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Chapter 13Chapter 13
Dmitri woke up the way he always did; by struggling to lift his head.
The next thing his consciousness would register was that foul thirst. Only a man lost in the far reaches of the Sahara desert, the sun pounding down upon their face, would understand this thirst. The sort of thirst that drove a man mad, tore at senses and destroyed almost every capability of rational thought.
"Just once," he whispered to himself, staring up at the coffin lid, "Just once God, let me wake up feeling normal. Please?"
God never answered Dmitri. But that did not mean Dmitri thought God didn't exist. He figured instead that by becoming one of the undead, the Man Upstairs had put any prayers from him straight into the bin. Like junk mail. They did not even get a second glance. Just recognised for the junk they were and tossed aside.
He groaned and with one weak arm pushed away the coffin lid, wincing as it clattered off the side, swinging around on its hinge. He grabbed the two sides and p
How Much Fathers Live in Sons"Sometimes," Max said, "Sometimes... I think I only cared about you because Dmitri did. I only loved you because I was supposed to, but it never really meant anything."
Jan paled, "Don't you say that."
Max shook his head and blew out a breath, like years of smothered emotion were threatening to overwhelm him. Jan watched him, shaking his head too, but while Maximilian was struggling to restrain the turmoil within him, something in Jan's chest seemed to sink, and all of him felt a thousand times heavier. It was a struggle to cross the room and to put his hands upon his son's shoulders; Jan made Max look at him.
"Don't you say that!"
"It was always him," Max replied, "It was always him. Sometimes I thought I might have done anything to get the sort of attention he did. It was me you held at arm's length, never him."
Jan tightened his grip on his son's shoulders but not in anger, "And you preferred Richard!"
"Richard was never my father," he said, so honest it was painful, "Sometimes I wa
Playing a FoolAs they left Henry's presence, and Richard struggled to find his composure again, they lingered for a moment at the doorway. Jan wanted nothing more than to march back into the room again, and to kill Henry where he stood. He had no sympathy for Richard; if the man wasn't capable of standing up for himself than that was his problem. But Jan refused to be ordered around like that. He had come to Britain to live an independent life after all, not to be crushed under the heel of another despot.
"You're not really going to listen to him are you?" he asked.
Richard did not reply. His usually bright expression had faded with shame, the lustre was gone from his eyes, and despite his bulk he seemed a diminished man. He blew out his nostrils, sighed, and shook his head with dismay, cursing himself more than Henry Berkeley.
"Don't listen to a thing he says," Jan scolded, "Keep having your council meetings. And if Henry doesn't like it then he can deal with me this time. Henry won't dare lay a fi
Chapter 11Chapter 11
It was natural that he should pass out.
He had lost a great deal of blood after all but he was having a hard time remembering how it had happened. His mind didn't seem to want to work in the way it should; his perceptions were skewed as though in a dream world where logic, reason and all rational thought had never tread. He had not felt the teeth rip into his flesh; he did not remember where he was or even who he was. In this place he just existed, a shadow, with no form or shape or sense of self.
He was overwhelmed with feelings of joy and despair, of loss and the excitement of eternity before him. He was overcome with something he could not even give words to. There was light, and there was darkness, and both seemed the same as the other. They welcomed him, called to him, touched him. He felt both as part of his being and his heart felt like it could not bear them.
It was struggling, yes, he had a heart now. He was aware of it now somehow. It resonated deep within h
LatreuophobiaI wash off sick-sweet orange lipstick in front of a mirror as dusty as gothic romances. It tastes like oblivion, that is to say, like nothing my tongue can detect.
The door opens with a creak no private restroom could emulate. Some chick with blue bobbed hair and smeared eyeliner. I looked like that once. Ten years ago.
Getting the beer out of my hair is harder. Some men just can't take it when I'd rather they not kiss my feet or call me an angel or-
“Dayum girl, you look like a goddess.”
I gulp, taste of acid.
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