As a kind of thank you for those who have followed my blog and an apology for being so absent recently, I’ve decided to post my entire prologue on here. However, I will warn you: IT’S VERY DARK AND ISN’T SUITABLE FOR YOUNG CHILDREN AS THERE’S SOME LANGUAGE IN IT… Okay, since that’s over, here you go. And do feel free to tell me what you think.
Prologue: The Dead Room
I charge thee, fling away ambition:
By that sin fell the angels.
-William Shakespeare, Henry VIII
The body lay under a bare light bulb. One side of the bulb had shattered and the filaments stood exposed and vulnerable. It swung in a lazy arc, swaying back and forth, throwing shadows and light across the walls.
The scent of blood lay thick and heavy on the air. It clung to the tattered drapes like invisible cobwebs, imprinting torn fabric with the ghost of a memory. It would be the sharp, bitter tang of copper, sweet lifeblood…
(Lost things)
and would linger there forever. He dropped the dagger to the floor with a soft thud and a smile. It lay there; stained; useless. He’d never even needed it, but it didn’t hurt to be sure. She could not be allowed to live.
Overhead, the bulb began another descent. The wire gave a definitive creak as it swung down, pulling taut. The stranger ignored it, glancing out of the remains of the broken window. Night had chased the dying sun away just an hour or two ago, leaving a city of glittering lights in its wake. A trail of fireflies. Pretty, if you were the sort who appreciated a city that never truly slept.
(Here’s your hat, what’s your hurry?)
That explained New York- a relentless, elegant pounding that echoed in your ears, a collection of people moving through life so fast they blurred and became oblivious to the orchestra of misery surrounding them. Just one glance down and he wondered how many children were out there, living on the streets. How many people walked by and watched it happen- or averted their eyes with distaste? Mortals were always the same. Gone in the blink of an eye, as the saying went. He should know, he’d watched for long enough.
The light bulb spun once more, casting shadows into the corners of the room.
It was a mess. He’d seen humans living in slums before, but never by choice. Empty bottles lay scattered all over the floor and something…
…Ah yes, something tainted the air like a trickle of poison, a feeble wisp of aftershave caught on the air, as faint as a sigh. A caress. Just a suggestion, a hint, but enough to explain why the girl was only partly dressed. Lying tangled in the sheets in her underwear
(The glimpses of too-much-flesh disturbed him)
like a limp marionette. No chance, no, no chance to run- not before he’d cut the strings and severed her hold on life. The taste of her death laced his memories with a sweet rot. Her glassy eyes held half-shed tears. They congealed around the rims in pools, winking in the light, like diamonds dropped into dirt. Her mouth frozen; parted in a terrible parody of life, the words on her lips forever unspoken. Not even a whisper. Mascara ran down her cheeks in careless streaks.
Overhead, the light bulb completed another lazy arc.
He peered down, admiring the pattern of bruises around her delicate throat. Spots of blue, blooming on pale white skin. How odd, that in death she appeared so fragile and doll-like! Had he not, only a few minutes ago, had to wrestle the life from her? Had the feisty creature not torn into him with nails sharp as tiger claws? Perhaps desperation could lend strength. Not that it mattered. He felt that laugh growling up his throat, that hoary chuckle that refused to be repressed. He gave in to the paroxysms without a second thought.
(I know why you ran.)
But not fast enough, oh no.
The wind rustled the soft fabric of his cloak, bringing the distant drone of sirens. It reminded him of why he loved the City.
Because, with his hands bathed in red, he thought he understood it. That beautiful façade with the dark pulse thrumming beneath
(Like looking in a mirror.)
was perfection. Beauty.
Beauty always stemmed from cruelty, he thought.
(All things truly wicked start from innocence.)
A sound startled him into awareness, but a quick glance down told him it was only a fox, rifling through an overflowing garbage can. Perhaps it was only his imagination, but the image sent chills up his spine. Still, it couldn’t be… It just wasn’t possible.
Nevertheless, he needed to leave. He gripped the edges of the windowsill and watched the paint begin to flake beneath his fingers. Something crunched under his foot…
…glass.
In the darkness, the shards glittered and the girl’s blood became an ink black. Mesmerized, he bent down to pick one up, hissing as it sliced through his palm. He bit back a cry of
(Jesus H CHRISSST!)
and spat at the body. The bitch’s fault. Always the damn bitch’s fault.
A shadow and a heartbeat later he was gone, with nothing but a dead room and a bloody red handprint on the wall to suggest he’d ever been there.
coffeeandmissingstars 