Being raised a child of abuse led to one being able to do certain things. One of those things was internalize all those feelings brought your way. Another is to find an outlet for it. That was how Rhiannon survived her childhood. Rhiannon’s outlet came in the form of school, and an old string instrument that her music teacher was kind enough to give her. It turned out Rhiannon held a lot of natural talent when it came to music, both playing and reading and writing the music. She had near perfect pitch. Violin was the only thing that encouraged her, and she practiced for hours and hours wherever she could. She was able to get lost in the beauty of the sound, imagining a much better world than the one she had been living.
In one way, that prayer was answered while she was in college, but it would turn into such a nightmare that she almost wished for the mental abuse of her parents. At least that wasn’t visible on her skin. She had married Matt at the end of college, and over time, things had changed. She wasn’t allowed to have friends, he slowly and subtly cut her off from her family, friendships, took careful control of her finances, even when she got her own well-paying job, and began to control where she was allowed to go, and finally, she was no longer allowed to play the violin in the house. When Rhiannon was confused by all these rules, as they were recent, strange and new, it led to several fights between them. When Matt lost his job, the financial burden then fell into Rhiannon’s lap, but without any actual control, the debt mounted higher and higher. As it would anyone, this irritated Rhi, leading to more fights, especially when Matt started acting really really weird.
One night, when she thought he wasn’t home, she took a risk, and let herself play the violin for a while. What she didn’t realize was when he heard this, in his drunken, and unknown to her, high state, set him off. He came after her, screaming and yelling, his hands wild as he took her violin and destroyed it...., by breaking it over her body. In turn, this set Rhi off in defence, and the two wound up in a fight that would end which three of Rhiannon’s ribs being broken, her face swelled and her head spilt open in the hospital. Angered and hurt, she couldn’t decide what to make of this, and made the moronic decision to try and work it out. This did not work out for her, as the days turned into weeks, and months and turned into tears of lying, and cheating. The abuse also escalated, especially when Rhi started secretly drinking to numb the pain of his fists, and eventually, his more sexualized attacks when she refused to sleep with him.
She bought another violin secretly, and she keeps it now in her office. As she worked that evening, she looked at it, and smiled. Recently, she had joined an amateur orchestra. Since no matter what she did, she would get hurt, she took the risk of joining it, using her occasionally late hours to cover for her absence at home. She was due to meet with them tonight, but she worried. Her body hurt a lot tonight, and as she checked her face in her small mirror, she noticed the flesh bruises were deepening. She sighed as she added and smoothed a little more makeup, wincing lightly as she moved her arms. Matt’s handprints were colourful explosions under the long sleeve shirt, but she was determined to try. At The end of her day, she shut down her computer, and walked to her boss’s office to see if he needed anything. All he asked was if she was ready to talk about it. With a shake of her head, she grabbed her violin case and left work.
The night was cool, but not so cold she couldn’t walk. It would be getting to that point soon enough, but for now, she could leave her car at work, in case Matt ever decided to take a trip over. She walked down the few blocks too the meeting house, but once inside, didn’t interact with anyone. Instead, she moved to sit on the bench, sighing as she laid down her violin case. Her hands and arms hurt, so she wasn’t even sure she’d be able to play. She winced lightly as she went to wrap her bruised fingers around the neck, and brought it up to her shoulder. For a moment, she just moved her fingers, just to see if she could. Then she realized she needed to know if she could. She had no idea what to play. She wasn’t a particularly religious woman, but there was no version of this song that she didn’t like. Closing her eyes, she picked up her bow, and just started to play.
In one way, that prayer was answered while she was in college, but it would turn into such a nightmare that she almost wished for the mental abuse of her parents. At least that wasn’t visible on her skin. She had married Matt at the end of college, and over time, things had changed. She wasn’t allowed to have friends, he slowly and subtly cut her off from her family, friendships, took careful control of her finances, even when she got her own well-paying job, and began to control where she was allowed to go, and finally, she was no longer allowed to play the violin in the house. When Rhiannon was confused by all these rules, as they were recent, strange and new, it led to several fights between them. When Matt lost his job, the financial burden then fell into Rhiannon’s lap, but without any actual control, the debt mounted higher and higher. As it would anyone, this irritated Rhi, leading to more fights, especially when Matt started acting really really weird.
One night, when she thought he wasn’t home, she took a risk, and let herself play the violin for a while. What she didn’t realize was when he heard this, in his drunken, and unknown to her, high state, set him off. He came after her, screaming and yelling, his hands wild as he took her violin and destroyed it...., by breaking it over her body. In turn, this set Rhi off in defence, and the two wound up in a fight that would end which three of Rhiannon’s ribs being broken, her face swelled and her head spilt open in the hospital. Angered and hurt, she couldn’t decide what to make of this, and made the moronic decision to try and work it out. This did not work out for her, as the days turned into weeks, and months and turned into tears of lying, and cheating. The abuse also escalated, especially when Rhi started secretly drinking to numb the pain of his fists, and eventually, his more sexualized attacks when she refused to sleep with him.
She bought another violin secretly, and she keeps it now in her office. As she worked that evening, she looked at it, and smiled. Recently, she had joined an amateur orchestra. Since no matter what she did, she would get hurt, she took the risk of joining it, using her occasionally late hours to cover for her absence at home. She was due to meet with them tonight, but she worried. Her body hurt a lot tonight, and as she checked her face in her small mirror, she noticed the flesh bruises were deepening. She sighed as she added and smoothed a little more makeup, wincing lightly as she moved her arms. Matt’s handprints were colourful explosions under the long sleeve shirt, but she was determined to try. At The end of her day, she shut down her computer, and walked to her boss’s office to see if he needed anything. All he asked was if she was ready to talk about it. With a shake of her head, she grabbed her violin case and left work.
The night was cool, but not so cold she couldn’t walk. It would be getting to that point soon enough, but for now, she could leave her car at work, in case Matt ever decided to take a trip over. She walked down the few blocks too the meeting house, but once inside, didn’t interact with anyone. Instead, she moved to sit on the bench, sighing as she laid down her violin case. Her hands and arms hurt, so she wasn’t even sure she’d be able to play. She winced lightly as she went to wrap her bruised fingers around the neck, and brought it up to her shoulder. For a moment, she just moved her fingers, just to see if she could. Then she realized she needed to know if she could. She had no idea what to play. She wasn’t a particularly religious woman, but there was no version of this song that she didn’t like. Closing her eyes, she picked up her bow, and just started to play.
Gandrell had learned to play the violin in 1784. He was called a virtuoso, and his natural talent had been encouraged, though not taught. What he knew he had figured out himself through trial and error. He had been gifted with a knack for being able to determine the proper cords to use in most situations, though he had no clue what an actual cord was, let alone a scale.
He had been so celebrated and nurtured that his arrogance and perceived perfection had prevented from finding a master to teach him the proper ways to play. He created the most tantalizing music, but his technique and was form were horrific to the true violinist, though no one could fault his talent or keep up with him when he played. It had once been said that Gandrell played like the Archangel Gabriel had possessed his hands for the music to sound so Heavenly. That had been over two hundred years ago.
Present Day, New York City
Gandrell's eyes popped open as the sun began its decline towards the horizon. He was strong enough in the blood that the last rays of the sun would do nothing to him if he were to expose himself to them. Though there was no need to worry about any of that nonsense. His domicile was far underground where nothing could touch him. Pushing the blankets off him, he climbed out of his silken, black clad California King bed and shook his naked form a little, getting the blood flowing in his limbs. He meandered over to a rather impressive wine refrigerator that was installed into the wall of his massive, stone walled bedroom and selected a bottle from the dozens there. He checked the label and grinned wickedly to himself, excited about the prospect of what was in the bottle. Moving over to a small counter with an electric kettle plugged in and ready for use. He flicked it on and set the bottle on a counter next to the heater, waiting for the water to boil. As he waited, he stumbled to the bathroom and turned on the shower to the hottest setting.
He turned on the lights in the bathroom and took a long look at himself, studying his physique. He looked like he could be sixteen or seventeen with the lack of body hair and no five o'clock shadow ever to darken his face. The bitch who had changed him had seen to that, shaving him with a straight razor before working the dark gift on him. And after two hundred- and fifty-years years he still appeared to be that of a prepubescent boy. Though there were certainly attributes of his body that screamed - adult male. The steam from the shower was starting to fog up the mirror now, which was his cue to hop in. His skin was so impermeable that the water rolled right off him, but the heat felt amazing, and he was going to absorb as much as he could. He didn't need to bathe, it was just something he enjoyed, so it became routine. After a few minutes he figured his water would be boiling and he turned off the shower and stepped out. He used a towel to polish himself, if you will.
Exiting the bathroom he checked the electric kettle and indeed, the switch had turned itself off which meant it was nice and hot. Gripping the handle, he filled a champagne bucket with the hot water and placed the bottle into it, allowing the water to heat the contents, turning the bottle lazily with his fingers until he determined that was enough and removed the bottle from the water. He gripped the cork and pulled gently, so not to break the lip of the bottle. It slid out of the glass beautifully, leaving no cork residue inside the lip. Now that he had his breakfast, twenty-four and a half ounces of some very sensational blood he had acquired from an eighteen-year-old virgin as she was climaxing for the first time. It was luscious. Don't be mistaken, he was not the predator to steal the girl's virginity, only the blood during the event. He had paid the guy $100 to allow him to hide under the bed and collect the sample. Savoring the flavor and the way it heated his body; he sauntered over to his closet to find his garb for the night.
He actually had a reason to go out tonight. He hadn't touched his violin in decades allowing the years to pass him by with no thought of how the strings whispered to him or sang in his capable hands. It had all been a freak coincidence how it happened. He had been wandering a busy subway tunnel when he came upon a man begging for money by playing the violin. His talent was prevalent, though years of drug use had taken most of his gift away. Gandrell had approached him and requested to use the instrument. He played a mournful tune that caused everyone in the subway to pause and listen. He earned the man a hundred dollars.
When he had given the instrument back to the beggar, Gandrell was approached by a gentleman who ran an orchestra, and he was looking for new talent. Gandrell went home and found his ancient violin and dusted it off. He oiled and polished the wood, tuned the strings and brought the sleeping strings to life with a few short strokes from his bow. He had only performed two shows with them so far and, though his playing was exceptional, he had never learned to read music - he just played from his heart.
He grabbed a pair of designer tattered looking, faded blue jeans with some decorative swirls of leather and bold stitching on the back pockets to extenuate his ass. He then grabbed a black V-neck t-shirt and pulled it on. It was tight enough that it hinted at the ripped muscles below the fabric. Gandrell was no buffed up, bodybuilder, but his body was lean and what muscles he did have were etched on him like he were a piece of marble - an Adonis, or as he preferred an Eros. He took a few long tugs on the bottle, allowing the blood to saturate his thirsting muscles, his skin, his hair, his fingers and his eyes brightened to their piercing arctic blue. He finished off the bottle, tossed it in a glass recycle bin by the door of his room and grabbed a black and red leather riding jacket off a coat stand by the door. It was time.
He stepped onto his old rickety elevator and slammed the accordion gate shut and pushed the button for G1. It wasn't a slow ride, but it was slow from him. He who could move like the wind when he wanted. A bell dinged and Gandrell yanked open the accordion door and stepped into his massive garage. If you have ever seen Iron Man, the set-up Tony Stark has, it was something like that. Motorcycles, luxury SUVs, sports cars all lined one side of the massive room. The other side of the room had everything one would need to maintain and fix all these vehicles. But they were only toys, not really needed, except when he was playing human. He walked past his collection of Ferraris - all black, of course. His Aston Martin - also black. His Rolls-Royce - black and chrome. And his Bentley Mulsanne - black. He then moved past his motorcycles, his Harley - black and his Dodge Tomahawk - black and then he had a Honda Shadow - black. The smallest, least luxurious bike possible - but it was believable. He had even done a little aftermarket work on it, just to make it really look like his pride and joy. He wouldn't dare show up at practice with one of his multimillion-dollar cars or bikes. 1. It wouldn't be there when he came out of the club and 2. People would want him for his money and not his proclaimed talents, of which he had many. Pulling his jacket on, he straddled the little bike and kicked it into life, his violin case was then secured to his back so it would be safe during transport.
Feeling particularly nostalgic tonight, must be that young virgin's blood raging in his veins, he pulled up the soundtrack to 'The Lost Boys' turning up the volume to nearly full blast. He pushed a button next to the bike and a ramp opened up leading to the street. As the movie's theme song 'Cry Little Sister' started its unmistakable opening beats, Gandrell hit the gas hard and shot out of the garage and directly into traffic. His preternatural senses allowed him to behave in such a reckless way, for he would have more than enough time to self-correct should he have made an errors in his calculations.
Tearing through the busy Friday night streets, music blaring for everyone to hear, whether they wanted to or not. He was the type of asshole that would pull up next to a car blaring rap and turn opera up full blast, just to piss them off. But not tonight, tonight it was all 80s movie reminiscence in all its hair-band glory as 'Lost in the Shadows' frenzied out of his speakers. As he pulled into the parking lot of the rehearsal hall ten minutes before rehearsal started - he always showed up ten minutes before start time.
Gandrell was new-ish to New York. He had been sharked away from his astoundingly successful bartending career in the French Quarter of Bourbon Street in New Orleans, Louisiana. Gandrell had never wanted to live anywhere but New Orleans, but he had been convinced to give New York City a try. He had been in the city a little over six months and, so far, was not that impressed. The party scene was just as good, if not better in New Orleans. The women were more beautiful, and the tourism never stopped. Gandrell had become the vampire bartender of Bourbon Street and had a different gig each night of the week all over the French Quarter, raking in the cash. Here, he worked four nights a week – two at a gay bar and two at an up-and-coming bar…the promise that had brought him here: Strangelove Bar - Graffiti covers most surfaces in this funky, low-lit watering hole with a punk-rock vibe. He didn't need to work, but not work was just so monotonous that the social butterfly of a vampire would have gone crazy otherwise.
Hands stuffed in his pockets, he strolled into rehearsal, looking like he belonged at a rock concert rather than a place that produced glorious classical music. He slipped into the seat next to a woman he didn't recognize and leaned closer to her, interrupting her playing to ask, "Do you know what pieces we're supposed to play tonight?" He had no sheet music, but if he knew the songs, he could listen to versions on them on his phone and be ready.
He had been so celebrated and nurtured that his arrogance and perceived perfection had prevented from finding a master to teach him the proper ways to play. He created the most tantalizing music, but his technique and was form were horrific to the true violinist, though no one could fault his talent or keep up with him when he played. It had once been said that Gandrell played like the Archangel Gabriel had possessed his hands for the music to sound so Heavenly. That had been over two hundred years ago.
Present Day, New York City
Gandrell's eyes popped open as the sun began its decline towards the horizon. He was strong enough in the blood that the last rays of the sun would do nothing to him if he were to expose himself to them. Though there was no need to worry about any of that nonsense. His domicile was far underground where nothing could touch him. Pushing the blankets off him, he climbed out of his silken, black clad California King bed and shook his naked form a little, getting the blood flowing in his limbs. He meandered over to a rather impressive wine refrigerator that was installed into the wall of his massive, stone walled bedroom and selected a bottle from the dozens there. He checked the label and grinned wickedly to himself, excited about the prospect of what was in the bottle. Moving over to a small counter with an electric kettle plugged in and ready for use. He flicked it on and set the bottle on a counter next to the heater, waiting for the water to boil. As he waited, he stumbled to the bathroom and turned on the shower to the hottest setting.
He turned on the lights in the bathroom and took a long look at himself, studying his physique. He looked like he could be sixteen or seventeen with the lack of body hair and no five o'clock shadow ever to darken his face. The bitch who had changed him had seen to that, shaving him with a straight razor before working the dark gift on him. And after two hundred- and fifty-years years he still appeared to be that of a prepubescent boy. Though there were certainly attributes of his body that screamed - adult male. The steam from the shower was starting to fog up the mirror now, which was his cue to hop in. His skin was so impermeable that the water rolled right off him, but the heat felt amazing, and he was going to absorb as much as he could. He didn't need to bathe, it was just something he enjoyed, so it became routine. After a few minutes he figured his water would be boiling and he turned off the shower and stepped out. He used a towel to polish himself, if you will.
Exiting the bathroom he checked the electric kettle and indeed, the switch had turned itself off which meant it was nice and hot. Gripping the handle, he filled a champagne bucket with the hot water and placed the bottle into it, allowing the water to heat the contents, turning the bottle lazily with his fingers until he determined that was enough and removed the bottle from the water. He gripped the cork and pulled gently, so not to break the lip of the bottle. It slid out of the glass beautifully, leaving no cork residue inside the lip. Now that he had his breakfast, twenty-four and a half ounces of some very sensational blood he had acquired from an eighteen-year-old virgin as she was climaxing for the first time. It was luscious. Don't be mistaken, he was not the predator to steal the girl's virginity, only the blood during the event. He had paid the guy $100 to allow him to hide under the bed and collect the sample. Savoring the flavor and the way it heated his body; he sauntered over to his closet to find his garb for the night.
He actually had a reason to go out tonight. He hadn't touched his violin in decades allowing the years to pass him by with no thought of how the strings whispered to him or sang in his capable hands. It had all been a freak coincidence how it happened. He had been wandering a busy subway tunnel when he came upon a man begging for money by playing the violin. His talent was prevalent, though years of drug use had taken most of his gift away. Gandrell had approached him and requested to use the instrument. He played a mournful tune that caused everyone in the subway to pause and listen. He earned the man a hundred dollars.
When he had given the instrument back to the beggar, Gandrell was approached by a gentleman who ran an orchestra, and he was looking for new talent. Gandrell went home and found his ancient violin and dusted it off. He oiled and polished the wood, tuned the strings and brought the sleeping strings to life with a few short strokes from his bow. He had only performed two shows with them so far and, though his playing was exceptional, he had never learned to read music - he just played from his heart.
He grabbed a pair of designer tattered looking, faded blue jeans with some decorative swirls of leather and bold stitching on the back pockets to extenuate his ass. He then grabbed a black V-neck t-shirt and pulled it on. It was tight enough that it hinted at the ripped muscles below the fabric. Gandrell was no buffed up, bodybuilder, but his body was lean and what muscles he did have were etched on him like he were a piece of marble - an Adonis, or as he preferred an Eros. He took a few long tugs on the bottle, allowing the blood to saturate his thirsting muscles, his skin, his hair, his fingers and his eyes brightened to their piercing arctic blue. He finished off the bottle, tossed it in a glass recycle bin by the door of his room and grabbed a black and red leather riding jacket off a coat stand by the door. It was time.
He stepped onto his old rickety elevator and slammed the accordion gate shut and pushed the button for G1. It wasn't a slow ride, but it was slow from him. He who could move like the wind when he wanted. A bell dinged and Gandrell yanked open the accordion door and stepped into his massive garage. If you have ever seen Iron Man, the set-up Tony Stark has, it was something like that. Motorcycles, luxury SUVs, sports cars all lined one side of the massive room. The other side of the room had everything one would need to maintain and fix all these vehicles. But they were only toys, not really needed, except when he was playing human. He walked past his collection of Ferraris - all black, of course. His Aston Martin - also black. His Rolls-Royce - black and chrome. And his Bentley Mulsanne - black. He then moved past his motorcycles, his Harley - black and his Dodge Tomahawk - black and then he had a Honda Shadow - black. The smallest, least luxurious bike possible - but it was believable. He had even done a little aftermarket work on it, just to make it really look like his pride and joy. He wouldn't dare show up at practice with one of his multimillion-dollar cars or bikes. 1. It wouldn't be there when he came out of the club and 2. People would want him for his money and not his proclaimed talents, of which he had many. Pulling his jacket on, he straddled the little bike and kicked it into life, his violin case was then secured to his back so it would be safe during transport.
Feeling particularly nostalgic tonight, must be that young virgin's blood raging in his veins, he pulled up the soundtrack to 'The Lost Boys' turning up the volume to nearly full blast. He pushed a button next to the bike and a ramp opened up leading to the street. As the movie's theme song 'Cry Little Sister' started its unmistakable opening beats, Gandrell hit the gas hard and shot out of the garage and directly into traffic. His preternatural senses allowed him to behave in such a reckless way, for he would have more than enough time to self-correct should he have made an errors in his calculations.
Tearing through the busy Friday night streets, music blaring for everyone to hear, whether they wanted to or not. He was the type of asshole that would pull up next to a car blaring rap and turn opera up full blast, just to piss them off. But not tonight, tonight it was all 80s movie reminiscence in all its hair-band glory as 'Lost in the Shadows' frenzied out of his speakers. As he pulled into the parking lot of the rehearsal hall ten minutes before rehearsal started - he always showed up ten minutes before start time.
Gandrell was new-ish to New York. He had been sharked away from his astoundingly successful bartending career in the French Quarter of Bourbon Street in New Orleans, Louisiana. Gandrell had never wanted to live anywhere but New Orleans, but he had been convinced to give New York City a try. He had been in the city a little over six months and, so far, was not that impressed. The party scene was just as good, if not better in New Orleans. The women were more beautiful, and the tourism never stopped. Gandrell had become the vampire bartender of Bourbon Street and had a different gig each night of the week all over the French Quarter, raking in the cash. Here, he worked four nights a week – two at a gay bar and two at an up-and-coming bar…the promise that had brought him here: Strangelove Bar - Graffiti covers most surfaces in this funky, low-lit watering hole with a punk-rock vibe. He didn't need to work, but not work was just so monotonous that the social butterfly of a vampire would have gone crazy otherwise.
Hands stuffed in his pockets, he strolled into rehearsal, looking like he belonged at a rock concert rather than a place that produced glorious classical music. He slipped into the seat next to a woman he didn't recognize and leaned closer to her, interrupting her playing to ask, "Do you know what pieces we're supposed to play tonight?" He had no sheet music, but if he knew the songs, he could listen to versions on them on his phone and be ready.
The good news was that Rhiannon could play, even if it hurt. As she let her soul into the song she played, she let the music begin to take away the pain, the hurt transferred through the strings and out. Her eyes closed as she fell into it, moving easier the further she got into it, even if there was an occasional wince. The further her mind took her away from her body, and to a place of beauty. Where she wasn’t afraid to go home. Where her night didn’t depend on survival. Where she could practice and play, and actually be in love with the person she shared a house with, instead of fearing his every movement.
This beautiful serenity was broken abruptly, and the tear spilled when the pain all came rushing back into her body at the sound of the voice. Her hair was down, which covered her face, but her hands shook when she lowered the instrument to her lap. She didn’t even glance at the owner of the voice, a little irritated he had interrupted her, but having been trained never to speak, pretty much ever, she kept herself quiet as she reached beside her to grab the sheet music for the evening. It was a gorgeous piece really, she thought as she turned to hand him the sheet.
Even her hands were hurt, a few bandaged and a few more still slightly swollen. She took her hand back the instant he had them, covering them in her lap, flexing them to be able to play more, as one eye turned to look through the long pieces of her hair. She was surprised at how young he was, but she looked no longer than that, because one, she assumed he could read it, being in an orchestra, and two, because she had no thought for him other than that one.
At least, until she noticed him pulling out a phone. Curiously, she looked back to watch him, the curiosity growing as he looked up the song. Suddenly, she wondered if he could read music. Years ago, she would’ve asked. But today, a question like that had the risk of a consequence, or so she had been brain washed to believe, so wound as tightly as one of the violin cords, she just waited..., either until he gave back the music, or they were called to start.
This beautiful serenity was broken abruptly, and the tear spilled when the pain all came rushing back into her body at the sound of the voice. Her hair was down, which covered her face, but her hands shook when she lowered the instrument to her lap. She didn’t even glance at the owner of the voice, a little irritated he had interrupted her, but having been trained never to speak, pretty much ever, she kept herself quiet as she reached beside her to grab the sheet music for the evening. It was a gorgeous piece really, she thought as she turned to hand him the sheet.
Even her hands were hurt, a few bandaged and a few more still slightly swollen. She took her hand back the instant he had them, covering them in her lap, flexing them to be able to play more, as one eye turned to look through the long pieces of her hair. She was surprised at how young he was, but she looked no longer than that, because one, she assumed he could read it, being in an orchestra, and two, because she had no thought for him other than that one.
At least, until she noticed him pulling out a phone. Curiously, she looked back to watch him, the curiosity growing as he looked up the song. Suddenly, she wondered if he could read music. Years ago, she would’ve asked. But today, a question like that had the risk of a consequence, or so she had been brain washed to believe, so wound as tightly as one of the violin cords, she just waited..., either until he gave back the music, or they were called to start.
He had just been saying good night to a few of his coworkers when the server, Trey, came over and took Gandrell by the hand. Gandrell was guided to the table where his violin buddy was unconscious. He knew he would have to deal with this fast before his manager called the cops. He stooped down next to her and grabbed her purse. He rummaged through it until he found her wallet. He checked her driver's license and entered her address into the GPS on his phone. He then found her keys and tucked them in his jacket pocket.
He slung her purse over his shoulder and slipped his arms underneath her, cradling her like a baby in his arms. He walked out of the bar and headed to the parking lot. He had to search for a bit, but eventually he found her car. He laid her down gently in the back seat on her side, in case she threw up. He then got into the driver's seat and headed for her house. He drove much slower and more carefully than he would normally drive, just to make sure he didn't throw her around the car.
He parked her car in the driveway and got her out and into his arms. He opened the front door and stepped into the house. The scent of dried blood hit him, and his head turned, immediately looking for a dead body. He spotted a lump that looked like a body on the couch. He approached it to see if the lump was alive and it was, he could hear the heartbeat.
He moved past the living room and found the bedroom. He pulled back the blanket and top sheet and laid her down. Very respectfully, he removed her clothes and dressed her in what appeared to be her sleep apparel. He tucked her into the bed, lifting the sheet and blankets so she could sleep comfortably. He then, to combat the hangover, ripped his finger open on his fang and dripped a few more drops of his blood into her open mouth.
The house was a gruesome crime scene of excessive beatings and broken dreams. He sighed, his heart breaking for his 'friend'. If anyone needed a guardian angel, it was her. He turned back to look at her and grabbed her phone from the purse he had put on the nightstand. He quickly entered his number and entitled himself as the 'Guardian Violinist'. He then sent her a text that read: Hope you got home safe.
He then headed out of the bedroom and went to investigate the lump on the couch. The man was out cold, the side effects of a hefty dose of heroine. Gandrell was tempted to kill him by injecting him with more of the drug so he would overdose, but that seemed too good of a death for him. Instead, Gandrell grabbed the man's arm and bit him in the bend of his elbow, no one would notice a few extra holes amongst the existing track marks. Gandrell drained him until he was within a pint of death. This would, at least, keep him fast asleep for the next several hours.
Filled with blood, he left the house and locked the door behind him. He didn't feel like running, so he lifted into the air and took to the sky as he headed back to the club. No one was there so he was able to land and climb on his Tomahawk and rode home. He hoped he would hear from his friend.
He slung her purse over his shoulder and slipped his arms underneath her, cradling her like a baby in his arms. He walked out of the bar and headed to the parking lot. He had to search for a bit, but eventually he found her car. He laid her down gently in the back seat on her side, in case she threw up. He then got into the driver's seat and headed for her house. He drove much slower and more carefully than he would normally drive, just to make sure he didn't throw her around the car.
He parked her car in the driveway and got her out and into his arms. He opened the front door and stepped into the house. The scent of dried blood hit him, and his head turned, immediately looking for a dead body. He spotted a lump that looked like a body on the couch. He approached it to see if the lump was alive and it was, he could hear the heartbeat.
He moved past the living room and found the bedroom. He pulled back the blanket and top sheet and laid her down. Very respectfully, he removed her clothes and dressed her in what appeared to be her sleep apparel. He tucked her into the bed, lifting the sheet and blankets so she could sleep comfortably. He then, to combat the hangover, ripped his finger open on his fang and dripped a few more drops of his blood into her open mouth.
The house was a gruesome crime scene of excessive beatings and broken dreams. He sighed, his heart breaking for his 'friend'. If anyone needed a guardian angel, it was her. He turned back to look at her and grabbed her phone from the purse he had put on the nightstand. He quickly entered his number and entitled himself as the 'Guardian Violinist'. He then sent her a text that read: Hope you got home safe.
He then headed out of the bedroom and went to investigate the lump on the couch. The man was out cold, the side effects of a hefty dose of heroine. Gandrell was tempted to kill him by injecting him with more of the drug so he would overdose, but that seemed too good of a death for him. Instead, Gandrell grabbed the man's arm and bit him in the bend of his elbow, no one would notice a few extra holes amongst the existing track marks. Gandrell drained him until he was within a pint of death. This would, at least, keep him fast asleep for the next several hours.
Filled with blood, he left the house and locked the door behind him. He didn't feel like running, so he lifted into the air and took to the sky as he headed back to the club. No one was there so he was able to land and climb on his Tomahawk and rode home. He hoped he would hear from his friend.
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