∞ tenth } memory theater
( Now, Private, you may feel a slight increase in body temperature....)
In the dim pooling of golden-pale light from a ceiling fixture, stands Edward Dalton squinting from its intensity
"I said, get the hell out--- "
The door slams and sends the frame of the apartment rattling.
Ed traverses the bedroom in a reckless sweep, carrying himself as a man new to his own body, as a reckless motion of disoriented of arms and limbs. Beside the glass coffee table, he stops and brings a hand to clutch at the blossom of blood against his neck.
He grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes and sucks in a single breath that he never exhales. There amidst passing seconds, Ed stands a broken man.
"Damn you, Frankie."
Ed's eyes snap open with an unbidden, savage intensity. Hunger and anger press upon him, causing Ed to pummel the table with a fist, sending a million shards exploding onto the wood floor. He's not the same creature anymore. His body - no, this body - is alien to him. All his movements, his actions seem to be directed by another mind, while Edward Dalton is left to stand aside and watch.
"My own brother," he speaks under his breath, eying the mess with detachment, "What haven't I done for him?"
Pulling away from the mess, he collapses onto the nearby couch. The shards that haven't made it to the ground find themselves embedded in the Ed's hand. The pain of such a wound has yet to hurt the new vampire; instead, he embraces it, the rush of pain from firing nerves allowing Ed the mimicry of warmth.
How is the blood of a dead man warm?
Before he's realized it, Ed has raised the bloody hand to his lips. Two drops of blood drip down from the wound and dribble down his chin. The third drop hits his tongue, and for the first time we see them closely-- two fangs, white and sharp, flashing as he licks up the blood.
Foul.
His reaction seems like a snarl. In another frantic moment, Edward pulls himself up from the couch - noticeably shaky. He hadn't meant to do that. To taste it. Golden eyes scour the room, glancing from kitchen faucet to the bowl of beta fish on a bookcase shelf. But water won't do, he's thirsty, hungry...
His eyes land on a silver frame on table beside the couch.
Starting at it for a moment, he gently lifts up the frame examine the picture: two Dalton brothers, squinting in the summer sun against the backdrop of grand oak trees and a long, snaking river. The two brothers are happy - a casual half-smile worn by the both of them.
Edward says nothing.
Glass shatters again as the frame smashes against the wall.
In the dim pooling of golden-pale light from a ceiling fixture, stands Edward Dalton squinting from its intensity
"I said, get the hell out--- "
The door slams and sends the frame of the apartment rattling.
Ed traverses the bedroom in a reckless sweep, carrying himself as a man new to his own body, as a reckless motion of disoriented of arms and limbs. Beside the glass coffee table, he stops and brings a hand to clutch at the blossom of blood against his neck.
He grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes and sucks in a single breath that he never exhales. There amidst passing seconds, Ed stands a broken man.
"Damn you, Frankie."
Ed's eyes snap open with an unbidden, savage intensity. Hunger and anger press upon him, causing Ed to pummel the table with a fist, sending a million shards exploding onto the wood floor. He's not the same creature anymore. His body - no, this body - is alien to him. All his movements, his actions seem to be directed by another mind, while Edward Dalton is left to stand aside and watch.
"My own brother," he speaks under his breath, eying the mess with detachment, "What haven't I done for him?"
Pulling away from the mess, he collapses onto the nearby couch. The shards that haven't made it to the ground find themselves embedded in the Ed's hand. The pain of such a wound has yet to hurt the new vampire; instead, he embraces it, the rush of pain from firing nerves allowing Ed the mimicry of warmth.
How is the blood of a dead man warm?
Before he's realized it, Ed has raised the bloody hand to his lips. Two drops of blood drip down from the wound and dribble down his chin. The third drop hits his tongue, and for the first time we see them closely-- two fangs, white and sharp, flashing as he licks up the blood.
Foul.
His reaction seems like a snarl. In another frantic moment, Edward pulls himself up from the couch - noticeably shaky. He hadn't meant to do that. To taste it. Golden eyes scour the room, glancing from kitchen faucet to the bowl of beta fish on a bookcase shelf. But water won't do, he's thirsty, hungry...
His eyes land on a silver frame on table beside the couch.
Starting at it for a moment, he gently lifts up the frame examine the picture: two Dalton brothers, squinting in the summer sun against the backdrop of grand oak trees and a long, snaking river. The two brothers are happy - a casual half-smile worn by the both of them.
Edward says nothing.
Glass shatters again as the frame smashes against the wall.