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hey. i decided to post this final here, since it was here i came for advice and assistance. i got the full 20 points on it, as well as the short story "antithesis" that went in last week, with a note that i am 'showing improvement while still keeping *my* wordplay.' like woah.
thanks for those that helped me out, and everyone else's patience. feel free to skip. also, to keep from agitations, if anyone wants to see the poems i wrote for next week, i can email you. just drop me a line--email is in my profile info.
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Something gnaws at his core as he races from the building. Although he made it out, he can’t outrun the mixtures of fear and adrenaline, of obligation and guilt which make him tremble. Breathless, he flattens himself against the corner-bricks. He touches the metal bracelet locked around his wrist, a gift from a monster with a heart and conscience. He rubs and rubs it until the skin beneath the chain-links feels raw. He searches for comfort or a sign, except the comfort he does find isn’t all he feels. It’s also rapid-fire flashes of a moon-pale face, of arms wrapping him up tightly, and a mouth descending to his. It’s the melodic voice of a savior and a once-upon-a-time killer, and this combined with what he’s done makes a lethal cocktail; a sign so forceful his knees buckle, and he nearly falls. It reminds him that he has to get moving.
Running so hard his heels begin to ache, he uses the north lot driveway to leave the premises, just as planned. Two minutes earlier, he was scrambling down the north hall fire escape like a madman. Seven minutes before that, it was all second-guessing, and angels and devils on his shoulders. They danced and tangled. They fought their wars while he fought for the strength to follow through, often having to pause against doorways until the nausea and indecision passed. Despite the soothing allure of the angels’ wings, the devils caught him. They were right; they won, and the deed was done his way, even if it might mean his death.
It’s five to midnight, and he skids to a halt in the 2nd Street alley with time to spare, and with a thin layer of sweat shimmering over his skin. He runs a last check: did he grab enough? Yes. Did anyone see him? No. Are they properly packaged? Yes.
“Are they the correct blood type?” The vampire he both loves and fears steps up behind him, tenor crooning, having slid out from the shadows thrown by dumpsters and concrete.
“Yes,” he lies, still panting, handing over the box of thermo-packed pouches. The darkness of the alley and the hour isn’t enough to steal the way he deceitfully averts his eyes from the Master upon that one syllable, but tonight, the vampire is too desperate to notice, or care. Greedily, the vardoulacha cradles the pouches to his body and spins on his heel, leaving his revenant without another word.
He hopes that the virus buys him enough time to run to the next town — this hope is just as immortal as the vampire he is fighting to escape. On good days, he pretends the heavy piece of silver around his wrist is a gift from a rich, possessive father. On bad days, he wishes he never met the man. Most days, he yearns for just one thing – to be free again.
(Footnote: “vardoulacha” is a Greek term; a legend of not just a vampire, but *the* vampire.)
my void does not want.
-- 2.13.61.
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