When I Get Home, You're SO Dead (ARMAND)

[crasen]

She walked through the night like a shadow. Hardly anyone saw her, and that was exactly what she wanted. She had been craving some human blood for a while now, but had held back since Eli, her love, was trying to get her to become more neutral. She hated not being able to feed on humans as much as she wanted, but she would do absolutely anything for Elias. He was the only person in the world she had ever loved and the only human she had turned. She had turned him for selfish reasons though. She wanted to have him for more than food, she wanted him to be with her until the end of times. She had murdered his family, and tried to persuade him into killing his own sister, but now she felt horrible about it. She didn’t know he was so close to his family because she had never been close to her own.

But tonight, no matter how much she wanted to keep her promise to herself, she was going to get food and that food was going to be human. Or at least something with blood that was of higher quality than cow or horse. She was sick of the same flavoring of their blood that had hints of hay and grass. It was disgusting and she didn’t know how others did it. The human blood was usually so sweet and thick like honey and was worth killing for. Sometimes she couldn’t help draining the person, but most of the time she got full before then and let the person live.

Tonight though, she didn’t know if the person she was going to feed on would survive. She was absolutely starving. And she didn’t know if her control would stop her from draining the poor soul that was destined to be hers. She hoped for a man. They were always easier to seduce. She was usually good at picking up straight guys, or guys that liked women in general, but there were some that realized what they were getting into before she was able to take them home. That was when she was challenged and had to take them against their will. It was fun, but working so hard usually got old. But tonight might be better. She was going to the club dressed in a very short black dress and intended to pick up someone to take back to one of their places where she could seduce and feed on him.

It was easy enough to get into the Club of Daggers, and when she was inside, she began looking around for possible victims. Soon enough she would have someone in mind and would go after them. She could be patient for her kill, waiting was something she did very well. She could wait all night for the perfect person.

[/justify]

[armand]

Drawing the blood of the masochist...
I wait for you, the sadist.

Neon flashes of color retracted and coiled over the bobbing heads in the club. Rays of purple and red shone brightly in the darkness, and the air was pulsating with the hard bass line of the music – but the flood of youth on the dance floor was unperturbed by it, if not encouraged. They danced as one, following the same beat while wearing high fashioned heels and fake smiles, limbs laced together and bodies rocking disturbingly closely. The nightlife of the club hadn’t changed in years. Society might have adopted new fashions and new hit music, but the inhabitants were as young and naïve as always. And they all fit together seamlessly; all but one.

A young man no older than nineteen was gathered in a cornered booth, quite content to be hidden by the sheltering darkness. He looked on the floor with the same idle longing he had in life, streams of flickering lights bursting over his face and gleaming as they caught the amber of his eyes. But he would not get up. And he would not join them. During his human life, it had been because of the way other youths would gape at his teased, blonde tendrils and black-lined lips. Come to think of it, the obvious differences between himself and this group, even twelve years beyond his death, had not disappeared. Standing next to one of the other males in the crowd with his white powdered face and furred, ebony jacket adorned with chains, he would have looked very, very odd. Back then, when he could still reach out and touch someone without fear, he perched himself in this very spot for that reason. Now… well. Now was different. Armand couldn’t argue against that.

“Another Manhattan, on the rocks.” The boy called to a passing cocktail waitress and she nodded. His gloved fingers were still curling tightly around an empty glass, reveling in the pleasant chill from the remaining chunks of ice. A small bit of whiskey still collected around the circular base of the mug, but Armand didn’t notice. His eyes were still on the young boys and girls of the club. Envy swelled somewhere in his heart, right beneath his breast.

How unfair it was that life would be wasted on them. Here he was, tossing back Manhattans like they were no more than glasses of distilled water, while they got to carry on without worrying about brushing skin with the wrong person. Their memories were safe and guarded in the confines of their feeble minds, while his were safe only if he kept his hands to himself. Should someone find a way to press flesh against his, they would be on display like a nickel picture show at the drive in theatre – larger than life and clear as crystal. All he could do was stay in his booth and observe. It was all he could ever do. Armand brought the brim of his nearly emptied glass to his tainted lips and jerked back his head, taking in the last of what the drink had to offer. Warmth from the whiskey trickled down his throat and to his stomach, and he felt a faint buzzing in the back of his mind.

“Ahem.” Armand glanced up to see that the waitress was back, her arm extending a new glass – that intoxicating rolling of murky, reddish brown liquid, a cherry snuggly nestled over the ice. “Here you are, sir. Are you sure you really want another one? You’ve already had a few. These are really strong.” A perfectly stenciled brow arched as he placed the empty glass down on the table. His eyes lingered over hers. While her words were kind, and would have sounded genuine, Armand could see that she wasn’t concerned with him. Not really. Her eyes spoke for themselves, glancing out of their corners toward the large, digital clock on the wall above. She was his waitress. And she would have to stay until he was finished, regardless of if her shift had already ended.

Armand was silent for a moment. He reached out for the glass she was holding and said, “This will be my last drink, promise. Just bring me the check and I’ll—“

Crash!

The waitress had let go of the mug too soon. She leapt backward and gave a shrill gasp over the pounding music while the drink puddled onto the ground, sharp shards glinting like foul diamonds on the slick floor. Armand rolled his eyes as she started to cry and apologized profusely. She was late getting home; she usually wasn’t this careless. Please don’t tell. Please don’t get angry. Armand slid out of his booth and patted her shoulder with one of his hands (feeling quite glad that he’d remembered to wear his gloves today). “Go on home.” He said without smiling and sank down to his knees. “I’ve had enough anyways. Consider this your tip: I’ll clean up the mess.” And off she went, without another word. Not even a thank you.

“Ungrateful little bitch…” He grumbled as he pinched a particularly long, jagged shard of glass up from the ground. A few other foul, rude things about the girl came winding out of his mouth, each one more crude than the last. It made the work of clearing away the spill a little less frustrating, but by the time he’d finished, he’d still had a very begrudging sort of grimace masked beneath his uneven fringes. He was just going to return to his seat, too, when he noticed one last piece of shattered glass hiding offensively beneath the table. With a heavy sigh, he stooped down again and snatched up it a little too roughly, hand tightening around it so fast that he felt a sudden jolt of pain. Stained with crimson, the glass went clattering to the ground again and Armand stood with his platform boots rooted to the spot, opposite hand gripping onto his wrist so hard that his knuckles, beneath his glove, were going white.

Blood gushed through a wide gash in his flesh, the material of his glove ripped over it. Armand, his eyes wide and lips pulled back to bare his teeth, could only stare with fascination as it soaked into the fabric, the waves of pain sending chills down each notch in his spine and every inch of his skin. This was bad. Very, very bad. An augmenting desire for more stirred inside of him and it took all of his self-control not to dive back down onto the ground and retrieve the glass so he could inflict more damage upon himself. No, he couldn’t do that here. Not now. But oh, how he wanted to. How desperately he wanted to.

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word count: 1,124
tag!: Swarleh.
note: I was hoping this might make things interesting. Hope you like it!