of the open door of the Blind Dog. Allen is still sitting at the bar with that shit kicker grin on his face. “That’s what you got to do to those bitches to show them who wears the pants. A few little love taps and that takes them down offin’ their high horse.”
She was right. Love is fleeting. How could I have invested my time, my body and soul to that...lesser being. His hair is stringy, just shy of being greasy enough to require a wash. His face holds weasel eyes and a beak that belongs on one of those baboons I’ve watched on tv - the ones with the Jimmy Durante nose. His knuckles are still stained with my blood as he tips his brown bottle skyward.
“Yup...she don’t dare talk back to me any more....”
Laughter floats forward from the pool table. Rednecks are wearing their badges of plaid and blue jeans, as they laugh at my expense. She was right, their scent was a warm plate presented at the dinner table. My nose twitched - waves of beer and self satisfaction...and a side dish of fear emanates off of dear asshole Allen. Why didn’t I see it before?. He reeks...there’s nothing there but fear.
The bartender notices me first. I don’t know what’s happened between the alley and the bar, but I feel like an avenging goddess. A red tide of anger washes along my veins. I can hear the bartender’s steady thump.........thump, thump..........thump, thump......thump,thump...thump, thump. The smirk fades from his face as that beat increases. His scent is warm, spicy. A curry, pepperoni mix that doesn’t match the pallor of his skin. I can see the air shimmer around him as the scent radiates from him...my own little pizza oven. Not so funny now. Is it.
Allen turns and smiles that wicked little smile that used to send my heart into spasms of fear ‘cause he was about to start wailing on me, “You’re back for more bitch? Come crawling here on your knees and maybe I’ll let you have some of this.” He grabs his jeans and tugs on his crotch. What a little man he is. I stalk forward. The heel of my boot rings out on the tiled floor with the bang of a silver spur. I am walking tall. I am less than three feet from asshole Allen when he finally notices the change in me. The pupils of his eyes dilate to midnight black. The beer bottle falls from nerveless fingers and shatters on the floor. Amber liquid mixes with the sawdust, peanut shells and urine then drains in clumps toward the gutter in the centre of the floor. A killing floor...how appropriate.
My voice is a whisper, “May God have mercy on your soul, cause I won’t.”
I killed them all. I made my mother proud.