#ofc Jean’s feelings of angers are understandable + depression is also an Illness that has an obvious impact on how one acts

[databroker]

I want to beat Jean Vicquemare with a baseball bat.

[luwha]

Early Waltz

(This is the free drabbles i’ve been writting for my current RPG session, Vampire The Masquerade)

Warnings: Violence, innacurate mental illnesses, sexual themes, vampires so ofc blood af, i guess?

None of the texts were revised by me or fixed the grammars and sentences, so have mercy on me:

Early evening, Waltz.

Even though Waltz was known by it’s sheer smell of smoke and sweat, the long lines of cocaine and terrible, oh, terrible music, the earlier it got the more the music sounded slower and calmer. And the bass was being tuned, on the coffin, handmade, with a lot of old covers and painted in a dull tasteless black, the ink has experied and the wood not polished, rested Alle, a vampire.

Or tried to rest, as the music reverberated on his confined space, and he knew it was his own bass getting ready. Still, to early to leave the coffin safely, he picked from under his pilow an cigar butt, from a few that laid there as his bed did, and an almost empty lighter, shaped like a canteen. Lighted, he let the smoke form a tiny layer over him, getting his head a bit dizzy from the lack of oxygen.

He wouldn’t die because of it, not again. ‘You will’ the introspective voices of his constant madness kept teasing, weak and meaningless like they always were, at least on the status quo. It was almost impossibe to count time and hours as he dove into the constant distractions and feelings he had to fight so much to keep at bay, and what brough him back was his one night stand leaving his room without a hi or anything.

Not that he cared anyway.

He followed, not caring to dress up more than putting his old ass jeans, very alike with the pants he had when he died. Also shirtless, just as he died, chest exposed and daring the death to take him by the hands. Walked out, without shoes too, stepping on broken glass, dried fluids he wanted to believe it was just vodka or beer, so much dirt. The place was nasty, he had to agree, but if it was just a bit cleaner the low lifes wouldn’t feel like the place was meant for them, meant to be their grave as some killded themselves, some drinking for their very lifes. The Dealers, the depressed and crazy, all welcome to Waltz.

Being him one.

Down there, gina was almost done with the instrument, the bass so old the arm had some splinters, and the woman wasn’t surprised when he picked it without the armband, holding it like it was nothign with his left arm, checkign the tuning. Soemtimes Alle couldn’t believe she wasn’t a vampire, her tuning being greater than the glock she carried around: Waltz was a nightmare of a place.

His servant approached, after having a talk with the said night stand; a much older vampire, and without being given a chance to talk, Alle stole the cigar from his mouth, a thin line under the leather mask. Wasn’t Waltz a place for all sorts of heavy metal and death threats, he’d be mistaken by a BDSM enthusiast, but there he was nothing more than a Rammstain fan. The leather covered the ruins of his face and skin, a thin thing that felt like the remains ofver a corpse, a sign of his fall as a vampire.

And he spoke of the news. The schedule of his show, the drummer kept harassing a girl that soon pulled a knife, and Alle liked it. Those woman were the soul of that place, all of them being powerful on their sorts, and he was a silent shadow with them, making sure the man around wouldn’t dare to threat. And about woman, he offered his cigar to Gina with a small tilt of his head, she took it and left, the long nails short on the middle and ring fingers of both hands. The dark red nails. Blood.

The bar was getting fuller and fuller as the time passed, and wasn’t even 8pm and there were already people with weed and heroin, and Alle’s skin itched for some needles, but he let go.

His one night stand borrowed his phone, and he watched with a smile on his face as Kizar tried to sort how the tiny thing worked, and he didn’t miss a heartbeat to mock the man, moving the phone away as Kizar tried to sort out how exactly the voice got there, and where he had to speak. Older vampires were hot as hell but equally dumb on their perceptions.

Baleen was there, around them, fingers with claw-like nails twicthing. Yeah, thrusdays were those days that named the place, and thnaks to Cain his head was on it’s peak performance when he started to play, songs from his own composition, him being the only one that didn’t had a gutteral voice for vocals. A call, call for death hidden under poor metaphos of dugs, a dare to be put under the earth with an ancient call, followed by a reverberation of his bass.

Clichê, wasn’t he? A vampire who had a band, ironic. He couldn’t focus on the crowd, his vision blurred and mixing with the sounds, his perceptions so high he got confused and dizzy, almost missing a step and falling from the makeshift stage. The crowd didn’t bother to cheer or enjoy as it would be expected, them being a sort of people who would like the music to follow their deepest dreams, brought to the surface with the uneasy help of alcohol and sex.

And it was okay, he though. He wouldn’t cheer either, but yelling at the top of his lungs was relieving,  a loud cry for war, a loud cry for death. The ending song, he picked one everyone used to make a small shitty mosh pit, Ratamahatta, but on the bits of it, he felt his hair on his nape shiver. A prey, he found a man on his middle 50’s almost passing out right there in the middle of the stablishment, themosh pit made of drunkyard humans being a great distraction.

Then he let the feelings come, tears on his face from nowhere clear, sensations he didn’t understand, he almost felt like he crossed a plane of ethereal existance, his fingers missing the accords heavly like if he had never learned how to play, and his gaze on the old man.

And then madness, he let his own madness be part of him, and he could feel him drop as his eyes forgot they could see, the man letting the bootle fall as quickly as Gina and Baleen rushed to get him, the excuses the same as always: “We don’t want y'all to step on him” or “we’re getting help” or anything fitting, most of them went missing unoticed and nothing stopped on Waltz to pay attention to that soul. He wasn’t even the first on of the night, three people passed out on the corners, a woman vomiting her guts out as her girlfrind held her. But that man was dragged, eyes seeing but blinded, ears listening the surreal sounds of fears, the brain unable to tell apart reality from fantasy, and he couldn’t scream.

Or he was screaming, inside his poor sad and human brain, that had now to eat the madness of almost a hundred years. An Vampire madness.

By the time the man left the song was over, and just two booed the missing lines and chords with the bass, unnoticed by the rest of the public, just as unnoticed as his tears and his small hard on of seeing a man fall victim of himself, Alle somewhat proud of how he could bear that on his head, being victim of this severe illness of mind. He felt more than that.. He was extremely excited, not fighing to hide his fangs or his inhuman movements, cold and clean.

without thanking the crowd, without talking, he dropped the bass on the stage like it was cheap like a pen and left, an interference lingering as the drummer ran to pick it up, cursing under his breath the owner of Waltz.

He knew where the man would be, and he signed for Kizar to follow, willing to show his friend a bit of his habits, feeling the anxiety now build inside as now his hands felt damn and his confidence vanished. A Cigar, he picked another now, smoking it fast and sorta furiously like the anger would help it to take effect.

Gina was already leaving the room, never asking anything about how shady it looked, but little she cared as she was the one who bribed the cops anytime it was needed. She probably killed more than three or four people and no one minded her business either. And she left with a “enjoy” on her lips. Could she be figuring out?

Would it matter? She cared so little.

On the corner, almost invisible, the nosferatu Baleen watched, the man laying on a old and rustied hospital strecher, covered in fluids and mostly blood, unable to move and yet without a single restrain. The man was free to go, but his mind chained him. What could he be listening to?

Alle walked, passionated and completly forgetting Kizar there, paying no attention as he dropped on the floor and held the man’s hand, with so much respect it would be holy if wasn’t just miserable, the callous hands, the tip of the fingers darkned either by hard work or illness, the smell of vodka, the pants pissed because his body couldn’t hold in any longer as the dementia devoured his head. And the man was nasty overral, clothes unfit and full of holes, discolored and strained with marks of sweat and oil, sweat damping under his unkept beard, back row of teet rot and his drool stinky with a little of vomit. Unmatching shoes.

Like Alle. Alle held the hand and drew it closer to his won face, cheeks smooch and hairless, he pressed the palms then against his lips, kissing the disgusting hands of the man, fat with hydratation problems form years of alcohol abuse, skin and coundtless horrors under the nails, only trimmed by tooth and swiss knife. And oh, he loved that, the misery of those low humans, the dull and hard skin that told stories of their ruin, like fallen rocks and vines in old temples, and he drunk the smell, he drunk the sweat, letting it smear on his lips and tongue now, an disgusting sigh.

It was terrible, worse when Alle stood up, watching the man now, not letting go of the hands that he kept on his face like a mother’s care of a child. then watched the eyes, not reacint to the dim light, the breath so random it was surprising he didn’t pass out yet, the drool now forming a mop on the shirt, and oh he wondered how that man was bearing it all, a cruel smile hiden with the fat fingers as he wondered what he was seeing, listening to, things Alle saw everyday, every single day for a hundred years.

—————

He couldn’t stop seeing that, as it ate the man, as it ate himself, his eyes numb as the man shown, now also his color’s, the lips other times thicker and cracked now felt so soft, both sharing more than a cruel bound of life and death and thousand taboos written by the mankind, but nos hsaring one mind, one long drawn whisper that asked them so may times; why, how, when.

So like him, the old man, so like him the hair that would’ve been so pretty and long but the lack of care made it oily and uneasy to caressing touches, so like him the tiny moans escaping the cries of the victim, strangled by, so like him, the madness, the detachment form the reality.

That sweet corpse was now him, and for a moment his brain couldn’t tell them apart, whow as who, as Alle felt his hands touching his cheeks and felt the same hands on his own, beyond the weirded eyes of Kizar and indifferent of Ballen.

And that would take so damn long, wouldn’t it? Kizar didn’t have a heart for suck bullshit, this living poetry that didn’t touch anyone’s heart or mind, the charm of the words lost in deafen ears as he picked his own dagger and calmly pushed on the old man’s left eye, playing with the body like he played with his targets on his list.

A long and loud scream form Alle threatened to overcome the song playing on the bar over them, an horrifying scream of agony, scaring both Baleen and kizar, a scream of sheer pain as alle held his own face. Kizar has stabbed his own eye,, his brain told him, his brain believed on that so damn much he felt the phantom pain of it, not yet understanding why he could see, see with the missing eye now beying toyed with on kizar’s hand.

And he saw the body laying there, himself, the socket where it should be, his blood spilling as his head felt weak and his stomach felt pain, trying to hold in the disgust, the fear of the image of himself laying there, laying like the old man havent felt pain, his body not reacting to the nerves impulse, the warm blood… … warm blood that didn’t even reached Alle’s nose, yet hoolering in pain from the stabbing.

- What’s going on? Is he gonna stare in silence like this? - you bet, sir, 'an’t tell what’s goin’ on there. Never bothered him before. - You two never shared? - Kizar asked, surprised that Alle didn’t offer them the man. - We do, sir, but he always do som’ weird shit before lettin’ me have it.

Alle felt deafened by the scream, the sound reverberating on his ears. He turned his head away from his own body on the rusty bed, but the turn was enough to spin his vision and make him puke, a clear vomit that had only alcohol and nothing much else. He tried to walk away, his knees feeling weak as his brain still forced him to see over and over the image, over and over his own eye, the black eye, on kizar’s hand.

He’d lost his appetite, he’d lost his will and strenght, striggling to leave the place that now felt so bright and clear, like it was being scorched by the sun itself. He couldn’t find the way ou, his blinded eye there but not being able to communicate, his mind somehwre else.

He’d fight if he could, who was the man that dared to blind him, the knife familiar.. The doorframe offered him support as he found out that the eye he no longer had could tear up like the reality surrounding him.

Or a surreality, per say, dragging him as he no longer could listen anything, or clearly see.

- Eh, he’s losing it. - Ballen commented, sighing. Long night ahead, it seems. - Tight! - Kizar laughed, interested more on the blood from the man than anything.

He didn’t want to look, and didn’t have to, his body laying there, his body calling, his body asking for it, for the end, for the request and defiance to the death he made a hundred years ago, a long lingering beg.

“And this is what’s last, what’s left of you, a corpse, a corpse a corpse that can no longer stand on a place, stand still on this reality. Do you know your name? And then what else do you know?” his body cried from behind him, the hair becoming longer and longer and the edges becoming liquid and gross like oil and tartar.

- Shut the fuc’ up..! - He whined low, lips not moving.

- See, he’s hummin’ now. - Baleen added. - Ain’t that dope or what. - Is it like this every time? - Nah, sir, he usually dances with the corpses. - Disgusting. Ballen laughed. - It sure is, sir.