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impertinences) wrote2013-07-31 11:12 am
impertinences) wrote2013-07-31 11:12 am
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“She’s Nosferatu!”
“… She’s Italian?!”
Ha. Mel Brooks, you crack me up.
I wanted to write Emere in a therapy session but what came out instead were Emere and Brando as vampires. It was, admittedly, a cheap ploy. Vampires are my writing safety zone. Oh well. Is it still incest if they’re the undead?
--
“I miss this.” Emere mumbles, her voice soothing but smoky, a whisper of a savage undercurrent. She’s all syrupy now though, languid, slow moving. Her feet are bare, the pearl polish on her toes chipped, and she rubs her left ankle against the back of her calf. She doesn’t seem to mind the broken glass on the thick carpet or the smell of death that is steadily mounting in the room. The blood always does this, temporarily distracting her. It makes her nostalgic, an emotion Brando isn’t used to seeing in his sister; she was never prone to nostalgia when her pulse used to beat. He scratches the back of his neck and kicks his feet up onto the table, watching Emere as she hovers her nose above a cold mug of coffee. It would be amusing if he weren’t already so used to the scene.
“And this.” She taps the bottle of vodka, tipped over and spilt, on the table. She bites her bottom lip, remembering a liquid kind of burn, then crawls onto the nearby sofa. “Do you have a cigarette?”
Old habits die hard and, since smoking seems to be one of the few things about their mortal lives that doesn’t physically sicken them these days, Brando tries to keep a pack on him for whenever Emere gets a craving. He lights one for her and hands it over slowly. The smoke in his mouth is weightless and without flavor.
His sibling moves like a cat. She crawls gingerly over the wide back of the sofa, swinging her legs down, and walks on her toes to avoid stepping against the body of a middle aged man. His eyes are still open, and they gaze up at her with lifeless accusation. She taps the ashes of her cigarette onto his chest and crouches, lifting his arm to press her nose against the inside of his elbow. The puncture wounds there are too small to be from fangs. “And that.”
“That,” Brando glowers, “smells like poison. You should pick someone cleaner – ”
“What is this? Recipes for a healthier living style?” Emere quips, dropping the man’s arm unceremoniously and circling back around the couch. She hesitates, unsure of where to sit now that she’s noticed the second body, a woman, draped like a curtain over the side of the adjacent wingchair. Seeing death makes it more difficult for her to ignore the smell. It’s starting to seep in now, and she wrinkles her face in displeasure, snubbing out the cigarette on the coffee table.
On cue, Brando drops his feet to the floor, and Emere curls into his lap, her arms draped lazily around his neck. He turns his face into the heavy fall of her hair, curling the ends around his fingers absently. He can’t smell anything about her except for a hint of the blood churning beneath her skin, and even that isn’t really hers anymore. She is oddly absent. The fabric of her dress wrinkles against his chest while she turns, wrapping her legs around his waste, pressing her forehead to his. The bones of her dead body blanket him, and he can’t feel much of it at all. He thinks of her as hollow, a bird’s skeleton that he could crush easily.
Outside, in the city, a dog barks and a siren starts. If he concentrates hard enough, he can hear the worried heartbeats of the neighbors coming through the walls. Emere caused too much noise again.
“We should go.”
“They were rotten people anyway.” Emere murmurs, unwrapping herself from her brother.
They weren’t, but Brando doesn’t argue with her.
Before they leave, slipping like phantoms out the window and down the iron fire escape, Emere takes a coat from the woman’s closet. It’s burgundy and lined in silk. Vintage.
“… She’s Italian?!”
Ha. Mel Brooks, you crack me up.
I wanted to write Emere in a therapy session but what came out instead were Emere and Brando as vampires. It was, admittedly, a cheap ploy. Vampires are my writing safety zone. Oh well. Is it still incest if they’re the undead?
--
“I miss this.” Emere mumbles, her voice soothing but smoky, a whisper of a savage undercurrent. She’s all syrupy now though, languid, slow moving. Her feet are bare, the pearl polish on her toes chipped, and she rubs her left ankle against the back of her calf. She doesn’t seem to mind the broken glass on the thick carpet or the smell of death that is steadily mounting in the room. The blood always does this, temporarily distracting her. It makes her nostalgic, an emotion Brando isn’t used to seeing in his sister; she was never prone to nostalgia when her pulse used to beat. He scratches the back of his neck and kicks his feet up onto the table, watching Emere as she hovers her nose above a cold mug of coffee. It would be amusing if he weren’t already so used to the scene.
“And this.” She taps the bottle of vodka, tipped over and spilt, on the table. She bites her bottom lip, remembering a liquid kind of burn, then crawls onto the nearby sofa. “Do you have a cigarette?”
Old habits die hard and, since smoking seems to be one of the few things about their mortal lives that doesn’t physically sicken them these days, Brando tries to keep a pack on him for whenever Emere gets a craving. He lights one for her and hands it over slowly. The smoke in his mouth is weightless and without flavor.
His sibling moves like a cat. She crawls gingerly over the wide back of the sofa, swinging her legs down, and walks on her toes to avoid stepping against the body of a middle aged man. His eyes are still open, and they gaze up at her with lifeless accusation. She taps the ashes of her cigarette onto his chest and crouches, lifting his arm to press her nose against the inside of his elbow. The puncture wounds there are too small to be from fangs. “And that.”
“That,” Brando glowers, “smells like poison. You should pick someone cleaner – ”
“What is this? Recipes for a healthier living style?” Emere quips, dropping the man’s arm unceremoniously and circling back around the couch. She hesitates, unsure of where to sit now that she’s noticed the second body, a woman, draped like a curtain over the side of the adjacent wingchair. Seeing death makes it more difficult for her to ignore the smell. It’s starting to seep in now, and she wrinkles her face in displeasure, snubbing out the cigarette on the coffee table.
On cue, Brando drops his feet to the floor, and Emere curls into his lap, her arms draped lazily around his neck. He turns his face into the heavy fall of her hair, curling the ends around his fingers absently. He can’t smell anything about her except for a hint of the blood churning beneath her skin, and even that isn’t really hers anymore. She is oddly absent. The fabric of her dress wrinkles against his chest while she turns, wrapping her legs around his waste, pressing her forehead to his. The bones of her dead body blanket him, and he can’t feel much of it at all. He thinks of her as hollow, a bird’s skeleton that he could crush easily.
Outside, in the city, a dog barks and a siren starts. If he concentrates hard enough, he can hear the worried heartbeats of the neighbors coming through the walls. Emere caused too much noise again.
“We should go.”
“They were rotten people anyway.” Emere murmurs, unwrapping herself from her brother.
They weren’t, but Brando doesn’t argue with her.
Before they leave, slipping like phantoms out the window and down the iron fire escape, Emere takes a coat from the woman’s closet. It’s burgundy and lined in silk. Vintage.