was her God. She had built Him altars of emptiness and worshipped Him in temples of isolation. She'd wasted her life in his service.
Assuming this was alive, she felt like she'd been given a second chance. If she was alive, she was done with Fear and his little smelly minions.
First things first, she wobbled unsteadily toward the bathroom. She didn't want to start her new fearless life with wet pants. She looked down as she passed the mirror as always. Ok, she was almost done with fear and his smelly minions.
A few minutes later, she searched through the medicine cabinet, parsing through her dewy-decimal encoded library of misdiagnosed cures. Past the antidepressants, to the left of the sleep aids, behind the mood eveners...ah! Painkillers.
She exceeded the recommended dose and washed the capsules down with water cupped in her hands from the sink. Straightening with the aid of hands on the edge of the sink, she faced the music and looked into the mirror.
And immediately burst out laughing. She was a yellow plastic mountain! The shiny yellow plastic of the wrinkled poncho covered her like hair on a gorilla. The hood's elastic border puckered around her grave face and dripping chin. A black tuft of hair had staged a prison break and now protruded from under the elastic and was plastered to her forehead. She looked like an imaginary friend on some over-the-top children's program. She looked like Grimace and Big-Bird's love child.
Cautious of her stiff limbs, she struggled out of the poncho. Underneath, she was a wreck. Ripped and stained clothes, the same cuts and bruises, though they were looking better today. She angled her head to take another look at her atomic hickey, but wasn't able to locate it. Weird. She probed the area with her finger and felt only a slight hardness beneath the skin.
In videos, the mark always disappeared when the vampire turned.
Now that was just crazy thinking... if she let it continue, the next thing you know she'd be wearing wet ponchos to bed. She grimaced into the mirror, stretching her lips back over her teeth. She had an almost imperceptible flash of the dead man's curving teeth from her fever-dream, but her teeth were just as they had always been. She was too exhausted to try the growling again; besides, that worked better as a spectator sport anyway.
The windows were completely polarized, so she had no idea what time it was. A small pang of panic hit her as she realized that she probably hadn't set the alarm last night and might have overslept. She consulted her watch and breathed a sigh of relief as it told her that it was only 6 pm. She still had five hours before she had to be at work. She struggled out of her destroyed clothes and into the shower, fighting her uncooperative limbs every step of the way.
Later, in the kitchen she felt much more normal. It was amazing what a twenty-minute shower, fresh clothes, and an overdose of painkillers could do for you.
Still alive. With the oddest sense of optimism, she reached for the refrigerator door, looking for something to feed the ol' fire. She cried out in pain as her hand smashed into the closed door, fingers crumpling painfully against the handle. As always, she had just expected her hand to close on the fridge handle, but her reflexes had dropped the ball.
As she shook the soreness out of her fingers, she noticed that felt odd too. It was as if she had to think more, envisioning nearly every little movement or her body would do the wrong thing. She took a few steps in the cramped kitchen and noticed that she really had to focus to do it, and try that while chewing gum? ...forget about it.
She shuffled back to the fridge and flexed her sore fingers a few times before trying the door again. Carefully, carefully, she felt the cool metal of the handle, relaxed her fingers and they opened around it- now just a gentle squeeze and she could pull the door open. Unfortunately, just as she was getting into that final squeeze, she started
Assuming this was alive, she felt like she'd been given a second chance. If she was alive, she was done with Fear and his little smelly minions.
First things first, she wobbled unsteadily toward the bathroom. She didn't want to start her new fearless life with wet pants. She looked down as she passed the mirror as always. Ok, she was almost done with fear and his smelly minions.
A few minutes later, she searched through the medicine cabinet, parsing through her dewy-decimal encoded library of misdiagnosed cures. Past the antidepressants, to the left of the sleep aids, behind the mood eveners...ah! Painkillers.
She exceeded the recommended dose and washed the capsules down with water cupped in her hands from the sink. Straightening with the aid of hands on the edge of the sink, she faced the music and looked into the mirror.
And immediately burst out laughing. She was a yellow plastic mountain! The shiny yellow plastic of the wrinkled poncho covered her like hair on a gorilla. The hood's elastic border puckered around her grave face and dripping chin. A black tuft of hair had staged a prison break and now protruded from under the elastic and was plastered to her forehead. She looked like an imaginary friend on some over-the-top children's program. She looked like Grimace and Big-Bird's love child.
Cautious of her stiff limbs, she struggled out of the poncho. Underneath, she was a wreck. Ripped and stained clothes, the same cuts and bruises, though they were looking better today. She angled her head to take another look at her atomic hickey, but wasn't able to locate it. Weird. She probed the area with her finger and felt only a slight hardness beneath the skin.
In videos, the mark always disappeared when the vampire turned.
Now that was just crazy thinking... if she let it continue, the next thing you know she'd be wearing wet ponchos to bed. She grimaced into the mirror, stretching her lips back over her teeth. She had an almost imperceptible flash of the dead man's curving teeth from her fever-dream, but her teeth were just as they had always been. She was too exhausted to try the growling again; besides, that worked better as a spectator sport anyway.
The windows were completely polarized, so she had no idea what time it was. A small pang of panic hit her as she realized that she probably hadn't set the alarm last night and might have overslept. She consulted her watch and breathed a sigh of relief as it told her that it was only 6 pm. She still had five hours before she had to be at work. She struggled out of her destroyed clothes and into the shower, fighting her uncooperative limbs every step of the way.
Later, in the kitchen she felt much more normal. It was amazing what a twenty-minute shower, fresh clothes, and an overdose of painkillers could do for you.
Still alive. With the oddest sense of optimism, she reached for the refrigerator door, looking for something to feed the ol' fire. She cried out in pain as her hand smashed into the closed door, fingers crumpling painfully against the handle. As always, she had just expected her hand to close on the fridge handle, but her reflexes had dropped the ball.
As she shook the soreness out of her fingers, she noticed that felt odd too. It was as if she had to think more, envisioning nearly every little movement or her body would do the wrong thing. She took a few steps in the cramped kitchen and noticed that she really had to focus to do it, and try that while chewing gum? ...forget about it.
She shuffled back to the fridge and flexed her sore fingers a few times before trying the door again. Carefully, carefully, she felt the cool metal of the handle, relaxed her fingers and they opened around it- now just a gentle squeeze and she could pull the door open. Unfortunately, just as she was getting into that final squeeze, she started
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