lost your sense of fear May 31, 2011 19:11:48 GMT -8
Post by Jack Sullivan on May 31, 2011 19:11:48 GMT -8
June of 1882
The air up here wasn't any cleaner than the air down on the streets. Only it was easier to fool his too sensitive nose that maybe it was. Maybe the smell human, and animal, waste didn't linger in the air, or the smell of too many people shoved into a small pace. After all this was the land of dreams, and everyone wanted to come here to start over. What so very few would realize was they weren't wanted here any more than where they had come from. Every single night brought more news of bloody riots in the streets and a city divided.
It was no wonder most of their work went unnoticed. In fact he honestly wouldn't horribly surprised if their work was getting blamed on someone else. The thought was enough to force a scowl to slid across his place face. Yellow eyes glared at skyline that was just hours from turning orange and warning him to head back toward the docks. This time a pale, and scarred, hand came up to scrub over his face before sliding through his hair.
A frustrated growl slipped past as lips as he let his eyes drop to the ground below him. The voices of those still on the streets echoed up to his undead ears as he watched them move through shadows, trying to stay under the gas lights. It wasn't safe for anyone to be out this late anymore. Pale arms crossed over his chest as his sharp yellow eyes watched them move, even from his roof top he could hear their hearts beating. Fear mixed with the thrill of being out this late mixed with lust. Even through muck that usually clung to the New York air he could smell it.
His tongue traced as his fangs as he had half a thought to give them something to truly be afraid of, only the half was generally winning out of late. His pale hands slipped to his belt loops as he rocked on the balls of his feet. Life had gotten boring for him. When he'd been human this sort of life had been thrilling and exciting. Each job had held some sort of thrill for him. His heart beating in chest so hard he was sure it would bust free, the thrill of nearly getting caught, and the joy of seeing that look in his father's face when he'd done good.
Now, it had gotten mundane. The same thing over and over again. Some how in the last two years it had lost its shimmer. Maybe it was because he was stronger, faster, and just better. The challenge of it all was gone. Even the fights held less of a thrill. In fact the only time it was ever worth anything was when an older vampire decided to get in the ring, but it was a rare thing. Not to mention his boss wasn't a fan of Jack running off to feed an addiction that was going to get him killed.
Even away from the old vampire and he scoffed. He'd been fighting since he could left his arms above his waist. Now he just had an unfair advantage, even if he avoided his old haunts still. Everyone needed to think he was dead. It was probably a good thing his mother had passed first, because he didn't think she'd be able to handle loosing another child. The first time around it had nearly killed her. As for his father, well the man was too smart of his own good. Jack was pretty sure the man knew he wasn't exactly dead. Of course the money that found it's way into their old apartment wasn't exactly helping matters, but what his boss didn't know wouldn't kill him. Not that he wouldn't mind the excitement or the hunt. He hated being bored.