sunday_reveries: "Tempt not a desperate man"
Word Count: 682
Warnings: Steam of consciousness written, also murder
There was a time in his life that Francis thought Boston was the last place he wanted to be. Not because he didn't like his family; no, his family really was the only thing that mattered to him. But Boston was a clean town, and staying there meant his blood would catch on fire, just needing to hunt. Now he knew that Boston is paradise compared to Chicago. He had never been in a town with a treaty for more than a couple of hours, never mind a couple of months. It was one thing to fail to sate his bloodlust due to a lack of victims; it was another thing entirely to live among the filth, but fail to exterminate it.
He knew he needed to go on a hunting trip soon, but he'd been putting it off here and there, moment after moment. He'd have too much to drink and lose track of the days, but never track of the need to hunt. And it would get to the point that walking down the street would be difficult because his wings would be itching to come out. But Francis knew that he couldn't let them out. As long as he couldn't tell they were here, he could be safe. He could pretend that he wasn't letting vermin roam the streets.
It was far too late, or early, depending on how you looked at it, when Francis stumbled out of the bar, almost too drunk to walk. The drinking helped sometimes. It helped slake the need to kill. It helped him forget where he was. But tonight, it only built the rage, built the anger, reminded him of the slum of a town this was. He nearly keyed his own car, fumbling for the lock, and a man walked up behind him, touching his wrist.
"I think you've had a few too many to drive home safely," he said.
But Francis didn't hear the words; he just felt the hot flesh on his wrist and reacted. He brought his elbow up and back, breaking the demon's nose in a clean hit. Black blood gushed from the wound and Francis' heart sped up at the sight of it. It had been far too long since he'd felt hot blood, heard the pitiful cries, seen the life snuffed out so quickly, the light fading from the eyes.
"What the hell man?" the demon asked, taking a few steps back.
Francis just smiled, licking his lips. "Don't worry," he said softly, matching the other's pace. He was just backing himself in the corner. "You'll know all about hell soon enough."
The demon felt the wall against his back and panicked, uncertain of what to do.
Francis just laughed, reaching out and pressing him against the wall with his throat. He reached down with his other hand to pull out his knife. It had been so long. Part of him knew this could start a war, but the temptation was too great for him to pass. He dragged the blade of the knife along the man's face, barely cutting it, blood pooling up. This, right here, the fear, this was what he craved. He flipped the knife nimbly in his hands, burying it in the man's shoulder.
His scream reminded Francis that they weren't alone.
Fuck.
"I'm afraid I'm going to have to end our little play-date sooner than I hoped," he said, twisting the knife in the joint as he pulled it out. With a heavy mock-sigh, Francis took a step back, burying the knife deep in the man's heart.
"Goodnight," he said softly, a soft smile encompassing his face. The man spluttered, his eyes going wide in shock. Francis pulled out the knife, the blood splattering over him. It's a good thing he still had the seat covers on his car. The man slumped to the ground, leaving a black streak on the wall. Rolling his eyes, Francis wiped the knife clean in the man's hair.
"Well, I think I'm sober enough to drive home now," he mused, going to unlock his car.
Warnings: Steam of consciousness written, also murder
There was a time in his life that Francis thought Boston was the last place he wanted to be. Not because he didn't like his family; no, his family really was the only thing that mattered to him. But Boston was a clean town, and staying there meant his blood would catch on fire, just needing to hunt. Now he knew that Boston is paradise compared to Chicago. He had never been in a town with a treaty for more than a couple of hours, never mind a couple of months. It was one thing to fail to sate his bloodlust due to a lack of victims; it was another thing entirely to live among the filth, but fail to exterminate it.
He knew he needed to go on a hunting trip soon, but he'd been putting it off here and there, moment after moment. He'd have too much to drink and lose track of the days, but never track of the need to hunt. And it would get to the point that walking down the street would be difficult because his wings would be itching to come out. But Francis knew that he couldn't let them out. As long as he couldn't tell they were here, he could be safe. He could pretend that he wasn't letting vermin roam the streets.
It was far too late, or early, depending on how you looked at it, when Francis stumbled out of the bar, almost too drunk to walk. The drinking helped sometimes. It helped slake the need to kill. It helped him forget where he was. But tonight, it only built the rage, built the anger, reminded him of the slum of a town this was. He nearly keyed his own car, fumbling for the lock, and a man walked up behind him, touching his wrist.
"I think you've had a few too many to drive home safely," he said.
But Francis didn't hear the words; he just felt the hot flesh on his wrist and reacted. He brought his elbow up and back, breaking the demon's nose in a clean hit. Black blood gushed from the wound and Francis' heart sped up at the sight of it. It had been far too long since he'd felt hot blood, heard the pitiful cries, seen the life snuffed out so quickly, the light fading from the eyes.
"What the hell man?" the demon asked, taking a few steps back.
Francis just smiled, licking his lips. "Don't worry," he said softly, matching the other's pace. He was just backing himself in the corner. "You'll know all about hell soon enough."
The demon felt the wall against his back and panicked, uncertain of what to do.
Francis just laughed, reaching out and pressing him against the wall with his throat. He reached down with his other hand to pull out his knife. It had been so long. Part of him knew this could start a war, but the temptation was too great for him to pass. He dragged the blade of the knife along the man's face, barely cutting it, blood pooling up. This, right here, the fear, this was what he craved. He flipped the knife nimbly in his hands, burying it in the man's shoulder.
His scream reminded Francis that they weren't alone.
Fuck.
"I'm afraid I'm going to have to end our little play-date sooner than I hoped," he said, twisting the knife in the joint as he pulled it out. With a heavy mock-sigh, Francis took a step back, burying the knife deep in the man's heart.
"Goodnight," he said softly, a soft smile encompassing his face. The man spluttered, his eyes going wide in shock. Francis pulled out the knife, the blood splattering over him. It's a good thing he still had the seat covers on his car. The man slumped to the ground, leaving a black streak on the wall. Rolling his eyes, Francis wiped the knife clean in the man's hair.
"Well, I think I'm sober enough to drive home now," he mused, going to unlock his car.