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Here lies the wretched madwoman,
waking with the moon;
unfortunately—risen.
Remy rolled sideways out of the bed, landing hard on her hands and knees. No pain shot through her wrists or knees. She didn't feel much of anything at all.
It was dark inside the room besides a sickening green glow coming from atop the desk. The windows were tarped and duct-taped, and there was a towel stuffed under the bottom of the door. She couldn't remember putting it there. She couldn't remember ending up there at all, in fact, much less falling asleep in that bed.
She crawled towards the desk, the rips in her tights catching the rough carpet as she did, making them run further down her shins. Something wet squelched beneath her palm but she didn't bother to recoil; already in one night she felt she'd seen and done much worse than touching a mysterious substance on a moldy carpet.
Look at it, bent like a calf for the butcher!
Accursed animal—no, not even a beast
would want to touch that.
Not yet.
Remy fell against the side of the desk, both hands clutching the sides of her head, her broken fingernails digging into her scalp. Though she was in a dead sleep for who knows how long, she felt she'd been plagued by those voices for centuries. She was sick. She was very sick.
The green glow was a laptop. She barely made it into the chair at the desk when she heard something move behind her. Looking over her shoulder with a frenzied, choked gasp, she saw the shower curtain had fallen off its rickety hooks and was laying in a heap upon the bathroom floor. She probably looked the same when she slept on that musty mattress.
Shaking, she turned back to the laptop. The light in the darkness; surely it was her next step. It was password protected.
The notes, she needs to look at the notes!
They're right there, honey bunches of blood clots.
Remy took the one closest to her first. It was out of place in this grimey room: cream-colored paper with an elegant script written in purple ink. Some voice in her mind that wasn't her own read the immaculately transcribed note. Mystical sun...
The bad looks like the good
to him a god would doom!
Isn't that one from Antigone?
Never mind.
Not only an accursed creature of the night,
but a sorcerer, too, a blood-fueled
narcissist!
Remy slammed the note onto the desk upside-down. How had it gotten there in the first place? Had he visited? Was she sleeping when he came by? Was it already there when she stumbled in that morning? She couldn't even remember arriving here.
She shook off the strange feelings that kept creeping up her spine and over her shoulders and looked at the other note. Password... sunrise... cash…? Remy slid the drawer open and sure enough, there was an envelope containing one hundred dollars in twenties. What could it buy her? Not that she needed to buy food or other necessities, according to that filthy long-haired man Jack… The note was signed Mercurio.
Remy tried to remember the rest of the previous evening. It was hazy and clouded with the dreams she suffered that day, but she couldn't parse those either. It was like trying to remember the details of a television show you watched when you were a child. Everything coming to you was a nostalgic reimagining of what happened, a strange perspective of the truth.
Can't see, can't see!
Where have my eyes gone to?
In Santa Monica, her head
full of bees; no, her head a beehive
pitched against a tree.
Remy slammed a fist on the desk, the already rusted metal denting slightly from the force. "Stop it," she muttered, already knowing she spoke to no one but herself and whoever had taken up residence in her mind. Multiple whoevers; she could hear them chanting in unison.
Her heart existed under a frozen lake. She could sense fear and anger, confusion and anguish, but she didn't feel them strongly enough to act upon them. They just were, as she now just was. Last night she watched her Culture of the Greeks professor get beheaded and turned to ash—that is, after he killed her and turned her into this.
That man Jack tried to explain the affliction, and it made sense, for the most part. As much as becoming a vampire can make sense. But he couldn't get over his laughing fit for long enough to break down the core essence of being a Malkavian.
Her professor's erratic behavior and obscene personality made complete sense now, but she didn't know what that meant for her. Remy didn't like being laughed at, but she didn't want to provoke this Jack; she could sense he wasn't simply the helpful, jovial figure he appeared to be.
Now, now, now
she's getting it!
Maybe soon enough she'll realize
what we are.
Go outside, black-blood,
see for yourself the world
through your new eyes.
Remy looked around. She felt the absence of a beating heart and circulating lungs, and the aching hunger that burned in her eyes and under her teeth. The usual clamminess of her hands was lost. They were now cold and pale, and when she touched her face she felt nothing: just cold, dead flesh.
Before she could venture to look at herself in the mirror and suffer a breakdown, she quickly checked her email, a creeping sensation of being watched worming its way into her.
Penis enlargement pills… deadbeat husbands… Mercurio and LaCroix, okay, here we go.
LaCroix must have been the name of that French man in the suit from the theatre. Remy's expression twisted as she remembered the events of the night—some of them, anyway. He didn't even introduce himself! Jack might have told her, but she could barely remember. The rancid blood from that rat had clouded her mind… She shook her head and stood up.
Her head swam immediately, a pounding sensation filling her ears as her vision went misty. It was no normal head rush. She was hungry.
She stumbled forward, feeling something pulsating in her veins. Blood, she guessed. Not hers—whatever was left from those rats she decimated. A scent caught her nose and her head snapped to the kitchen area. The fridge—that's where the smell was coming from.
It was almost entirely empty aside from three IV bags sitting on the bottom shelf. They were full of blood, she knew. Remy grabbed one before she could think. The coldness made her cringe, but the sight of the stuff made the tickle in her teeth turn into a full-on vibration in her gums. She ripped the top open.
Feed, feed! Our hunger
can't be sated, not anymore
but watching her succumb to her sickening desire
is enough for us.
Hurry, hurry, get outside!
We have things to say about places
and people
beyond our reach.
It wasn't appetizing, but she never thought she would gain so much satisfaction downing 40 ounces of cold human blood. The aching in her throat stopped, the cloudiness in her vision went away. Sounds from the street outside amplified and she felt a warmth spread through her veins from the pit of her stomach. Maybe she should feel disturbed, but she felt pretty fucking good—physically.
Ignoring the voices in her head tugging her toward the door, and her own thoughts reminding her she had something to do, Remy investigated the bathroom.
The mirror was slightly cracked and filthy, but she could see herself well enough. Bloodshot eyes turning white, a flourish of red spreading over her face and disappearing just as quickly. Her freckles were still there, she noticed, a little faded amidst her sickly pale skin but there nonetheless. She looked like herself, she thought with relief. A very emaciated version of herself.
Sick, sick, sick.
You're sicker than you know,
little fledgling.
Like she couldn't tell. She turned towards the shower and tested the water. It worked, surprisingly. After fixing the shower curtain she took her clothes off and stepped gingerly inside. The water was barely warm, but she couldn't feel the temperature anyway; a coldness radiated off of her that seemed hard to console.
There was mold in the caulking, and Remy had to close her eyes to finish her shower in peace. She wasn't particularly squeamish, but this place was demeaning. The only soap was a paper-wrapped little bar like the ones you find in a hotel. She used nearly all of it scrubbing the grime from her body. How had she even gotten that dirty?
She expected to find cuts and bruises everywhere, but her body was pristine. Her alabaster flesh was unharmed. Remy sighed as she got out, because the same could not be said for her clothes—there was now a hole in the sleeve of her sweater and her tights were nearly ran beyond use. Still she put them on once her skin dried—she refused to use the towel behind the door—because she had nothing else to wear. At least she was wearing boots when she was killed.
As she made her way to the door, she felt a thrumming in her core, drawn to the other blood packs in the fridge.
See, little doe-eyed girl?
The hunger never goes away.
The cold blood won't save you.
It won't last forever!
Remy sneered and ran into the hall, slamming the door behind her. She wouldn't let herself succumb to that kind of temptation already.
Oh, won't you?
Let's make a deal, a bet!
Oh, you can't know, though.
It'll be our little secret.
As Remy stepped outside the complex, leaving through the door at the base of the stairs, her senses were bombarded. She could smell all sorts of things, see clearly in the darkness, and hear… She turned and saw the man standing in the corner, leaning against the fence. His pulse was lazy and slow, but when he saw her it increased.
"Hey, hey lady," he said, an alcoholic slur in his voice. "You got any change?"
Remy stepped around him towards the street. "Yes, h-here," she mumbled, pulling one of Mercurio's twenties from her pocket and shoving it in the man's hands. She turned and ran out of the alley before he could even say thank you.
It wasn't that she was afraid—not of him, but of herself. She could almost hear the blood swimming beneath his skin.
Shaking off her mania, she looked down the street both ways, trying to get a feel for the area she was in.
YES, YES! OUTSIDE!
Now we can see. We're stuck with you,
so we rely on your eyes. Take us
somewhere where it isn't so hideous.
But maggots love you—trust us.
Remy grimaced. She was on the main street, she figured, and so Mercurio's place must be down the road. As she walked she was a little slighted, seeing how nice the building he lived in was; surely she deserved more than wet carpets and moldy showers?
Look down, look down,
you're standing in a grave.
Remy looked, stumbling over her own feet. There was blood all over the sidewalk leading to the steps of his apartment building. Her eyes grew wide, wider than normal, and she rushed to the door. If her contact was dead, she was really dead.
The blood trailed down the hall to his door, which was slightly ajar.
WATCH OUT!!!
Remy fell backwards against the far wall, taking a deep, shaky breath that her atrophied lungs did nothing with.
No, you're safe. Go, go.
He isn't.
Remy took a cautious step towards the door, pushing it open with her foot. Blood stained the carpet more heavily in the entrance, and once she properly walked in she could see it was puddled all the way to the couch, where a man was lying, groaning and muttering to himself.
"Motherf… ripped me off… I'm dying over here…" He groaned louder, looking over at the woman who entered. If he didn't know any better he would assume he died and was now being haunted. The woman walked towards him silently, her eyes round, staring blankly at him.
"You're the fleet-footed god, Mercury," Remy muttered, kneeling in his blood beside the couch. The chorus urged her on, telling her what to say; she complied, feeling dazed.
"Mercurio, if that's what you mean. Ah, what the hell, you're a Malkavian, aren't you… that's just what I need right now. Bleeding out on the couch and I can't understand a damn word you're gonna tell me."
Him, we like him.
A servant of the Ivory Tower
but his foot is in many doors.
You like him, too.
You can trust this man on the couch—
this fleet-footed messenger.
Remy blinked, feeling her consciousness being pulled from the depths of her mind and back into her mouth. "I—sorry. Are-are you okay? Your...that…" She looked him up and down, her eyes growing wider with every new injury she spotted. Something was sticking from his side, blood spurted from a wound in his gut, his left eye was swollen shut—Remy had no idea how this man was lying here still breathing.
"I went—" he stopped and groaned again, looking at his chest. "Is-is that my rib? Oh, holy shit, my rib is poking through my side! I can't feel shit!"
Remy reached forward and moved his shirt and jacket to the side which made him flinch. "That's a broken bottle," she replied, seeing the glass embedded in his side.
"Oh, jeez, that's so much better."
Remy's eyes glazed over again. "Hippocrates is not her foresire. Who broke you, Mercury?"
Mercurio was more concerned about his shattered collarbone than her ramblings. "Goddamn chemists. Dirty Cali bastards. You can't trust anyone in LA."
Him, him, and the lone wolf.
"I verified the guy, he seemed reliable. They mix up speed and sell it. They do explosives occasionally, so I set up a drop."
He got dropped!
"These junkie pricks come out of nowhere, got baseball bats. My head feels like a frickin' horse kicked it in. Shouldn'ta gone alone… amateur move…" he muttered the last part to himself. "Those cocksuckers. Left me for dead, took the money and the Astrolite. Crawled my ass to my car and came back here. Vamp blood's the only thing keeping me alive."
Oh, yes, he's poisoned.
Not like her.
Remy was curious about the mention of vampire's blood, but she wanted to get this man help as soon as possible. "Do I have to go get it? Also, how can I, um, help you?" She gestured frantically at his tattered body. She didn't have any healing powers, as far as she knew, but maybe there was someone she could talk to.
"Well, do I look like I can go back up there?" He panted like a dog, digging his fingers into his abdomen in some attempt to stop the bleeding. "Those small-time sons of bitches live in some dump over on the beach by the pier. Maybe four or five of them. Dennis has got the explosives. And my money now, that prick. Go through the parking garage. Those better not be my last words."
The lonely wine-colored sea,
lying before those whose blood
has no home.
Remy grabbed his arm again, involuntarily. "But your battered body and bleeding bruises, how can she help you with that?"
"Ugh, something just started leaking," he said mostly to himself, then looked back at her through his one good eye, "I need something for the pain. Morphine, or something, I dunno. I frickin' blew it."
No, she is going to "blow it". Hahahahaha
—with the Astrolite. The warehouse becomes
her playground.
Remy nodded, standing. The blood from the carpet now stained the knees of her tights—and the skin beneath the rips—but she didn't seem to care. "I'll bring you something, and then I'll go get those guys."
He grabbed her wrist and pulled her back down to him, seeming to remember something suddenly. She leaned forward, listening to his labored breaths. "This deal—you tell anyone about this and I'm dead. I'm begging you. I got a way of gettin' people what they need. Y-you don't say a word, I can help you out."
He can help her out!
Yes, he can, in quite a few
different ways.
Don't stray too far,
little doe.
"She will weigh your words," Remy mumbled in response, squeezing his arm once more before she turned to leave the room.
Mercurio closed his other eye, leaning back into the couch's cushions, hoping she would make it back before even the Prince's blood couldn't do him any good. Frickin' Malkavians.