Creative Writing - "Emotions".

staircase he in took all the various textures of the world around him, fibres overlapping fibres to form a plank of cracked wood that served as a step base. Everything seemed enhanced in a new reality, unless he was dreaming. “Or maybe I really am dead.” His palm connected to open the front door as he passed an old man; he had grey mixed with silver and white. The fading of hair pigmentation was revealed as the elder ducked his head. Apparently, he wished no contact whatsoever with a man talking strangely to himself. The old man was dressed in a pair of darkened corridors and a long trench coat, typical it seemed. The mans steps picked a pace a notch higher as he went by him, the man twisted his shoulder back an angle as his vision lighted on him again, he was stopped in the doorway to watch. “What do you want?” A slight trace of anxiety had crept into the old man’s eyes as he voiced a concern, but he just stood there, watching him. Taking in the freckles and minor scars flecking the man’s skin tones, deep brown eyes under drooping eyelids. Jon smiled, his teeth gleaming. The elder again spoke, simply repeating himself, yet with a wavering voice. “What do you…?” His voice cracked in a moment of silence and the last word breathed only as a whisper, “Want…?” He licked his lips as they dried in the dusty air of the lower floors, and the man turned heel to flee, breaking into a run. A laugh of effortless triumph followed the coward down the halls. A laugh which learned how to cause fear, he could be a catalyst, a vampire thriving on the emotional densities of those around him. He already felt better. Shaking his head, he finished exiting the premises. A phrase entered his mind, he didn’t literally understand it, but it seemed to fit his feeling of heightened superiority. Petty Mortals. III The light clicked and switching from red to green, his foot lowered on the accelerator. He looked out the window seeing flakes of white mist through the world, a meshing fog of snow blocking out the view of others into his oasis of existence. Small rivers of moisture ran across the pane of plastic, no longer could cars use real glass, everything on the world was focused on safety, safety from themselves. The flakes melted each time they hit the windows, and warmed up from the in car heater, they managed to keep his front wipers quite busy. He looked back on his recent encounter with the old man, how terrified the man had been by himself. The stranger had cast his inner demons onto the face of another, seeing violence, hatred, and rash instability in the portrait of another. He had done nothing but watch him, and the man had run. He had run away from a silent gaze. It seemed most people were like that, their lives, their consciousnesses must be different, to be able to have such xenophobia, they were afraid of death. He didn’t know anymore if he would die, if he even could. He had been alive for as long as he knew existed, the past, the history that claimed to have existed before his birth, was simply an imaginary manifestation conjured from books. But books always lied. For all his eternity, for his life being when he existed encompassed all he had witnessed. Everything before, everything that could come after, imaginations, stories. He had known people who died, but they were different, he had never touched their consciousness, and he himself had never died, and never would, his attempt proved it. He was eternal, immortal. His car came up to another intersection, the light was red. He didn’t stop, and he survived. The car slid through, marking lines in the new fallen snow, crossing another boundary that inhabited the mortals of this world. Unlike them, he was alive. He kept driving on, through the city with no true destination. Now he was alive, immortal, and truly conscious. He could do as he pleased, for he had all the time of eternity to do it. He no longer had to report to the factory at six thirty sharp in the morning, six thirty was simply a number created by them. It did not bind him, he refused to allow himself to be subjected to the trivial laws of mortals, he was above them. A grin broke out on his face, now that he was true, he didn’t know what to do first. Taboos though, he would go out, and live the life held ready for his privilege. His life, the life, was awakening, and ready to begin. He turned the steering wheel of the car, hand over hand to spin it before the line of the tires changed to pull him into a parking lot of a family convenience store. The engine ran a steady beat of rumbling cylinders as he sat in the seat looking at the front of the store. There were three other cars in the small lot, leaving space for one last customer. His hand reached out and switched the key’s angle before sliding it out to be placed in a pocket, the rumbling died. A relatively loud click resounded as his door opened, and the howling winds infiltrated his hearing. The storm was strengthening. He stepped out of the car, a nineteen eighty seven nova to be exact, a sleek paint of black had covered its exterior, but had gone dull through the years of grit and debris wearing it thin. The front seat was of the bench design, all the way across, with the fabric ripped and several chunks of padding torn out of the centre. The dashboard on the rider’s side was cracked, a gap of near inch revealed blackness behind. As his steps carried him to the door a light post flickered on near the street, the blackness of the land was rarely pieced by the scattered lights. The triumph of the moon combined with the black clouds and snow forecasted a dreary night of this. Perfect for his awakening. A boy, looking barely old enough for a driving license opened and held the door for him as they passed, and then quickly departed. Entering the harsh glare of artificial lightening pierced his vision, blinking he lowered his eyes to the floor, it too, was very white. “Quite a storm out there isn’t it son?” The sole cashier was in his mid forties, an immigrant judging from his physical palette and accent. A denim overall draped below a cheery smile, this man enjoyed his pitiful life, although, the greeting went unanswered as he came to the store’s counter. Encased in glass as a symbolic defence were several items of interest. Several hunting knifes were arranged in display, a compass lie with no dust on it’s surface, and several other items ranging from pens to personal address books. “How much?”. He tapped the counter, pointing at a blade just less than three inches with a simple grip. The knife was wholly black, and the handle had plastic stick grips aligned over the ribbed gouged for the fingers. He remembered that by law any blades less than three inches was legally concealable, but that didn’t matter to him, anything longer would simply be an unnecessary hassle, an extra tip to encumber. The clerk appraised the item, and offered a sheath to cover the blade at a few extra dollars. He didn’t hesitate as he flipped the bills onto the counter, awaiting darkness; the blade was pure darkness, a fitting match for him. Accepting the now sheathed blade he left the store after picking up a pack of needles and spindle of thread from the shelf. “These are cheap enough to matter little,” He smiled at the clerk as he walked from the store, “enjoy the darkness.” He wasn’t stopped, and it wasn’t surprising, his confidence was solid, and no sane mortal would seek to challenge him over a single digit item, especially when they knew he was armed. IV He moved the tips of his glove in a caress on the sheath of darkness as he walked down the clouded sidewalk. Snow blew through his presence, splattering on his cheap coat, melting on his face, and dodging him to flee into the blissful night. He had used the pocketed materials to sew the sheath into the edge of his pocket, the blade darkness now had a home on him, it now had a master to be wielded by. He drew it and flipped it into the air, the blade spinning end over end, his current eyes couldn’t see it, he was sure they would soon develop, but the hilt still found a landing in his palm. Darkness knew him, and it was already sure of his mastery. A crack of thunder marked the bolt of lightening, casting down a flash of light on the broken plains. In that light he saw the man he was following throw up his hood, casting a ring of protection from the snow. Little good it would do in the end if darkness played its part. He smiled, his boots marked every step with a temporary imprint in the snow, but they were soon covered up by the new fall and gusting winds. He increased his pace, he was ten yards behind the man, and was yet to be discovered. He felt his heartbeat sound in his ears, the crunch of the snow filtered through the winds, and his breaths fade into the air. The cold stung at his ears, every new flake pierced his skin, not pain, yet every sensation was alive and singing exaltations of his existence. Darkness leapt into his hand as the distance closed. Five feet, the man kept moving, three feet. A new smile crept across his face, the smile of blood lust. Tonight he would kill, the mortal would know little of what was happening, and he would take what was waiting to be taken. Three feet, his left hand grasped the adjacent shoulder of the man as darkness was plunged into the side of the lower back, the blade seeking vital organs. The man’s body shook, but gave no cry or struggle as it was tackled to the ground. He lay pinning the man’s body to the ground for many seconds, then came to his knees to roll it over. The mortal was dead. A thin gap between his lips opened in an evil smile, he had killed, as he took the man by the ankles to drag him off the sidewalk to an alley. It was surprising that no one was about for as far as could be seen through the mist, but then, there was already over a foot of snow on the ground. No sane man would venture out without a purpose. Perhaps this man had a mission, or was insane. But he knew now that he was not a man, he was…something more. He slid his hands into the pockets of the dead man, pulling out a battered wallet, a pack of cigarettes, and a cheap throw away lighter. He didn’t smoke, but it didn’t matter as he held a straight between his lips. He cupped his hand against the wind as he struck the smoke alight, this smoke, had been made for him to take. The tip took on the fiery glow of Ifrit, a beacon lasting five yards in the blizzard, he inhaled a deepening breath of the smoke, held it and released. He never smoked, but he wasn’t simply a man, so he smoked, and came to his feet as he walked away in the storm. V Coming through his apartment’s door again, he peeled off the gloves; the right slightly damp, and tossed them into the sink. His hand caught the faucet handle, twisting it on to let the gloves soak for awhile. He walked through his kitchen, tracking snow and crud that would soon melt, an act of defilement that would enrage his old self, to the mirror where he had discovered his life. This mirror, a single sheet of reflective glass, thin, slightly clouded, and yet it had served a purpose. This mirror was useful. He leaned in and placed his hand flat against its pane, connection. The cool surface temporarily bonded to his skin in a sensation of utter calm, the temperatures slowly melding, and drawing a liquid feeling from his hand. Drawing away he looked into the mirror for the second time this day. His face had already begun to visibly change. No longer did his eyes droop to match the sagging depressed expression, no longer did he stare blankly into the world with the indifference of contemplated departure, he had purpose now. His purpose was to take, to crush, and to ascend above the pitiful masses of mortals swarming around him. He ha been tricked, for several years he had believe he was a part of all those disgusting and trivial laws, all the boundaries entrapping the race below him. But now, now he was like god, he had killed, crushed out a shadow of life to assume control of its power. He felt better than he ever had before. He gazed into the mirror, he gazed into the reflection of an immortal, and pulling darkness from its sheath he tapped it methodically against the mirror, putting himself in a trance, the blade of black metal clicked in solid measures against the surface. He watched his fingers as they forced the blade to hit, every cut of the blade left a small scratch on the imperfect reflection. The blade was clean, he had wiped it on the victims jacket, the jacket was leather and would have been nice, but the slash darkness had made in it would not do. He had simply walked down the sidewalk, and then melded his footprints in with the results of the foot traffic downtown, before returning to his car and driving to his apartment. The night had been perfect, and the man, he had simply found him walking down the street, no connections. Pulling the tip from the glass again he walked away to his living room, he let out a cynical laugh. His living room, this was where he lived, or rather, died. For years he had spent time, spent his time waiting for something better to come along, but nothing did. But carpe diem, he had taken something better today. He flipped out the wallet of the man, searching through it to find only a pair of twenties, a MasterCard, and a driver’s license. Benjamin Goldsfield, forty three on the third of March, no more today. Tossing the contents on the TV carelessly, the wallet knocked a picture frame off its top. The shattering of glass surfaced a memory which caused him to frown. His old life had left loose ends, and today he would suffer no loose ends. She would have to be terminated; she would pay for causing him the heartache those few months ago. Being that he had allowed himself to love her, she had cut his heart in two with a jagged knife, it was not a clean break, the break was as clean as the shattered pane of glass littering his floor now. He glanced over at it “Fuck it.” He wasn’t going to clean it up; he had greater messes to take care of. Walking over to the phone he picked it up and dialled a quick set of numbers, he couldn’t even forget them as he was dying only days ago. It rang that dull, empty, and non harmonic tone that could force a wolf to grind its teeth. It rang for six times, yet just moments before he would pull the phone from his hear it was picked up. “Hello?” The voice was deep, textured, and contained all the symbolism to rise up the Cain inside him. “Yes, may I speak to Mona?” The man must be her new boyfriend, the sleek and slick cop happened to hail from a family with large stockholdings in several corporations, and he what he had were high financial prospects and a fresh soul to blaze. Strangely, he had felt pity along with rage when he had first met the man, but his knowledge of Mona’s being out for money and little more, was kept to himself. Today though, today he felt no pity, he felt no kindness or sympathy or even connection with other humans. They had deteriorated away with his will to live and integrate into common society; he now only felt the bane of rage and violence. “Sure, just a moment, can I ask whose calling?” The man's voice had switched to a neutral tone, he sounded innocent, pure, and completely devoid of any passion for the world. He sounded like a sheep. “Umm…” He opened his mouth to utter a label, the label that he had been called for twenty three years. He blinked slowly, and looked down at the back of his hand, there was a scar there. He shook his head, a lack of understanding in the purpose of revealing any word, “just…put her on,” he had forgotten his name. The man let out a snort, a whoosh of air to attempt ridicule at the rudeness of the caller, but he was indifferent to light insults. He wouldn’t be bothered by such petty social nuisances that often guided the words and actions of someone, he wouldn’t waste the drawing of a breath to submit himself to the cavernous levels of society again. “Hello, who is this?” It was Mona, he could tell the voice all too readily, she had talked to him in exactly that same sweet voice so many times over the past year, cutting into his heart with a razor, only when reaching the core to take it and throw it on the floor. “Mona…it’s me, I want to talk.” He smirked in his dark apartment knowing that they were talking right now, he really didn’t want to talk, he wanted to clean up his mess. “Oh for Christ sakes not again, you know that we’re over, you know I don’t love you and that I’m with someone else now.” “No, no, It’s not that.” “Well then what is it?” She sounded frustrated, and slightly confused at the idea of his wanting to talk about something else. “Well, it’s just that I was cleaning my apartment, and I found a few things of yours,” He lied; anything to lure her out would serve his cause. Although, she had left him with rage, hatred, and a great sense of hurt. He figured he could return those seeing as he didn’t need the pain anymore, “I want to give them to you, I just can’t stand to see them anymore.” She sighed, “Well fine, just drop them off around midnight tomorrow. Does that work?” “Sure.” He smiled, the plans were set. Hanging up the phone without another word he looked down, his jacket was still on; he hadn’t taken it off yet. He rolled his eyes at himself, it seemed like most of his dialogue in life was simply self interaction, and nothing more. He pulled off the jacket tossing it on the couch, withdrew the gun from his belt to set it on the counter, and opened the fridge for dinner, tonight his day was done. Forty dollars richer, a sense of immortality, and a date to clean up the mess of his estranged wife, Mona. VI He woke up to the chirping of song birds coming through the open window, sunlight beaming across his room, and a sense of a new day ready for success and accomplishment. His eye quirked with rage, he was pissed, how can a day like this exist when someone like Mona was still alive, how could Gaia just ignore the blemishes on the scope of humanity. Shaking his head he kicked off his bedspread and walked over to the window, slamming it shut. He wouldn’t stand to listen to the annoyance labelled as beauty, a drivel birthed in the morning to drag him from his peace of sleep. After his rebirth the old man in the buildings hallways’ had forecasted the most suitable persona for him. He succeeded in rising to the par of a vampire’s prowess. He killed from lust, killed to instil fear, he killed because he could. The mortals around him, their lives belonged to him. VII He walked towards their house on the front walk, his footsteps again making fresh imprints in new snow, the storm seemed like it would never end, just like himself. Mona and her husband, who must have just recently come home judging from the fresh tire tracks leading to their garage, lived in an upper class suburban neighbourhood, they even had a gate he had to climb over earlier, the bastard hadn’t left it unlocked. Taking a deep breath of the snow chilled air he placed an insane smile on his face given the circumstances, zipped his jacket halfway down, and knocked on the door. Once, twice, his knuckles rapped against the wood to call Mona to her death. A full minute later, the door opened, and the woman was encased in a sheath of light from the inside, Mona, a woman of average height, deep aqua eyes, and a shock of pure blond, all natural hair. She frowned though when she looked at him, “Where’s the stuff you said you were going to bring over, don’t you dare tell me you lied just to get yourself over here.” The smile remained on his face as he proceeded to tell her what he had brought, “Mona, when you left me I died, when you left me you took the last little reason I had to plod through the depressing life of conformity. We could have been perfect together, living a life of a family. You were my last chance at committing myself to a normal life,” His smile grew increasingly disturbing as he went on, “but you destroyed that Mona. You left me with a hole in my heart. You left me with pain, suffering, and a dead soul.” Her eyes took on an intense colour and her cheeks took hard edges, “I told you we were over damn you, I don’t want you, okay? I don’t want to fix things, resurrect them, and try to help out your pitiful ego.” “And neither do I Mona, I simply want to return what you have given me,” Hs reached into his jacket, pulling out the berretta that refused to kill him, pointing it at her chest. “A hole in the heart, pain, suffering, and death.” Her expression never had the time to change before he pulled back the trigger. From a foot point blank the bullet entered her at such a speed that the entry wound appeared minimal, just a small dot in the centre of her chest. The sound though, was catastrophic, his ears rang, a dog across the street started to bark, and he heard a shout from the other room. He stepped in through the doorway, and spotting the man standing from an easy chair fired at him. A hole in the floor opened up, eating the bullet in a fury of splintering wood, he wasn’t use to playing gunman. The man’s eyes showed a terror as he lunged behind the chair and into the hallway, just like the old man, Mona’s husband was afraid of him, deathly afraid. He heard only the whistling of the wind, his own steady breaths, and the TV blaring at him. It was an old movie in black and white, disgusting how the officer could find entertainment in something so dull. He shook his head with a force, he wasn’t here to critique the lifestyle of a mortal, he had to finish his night. He took a step, laying his heel down first, staying silent. And another, he was moving towards the hallway that the man had dove into. On reaching it he peaked around the corner, empty. His hunt was on, moving down the hall, gun in hand, this…was his night. At the door to the bath room his foot knocked it open, and ducking in he whirled his aim through it. It too, was empty, the shower stall open, still wet, the sink clean, but with the faucet dripping. He backed out of the room with the same caution, and moved onward. Standing dead centre in the hallway, he stared down it. This was feeling like a definite hassle, being forced to stalk through a house in hunt of a pitiful man. Then a glow entered his eyes, Mona was gone. Mona was gone. He opened his lungs, tilted his head back and breathed a breath of air meant for him. This air was his, this gun was in his hand, and this mans life, was predetermined by his will. He walked down the hallway, no need for stealth, no need for fear or hesitation whatsoever. He was in control of the couples’ lives, and their lives were done with tonight. He had set plans. At the next door he caught the handle and casually swung it open, he looked in, and it was also empty, save for a bed, a dresser, and various meaningless pieces of decoration. It was the old guestroom. Once a few of his co-workers had stayed the night there… Shaking his head, he called out, “Mortal, I am coming for you.” His words pierced the half silence of the house. “I am coming.” He walked to the next door kicking it in. He felt something punch into his chest; it felt like he was hit with a pair of brass knuckles. A mass of blackening fuzz infiltrated his vision, and he extended a hand to the doorway for balance. Blinking away some of the clouds, he saw a skinny man standing in front of him, tears coating his cheeks. The man simply stood there looking at him and crying. Grinning as his vision faded again, he found his prey, raised his weapon and fired. He couldn’t see where the bullet went, but hearing the cry he knew he had won, even as he fell backwards, splitting his scalp on the wood base floor, he knew he had won. Lying on the floor he was hurt, shot, but he would rise again. A mortal such as the one the stood in front of him would perish from the wound, but he assumed he would awaken by morning fully healed. A groan escaped his lips, even armed with his knowledge, the pain still hit. It encompassed his entire existence, leaving not a sensation of discomfort untouched. His chest felt wet, he was getting cold, and he couldn’t lift his arm anymore. He closed his eyes, they had been open, but he couldn’t see, the pressure in his skull was draining, and he felt light headed as he started to lose consciousness. This night was complete, his victims terminated, his past cleaned. Tomorrow, he would rise and assume control of the building; his current apartment was not fit to house an immortal. “Tomorrow,” He sighed, and faded.