Post by cataline on Sept 15, 2012 18:10:34 GMT
it's a chance gonna move gonna fuck up your ego silly boy gonna make you cry
CATALINE GRACE HOLTZ
cat/kitty. (looks) 26. female. bisexual. vampire. dark. sarah.
CATALINE GRACE HOLTZ
cat/kitty. (looks) 26. female. bisexual. vampire. dark. sarah.
prelude
she was born into poverty in an english harbour town. her mother was blistered and hard, weathered by a sad life without any breaks or concession, barefoot more often than not. she was small and wiry as a child and would run around the docks selling whatever second-hand garbage fish and bottom feeders she could find. bones were broken, teeth were missing, eyes half clouded with sickness she didn't understand. but she was told that despite it all she was a pretty little girl and she'd grow up into a beautiful woman. lies. she remained stagnant, and wiry, and filthy, and less than a leaf on the wind in their grey salty town throughout her childhood, and continued when she was a woman. beauty didn't much matter in that world, she learned. a body to keep a sailor warm was enough. and when they would come to the harbour she and her mother and all the other hungry disenfranchised women would stand and wait.
she remembered rough hands the most, following her to present day. in a flash, when she blinked her eyes she could feel a hairy sick chest against her back, or calloused fingers wound around her wrists. she was too far removed from the london elite to learn of art, or history, or politics or anything else. she learned to use her body. she learned the ways of the salty grey men, and their sons all wrapped up in their coats and boots and soot. she remembered what came after it too, when barely a woman she felt the sting of disgusted looks falling upon her as a rash crept up her stomach and arms, pocked and sore. how her throat grew dry and wooden, how her cheeks hollowed and her eyes sunk in. how her hair thinned and a fever struck her down. in brief flashes, she could see the hospice she was brought to, and the cold burning ache of mercury in a place where it should never be. it was her fault, they said, she'd done this to so many men over and over again. it came from her. they lied. doctors and priests and teachers and sailors. they all lied.
one evening as she lay half present in her pain, she felt his soft hand.
she remembered rough hands the most, following her to present day. in a flash, when she blinked her eyes she could feel a hairy sick chest against her back, or calloused fingers wound around her wrists. she was too far removed from the london elite to learn of art, or history, or politics or anything else. she learned to use her body. she learned the ways of the salty grey men, and their sons all wrapped up in their coats and boots and soot. she remembered what came after it too, when barely a woman she felt the sting of disgusted looks falling upon her as a rash crept up her stomach and arms, pocked and sore. how her throat grew dry and wooden, how her cheeks hollowed and her eyes sunk in. how her hair thinned and a fever struck her down. in brief flashes, she could see the hospice she was brought to, and the cold burning ache of mercury in a place where it should never be. it was her fault, they said, she'd done this to so many men over and over again. it came from her. they lied. doctors and priests and teachers and sailors. they all lied.
one evening as she lay half present in her pain, she felt his soft hand.
act i
everything about the man was soft, she recalled. his voice, his eyes, his hands, his face, his skin, his corrections. the only hard was the pierce of teeth into her collar bone that tore into and secured themselves into her stretched wooden flesh. she passed softly too, only to awaken in a soft bed in soft sheets, with soft music playing somewhere nearby. he sat at her bedside, he had since he'd taken her. she was gone from that dry windbeaten town. she'd never have to return. she could stay with him. she'd been rescued. cataline cried.she felt a cold within her for that town, there was no love lost. there was nothing that could hurt her from there again. and as she rose from that bed she found her wounds healed, and her rash gone. her body was nimble and aware. her skin was soft, like his.
the hunger came not long after, and he brought her what she needed. thick redness in cups and jars and flasks and wineskins, all that she could want. and it was all she wanted. food was like a strange memory of a dream. it was irrelevant. for the first time since she'd nursed as an infant, she was full.
he took her to the city, and let her walk through the cobblestone streets, miles away from any sea. she even kept away from the river. dark smokey london had replaced the salty grey docks of home. she stood in finery and warm coats, among made-up higher class beauties on the arm of the soft man who had taken her. she attended theatres and museums, galas and extravagant affairs where lights shon into the night and a storm dare not destroy anything. it became precious to her. it became what she loved. she drank heartily. she killed readily.
the hunger came not long after, and he brought her what she needed. thick redness in cups and jars and flasks and wineskins, all that she could want. and it was all she wanted. food was like a strange memory of a dream. it was irrelevant. for the first time since she'd nursed as an infant, she was full.
he took her to the city, and let her walk through the cobblestone streets, miles away from any sea. she even kept away from the river. dark smokey london had replaced the salty grey docks of home. she stood in finery and warm coats, among made-up higher class beauties on the arm of the soft man who had taken her. she attended theatres and museums, galas and extravagant affairs where lights shon into the night and a storm dare not destroy anything. it became precious to her. it became what she loved. she drank heartily. she killed readily.
act ii
the years began to change cataline. her maker, who styled himself as her husband, was delicate and took the appearance of a tragically ill man to bring people into his inner circle. everything around them was light and gentle, and quiet as in a nursery. it was ethereal and half-present in the world. it was dominating, and under the thumb of that illusion, which cataline took to be false and depleting, she felt something inside her begin to stir. her heart hardened. their home, a stately manor full of finery, was bereft of books and tools, and other things with which one might discuss the outside world. their friends, ethereal and human alike seemed only half there. and as cataline meditated on the state of her life beyond the death of a sypphalitic dockside whore, a massive uneasiness infected her insides. for the first time in years cataline remembered what fear was again. the fear that made her human. and the fear that made her alive.
it was like she woke up from some dream, or came from some opiate stupor. she woke next to him day after day staring at whiteness. white sheets, white canopies, white walls. white furniture white dresses whitewashed wood. his hair was pale insipid blonde, and he'd made her do the same. glamour made her eyes blue, and her lips only saw red when they saw blood. every day she was a bride. and every day she'd be compared to angels and everything was clouds and drifting around through some great vast nothingness that he'd created. it occurred to her as time passed more that this was a stronger hand than the calloused ones of sailors that had held her in place. this was like a fog that he'd dropped on her when he'd picked her out of many dying mercury-ridden sacks of women who lay in the hospital beds. why? was she the weakest? was she the youngest? anger and fear were the least of her emotions now.
one day she bought a book and brought it home to place with the ornamental ones on their shelf.
it was like she woke up from some dream, or came from some opiate stupor. she woke next to him day after day staring at whiteness. white sheets, white canopies, white walls. white furniture white dresses whitewashed wood. his hair was pale insipid blonde, and he'd made her do the same. glamour made her eyes blue, and her lips only saw red when they saw blood. every day she was a bride. and every day she'd be compared to angels and everything was clouds and drifting around through some great vast nothingness that he'd created. it occurred to her as time passed more that this was a stronger hand than the calloused ones of sailors that had held her in place. this was like a fog that he'd dropped on her when he'd picked her out of many dying mercury-ridden sacks of women who lay in the hospital beds. why? was she the weakest? was she the youngest? anger and fear were the least of her emotions now.
one day she bought a book and brought it home to place with the ornamental ones on their shelf.
act iii
life became different once she started bringing home books. at first her husband didn't say much about it. she bought history books, pamphlets, atlases, literature, newspapers, and she soaked it all in the way she so readily drank blood when he'd first changed her. she didn't need the soft light ethereal world that her maker had created. she needed a hard heart and a sharp mind. that was all she needed to survive in the world, that was it. and one day, she would leave the pale house and that would be it. she'd be someone else, somewhere else.
she'd never known her maker to be able to read her thoughts, but things changed slowly, dangerously. she wasn't permitted to go anywhere alone. and in the victorian era this was hardly an unconventional way of behaving, but it had never applied to her before. her husband or one of his associates would always be with her, watching, waiting to see if she betrayed her inner thoughts with some action that he didn't condone. as months passed, the places she was allowed to go without being followed became less and less as her husband began to want to see more of her. there were less parties to attend, less friends to see. he bought her more things, as if that would keep her satisfied. white furniture, white dresses, white hats, white ribbons and bows. white decor. and talk of a child began. finding some urchin off the street to be brought in and nurtured for the rest of their days, as if that might occupy her as well. she said no. when he asked again, she said no. when he asked a third time she protested. when after a few months she was asked a fourth time, she yelled. the first enraged smile in their pale manor. then she saw the bottom of a white basement for so long that her face became as hollow and her body became as frail and skeletal as when she'd been in the hospital all those years ago. when she was allowed to leave there was a pale infant in a pale bassinet on their whitewashed wooden table. with a bloody mouth and sharp teeth.
act iv
the baby was treated like a blessing in their household, but every time cataline touched it she felt a visceral sickness in her gut. this was a doomed creature, she knew. one who's mind would never grow and change. one who could live an eternity feeding off of humans and never enter the world. it was no more than an animal, it was a perversion of life greater than any of them. it might as well have been dead. it cooed and reached for her, and vomited blood all over their white furniture. it was a great white worm that her husband carried around and talked about what a big strong boy he'd be one day. for her to do any less was considered an insult. cataline kept up the illusion lest she be thrown and starved in the basement again, it became standard practice. step out of line, spend two months in the basement. with another month for greater and greater 'crimes against the family'.
the world had become so small to her. the house and the basement, and their perversion of a child. her books were taken away. the wailing undead child was kept in their room at night, and he had her content herself to sitting in a chair by the fire, knitting, or drawing (decent things) and looking after her child. it wasn't her child. it wasn't anything. she grew to hate it as she hated him. he commissioned a painting of them, he was so thrilled with the circumstance. as she withered from sickness and starvation, she withered on the inside even though nothing else was lacking. she could see herself dying, becoming complacent. that was not something she could abide again. that was not her anymore. and so one day she rose from her seat, infant in hand, fire raging, and she stood by the window to contemplate her fate, watching him leave to visit one of the unearthly friends that unnerving as they were, were missed. for what felt like hours she stared into smokey industrial london, and to the very last day of her life she knew she would remember it.
he found her waiting at the window empty handed, deaf to the screams in the fire as their perverted infant squealed and was reduced to embers on the wood. the sting of his hands, his body lived within her for years, but something woke in her again, and she would not take what she had been made to be anymore. she would not be a canvas for his desires, she would not be anything but what she would decide she would be. she felt nothing, as he joined the infant's bones in the fire, burning to a crisp, his white everything blackened by true death. but the day after, she felt power that she'd never known before. she felt strong, hardened like some kind of metal just out of the fire. she felt whole, she felt like herself. she never returned to london.
act v
when cataline found her freedom she felt she wanted everything that came with it. she believed that she deserved all the world could give her no matter what. she wanted the agency that had been deprived for her all those years. thirty fucking years with that man, she didn't even get to know what year it was. she learned when she left that it had been 1902. a new century born, and what, he'd intended to keep her in some sort of stasis free of time for the rest of her days? it made her feel reviled to know she'd been reigned in and overpowered by a creature like that. something that hid behind an ethereal angelic way of being that felt more like an insane asylum by a home. and that child. it was years before she could be comfortable around infants again. in fact she despised children for many a year. her guard was strong, and it served her well throughout the years, as she wandered the world in pursuit of things that would make her feel fulfilled and satisfied.
as the 20th century came to a close and she looked back on her long life it occurred to cataline that she could never have what she wanted in a world dominated by humans, her agency meant that she should absolutely not have to hide the fact that she was a vampire. that she should be able to feed as she desired. that the needs of humans hardly outweighed the needs of the supernatural realm. she had no hatred for humans, nor any real love of the supernatural, her only love was herself and what she wanted out of life. so cataline sided with the 'dark' side of the supernatural spectrum, in the hopes that she could ride it to a future where she wasn't considered abhorrent or monstrous. cataline wants a world where nothing is off limits for her anymore, and where she can be in control.
she has managed a design company called chateau noir for the better part of ten years, and while she mixes regularly with humans and has human friends, she never forgets what she is, and knows that the future is an complete toss up. she will not abide any cages or closed doors. she will not allow herself to be under anyone's thumb. as a self-made woman, she will endure. as she always has.
as the 20th century came to a close and she looked back on her long life it occurred to cataline that she could never have what she wanted in a world dominated by humans, her agency meant that she should absolutely not have to hide the fact that she was a vampire. that she should be able to feed as she desired. that the needs of humans hardly outweighed the needs of the supernatural realm. she had no hatred for humans, nor any real love of the supernatural, her only love was herself and what she wanted out of life. so cataline sided with the 'dark' side of the supernatural spectrum, in the hopes that she could ride it to a future where she wasn't considered abhorrent or monstrous. cataline wants a world where nothing is off limits for her anymore, and where she can be in control.
she has managed a design company called chateau noir for the better part of ten years, and while she mixes regularly with humans and has human friends, she never forgets what she is, and knows that the future is an complete toss up. she will not abide any cages or closed doors. she will not allow herself to be under anyone's thumb. as a self-made woman, she will endure. as she always has.
thanks brooklyn
app by kel <3
rp sample
herpa derp no
