The Dark Era GPSL

Vampire cunt was his favored means to loaf. It didn’t quit. It didn’t get tired. It was dead, like him. They did not faint from fear. If there was one thing he despised, it was swooning. He wanted them awake.

There is a scarlet-haired woman who isolates herself at Wytchwood, crystal-white and dainty-wristed. She is ethereal; he likes ethereal. It reminds him that not all the creatures of this earth are tainted as he is. That something can still be soft, exquisite. The first time he’d knocked gently with a split knuckle on the bulging stomach of her thin door, he had stole in once she’d answered. Obstructing the door, a snarl in his eyes, a startling glint, too quiet. Her own eyes went immense and magnificent, verdant, Galway green, asking him question after question. He answered none of them. He had paid behind her back. He wanted the shock of it to put fear in her. That a hushed, dangerous stranger was coming in and taking it. And took it, he did.

The lamplights of London are sickly yellow. They palpitate, akin to how he’d imagine her heart might have, if hers still beat. He had just left from his scarlet witch, a bright memory of her begging throat, the salty taste of her weeping. He thrilled in the over-perusing of these obscene, burnt images and sounds, a collage of his misdeeds, parading against the back of his eyelids.

People move out of his way as he prowls over cobblestone, heavy in his footfalls. People recoil.

The pier is nearby, aglow. The moist wooden planks coated in a fine dust of snow. Vince is a phantom in black, eyes watchful, waiting.

He is early.