[M] Vampires In Blue Dresses

Open for Play
A phasmonia dedicated to the dead near Brunnhold.

User avatar
Monica Delacore
Posts: 48
Joined: Wed Dec 05, 2018 6:28 pm
Topics: 8
Race: Galdor
Location: Vienda
: mind is willing, soul remains
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Writer Profile: Writer Profile
Contact:

Tue Apr 02, 2019 9:38 pm

VORTAS 11, 2718
GHOST TOWN at SUNSET
Image
The air was strangely cold, even for Vortas, and it was as if the feeling of unease itself had filtered steadily through the air for years and years until all that they could breathe was thick discontent in place of oxygen. The chill settled into her bones like a hand pressed to the fire - resistant, unwilling, burning with a sickness that plagued each and every one of them that stood wordlessly at the entrance to the phasmonia. Perhaps if she had only been more caring, more empathetic, her sister's little hand would've reached up to grab hers for comfort, would've sought safety from the cold, unsettling air in her older sister's embrace.

There were no such actions. They stood in a line of three; father, firstborn, and favored.

In Heather's tiny hands she held the first of three offerings: a concoction she'd made herself with free reign of the kitchen, something brown-colored and dense that Monica wasn't sure was entirely edible. In her father's hold was a ring; silver, simple, polished. Monica's grasp saw a neatly-folded letter, the contents of which her father had already read-over and approved, words as fraudulent as the ring in his hand. Apologies for countless disappointments, promises to do better in the future, explanations of love that she'd never confessed in words and never meant in passing thought.

"Can I give this to mother now, please?"

Their father's response came in a grunt, one they both recognized as approval.

Heather stepped out of line, moving forward into the entrance of the phasmonia but opting not to walk any further. She leaned down, placing the little creation on the ground in offering, before retreating back to her place beside her father and sister. Terrence moved next, following in his daughter's footsteps and placing the ring down next to her "meal," returning to his position afterwards.

Monica hesitated.

"Monica," her father's voice startled her from her thoughts, and that was all it took for the blonde to walk closer to the entrance, letting the letter slip from her fingers and fall gracefully to the ground.

As she turned to fall back into line beside her family, her sister's eyes met her own.


"Happy birthday, Monica."

"I can't stay long. I already took time off work for this and I need to get back to Vienda," Monica's voice was a whisper against the wind, the woman following her father and sister up the stairs of their apartment, "I'm not needed here; everything's already taken care of."

The door was unlocked and then opened, Heather and Monica filtering into the apartment after their father - it was cold; she had been expecting it to at least be warmer than it was outdoors and found herself disappointed - and following the aging professor into the living room. As the man retreated to his usual chair, Heather moved to seat herself atop his knee, while Monica observed through distant blues from the other side of the room.

"Any plans for the rest of the evening, Monica?" questioned Terrence, and though it failed to appear in his casual tone, Monica could feel the suspicion as it waved through the man's field, "Heather has decided to bake you a cake. It would be a shame if you didn't stick around."

"No," she refused, "I'm not staying, no. I've got to be back in Vienda as soon as possible."

"Really."

"Really."

His stare was enough to make her skin crawl, but for once the blonde met his eyes without hesitation.

"Your mother would be quite disappointed in you, Monica. You know she would love for you to stay and enjoy your birthday with your family - and stop being immature. Call me sir."

"Maybe if you hadn't killed her, sir."


"Heather, go to your room."

"You know how much I loved your mother, Monica! How dare you accuse me of such a thing! I stood by her for twenty-seven years, I helped her raise two children, I provided for you, and this is the thanks I get?"

"Oh I'm sorry sir, have I missed something, or was my mother not suffocated in her bed?"

"I already told you that there was a break-in! You're a godsdamned Seventen, are you completely unaware of the crime rate?"

"So you expect me to believe some kid from Brunnhold came in, stole nothing, and suffocated just her with a pillow and neither you nor Heather noticed a thing?"

"I've just about had enough of your insolence, Monica, and I will not be accused of murdering my wife. Not when I loved her for so long."

"Loved her."

"Yes, girl, are you deaf?"

"You didn't love her. You couldn't have. You tortured her for twenty-seven years, and when she finally got the courage to leave, you fucking killed her."

Noises in the kitchen: metal scraping metal, moved not by hands but by invisible force, by growled words of Monite that rumbled from her father's throat.

"Are you going to kill me too, father? What excuse are you going to make up for Heather? 'Oh, a student broke in and spooked her and she fell on a clocking knife.' What about her, then, are you going to kill her next?"

"Monica. I'm giving you one chance to apologize."

"No."

"You're making a mistake."

"Do it. Kill me. What do I have to live for anyway, right? At least I'll never have to see you again."

A laugh, sickening and loud.


"Oh, dear, we're going to the same place."

Monica could feel the strain in her legs as she struggled to keep moving, keep descending the stairs, keep stumbling away from the forsaken apartment she'd grown up in, keep applying pressure to her arms until she was a safe distance from the building. It was difficult to think when her eyes refused to stay focused forward, when they flicked repeatedly downward to watch the blood as it ran down her arms and face, dripping onto both the black dress upon her form and the ground beneath her.

Syllables fell from red-tinted lips but failed to string together in her lack of concentration. It was only once she had retreated into the darkness of an alleyway that she managed to focus, falling to her knees and finding it easy to ignore the scraped skin when she had more concerning injuries to think about.

Soon after, more words were falling from her mouth, the woman's field a mess of uncontrolled fear even as the wounds upon her skin began to heal themselves. She would never grow used to the feeling of flesh molding itself back into place; the lashes that marred her arms and face closing - those upon her face did so entirely, leaving little evidence of their existence beyond the faintest of white lines and a lingering ache. Her arms, however, retained angry red markings, the wounds closed but not entirely healed nor disguised.

No, she wanted the pained signals they shot to her brain, wanted that irritating sting beneath her skin, wanted the grounding effect it had on her reeling mind. So the officer was left with these things, along with the faintest scent of pine and a tingling in her delicate fingers.

"Happy birthday, Monica," she mumbled, her words taking shape in the form of a small, visible cloud against the cold, "wonderful job you've done."

Tags:

Return to “Ghost Town”

  • Information
  • Who is online

    Users browsing this forum: No registered users and 1 guest