LENA: “Vampires can’t cross running water. I’m sure you’ve all heard the stories – from the people who managed to cross the bridge, and the dangerous, frenzied, starving creatures left trapped on the other side.” (show on greenscreen; doesn’t have to be vampires, per se, just scenes from those old medieval tapestries. Who’s going to care?)
Rhythmic shocks along my spine pull me from a dreamless oblivion; disoriented, I slowly register the shocks as a proximity alert. Rolling onto my stomach, I pull up the orbital stream, my right eye rolling towards the back of my skull to investigate the alert. I find the video segment I need, projecting the image onto the ceiling of my home.
She been alone in this place for a long time, how long she wasn’t really aware now. Sometimes, it seemed like it been a short time, other times it seemed like years. Things seemed fuzzy and hard to keep track of now. Her mind wasn’t the same as it used to be. It happened when she was thirteen, the accident that got her in this state. It often flashed in front of her eyes. It was so painful, it was hard to think of.
Have you ever noticed that time passes faster when we aren’t aware of it? I sneak a look at the antique clock on the wall, vaguely aware of the loud kids and their poor parents as they hurriedly move past or rather are dragged away by their children. 2:45. Just fifteen more minutes.
The rolling hills in northwest Briton were moist and mossy in the small hours of the morning. A thin fog pervasive in the area competed with a low-hanging steamy cloud covering the ground, the heat from registered from the earth conflicting with the cool spring air.
Any half-decent expert will tell you that there are numerous things you should never say to a gurzzle. They are unusually touchy animals and tend to respond to any form of offense—intended or otherwise—with quick, decisive and invariably violent action.
I can feel their warmth. The sweat laden bodies in contortion with each other feeling the natural wonders of their youth burdened by only the mindset that at some hour he or she must return to society discarded, but fresh, transcended, but devastated because perfection is violent.