Post by Mildre(a)d "Bagley-Aldaine" on Nov 18, 2010 5:13:20 GMT -5
Mildread, Daughter to the Prince of Vampires and the newest addition to the family, stared down at the poster in her hand. It was funny. If she had still been human, instead of the thing she was now, her hand would've been shaking uncontrollably. On the other hand, if she was a human... this poster wouldn't exist, and neither would the situation. It was sort of a paradox, but not one that really had any consequence. It wasn't like she wanted to shake, after all. It was a sign of weakness, something she had been glad to be rid of. But this? This? This was something that affected her, whether imagined or not. She took an unneccessary swallow and scanned the poster again.
Her picture was on this poster. Sure, it was an older picture, but it was still obviously her. And it said stuff, too; words, even. Have You Seen Me? She hadn't asked that, not a single time in her life, but apparently someone was asking for her. The poster even had her full name on it, something she hadn't heard, read, or even thought about for ages. It was something that she'd never even told her Daddy, striking it away with the rest of her old life. It was starting to strike her that it was something that she would never hear towards herself again, spoken by an exasperated father or a scolding mother, by a forgetful teacher or clueless substitute.
"Mildred Bagley-Aldaine."
The words, her name, felt weird, foreign on her tongue, teeth, lips. The same set, the same mouth that'd stolen the life of another, so eager and so soon after she'd been turned. What was she back then? What was she now? The same questions plagued her consciousness, the ones that had floated around all along but needed something like undeath to bring them to the forefront of her thoughts. She was always like this after she ate, too, extra emotional from the memories, blood, life she'd consumed for a week or two. Her meal had been an easy catch, a drunken vagrant simply lying in the dirt in an alley. It felt cheap, sure, but he wouldn't be missed. The town seemed to have a reliable amount of random homeless men, anyway, enough that one or two gone here and there would be treated as victory rather than tragedy. Besides, she'd found the poster among his few belongings, in a pile that seemed to be for bedding. She had him to thank for her discovery this evening, but now his life was somewhere inside of her. Should she be thanking herself? She contemplated that, for a moment, but it (like all other things, such as herself and the vagrant) passed soon enough. Back to her name, her thoughts went.
It was such a terrible name, really, but it was hers. Why, she remembered, back in her hometown streets, back when she was tiny... (It was a tough memory to drap up, but it was still in there somewhere. For a second she was filled with determination, belief that she was a happy blonde girl who loved sunflowers, but the feeling went away soon enough. It happened sometimes, when she was trying to remember. She mostly ignored it.) When she was little, her good friends Earnest and Harold had always teased her about her unfortunate name. 'Why do you have four names, Mildred?' they would poke fun at her, because most of them had only three. It didn't help that they had fancy, modern names, like 'Pratchett' and 'George'. Her name was something she was mildly ashamed of, but it was nothing to hide. It was just a name, after all, and she liked it. "Mildred". No one had that name. It made her feel cute yet beautiful, youthful yet regal. Or something like that.
She scanned the poster for the umpteenth time. Apparently, mere information on her was worth a hundred Galleons. She blinked at that. It obviously wasn't her parents coughing up the cash, then. That kind of money would put them in the green for the first time since her premature birth. No way they'd give it up for that same problematic, absent daughter, would they?
...Would they?
For the first time in... How long had it been, since her Prince, her Daddy had turned her? Months? Weeks? Years? She had no concept of time anymore. She knew it was longer than months, but just how many months? How long had she left the world behind, to walk the world in darkness with her new father? How many days had she slept, hidden away, safe for the first time?
She couldn't answer. There was no way to tell, and it was a trivial matter anyway.
But for the first time in months, she thought of her family, long ago left behind in the land of sunlight and mortals.
She didn't know what exactly it was that she was feeling.
She didn't like it.
What would her parents think of her now? Sure, at the moment she looked as close to the picture as she would ever look again. Maybe if they saw her, they wouldn't notice the difference. Hell, maybe they'd even be happier, having a smarter, prettier daughter who didn't near-die every time she came in contact with anything besides her own hands. But it wouldn't last long, she wouldn't stay this way forever. She'd have to feed every week or so to keep up the facade, the masquerade, and someone would notice the population thinning at some point. She wouldn't get lucky every time, and it wasn't like she was the best, most proficient hunter. Her kills were often messy, opportunistic. She'd even fed off of parts from a recent murder scene, one she'd luckily come across minutes after whoever had been there had left. It wasn't exactly satisfying, and there was barely any life left in those limbs... The blood had tasted ashy, unfilling. It was almost a waste to eat it, but it was something.
So what would her parents say?
What would Richard Bagley-Aldaine, her father, think of the way she, his flesh and blood, lived? Surely he wouldn't approve?
She couldn't ever see them again. He wasn't her daddy anymore. She had a newer, better one, one that kept her safe from the dark by putting her in it and keeping her there and her old daddy had sent her to a different country to die and now she was dead but it was good, and she wasn't Dead, and
She let the poster fall to the floor.
She wanted to do something. She wanted to cry, wanted to scream. Wanted to kick out and hit something.
Why couldn't she cry?
She felt a very, very dry sob rise up in her, confusions and memories twirling around her form like so many bandages, a feeling she was used to and almost welcomed.
She bent over, kneeling on the ground. She started to heave, started to choke. A moment or two, and thick, dark blood came dripping from her mouth, splattering across the cold stone floor.
She stared down at the modest puddle of rank, brackish and damned ichor slowly spreading on the floor. A moment or two later, she straightened up, moving away as she wiped at her mouth. It was disgusting, and it was the most she could do. She didn't feel any better. She couldn't cry, couldn't yell, couldn't break stuff for fear of punishment. She still felt that feeling, building up in her hollow chest.
She looked down, and stared at her hands. Big smears covered her hands, streaks of reddish black marring the pale, perfect canvas that was her skin. What was she now? What were her parents? Was there a difference? Was she different? Why couldn't she have just died, drowning in a rain gutter? Pounded to bits by a bludger? Bled out in the dungeons, broken her legs in town? Why was she alive, why was she dead, why was she here? Why didn't she just disappear?
Everything would've been better.
She couldn't do anything right.
She took a wine bottle off a nearby dusty crate, an ancient empty relic from who-knew-how-long-ago, and busted it open on her arm. Nothing. She took the jagged end and mercilessly stabbed into her arm, repeatedly slashing at it, digging deeper and deeper as the glass chipped away, some stabbing into her skin further, others falling onto the ground. Sluggish, darkened blood trickled out of her wounds, which only made her slowly building rage worse. She'd been hurt enough times to know that that wasn't how blood was supposed to flow. She was nothing, she was everything.
She was nobody, now, even more than when she was alive.
She tore at her arm repeatedly, wishing for tears to come where none were dripping. She yelled as she ripped her skin, her veins and arteries, willing for pain to flood her and stop her. She sunk that glass so deep between her tendons that it was a wonder there was anything left. She flung the bottle at the wall, glass exploding in a rain of dark and red, ruined arm dripping blood across the floor and adding to the mess she'd made.
Her name was Mildred Bagley-Aldaine, and she was a fucking abomination.
Her picture was on this poster. Sure, it was an older picture, but it was still obviously her. And it said stuff, too; words, even. Have You Seen Me? She hadn't asked that, not a single time in her life, but apparently someone was asking for her. The poster even had her full name on it, something she hadn't heard, read, or even thought about for ages. It was something that she'd never even told her Daddy, striking it away with the rest of her old life. It was starting to strike her that it was something that she would never hear towards herself again, spoken by an exasperated father or a scolding mother, by a forgetful teacher or clueless substitute.
"Mildred Bagley-Aldaine."
The words, her name, felt weird, foreign on her tongue, teeth, lips. The same set, the same mouth that'd stolen the life of another, so eager and so soon after she'd been turned. What was she back then? What was she now? The same questions plagued her consciousness, the ones that had floated around all along but needed something like undeath to bring them to the forefront of her thoughts. She was always like this after she ate, too, extra emotional from the memories, blood, life she'd consumed for a week or two. Her meal had been an easy catch, a drunken vagrant simply lying in the dirt in an alley. It felt cheap, sure, but he wouldn't be missed. The town seemed to have a reliable amount of random homeless men, anyway, enough that one or two gone here and there would be treated as victory rather than tragedy. Besides, she'd found the poster among his few belongings, in a pile that seemed to be for bedding. She had him to thank for her discovery this evening, but now his life was somewhere inside of her. Should she be thanking herself? She contemplated that, for a moment, but it (like all other things, such as herself and the vagrant) passed soon enough. Back to her name, her thoughts went.
It was such a terrible name, really, but it was hers. Why, she remembered, back in her hometown streets, back when she was tiny... (It was a tough memory to drap up, but it was still in there somewhere. For a second she was filled with determination, belief that she was a happy blonde girl who loved sunflowers, but the feeling went away soon enough. It happened sometimes, when she was trying to remember. She mostly ignored it.) When she was little, her good friends Earnest and Harold had always teased her about her unfortunate name. 'Why do you have four names, Mildred?' they would poke fun at her, because most of them had only three. It didn't help that they had fancy, modern names, like 'Pratchett' and 'George'. Her name was something she was mildly ashamed of, but it was nothing to hide. It was just a name, after all, and she liked it. "Mildred". No one had that name. It made her feel cute yet beautiful, youthful yet regal. Or something like that.
She scanned the poster for the umpteenth time. Apparently, mere information on her was worth a hundred Galleons. She blinked at that. It obviously wasn't her parents coughing up the cash, then. That kind of money would put them in the green for the first time since her premature birth. No way they'd give it up for that same problematic, absent daughter, would they?
...Would they?
For the first time in... How long had it been, since her Prince, her Daddy had turned her? Months? Weeks? Years? She had no concept of time anymore. She knew it was longer than months, but just how many months? How long had she left the world behind, to walk the world in darkness with her new father? How many days had she slept, hidden away, safe for the first time?
She couldn't answer. There was no way to tell, and it was a trivial matter anyway.
But for the first time in months, she thought of her family, long ago left behind in the land of sunlight and mortals.
She didn't know what exactly it was that she was feeling.
She didn't like it.
What would her parents think of her now? Sure, at the moment she looked as close to the picture as she would ever look again. Maybe if they saw her, they wouldn't notice the difference. Hell, maybe they'd even be happier, having a smarter, prettier daughter who didn't near-die every time she came in contact with anything besides her own hands. But it wouldn't last long, she wouldn't stay this way forever. She'd have to feed every week or so to keep up the facade, the masquerade, and someone would notice the population thinning at some point. She wouldn't get lucky every time, and it wasn't like she was the best, most proficient hunter. Her kills were often messy, opportunistic. She'd even fed off of parts from a recent murder scene, one she'd luckily come across minutes after whoever had been there had left. It wasn't exactly satisfying, and there was barely any life left in those limbs... The blood had tasted ashy, unfilling. It was almost a waste to eat it, but it was something.
So what would her parents say?
What would Richard Bagley-Aldaine, her father, think of the way she, his flesh and blood, lived? Surely he wouldn't approve?
She couldn't ever see them again. He wasn't her daddy anymore. She had a newer, better one, one that kept her safe from the dark by putting her in it and keeping her there and her old daddy had sent her to a different country to die and now she was dead but it was good, and she wasn't Dead, and
She let the poster fall to the floor.
She wanted to do something. She wanted to cry, wanted to scream. Wanted to kick out and hit something.
Why couldn't she cry?
She felt a very, very dry sob rise up in her, confusions and memories twirling around her form like so many bandages, a feeling she was used to and almost welcomed.
She bent over, kneeling on the ground. She started to heave, started to choke. A moment or two, and thick, dark blood came dripping from her mouth, splattering across the cold stone floor.
She stared down at the modest puddle of rank, brackish and damned ichor slowly spreading on the floor. A moment or two later, she straightened up, moving away as she wiped at her mouth. It was disgusting, and it was the most she could do. She didn't feel any better. She couldn't cry, couldn't yell, couldn't break stuff for fear of punishment. She still felt that feeling, building up in her hollow chest.
She looked down, and stared at her hands. Big smears covered her hands, streaks of reddish black marring the pale, perfect canvas that was her skin. What was she now? What were her parents? Was there a difference? Was she different? Why couldn't she have just died, drowning in a rain gutter? Pounded to bits by a bludger? Bled out in the dungeons, broken her legs in town? Why was she alive, why was she dead, why was she here? Why didn't she just disappear?
Everything would've been better.
She couldn't do anything right.
She took a wine bottle off a nearby dusty crate, an ancient empty relic from who-knew-how-long-ago, and busted it open on her arm. Nothing. She took the jagged end and mercilessly stabbed into her arm, repeatedly slashing at it, digging deeper and deeper as the glass chipped away, some stabbing into her skin further, others falling onto the ground. Sluggish, darkened blood trickled out of her wounds, which only made her slowly building rage worse. She'd been hurt enough times to know that that wasn't how blood was supposed to flow. She was nothing, she was everything.
She was nobody, now, even more than when she was alive.
She tore at her arm repeatedly, wishing for tears to come where none were dripping. She yelled as she ripped her skin, her veins and arteries, willing for pain to flood her and stop her. She sunk that glass so deep between her tendons that it was a wonder there was anything left. She flung the bottle at the wall, glass exploding in a rain of dark and red, ruined arm dripping blood across the floor and adding to the mess she'd made.
Her name was Mildred Bagley-Aldaine, and she was a fucking abomination.