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| Sadness Is A Blessing; Closed (Church) | |
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| Topic Started: Wednesday, 9. April 2014, 07:57 (523 Views) | |
| Sawyer | Wednesday, 9. April 2014, 07:57 Post #1 |
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Friendly Neighborhood Vampire
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Knock, knock. Knuckles rapped on the apartment's heavy door. Had he forgotten his keys somewhere? He fumbled around in his pocket with sluggish fingers, too dazed to really process what he was doing. If he had been in a clearer state of mind, he would've remembered that he hadn't lived in this apartment in almost two months. His mind was unfortunately not anywhere near clear. Certainly not after a wasted blonde in the bathroom of some local dive bar. He was at the dangerous crossroads where you're wasted enough to think up idiotic things to do for shits and giggles, and still sober enough to follow through on them. Though he had no real idea what he was doing at Church's front door, an alcohol-induced time warp had dragged him up the stairs and down the hallway, and Sawyer was too far gone to think anything was out of the ordinary at all. Or maybe this just was the new normal: loss and shitty decisions. Sometimes the strangest mood would hit him, and he'd end up drawn back to Enfield, to streets she still haunted, and if he closed his eyes and stood very still, he could believe she was still close to him, hiding on the edges of his vision, smoking on a park bench with bruised knees and thousand year old eyes. Some gossamer phantom floating across foggy London sidewalks. If he just shut his eyes... The illusion would only last for a breathless moment, but even so, he kept being drawn back to his old neighborhood like a moth to a lamp, wings beating frantically as he launched himself over and over again into a lightbulb. Useless and inevitable. He wasn't sure if he honestly ever expected to find her, but while wasted and miserable, it didn't seem so far-fetched. He could just step right back into the recent familiar past, retrace his steps, and she'd be there, like a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. That... that would work, wouldn't it? Knock, knock. No punchline. No answer. He turned the knob. Unlocked. Huh. Struck him as a little odd that someone as paranoid as Church would leave the door open, but he wasn't going to complain. No friendly greeting rang out as he crossed the threshold. He was tired, so intensely tired, but now, he was home. Sort of. A silent, dark, and lonely home. But hell, he'd even take the freezer if it meant life could go back to the way it was only a few short months ago. After a few minutes of staring dumbly at the bare white walls of the apartment, it sunk in to Sawyer that he wasn't supposed to be here, and that no matter what his gut might say and no matter how drawn he felt to this place, his princess was in another castle. He wasn't in the mood to care. The familiarity of the place was enough to make him want to stay, regardless of how stupid that decision might be. It was emptier than it should've been, but it was still home. Or maybe she was just home, and this apartment just had more pieces of her than anywhere else in London. Like those shelves, he noted as his gaze wandered. Those stupid fucking shelves. They weren't even pretty shelves. She could do better than that. With a sigh, Sawyer sank to the floor, eyes slowly shutting. His back rested against the side of the couch, legs folded Indian-style as he tried desperately to summon up Aguirre from the abyss. That was a thing vampires could do, wasn't it? Why couldn't his clan have wound up with some sort of power that made things true just because you wished hard enough?! He'd take that over small talk with rodents any day. Please walk in, Aguirre. As he focused his entire limited, very-fuzzy brainpower on begging fate to provide him with a magically appearing Brujah, the rest of his concentration seemed to slip away, including the concentration that projected his mask. Why bother anyway? If by some miracle she did waltz through that door, she'd see exactly what she'd somehow ended up with- one overgrown decomposed kitty cat slumped against a couch like the worthless sack of shit he was. Please, please walk in. |
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| Church | Friday, 11. April 2014, 01:33 Post #2 |
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Putting the 'fun' in 'dysfunctional'
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This apartment sure feels different now it's down to just one. The original one. The guy who didn't put a single piece of himself into this place because he couldn't, he didn't know how. He doesn't have that kind of creativity or attachment to anything special to just him. He couldn't keep the people who shared it with him happy, or sane, or close, or...something. First Aguirre, then Flint and now...That asshole in question is me by the way, and after trying to stare at the TV come sun up, watch some Bonanaza shit, I find myself restless. The phone in my pocket hasn't rang or chimed or nothing - no response to my messages to you know who. I almost don't expect it anymore, cause Mac don't do anything that Mac don't wanna do. I even tried 'calling' her. Like, reaching out to her and putting myself on the map for her. Something supernatural and, I fooled myself thinking, irresistible. By seems of it, that's fallen on deaf ears too. I got stuck on this thought and got angry. When I was angry, I realised that I was hungry. And those two sure as shit don't mix. Church has the self control of a saint when it comes to the beast...but if I'm hungry I don't usually get a chance to argue my case to it. So I pull on some pants, a sweater, boots and I'm out the door. Twenty minutes later, I'm fumbling my keys out. Shitfaced. One thing I do love the brits for, they can fucking drink. And maybe picking on some guy who was trying and failing miserably to piss in an alley and keep his balance wasn't so smart. I'm officially off the wagon, cause how the hell else am I gonna kill time? I ain't got no hobbies, no friends. Getting drunk and watching old movies for eternity...sounds great. Maybe I'd consider it if the fucking super got the elevator working and I don't have to bumble up and down the stairs like a fucking loser ghost for jebus know's how long. God that sounds lame. Depressing. Even as I pull my pocket inside out and see the key clatter across the floor someway I'm thinking I need another drink. Something to just...kill my brain for the night and not give a fuck. Huh. That's weird. Door won't unlock. The key slides in fine but don't seem to be clicking as I turn it. I try the handle. Oh. Did I leave this open? Man I really should be more careful, someone could easil- "Fuckin' christ!" Boy I hope I don't wake the neighbours (ha), but it's warranted given the fact that I'm staring right into the big light bulb eyes of 'I don't fucking know.' A fleshy looking gargoyle sat in waiting right behind the fucking door. It's enough to actually make me stumble back out into the corridor and stare with furrowed brows, only moving when it needs a kick to swing back open and reveal...well...This ain't no spry assassin getting the drop on me, no Archbishop deciding it's time to cash in on my soul...it's a fucking rat...well dressed and a glum looking one to boot. Oh for fucks sake... "Flint? Is'sa you?" For what looks like something rotten and corpsey, he's got the sort of frame I remember. And I'm sure I've seen that jacket on him. Still don't explain what in the flying fuck he thinks he's doing. "Ss'there a reason yassneakin around in my fucki-" I shouldn't finish that sentence. Firstly, well, I'm lonely. Also, pretty sure I'm slurring. |
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| Sawyer | Thursday, 17. April 2014, 15:46 Post #3 |
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Friendly Neighborhood Vampire
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When the door opened, his heart might as well have skipped a beat, were it beating at all. Enormous yellow eyes rounded into comically large orbs of surprise, and if you looked at them long enough, there was the distinct light of... hope? Church, however, wasn't exactly staring. More glancing, jumping, and fleeing. Sawyer thought back to an elevator with a certain personal assistant and sighed. "Aw, quit it," Sawyer groaned as the big Brujah did some sort of goofy version of the hokey pokey and hopped out of the room. Should he be offended? He felt like maybe he should, but then again, he was basically a burglar. Not a lot of room for offense there. "I know I look like shit, but Jesus Christ, you ain't exactly radiant yourself." Really, Church wasn't. Not when it looked like he'd attempted to drink an entire bar's worth of kine singlehandedly. Not when even his stagger of surprise was clumsy and uncoordinated. And not when there was a certain pathetic quality to his voice that just didn't fit the growl Sawyer usually associated with him. "Is there a reason you're sneakin' around?" He slurred back like a childish challenge, before remembering that this was, in fact, Church's apartment. Hmph. "Pft. Like you could even call that sneakin'. Yeah, you sure as fuck wasn't embraced Nossie, stumblin' around like raaarghhh, CHURCH SMASH!" He raised his broad arms in a half-hearted smashy-flail, looking more than a little Godzilla-like with those claws at the ready. If he'd had a little more presence of mind, he might've attempted to hide or flee at this point. He didn't. Pay no attention to the dinosaur in the living room. With a groan, he let his head roll back and rest against the couch arm. "Uh. Anyway, uh, hi. I sorta... forgot?... that I don't live here no more. Yeah. So, uh. Should I leave?" Edited by Sawyer, Thursday, 17. April 2014, 15:48.
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| Church | Friday, 18. April 2014, 18:28 Post #4 |
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Putting the 'fun' in 'dysfunctional'
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Yup, that's definitely a Sawyer Flint propped up against the couch. That or there are more southerners running around the city with ugly faces. That's too much. England for the English and all that racist jazz. Nope, definitely my buddy. All drunk and weird. Well, that makes two of us. What's he saying I ain't radiant? I have it on good authority that I'm pretty as a picture. Course, bitch ain't around to testify that right now, but...God dammit. I bite my tongue and stumble inside, shutting the door behind me and turn back to- "I ain't sneakin, thas'why, you..." You what? Decomposing flesh bag? A tad harsh, considering what a bad hand every Nos get's dealt. "Sposed to be me?" I raise an eyebrow at the monster who flails around from the comfort of his backside. And besides, me and Flint? We're perhaps not the closest of friends, but, we are friends ain't we? Well, more like acquaintances maybe. We never lingered around each other too long without an Aguirre available to mediate, or a Mac to pick on us both equally. Now we're both alone...funny that. Not 'ha-ha' funny, more 'I wanna open a vein just to pass the time' funny. "Naw, you ain't gotta leave, buddy." I swat some air in his direction in a motion that indicates 'fill your boots.' Though I dunno if this is the best place for him to hang around in if he's missing a certain someone. And a little tickled on the vine by seems. For some reason, I can only imagine Flint drinking wine. Red of course. Suits his little monkey ass to the ground. "Never had to in the first place, y'know? But I get it." It's true. He could've stayed, I would've let him. I miss the football talk, the childish banter when watching his childhood movies and my lost childhood potential heroes. I've taken the necessary steps (albeit not in a straight line) to loom over the ugly fuck now, glancing back at the door that he seems to have found himself stationed in front of. I offer a hand with his big ass up off the ground...and I can't help but sigh. "C'mon, pal. Nuttin' to see here." |
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| Sawyer | Wednesday, 30. April 2014, 17:56 Post #5 |
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Friendly Neighborhood Vampire
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He accepted the hand up with a slight groan of confusion. "I couldn't stay. You know that, man." His expression was nigh near impossible to read, but his tone was faintly apologetic. Had it been wrong to leave Church at the same moment when everyone else had? Honestly, the thought had never occurred to Sawyer. He'd always assumed that Church didn't exactly hold him in high regard, and that the Brujah would barely even notice if he was gone. Maybe... well, maybe someone should've stayed to keep an eye on him. Wasn't that what Aguirre felt her mission was? To keep her mentor going straight? "But thank you," he added awkwardly. He hadn't said those words often enough to Church. Lord knows he owed him. With a sigh, he leaned against the couch, suddenly a bit unsteady on his feet. Was this the only time he'd honestly been alone with Church, the only time Aguirre hadn't been lurking somewhere on the edges of the scene? "The first time I came over here, it was 'cause I wanted to make sure you were, I dunno, safe. Relatively speakin'. For an undead bloodsucker. You get my drift." He paused, one fang nibbling at his lip as he gazed down at his shoes awkwardly. Why was he talking about this all of a sudden? Those memories belonged in a completely different time, before he'd embraced the full depths of his own stupidity and fucked everything up with blood and promises. Things could've been so different for both of them. For all of them. "She was super into you then, man. Should've heard the way she talked about you. Sorta surprised she never... I mean, y'all never... nevermind." He wasn't sure he wanted to finish that thought, even though the implications had nagged at his mind for the better part of eight months. Sawyer had never been good enough for Aguirre. For every time that she apologized for wrecking his life, he had to remind himself that it had been his selfishness that brought the two of them together, even when he knew she wanted someone else. What kind of person did that, even if they weren't an undead sewer monster? He glanced around the room uncomfortably. It was almost like one of those eerie displays in museums- homes frozen in time, snapshots of a normal life taken out of context. It was as if Aguirre could come waltzing in at any time, or maybe she was just hiding behind the bed like she always did. Even books were still on the shelves, undisturbed and gathering dust. Like Church would ever touch them. "Why do you still have those fuckin' shelves?" He asked suddenly as a feeling he couldn't put a name to rose in his throat. "They aren't even nice shelves. Jesus Christ. They're just some bullshit tutorial she found on Pinterest. As if that was supposed to pass as actual furniture. I just... I hate them. I hate them so much. Can I just...?" One hand rested against the uneven grain of the cheap composite board. It wasn't even real wood. God, he hated these shelves. "They'd make a great bonfire," he offered with a falsely cheerful grin. "We could totally have a fire dance. C'monnnn." |
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| Church | Thursday, 8. May 2014, 14:37 Post #6 |
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Putting the 'fun' in 'dysfunctional'
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Ugh, gorramit it Flint. I hadn't planned on getting plastered, but it had been a nice little bonus to find myself stumbling back to the apartment with a head too cloudy to think those barbed thoughts. Getting touchy-feely with my fellow southerner and rat extraordinaire wasn't something I expected to be on the cards. I wanna forget that Aguirre isn't here as much as Mac, though for quite the different reasons. The fact that Mouse departed from London after thirty years hiding away, leaving for the first time without me or Flint actually there with her. It's unnerving. Sure, London isn't a picnic. In fact, I'm pretty sure there's a mouth to hell open somewhere nearby seeing the amount of nasty shit that is spewing forth. But fuck if I don't feel safer here than I would in America. I wave off Flint's thanks without so much a thought, and squint as he sways a little into position on the couch. He really is one ugly fuck ain't he? A shit hand when it comes to picking your poison on blooding. I'd take Brujah rage over that nasty shit any day, cause at least it can be somewhat managed. Or can if there was a certain ghoul for me to take out my frustrations on and have it graciously accepted. Fuck. Stop. Stop it right fucking now. I find myself trying to follow Flint's words with all my mental might, but ill feelings can't help but linger in the back. "Surprised we never...?" What? Oh. He couldn't possibly mean that...right? It's an unpleasant thought. Not because of her, but because of me. Maybe I am a little sweet on her, maybe if she wasn't so...delicate? The thought provokes more, more memories of being awestruck by people and, unbeknownst to them, becoming completely and utterly devoted to the person that they are. Some people were able to take advantage of that. Some weren't. Unfortunately it was the latter group that I found myself yearning to look at me as I looked at them...and when they didn't, I would make them. Princess was in a class of her own in that regard. Able to deny my addiction at a moment's notice but so did enjoy indulging. The way her eyes regarded me while I tried my darndest to get them to roll into the back of her head. I feel fucking sick. I gotta look away from him, try to extinguish the sticky acidic burn in my guts as my jaw locks tight as a defence to vomiting. I take a few random steps about, walking a small circle as I try to push this angst out of mind. It's proving difficult with all the fucking reminders around the place. So much so that even Flint seems to be offended by the sights. I look at his gross ass with confusion as he confesses his hatred of all shelves. Can you just what? I find myself thinking as he lays a hand on it, and close the gap my feet have made. At the word 'fire' I'm wrapping my meaty fingers around his wrist. "No wiseguy ideas...Ya really don't wanna be 'round fire rightnaw." I warn him in as friendly a manner as I can muster. I understand completely this is why he couldn't have stayed, but even so, this little visit ain't a free pass to burn everything that reminds him of her. Her things remain exactly as they were when she left, not even I get to touch. And especially no god damn Flint motherfucker. Ordinarily I might've gave him a clip for such a suggestion...but he's hurting. So bad that I'm hurting a little for him. Maybe it's the booze - well it's definitely the booze - but I kinda wanna help him out instead of clobbering time. "Ya start dancin' with flames an'yer gone fuckin' over th'darkside. If tha's whacha wan' you might aswell..." Woah hold on a minute Church, don't start listen Sabbat rituals you may or may not have seen that may or may not be extremely beneficial to Flint's current predicament. Fucking rat will sell you out in a heartbeat to the Capes. Let them print some propaganda shit and have your head cut off in front of the whole city as a educational seminar. But looking at his real face, as hard as it is to really read into anything, I can tell his heartache. And his discomfort of being remotely close to anything his lover left behind. His bullshit smile is fucked over by his pleading eyes. I suppose it's like...he's worth as much to her as the shelves. Fucking bummer. So I relinquish my hold and clasp my other hand on his shoulder and give it a pat. Hopefully it's comforting and not weird. "C'mon, buddy. Whaddya say we get outta here...go have some fun, hmm?" I don't know what constitutes as fun for Flint, I sure know what it does for me. Get this shit faced feeling even grimier, get further down that fucking hole and make everything feel numb and cold. That way...there really ain't anything to feel bad about. Then we can go smack punks about for shits and giggles, get our dicks wet with the first bitch who jumps on and not even remember her face. Boy that sounds good. Might need to get some things from the stash..."Fuck it, we can burn this whole fucking city down. Or try. Startin' wiv Hackney...Now that'd be a fire dance an'a half....I mean, if they're all dead over there...maybe she'll have'ta come back..." I mumble, a little clearer than my previous slurred speech as I seem to be on some sort of revelation thought chain. If you're gonna do it, go big or go home, right? |
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| Sawyer | Thursday, 24. July 2014, 07:45 Post #7 |
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Friendly Neighborhood Vampire
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When Church grabs his wrist, pulls him back, Sawyer stills. He's not even breathing; it's a routine he's forgotten in the haze of the blood, laced with liquid oblivion. For a moment, his beast threatens to flare up, to tear this place to shreds himself, to destroy any reminder of her. He wants to pound fists into Damon's stupid face, wants to tear claws into his own, unravel himself scrap by scrap and bone by bone until there's nothing left at all. "You knew, didn't you?" His voice is quiet, almost a whisper. "Back then. You knew it wouldn't last. How long was you standin' there? Why didn't you stop us?" He remembers the Brujah in the doorway, that unreadable expression on his face. Sawyer had tried to laugh it off then, like he always did. As if the whole thing was one big cosmic joke, something that could be brushed off with a smile and a heaping dose of misplaced optimism. But Church had known. He had to have known. "You really love her? Cause I'm seriously wondering if you're retarded." I am, Church. I really just am. He wants to beat his head against the wall until there's either a massive hole or he's got a concussion that puts the one Aguirre gave him back at the Pitt to shame. Anything to quiet the ache inside his skull, the feeling he can't put a name to, the knowledge that she's out there and maybe she needs him and maybe she's hurting and maybe she's moved on and maybe she's not feeling anything at all and he'll never, ever know. But instead he starts talking. Because he's an idiot. Because there's nothing he loves more than the sound of his own voice. Because he's too drunk to do anything else, and if he doesn't talk, he might start crying, and he's not that far gone yet. Is he? "I keep tellin' myself she'll come back. That she just needs time, y'know? Distance. I get that. She does need that. It's a good thing. She'll come back better. She... ain't been herself in a long time. You know it. I know it. She knew it." He catches himself. Past tense already? "Knows it." "And then... sometimes it gets real quiet, my apartment's empty. It's new, so it don't really look like anyone's livin' there. My shit's still boxed up, there's nothin' on the walls. Just bare, right? White. Like... like a hospital or somethin'. Nothin' permanent, a waitin' room. Somewhere you get to leave, somewhere you're only passin' through. I guess part of me's kinda hopin' I don't have to unpack none of it, 'cause when it's empty like that, well, I can pretend a lotta things, can't I? That she's there too, that she just stepped out for a lil' bit. That nothin's really changed, or that if it has, it's only changed for the better, we're only gettin' a fresh start, a second chance." He pauses, a wry little smile twisting across the wreckage of his hideous face. Enormous eyes close, and he tilts his head back. For a moment, he feels dizzy. Lightheaded. He wants to believe that's just the drink, but somehow, he's not convinced. "But I'm not gettin' a second chance, am I?" If she was smart, she'd stay gone for good. She'd take care of herself. She'd learn to be alone, to watch her own back, to live for her own happiness instead of trudging along out of guilt on behalf of other people. If she was smart, he'd never speak another word to her again. It would tear him apart night by night, and in every silence he'd hear her, and every time he'd close his eyes she'd be flashing in front of them, but one evening, some evening, he'd wake up, and she wouldn't be lurking in the back of his head anymore, and he'd realize she was better off gone, and he'd be content with that. He'd know the debt was paid. That she was free. That they both were. "I wish it'd been you. It should've been you." A fluke. It'd been a fluke. His own damn fault that he'd kissed her in the warrens, that he'd been stupid enough to believe they were meant to be together. He'd never admit it sober, never admit it to himself, but somewhere inside his abysmally thick skull, he knew. He never should've touched her. She could've been happy. Every dose of reality she'd gotten had come because of him. She could've lived in her own cocoon for decades more, hidden and happy and safe. When he'd met her, she'd been brave and sweet and better than any of them. Damon could've kept her safe. He knew what he was doing, wasn't stumbling through this life like Sawyer was. She had wanted Damon then. And all she'd gotten was him. What sort of sick joke was that? He didn't want to know. He didn't want to feel anything at all. "Does it ever stop? This feelin'? I want... I wanna do somethin' that'll make me forget. Just for a lil' while." When he finally lifted his gaze and caught Church's eye, it was obvious he was begging, more pathetic than ever. "Let's get out of here. Please." Nothin' will make me forget. |
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1:15 AM Jul 11