|A Life Lost (standard:fantasy, 716 words)|
|Author: Virtual Adept||Added: Nov 07 2000||Views/Reads: 1953/2||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|Quick piece I did for creative writing, this short story was supposed to deal with a flashback. Here, a Clan Gangrel vampire's supressed feelings come pouring out as he remembers his previous life.|
The night wasn’t inviting. The wind added to the already low temperature outside, and no one in his or her right mind would be out walking. Cassidy was. Something, some feeling, which he had long ago suppressed, was crawling its way up through his Vampiric soul. He felt the need to walk. He trudged silently on through the snow, staring down at his feet as he did. He rounded a cold, silent stone building and crossed the street into the park. Ignoring some strangers, he placed himself on a park bench, and leaned back. Some, ineffable sadness was overtaking him. He drifted off into a light sleep. ... “Hey Dad! Check out this boulder.” Cassidy called. He skillfully navigated his way over some wet rocks, and hopped onto the large, flat boulder in the river. His father looked up from behind a bush, and made his way over as well. Squinting his eyes, he scanned the area, as though he were looking off into the distance. “Let’s see...” His father made a spectacular cast, and the lure plopped into the lake some two hundred feet away. Cassidy and his father would spend the rest of the day, casting, but not really catching a few weeds and an old athletic sneaker. It wasn’t about the fish though; it was spending time with his father that he liked. He hadn’t done much of that It had begun to get late by the time they decided to pitch the tent. “Cassidy, could you go and get the pads?” His father asked while apparently pondering the horribly complex tent instructions. Cassidy headed off to the pickup truck, where the pads would be waiting in the payload. The dark made it difficult to see, and he was careful not to trip over anything. As he leaned over the edge of the truck to grab the pads, he shivered. Instinctively, he froze. Something was watching him. He tried telling himself it was just an owl. Just his mind playing tricks on him. He picked up the bedrolls, and started back toward the campsite, admiring the sunrise as he walked. If he had known it would be his last sunrise, then he probably would have been paying more attention. Suddenly, an all to familiar sound rang out across the forest. Birds scattered in every direction. Cassidy dropped the bedrolls, and began running. Branches clawed at his face, adding blood to the tears of fear, but he didn’t care. Several figures were standing around the tent, laughing. One picked up what looked like a man and hurled it into the river with little effort. Cassidy bellowed with rage as he leaped at the men. Catching one of the men off guard, he whipped the bowie knife he usually carried with him on camping trips out of his boot, and impaled it into the man’s skull. The others just turned and stared. The man with the 6-inch blade protruding from his skull also blankly looked back. Cassidy did go through ROTC, and several martial arts. If nothing else, he learned that when you stab a man in the head with a knife, he dies. But this wasn’t happening. He was now more curious than angry. The men advanced on him, and despite his best efforts, he was subdued easily. He quickly discovered the nature of his attackers, and what part he played in the whole ordeal. His father was just in the way. Had he gone to get the bedrolls, Cassidy would be the only one who died. He was dragged off to a nearby cabin, and given a sloppy embrace, the ritual transforming into a vampire. His captors left him there with little advice and guidance. He was a member of Clan Gangrel, whether or not he liked it. ...Some fifty years later, Cassidy awoke on a bench just before sunrise, with a tear down one cheek. Sobbing gently, he curled up on the bench. Remembering. All he once was, and was going to be. It had finally gotten to him. The piled up feelings all came welling up at once, and for the first time in over forty years, he cried. He huddled up on the bench, sniffling, like a scolded child. Nothing mattered anymore. He would get to see one last sunrise. Tweet
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