This story was written after bottled up emotions started to get to me. Something akin to a
catharsis is what it turned out to be. There was a lot of pain within me and I personally think
it was transferred to the words. But that's only my opinion. Read and decide for yourself . . . .
A Soul Tears
Elyse slams the door shut, her anger tangible. Iced over blue eyes skate around the empty room, looking to see if anything has been taken - or moved. Her lips twist as she notes the mess on the floor of the living room. An overturned chair, a slashed painting, a broken vase - all evidence of her temper. She moves away, deliberately turning her back on the chaos she herself had caused the night before. Frustration and pain has led to it - frustration at being unable to find that for which she searched and pain at having to search at all.
She moves into the hall, stripping off her leather jacket, which she throws into the open closet as she passes it. The slender frame revealed is not exactly dressed and is far from being in her usual matchless taste. A wrinkled black silk shirt - much too large for her and of a masculine make - drapes her curvy upper body and ties just above her belly button, showing her slender waist and the tattoo upon her back. A pair of rather short jean shorts ride low upon her hips, a pair of sneakers - no socks - are on her feet. Pale blond hair is pulled up into a loose bun, keeping the soft strands from her face. She toys absently with a silver pendant that hangs about her neck and rests just above her breasts.
Upon reaching the bedroom, the shoes are discarded, left by the door. Her hands fall to the shirt tails and untie the knot there at her belly, the rumpled and crushed silk falling to her upper thighs, her shorts barely visible. The shorts themselves are soon discarded as she moves to the window, left in a heap in the middle of the floor.
Elyse stops at the window, sighing, the fire in her eyes dying, the ice melting and revealing only pain. Here - in her sanctuary, the only place that ever held true happiness for her - her control slips, her guard falls. She shivers slightly, trying to push her thoughts away, not really wishing to dredge up things she can no longer have. Like the last time she stoood in front of this window, dressed in merely one of Ravenn's black silk shirts . . .
Elyse shakes her head, cutting that thought off. She won't go there. For it leads only to pain and anger as she will never have that again. That had been confirmed this night. She had visited the last few people who would know. Ravenn Smith was not in Seattle, had not been seen in the last month. Elyse rubs absently at a stain on the shirt as she looks at the moon - the full moon that seems to be laughing at her. The stain had resulted when a hapless mugger had attempted to take her wallet as she returned from meeting with the last person and hearing that there was no way that Ravenn Smith was anywhere in Seattle. Her temper had flared, her control had snapped, the beast had taken over. She had pounced quickly and without sound, her fangs tearing into the man's neck, spraying some of his blood over the small bit of her shirt exposed by the jacket, thus leaving the stain. The sheer force of her attack had taken the much larger man to the ground. There had been no joy for him in her Kiss - her anger had been too much, the beast too in control. He had passed out soon after her initial attack.
Elyse had drained him quickly and mercilessly. Once she had pulled back - brought to reality only because she could no longer hear the beat of the man's heart - she had hissed at her own lack of control. Pulling a small rapier from her back pocket, she had knifed him - along the neck and chest. Picking him up, she had lugged him back to the docks - the area she had started from. The body she dumped into a garbage skow about to leave port. She had left quickly then and walked home. No one else had approached her, most likely her posture and aura keeping the shadows at bay - Touch me and die.
Elyse curses in Cajun and moves away from the laughing moon and back into the comforting darkness of the bedroom. She skirts the bed, avoiding it completely. She hadn't slept in it for a month - unable to do so alone. It was still rumpled from their last night together - the silk twisted and lumped. She turns her back to it, trying to block the memories it dredges up. But the memories are too strong, too close, and assault her, pulling at her walls and defenses. Her slender frame trembles and she drops to her kneees, her eyes closing. Flashes of memory stab at her, needle her, show her that which she will never have again.
A flash - Ravenn slipping his arms around her and pulling her close, whispering in her ear - "I love you, cherie."
Elyse groans, blocking the thought, her trembling increasing. Yet another takes its place. . .
A flash - Ravenn invading her shower, pressing her to the cool tile wall and biting her lightly on the neck as he draws her wet, naked body to his own frame which is rapidly becoming soaked by the warm water.
Elyse wraps her arms about her belly, leaning forward. Pain lashes through her, bringing a soft, strangled cry to her lips. "Ravenn, mon cher, qu'est-ce que c'est ... why did you go...." Another flash of memory stings her, this one bringing tears.
A flash - Raven before her, the moonlight illuminating his features, the love in his deep blue eyes sparkling at her. He tugs her close, gently kissing her lips, murmuring softly to her between those soft and tender kisses. "Never cherie. I will never leave you. I will always be here for you. Always and forever. . . "
Elyse cries out at this memory, stumbling to her feet. She screams - her pain, hurt, and anger evident in this sound. her entire body trembling with the pain in her soul, she stumbles toward the closet, her usual catlike grace absent - gone. Flinging the door open, she gropes for something - obviously something in particular. Falling to her knees, she searches - shoes and clothing thrown out behind her in a wild riot. She cares not about dirt or wrinkles. Her hands light upon a dark wooden box which elicits a soft cry. She pulls it out of hte closet, her hands shaking. She opens the box, looking at its contents - 12 shining knives - silver and intricately carved.
Elyse sets the open box carefully on the floor. She pulls one knife from the box and rises to her feet. She whirls and stalks to the bed ad leaps upon it, the knife gleaming in the moonlight as she employs it to tear the delicate white silk into ribbons.
"Always! Toujours!" A litany of these words drift from her lips as she shreds the sheets, tears streaking down her cheeks. She has given in to the anger and the pain as only she can - destroying something - as her blood demands. She comes to herself slowly, sinking into the mass of shredded silk. Her body trembles and she drops the knife, sobbing. She falls to her side and curls into a tight ball, her emotions venting as they have not in a month.
"Why did you go . . . " Her voice is but a choked whisper. "Why . . . " SHe shifts and flinches as the knife she so carelessly dropped skims lightly over her thight, drawing a thin line of blood. She opens light blue eyes - eyes lost and haunted. She blinks absently as she picks up the knife again. She wipes the blood - her blood - from the gleaming blade. She hisses softly and turns up her left wrist, digging the razor sharp blade into the think skin there. She yanks up in a straight line, opening a wound paralell to the veins in the wrist, bringin a gush of blood to the surface. The blood drips and flows from her wrist to the sheets as she switches the blade to her left hand and repeats the process on her right wrist. SHe does not flinch, merely sinks into the tangled mass of ripped silk, curling up in a ball, closing her eyes. SHe dimly registers that the wound upon her thigh has closed. She whispers softly in Cajun, a tremor skimming through her frame.
Her mind skates away, pain and loss taking over. Blood seeps from her wounds, staining the silk. Yet, the tightness of her ball pulls the silk tight against her, having an effect she hadn't planned on. Not only soaking up the blood, the mass of shredded silk stems the blood flow and slows it, causing her body to react and close the wounds - leaving raised scars as a reminder of how deep her pain runs - what depths had this once unconquerable Cajun been driven . . .
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