08-10-2014, 03:48 PM
I've changed.
Molly admitted this silently to herself before the mirror one Thursday after work. She stood in a thin robe, hair still wet and hanging damp on her shoulders and neck. Not in any physical way, though. The reflection that stared back at her was the same Molly that she's known for a while now. The skin under her freckles was light, but with the peachy-pink tone of life, not the ashen pallor of near (or true) death. Her eyes were still very much blue, hadn't cast themselves red or anything so cinematic as that.
The changes were deeper than the superficial, and she'd discovered them in the weeks to follow the night at The Bluebird Theater.
That night. Recalling it, Molly glanced back to the floor of the tub, visible with the curtain still drawn back. It had taken her all day once she'd recovered, and more bleach than she'd used in her life, to scrub the red ring from the tub. Too weak upon returning home, she couldn't shower the blood away from her skin and clothes, but had to climb numbly into the bath tub and soak. A concerned canine companion had nudged her way into the room and nipped her cheek and ear when she'd fallen asleep and dipped to her chin in the water.
It was astounding she'd made it so far as to bathe and get herself into bed as it stood. The Man of Madness, the draw and the reason behind the suffering that had shaken her bones and very foundation, had suffered enough guilt to see to it she made it home. He may even have been pitious enough to assist her up the four flights of stairs to her apartment. He had drained her of her fucking blood and left her barely strong enough to walk without swaying, after all.
Ah, but you had asked, hadn't you? None of this would have happened if you didn't have to snoop and push and pry.
She'd noticed that she was different a week and a half later, when she'd returned to work from her sick leave and was analyzing a patient. An older woman had come through the doors with a broken leg. Molly had been administering pain killer when she heard an irregularity in the pull of blood through a heart valve. Without a stethoscope. Molly'd talked the doctor into checking the woman's heart with a few additional scans. The tests came back showing of mitral stenosis-- that would have no doubt led to an attack or other severe complications if left unchecked for much longer. It probably would have remained that way-- unchecked-- if Molly hadn't suddenly discovered herself able to hear past the ability of what human beings are physically capable of.
She played the discovery off, claimed to have been using the proper tools and had a hunch based on a small irregularity, but went home grim faced and introspective.
Abraham's blood had to replace some of what he stole away, and that necessity to keep her from dying was responsible not only for the heightened sense she'd discovered, but for where her mind kept wandering. Back to him.
With a heart-heavy sigh, Molly straightened up and tipped her head forward so she should begin to towel-dry her hair. Her eyes drifted to where her phone sat on the edge of the sink vanity. Several times a week she found herself holding the device, considering a call or a text, wondering what she should say, why she would want or need to say it.
Because you're a Ghoul, she thought bitterly to herself, and her reflection curled its lip back at her. The word, heavy enough to require capitalization, was sour in her gut and curling in her heart. She couldn't even trust herself now, and she had to come to terms with that. It's why she'd not yet given in to the urge to call.
But, inevitably, she would. She knew that. Since her eyes had been opened, since her dreams were filled with only one thing that sometimes even the Valium couldn't block out, she had a better grasp of inevitability.
In time, she'd call.
Molly admitted this silently to herself before the mirror one Thursday after work. She stood in a thin robe, hair still wet and hanging damp on her shoulders and neck. Not in any physical way, though. The reflection that stared back at her was the same Molly that she's known for a while now. The skin under her freckles was light, but with the peachy-pink tone of life, not the ashen pallor of near (or true) death. Her eyes were still very much blue, hadn't cast themselves red or anything so cinematic as that.
The changes were deeper than the superficial, and she'd discovered them in the weeks to follow the night at The Bluebird Theater.
That night. Recalling it, Molly glanced back to the floor of the tub, visible with the curtain still drawn back. It had taken her all day once she'd recovered, and more bleach than she'd used in her life, to scrub the red ring from the tub. Too weak upon returning home, she couldn't shower the blood away from her skin and clothes, but had to climb numbly into the bath tub and soak. A concerned canine companion had nudged her way into the room and nipped her cheek and ear when she'd fallen asleep and dipped to her chin in the water.
It was astounding she'd made it so far as to bathe and get herself into bed as it stood. The Man of Madness, the draw and the reason behind the suffering that had shaken her bones and very foundation, had suffered enough guilt to see to it she made it home. He may even have been pitious enough to assist her up the four flights of stairs to her apartment. He had drained her of her fucking blood and left her barely strong enough to walk without swaying, after all.
Ah, but you had asked, hadn't you? None of this would have happened if you didn't have to snoop and push and pry.
She'd noticed that she was different a week and a half later, when she'd returned to work from her sick leave and was analyzing a patient. An older woman had come through the doors with a broken leg. Molly had been administering pain killer when she heard an irregularity in the pull of blood through a heart valve. Without a stethoscope. Molly'd talked the doctor into checking the woman's heart with a few additional scans. The tests came back showing of mitral stenosis-- that would have no doubt led to an attack or other severe complications if left unchecked for much longer. It probably would have remained that way-- unchecked-- if Molly hadn't suddenly discovered herself able to hear past the ability of what human beings are physically capable of.
She played the discovery off, claimed to have been using the proper tools and had a hunch based on a small irregularity, but went home grim faced and introspective.
Abraham's blood had to replace some of what he stole away, and that necessity to keep her from dying was responsible not only for the heightened sense she'd discovered, but for where her mind kept wandering. Back to him.
With a heart-heavy sigh, Molly straightened up and tipped her head forward so she should begin to towel-dry her hair. Her eyes drifted to where her phone sat on the edge of the sink vanity. Several times a week she found herself holding the device, considering a call or a text, wondering what she should say, why she would want or need to say it.
Because you're a Ghoul, she thought bitterly to herself, and her reflection curled its lip back at her. The word, heavy enough to require capitalization, was sour in her gut and curling in her heart. She couldn't even trust herself now, and she had to come to terms with that. It's why she'd not yet given in to the urge to call.
But, inevitably, she would. She knew that. Since her eyes had been opened, since her dreams were filled with only one thing that sometimes even the Valium couldn't block out, she had a better grasp of inevitability.
In time, she'd call.