dusk_to_night: (happy blood)
Prompt: Howl

There's a freedom in accepting what you are, and a thrill in revelling in it. There's a confidence like an iron rod drilled right into the spine that makes you stand up, shoulders square and look people in the eyes. No more shame or apologies. No more being broken and weak.

"Cut your hand. Bleed into the glass. Vodka, no ice. ...Forget everything."

A little mental nudge of persuasion with her smile. It's so easy now.

No one is hurt, everyone goes home satisfied, and Anna can walk through the crowded club with a drink, feeling like living forever isn't going to be such a bad thing any more.
dusk_to_night: (Default)
Matthew was drugged--no doubt to keep him from dissolving into mist and simply escaping--but he recognized her as soon as she stepped into the room. She hadn't changed at all in the nine years they had been apart, and he hadn't changed either. There was a moment she thought he might have been trying to get in her head the way Dracula had. To use her to some end... learn something about the ones who held him captive, but she was wearing Selene’s amulet. It was possible too he was just staring intently, not having expected her to walk in the door, and making a decision.

“...Annabelle!”

He’d always called her that, even if she preferred ‘Anna’. There was a vague hypocrisy there that she was suddenly aware of, having learned his name probably wasn't Matthew.

“Enough. Remove her from my sight.”

He didn't have to manipulate her mind. The venom and disgust in the way he said it made her turn and leave, pushing past Selene and the Death Dealers set to guard them.

drabble

Aug. 12th, 2013 01:51 pm
dusk_to_night: (Default)
It's been a long time since Anna worked in photoshop. She'd paid her rent for nearly five years making comp cards and retouching photos for the amateurs trying to break into the modeling world. Photographers were arrogant lazy and usually willing to pay since she didn't make a play for any shared rights on the photos. The models were a little more desperate, knowing their window for success was limited. Anna took pity on them and she became something of a go-to.
She finds the routine of dodge and burn, clone, crop, copy to be oddly relaxing. Painting is her love but today, this is so much more satisfying. There's no pretense, interpretation or spin on what's being sold and commoditized.

Most of them never made it into the industry of course--that was a jealously guarded, privileged world. The photographers settled for doing actor headshots, family portraits, stock-photo and renting their studios to other ambitious and bright-eyed younger colleagues who thought they could break into the cabal and were still fooled by Vogue's website submission. They didn't respect Anna's skills, but they paid her for them anyway, and offered excuses as to why they needed them at all when they were artists when people asked.

The models were considered burned out at twenty five.... thirty if they were lucky, and usually ended up in debt, but the smart ones gave up the Industry dream if they hadn't made it by twenty and found the alternative and glamour markets. The smart ones realized it was an incestuous cabal of old men who had no reason to change and no desire to. The alternative markets could be just as cruel... but it was far more diverse, and Anna liked the people better.

Lately though, she didn't spend time there. She didn't go to badly lit burlesque shows or wander past the alleys with street artists. She found herself meeting and exchanging business cards with the Industry people she disliked so much, and smiling at their bad jokes, while they assumed she was too stupid to know how their industry worked. She thought about killing them sometimes, and for a while while wetting her lips on a drink, she'd smile at the thought of their blood on the floor. All of the fake drinks, and talk about galleries and shows judged by the same traditional standards, the 'legitimate' art... she found herself missing the old world.

She was tired when she came home, but instead of curling up, she settled down in the living room and opened up the laptop, checking her old email and opening up a badly photographed model too short or fat to ever succeed in the modeling world and she set to work, polishing the image with every trick she knew.
dusk_to_night: (Default)
The girl in the bathtub had been classically pretty. A heart-shaped face, full, cupid-bow lips and large blue eyes. She was dead now, and had been for a few hours. Her body was cold, cooling faster in the tepid bathwater than it would have on its own.

Anna was cold too, curled in misery on the cold tiles, smeared with her own blood. Every so often she would move, try to get herself over to the sink or toilet and vomit another mouthful.
She hadn't tasted the disease. Usually one small taste was enough... a drop of blood from a razor cut or gentle knick to a finger with one of her fangs. But the dead girl in the bathtub had been drinking, and it had been a long day. Anna had wanted to indulge. A pretty girl, a hot bath and alcohol infused blood.

It was probably hepatitis. Anna didn't care what it was right now. What had started as a fun night was now simple, pure misery. She didn't even try to reach the sink when the next wave of sickness passed through her. She just curled away, smeared in the tainted blood and hoped that it would pass soon.

Food

Jun. 10th, 2013 11:28 pm
dusk_to_night: (Default)
Everything to do with food had become torture. Blogs, people's review of restaurants, food photography and worse of all, walking down the street and smelling fried chicken or fresh baked bread... Anna still remembered what all of her old favourites tasted like. The sharp sour taste of a good cheesecake or rich velvet of chocolate cake... But what troubled her, was forgetting. Watching people's reactions to their good or reading She couldn't remember the taste of fresh rye bread no matter how much she tried.

Even the smallest amounts of solid food made her sick now and there was a limit to what you could put in the blender and still have it taste as it should. Fruit was one of her few food indulgences now. Her intolerance for food was getting stronger the older she got, and would continue to do so. Matthias had warned her about that before he had left. When she had been a new Vampire, she'd been able to stomach things like yoghurt and applesauce... even over-cooked pasta and melted cheese. But those had been the first things her body had rejected, leaving her retching her stomach empty and too sick to stand for days. That had happened a year after she had become a Vampire, and Matthias had warned her it was coming. She knew now, and believed him, that it was only a matter of time until she lost the ability to stomach fruit. Matthias had never revealed just how old he was, but he told her that if she survived, after she passed a hundred, she might only barely be able to keep down clear broth-like liquids, and after two hundred, even alcohol would cause sickness... Anna knew he was older than two hundred because in ten years,she had only ever seen him sip gingerly at water.

"The craving for their blood" he had told her more than once, usually in a soothing tone that comforted her, "Never goes away. Never lessens."

She didn't know if dealing with the bloodlust would be better or worse if she could actually eat something else. Would it help emotionally to enjoy the crispness and texture of an apple or a proper meal on a date? Or would it make drinking blood even more torture, knowing there was no real satisfaction from food? She thought about these things, and cried sometimes just in frustration. She would drink tea and sometimes decide it was comforting, sometimes decide it wasn't, although the warmth certainly was.
dusk_to_night: (Default)
"You build on failure. You use it as a stepping stone. Close the door on the past. You don't try to forget the mistakes, but you don't dwell on it. You don't let it have any of your energy, or any of your time, or any of your space." – Johnny Cash

The first time she had heard that, she had nodded wisely. It made sense. The more she'd thought about it though, turned it over in her head as a mantra to get over trauma and pain... the more the two parts just didn't connect. She chalked it up to the fact that as far as she knew, Johnny Cash wasn't a vampire and didn't know anything about real failure or mistakes. Afterall, how did you learn from the past without dwelling on it? Dwelling was how Anna coped. Crying out her pain, getting it out onto paper with inks or paint, and talking about it, when she was lucky enough to have a kind and sympathetic ear. It was how she had coped with being a murderer.

It was one thing to know you needed to drink blood to survive, it was another to revel in it. To glorify and delight in it. Vampires like that didn't last long though. They burned out, got themselves killed...

It was pointedly not following Johnny Cash's advice that had taught her the secret of not murdering her lovers and still letting her feed from them. Without the soul crushing pain of dewlling on it she never would have figured out it was drinking from the neck that led to a painfully high mortality rate of her lovers. It was dwelling on it, replaying those bloody moments over in her head that she put the connections together. It had taken four accidental deaths to realize that sex and feeding from the neck would lead to a corpse in bed, but that drinking from the wrist was usually safe...

The flesh of the hand, the inner curve of the elbow, the breast. She had never killed anyone biting there.

There was never enough blood to feel satisfied of course, but even when she did kill people, those she fed on greedily because they meant nothing or they had somehow triggered her anger... they never had quite enough blood either, no matter how much she took.

It wasn't control. She hadn't learned how to pull back from the blood lust, but she had found a way around it, and she had bought herself some relief so she didn't have to dwell on what she was and what it would be so easy to become.
dusk_to_night: (Default)
"The unfortunate thing about this world is that good habits are so much easier to give up than bad ones." - Somerset Maugham

It always comes back to the blood, and the constant stomach gnawing hunger. Running only does so much to wear the hunger down, alcohol barely takes off the edge now. Sex is never satisfying for long enough. At the end of the day, when the sun has set, it's the blood that she wants. Thick and rich and full of bold flavours, and smooth, like the best coffee. It's the one thing that keeps her warm in the winter. Nothing compares to it, and she knows the Hunger only grows.

It is so easy to let her will power slip away. To wander down in the ravine at night where the mentally ill and homeless go. There's a bridge there that offers some shelter from the rain. On some nights, instead of running under the bright lights in the park, she talks herself into just one drink. She promises that this time, she wont let herself kill anyone... She'll stop herself before they die and only take enough to subdue the ache of having died.

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Anna

April 2015

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