Emery & Michael || Rewrite #1: FB 51 Years || How To Fix Everything
He had been careless; the mangled body of a once pretty women in Emeryās arms proved that.
The vampire dropped to his knees, the sound of the thud echoing through his ears like monotone drums and the breeze licking at the palest skin of his bare arms and face. Gingerly, he brushed his fingers against the flesh of the dead women, tracing the astonishing wound on her neck. Blood spilled from the rabid incision still, a sloppy feed that Emery felt disgusted with, but the blood had grown sour by now. He hadnāt even drained this girl, hadnāt even taken advantage of his raging monster and sucked the blood from her bones like candy. Further down her body his fingers traveled, to the bruises on her arms where his palms had gripped her tighter than necessary, leaving becoming purple scorch marks in its place.
Emeryās hands shook, as blood dripped from the corners of his mouth and dotted the middle-class dress that the once lively women had worn like a princess. It was ruffled at the waist, exposing slender legs and other parts of her that should have been kept in secrecy.
At this particular sight, Emery leaned back on his legs, arms dropping to his hands in a hollow defeat.
Brailston shone with lights from a semi-sleeping city. The noise atop the hill on which Emery and the dead women lain was muffled, yet Emery felt as though a hundred eyes were watching him. Nervously he glanced around, blue eyes scanning the tops of the capital and then along the tree-lines of the Hallowed Oak to the west. The road on which he sat was a popular treading path, and Emery thought viciously about moving the women to another location. But for a while, he just sat there, watching the once pink tones of her cheeks shift to disgusting pale like his own skin. He watched as one by one the lights in Brailston homes and shops disintegrated to eerie darkness save the lanterns in the streets that barely guided the drunks home from the taverns.
His hands would not stop shaking.
Years had passed in Emeryās life, a snot-nosed kid that had more ego and pride than that of a nobleman, that the vampire had fed accordingly and with discretion. He quite liked the life he lived in Brailston and the weapons and armor he forged for the King did not go unnoticed. Following in his mortal fatherās footsteps had been the highlight of his extended life; the wealth and the popularity only fed into the egotistical lifestyle he had become known to enjoy. To some, he appeared only as a child...reflecting a mistake and completely unworthy to the lucrative life. But to others, particularly the young women of Brailston, Emery Frost was a darkened prize of pale exterior. With black hair that lay tousled and messy on his head and customized blades at his side, and skin that was painted in various, permanent tattoos, Brailston Pub and other establishments cherished the nights that Emery decided to dine under their roof. His natural glamour and lust was developed to the point of explosion, resting at the peak of his ability due to his age.
At sixty-seven, Emery Frost was barely that of numeric importance. But growing without vampyric kin caused that detail in his immortal life to be less than interesting. Brailston made the prideful vampire ecstatic. The women in Brailston made him sexual satisfied.
But tonight, this was an accident...he swore.
Emery pushed himself to a stand, tall frame now looming over the mangled corpse of the women. His eyes went to the sky, noting the position of the moon and where it lay. He had been sitting here for too long. Still his hands shook, so vividly that he shoved them into the pockets of his pants. He hadnāt meant to kill this woman, hadnāt meant to destroy her body in various places with the sharpest of incisors and leave her to bleed out. He should have taken her life by means of feed; he should have never taken her outside the city.
A throbbing in the back of his right eye began to commence. What should he do now? Pulling his bloody palm from his pocket he pressed it against his socket. The small, instinctual pull that Emery hardly paid attention to told him to run. Run!
And he took off into the Hallowed Oak.
