Through the Glass-Pudd-Chapter 1
Through the Glass
1/3
!5+
PoynterJudd
Grunge and grime were the things that Harry had never really gotten used to. He often made himself pretend that he wasn’t hiding in a mausoleum, waiting for the sun to set. He sat in the dark, nothing but his mind to keep him company. He tried to shut his eyes and relax but he could not. The mix of thirst and that girl’s face won’t let him rest.
It had never bothered him that much before, the people that he killed forgotten the moment the burning returned. But her terrified blue eyes, locking with his in that lifeless stare, was something that he couldn’t shake - and that never happened, ever. He grew irritated fairly quickly, getting to his feet and pacing the small confines of the tomb. Flustered, he told himself, “It’s going to be one of those days”.
*
When the moon was high in the sky, Harry once more stalked the streets. He purposefully avoided the alley from the previous night, choosing a small park on the edge of the city instead. It was a cool autumn night, and though it had no effect of Harry, he still pulled his jacket tighter around himself just in case someone was watching. Everything in his life was an illusion; he was neither here nor there, always on the move and always alone.
Choosing a small bench near the pathway, he sat, letting the hours tick by. There was an art; he liked to think, to finding the perfect “prey”. His criterion was simple: alone. They had to be by themselves, because it made it easier, and Harry was all for simplicity. Couples passed him, holding hands or with arms around each other, and if he had a beating heart it would probably ache. Company was something that he was never allowed to keep.
Eventually, the traffic ceased, leaving him to himself yet again. The brunette sighed deeply, he was bored and thirsty. “Maybe the park wasn’t the best idea,” he thought. He did prefer it to the bustling, people lined streets of cities. It gave him more options. But now with the park empty, he had nothing. Deciding to give it a few more minutes he closed his eyes, and listened.
A faint humming, a song that Harry didn’t recognize, was coming toward him. He sharply turned his head to face the noise, seeing a young man. The boy’s arms were wrapped around himself, attempting to shield his body from the wind that picked up, eyes glued to the ground. He grew closer with each rushed step, closer to Harry who was still watching him intently. The vampire’s muscles automatically started to tense, ready to spring when the boy was close enough. Harry inhaled deeply through his nose, smelling the air, smelling the young man.
He was a foot away; Harry felt his sharp fangs stabbing his tongue in anticipation of the prospect of blood. The boy’s eye’s left the ground, left the cracked pathway and they met the dark blue of the vampire’s. The boy smiled a kind smile - not one of seduction or of spite - and Harry couldn’t (wouldn’t) move. He wasn’t quite sure himself. He let the boy pass by unharmed, a smile falling over his own lips.
*
Mentally slapping himself, he followed the boy home. That had never happened before, he had never hesitated.
There was nothing special about the boy, nothing out of the ordinary in his appearance or his dress but something had the vampire intrigued. He didn’t live that far away from the park or the cemetery. The homes on his street, his included, were falling apart - some so dilapidated that they should be condemned. The boy walked to the end of the street, the last house on the corner. It was no problem following the boy, even though he practically ran the last hundred years to his front door.
Harry watched from bushes, feeling more like a peeping tom then a vampire, as the boy pulled down his hood and shook his blond hair, stepping into the house. As quietly as possible the blond closed the door. He had surprisingly not made a sound (detectable to human ears that is) but regardless of his effort, a voice bellowed from another room.
“DOUGIE!”
The vampire placed himself so he could get a better look through the window, watching the boy - Dougie - curse under his breath. He hung his head and walk toward the voice.
The voice came from a man in an arm chair. His face was haggard, from the drink, one would assume. The offending bottle sat close by on the end table, seal cracked and half empty.
“You’re late boy,” the man said when Dougie appeared in the doorway. “You were supposed to be home at 12.”
“It’s only 11:30,” the boy whispered.
The man narrowed his eyes. “Are you getting smart with me? You think just because I ain’t a University student like you I can’t tell what that clock say’s?”
After the words left his mouth, the man brought himself to his feet, stomping toward the boy. He didn’t flinch, not even when the back of a large hand came forcefully against his cheek.
“I am still your father and as long as you are living under my roof, you will respect me,” he said.
Dougie just stared at his shoes, not willing to look his father in the face. He didn’t see him move back to his chair, hand immediately on that bottle and bringing it to his lips.
“Get out of my sight,” he hissed and Dougie didn’t hesitate.
*
It was hard to be an onlooker - to watch the scene unfold - but Harry did. He sat, crouched down out of sight, eyes glued to the boy, seeing more than hurt and shame. There was something else, something missing that he couldn’t place.
Once Dougie had disappeared from the room and up the stairs, Harry still wasn’t ready to leave; he wanted to see more of the boy. Conveniently there was a large tree beside the house, giving him access to the higher floor and coverage from the neighbors wandering eyes. The tree wasn’t that tall, about twenty feet, but Harry scaled it easily, perching on the top branches. Sat within the foliage he watched the light flicker on, he blinds being up, giving the vampire a perfect view of the room - Dougie’s room.
The poster covered walls stared back at him, bands that Harry hand never heard of. Large piles of` forgotten clothes laid on the floor, completely covering the carpet. The owner of the mess stood at his dresser, peeing into the small mirror. His fingers gently probed his cheek, the skin already sporting a purple tint.
“Fuck,” he hissed, putting too much pressure on the bruise.
Shoving the dresser, he turned his back to the mirror. Frustrated that he would be forced to make up a new lie as to how he got this injury. He pulled his shirt over his head, wincing as he did the because of the stretch of his muscles and the material dragging over his skin. The boy’s chest was covered in purple, thick dark bruises scattered across his upper body. On his ribs, more fading remnants of his fathers last drunken affections, all yellowing with time. Sighing deeply he unzipped his pants, sliding them off his hips and kicking them to the side. He was ready for bed clad in his checkered boxers.
Vampires don’t usually feel compassion, it slows them down, makes them weak. Harry wasn’t any different, but this boy was. He felt sorry for him, even more so when he saw his eyes. Filled with a mixture of pain and tears, they starred through the glass and what seemed like directly at Harry. There was no possible way of him being seen by this mortal boy, it being too dark and Harry being far to still, but he still looked at the tree as if he saw him.
The tears streamed over his tainted cheek, dipping, the brunette saw, down his chest and to the floor. There was no physical pain that could cause these tears. It was more than the cruel words and the punches and the kicks and the slaps. He was alone and that hurts more then anything. And Harry knew too well the pain of being alone.
Long moments passed before the tears finally stopped, Dougie releasing a shaky breath matching the shaky hand that tentatively wiped away the moisture that had gathered on his cheeks. Flopping himself on his bed he reached out an arm, switching off the light on his night stand, the room going dark as the boy disappeared under the covers.
His body was exhausted, limbs aching from his classes and his jobs. It hurt when he shifted, moving deeper into the mattress, attempting to shut out the world and he does, soon falling into oblivion.
Harry stayed on his perch, listening to the faint, even, breathing that was seeping into his ears. He raised a pale hand to the glass, resting his palm against it. He wanted to touch him, he wanted to feel his warm skin, feel the blood running through he veins, his pulse pumping, most of all he wanted Dougie. But he couldn’t. He could not just open the window and take what he wanted. He had to wait, be patient, and thankfully that was something that he could do and do well.
So he stayed watching, listening and waiting. His hand still pressed to the window, still wanting, and still thirsty, but holding out until just before the sun. The only trace he left being was a hand print on the glass, something small, something insignificant, something that Dougie saw as soon as he opened his eyes
1/3
!5+
PoynterJudd
Grunge and grime were the things that Harry had never really gotten used to. He often made himself pretend that he wasn’t hiding in a mausoleum, waiting for the sun to set. He sat in the dark, nothing but his mind to keep him company. He tried to shut his eyes and relax but he could not. The mix of thirst and that girl’s face won’t let him rest.
It had never bothered him that much before, the people that he killed forgotten the moment the burning returned. But her terrified blue eyes, locking with his in that lifeless stare, was something that he couldn’t shake - and that never happened, ever. He grew irritated fairly quickly, getting to his feet and pacing the small confines of the tomb. Flustered, he told himself, “It’s going to be one of those days”.
*
When the moon was high in the sky, Harry once more stalked the streets. He purposefully avoided the alley from the previous night, choosing a small park on the edge of the city instead. It was a cool autumn night, and though it had no effect of Harry, he still pulled his jacket tighter around himself just in case someone was watching. Everything in his life was an illusion; he was neither here nor there, always on the move and always alone.
Choosing a small bench near the pathway, he sat, letting the hours tick by. There was an art; he liked to think, to finding the perfect “prey”. His criterion was simple: alone. They had to be by themselves, because it made it easier, and Harry was all for simplicity. Couples passed him, holding hands or with arms around each other, and if he had a beating heart it would probably ache. Company was something that he was never allowed to keep.
Eventually, the traffic ceased, leaving him to himself yet again. The brunette sighed deeply, he was bored and thirsty. “Maybe the park wasn’t the best idea,” he thought. He did prefer it to the bustling, people lined streets of cities. It gave him more options. But now with the park empty, he had nothing. Deciding to give it a few more minutes he closed his eyes, and listened.
A faint humming, a song that Harry didn’t recognize, was coming toward him. He sharply turned his head to face the noise, seeing a young man. The boy’s arms were wrapped around himself, attempting to shield his body from the wind that picked up, eyes glued to the ground. He grew closer with each rushed step, closer to Harry who was still watching him intently. The vampire’s muscles automatically started to tense, ready to spring when the boy was close enough. Harry inhaled deeply through his nose, smelling the air, smelling the young man.
He was a foot away; Harry felt his sharp fangs stabbing his tongue in anticipation of the prospect of blood. The boy’s eye’s left the ground, left the cracked pathway and they met the dark blue of the vampire’s. The boy smiled a kind smile - not one of seduction or of spite - and Harry couldn’t (wouldn’t) move. He wasn’t quite sure himself. He let the boy pass by unharmed, a smile falling over his own lips.
*
Mentally slapping himself, he followed the boy home. That had never happened before, he had never hesitated.
There was nothing special about the boy, nothing out of the ordinary in his appearance or his dress but something had the vampire intrigued. He didn’t live that far away from the park or the cemetery. The homes on his street, his included, were falling apart - some so dilapidated that they should be condemned. The boy walked to the end of the street, the last house on the corner. It was no problem following the boy, even though he practically ran the last hundred years to his front door.
Harry watched from bushes, feeling more like a peeping tom then a vampire, as the boy pulled down his hood and shook his blond hair, stepping into the house. As quietly as possible the blond closed the door. He had surprisingly not made a sound (detectable to human ears that is) but regardless of his effort, a voice bellowed from another room.
“DOUGIE!”
The vampire placed himself so he could get a better look through the window, watching the boy - Dougie - curse under his breath. He hung his head and walk toward the voice.
The voice came from a man in an arm chair. His face was haggard, from the drink, one would assume. The offending bottle sat close by on the end table, seal cracked and half empty.
“You’re late boy,” the man said when Dougie appeared in the doorway. “You were supposed to be home at 12.”
“It’s only 11:30,” the boy whispered.
The man narrowed his eyes. “Are you getting smart with me? You think just because I ain’t a University student like you I can’t tell what that clock say’s?”
After the words left his mouth, the man brought himself to his feet, stomping toward the boy. He didn’t flinch, not even when the back of a large hand came forcefully against his cheek.
“I am still your father and as long as you are living under my roof, you will respect me,” he said.
Dougie just stared at his shoes, not willing to look his father in the face. He didn’t see him move back to his chair, hand immediately on that bottle and bringing it to his lips.
“Get out of my sight,” he hissed and Dougie didn’t hesitate.
*
It was hard to be an onlooker - to watch the scene unfold - but Harry did. He sat, crouched down out of sight, eyes glued to the boy, seeing more than hurt and shame. There was something else, something missing that he couldn’t place.
Once Dougie had disappeared from the room and up the stairs, Harry still wasn’t ready to leave; he wanted to see more of the boy. Conveniently there was a large tree beside the house, giving him access to the higher floor and coverage from the neighbors wandering eyes. The tree wasn’t that tall, about twenty feet, but Harry scaled it easily, perching on the top branches. Sat within the foliage he watched the light flicker on, he blinds being up, giving the vampire a perfect view of the room - Dougie’s room.
The poster covered walls stared back at him, bands that Harry hand never heard of. Large piles of` forgotten clothes laid on the floor, completely covering the carpet. The owner of the mess stood at his dresser, peeing into the small mirror. His fingers gently probed his cheek, the skin already sporting a purple tint.
“Fuck,” he hissed, putting too much pressure on the bruise.
Shoving the dresser, he turned his back to the mirror. Frustrated that he would be forced to make up a new lie as to how he got this injury. He pulled his shirt over his head, wincing as he did the because of the stretch of his muscles and the material dragging over his skin. The boy’s chest was covered in purple, thick dark bruises scattered across his upper body. On his ribs, more fading remnants of his fathers last drunken affections, all yellowing with time. Sighing deeply he unzipped his pants, sliding them off his hips and kicking them to the side. He was ready for bed clad in his checkered boxers.
Vampires don’t usually feel compassion, it slows them down, makes them weak. Harry wasn’t any different, but this boy was. He felt sorry for him, even more so when he saw his eyes. Filled with a mixture of pain and tears, they starred through the glass and what seemed like directly at Harry. There was no possible way of him being seen by this mortal boy, it being too dark and Harry being far to still, but he still looked at the tree as if he saw him.
The tears streamed over his tainted cheek, dipping, the brunette saw, down his chest and to the floor. There was no physical pain that could cause these tears. It was more than the cruel words and the punches and the kicks and the slaps. He was alone and that hurts more then anything. And Harry knew too well the pain of being alone.
Long moments passed before the tears finally stopped, Dougie releasing a shaky breath matching the shaky hand that tentatively wiped away the moisture that had gathered on his cheeks. Flopping himself on his bed he reached out an arm, switching off the light on his night stand, the room going dark as the boy disappeared under the covers.
His body was exhausted, limbs aching from his classes and his jobs. It hurt when he shifted, moving deeper into the mattress, attempting to shut out the world and he does, soon falling into oblivion.
Harry stayed on his perch, listening to the faint, even, breathing that was seeping into his ears. He raised a pale hand to the glass, resting his palm against it. He wanted to touch him, he wanted to feel his warm skin, feel the blood running through he veins, his pulse pumping, most of all he wanted Dougie. But he couldn’t. He could not just open the window and take what he wanted. He had to wait, be patient, and thankfully that was something that he could do and do well.
So he stayed watching, listening and waiting. His hand still pressed to the window, still wanting, and still thirsty, but holding out until just before the sun. The only trace he left being was a hand print on the glass, something small, something insignificant, something that Dougie saw as soon as he opened his eyes