#sunmad

It was still a strange thing to walk into the home of her maker. While it was still abundantly clear she did not belong here among these recreated halls of a family long since shattered, she did find herself in the library once more, lost in the old reverie of selecting a book to spend the night on. She was unwelcome by almost every soul that walked these halls but a text in ancient Greek did not care for who carefully held it as it was meant to be.

Taking up residence on the couch, she slipped off her shoes to fold her legs together on the cushions and set the book upon her thigh to cradle it as she read. For some time, it was just as silent as it was on her first visit, a virtue Rhoshamandes had appreciated. This time, it appeared that there was another lurking just out of sight.

✦✦✦ ─────── DAMP AIR ROSE against the high ceiling of the basement, partially sucked out by the vent whirring loudly in the back of the room, partially swirled around with the cold air sputtering out of an air conditioning unit. Howard was thankful he was dead for the most part, looking and feeling rather cool despite the numbers screaming in the weather station on his desk.

He tightened a tourniquet around an arm, then trailed a knowing finger down the sussurrating bloodstream. A palpated vein now found, he swabbed an alcohol wipe, told the donor to relax, and pushed a needle in.

Fresh, hot blood rushed through the tubing and into a prepared blood bag. This one is in the clear. The other two in the other seats? Not so much -- he could smell the problem. Sickened, weak, almost unusable. The one with the bird tattoo: born that way, broken chains within her body, somehow keeping her alive still. The one with the scar on his cheek? Circumstance. BLOOD, five pitiful litres of them, swirling round and round and round in the body; so insignificant in weight against the rest of the flesh and bone, and yet, all it took is a puncture to realise that it is the most precious five litres of anything anyone could possibly own.

Needle out, plaster on; a bottle of water, an energy bar; and five 20-dollar notes for their trouble. Some will get eight, some ten. It depended on how good the supply was, of course. Mr Pike just knows how to pick them, they'd say. And no matter how much anyone wanted to argue that their blood is worth more than they were paid at the end of each donation, they always walk out grateful for what they were given. Odd feeling of nausea. Terrible dream. Chalked down to the side effects of losing blood, of course.

One pouch filled, warm in Howard's hand. It went straight into storage, chair wiped down with Sanicloth, a hygiene roll pulled over the surface, and he would call out the door, poking his head out as he swapped his twentieth set of gloves for today.

"Next please."

His door bangs, the sky bursts like a water balloon across the Sierra Nevada, and Miriam invades his nighttime rituals, the balance of the scale tipped.

One am, thunder rolls, his lights flickering. Yanked out of bed, or still in Purgatory, Nicholas stands eye-to-eye with the bird-legged Stikini, whom they say will eat his heart.

He doesn’t wear a collar.

"I told you no one would notice. You are such a good dancer!" To illustrate her point, she slides herself into his grip and pirouettes under his hand. She pauses only to appreciate the outfit she's picked out for her companion, then she tugs him forward with her play-pretend strength.

"I'm thirsty. Let's find someone!"

Her voice against his ear made Benedict giggle as she seemed to breathe life into him. Time had been spent with mortals welcoming him to join them some to dance with him and others just watch him at times. Even as he had been moved around as though he lacked the strength to fight against his eyes always seemed to find Miriam. Only now that her hands were on his arm guiding him away from the endless movements was Benedict free from it all. Scents blending together it was a miasma to the senses and yet intoxicating. Chocolate curls were no longer neatly tucked behind his ears as the movement and touching had worked it into a frenzy. Benedict couldn't hide the smile the energy making him want to be swallowed by it all and become one.

Pulled closed he gave small kisses against her cheek giving another giggle. "I must have learned from the best. Never thought I could blend in with them." Haven't ever lived a life that granted this freedom Benedict was almost fearful that Rhosh would not be able to sway him away from visiting again. Dragging the ancient along next time as though he could share in the enjoyment.

𝒰𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 ℳ𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒍𝒆𝒕𝒐𝒆. 🎁｡˚ * ❄️ 𓂃 ࣪ ˖ ➷ ❪  @sunmad ❫

It's not a real sprig. It's not even a good fake sprig. It's literally an air freshener. For a car. Dangling over Mirka's head like a noose. But it is leaf-shaped!, leaf-green, and fragranced like prickly cool, wintry fir needles— the best a shitty gas station could cough up for two girls on the run— which means it will do, for now.

the chapel bell rings once, though no one has touched it.

arthur looks up from the basin where red water circles the drain, sleeves rolled to elbows, hands scrubbed raw around the knuckles. across the room, miriam stands in white like a candle that has learned to fear flame. for a moment neither of them speaks. prayer hums under the floorboards. footsteps move somewhere beyond the door.

he hides the stained cloth behind his back.

⸻ 𝚖𝚢 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜. / @sunmad