Author: MuddyWolf PM
Abel reflects while drinking tea.Rated: Fiction T - English - Angst/Humor - Words: 1,307 - Reviews: 8 - Favs: 13 - Follows: 3 - Published: 01-18-06 - Status: Complete - id: 2759625
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
A/N: Takes place before Abel makes the vow to stop killing.
That just wasn't human.
"What would you like today?"
A furious scribbling on a little piece of paper. The café was always so busy, and she had a dozen other orders not including this one. That first customer that had been waiting since noon was starting to get a little edgy. Better see if his rolls were ready. She had just about finished scrawling the "a" when the bombshell hit.
"With thirteen lumps of sugar, if you please!"
"Uh—did I hear you right, sir? Tea.."
"With thirteen lumps of sugar," the customer repeated, a ridiculous smile plastered awkwardly on his light-complexioned face. The waitress couldn't help but just stare at this one—who come to think of it looked quite the oddball---with his long white-silver hair framing a very soft face that hadn't seen too much sun, and large glasses that sat lopsidedly in front of blue eyes that really didn't tell her anything. Breaking herself out of her trance, she assured the black-robed man that she would be right out with his order and just short of spritned to the red-faced man drumming his fingers on the table.
Ah…what a glorious day!
Above the man's silver head the fierce but amiable sun pierced the blanket of clouds, accentuating the splendor of the cultural center of the human world. The heart of all religious and secular power and the beacon of light that guided men to salvation in the afterlife.
Of course---it's no use to teach the mercy of God on an empty stomach! The cleric with the---weird grin nodded to himself, his gloved hands folded expectantly on the table. The red-faced customer had finally gotten his food, to the mixed relief and dismay of the waitress, hurriedly apologizing while practically throwing the plate on the table and dashing off to serve the next customer who had been waiting just as long. His raucous shouts had died down to a grumble of as he stuffed his face, a spray of crumbs landing in his lap as he shoved some savory morsel into his beard.
Abel turned his now-nervous gaze away from the patron, suddenly realizing the man had stopped chewing and was glaring at him, Abel returned his eyes to his own table, and as the chiling thought hit him, he fumbled through the maze of folds in his the somber black robes that somehow didn't quite fit the clumsy, clownish personality of the priest.
A candy wrapper in this pocket, a candy in the other—it had mysteriously grown hair and had lodged in the pocket for quite some time, and had grown quite attached to his ID card—ah! Four----..
Father Nightroad howled in this utter state of frustration and misery.
Perhaps it was God's curse—maybe he had dropped the Host during the Eucharist. Maybe he had forgotten to recite the Nicene Creed. Or----maybe he had forgotten to say his nightly prayers. But whatever it was…
Yes, he was truly cursed! The waitress had returned, panting and out of breath, but with the tea piping hot on the tray. All thirteen lumps of sugar protruded from the hot liquid. Its aroma was tantalizing to the priest's nose.
His stomach clamored. He was dizzy from not having anything in his system since the night before.
"I---only have four dinars…" the priest whimpered, placing the pitiful sum on on the checkered tablecloth, hanging his head despondently. In his mind he was already formulating the pleas he would make---he would gladly get on his knees—crawl if he had to--- if it would move the girl to let him keep the tea---the tea that he could almost taste---. The waitress set down the tea, glanced at the---really pathetic-looking cleric---she couldn't help imagining a lean, skeletal frame underneath that deceiving monster of a cloak, and answered,
"It's on the house."
She grabbed the tray from the man who was practically shining at the prospect of finally eating, and hurried away to the roaring horde of hungry customers.
I don't feel like being charged with manslaughter…this poor sap's going to keel over at any moment.
Abel lifted the handle of the cup to his mouth, and drank eagerly after offering a silent prayer to God. If the man was also cursed, he also must have been blessed.
The lumps of sugar dissolved and mixed with the tea in his throat.
He almost expected that bittersweet taste by now.
Yes, sweet---the sugar certainly did its work…
But it always was just a substitute. Something to tide him over…that only barely kept him going until the next true meal.How funny it was in an ironic way…
Here I am, an ordinary Terran.
The sugar-drenched tea raced through his bloodstream, mingling with last night's meal—to a Terran, far less edible. But the sugared tea was an empty meal. He looked forward to his next confrontation…oh, how he would feast then.
How sinful it was…. In truth these binges did nothing more than limit---and even then, only minimally--- his intake of that other—more satiating food. How he loathed his other form---that savage, scarlet-eyed beast he saw when he looked into the mirror.
Isn't it strange..the monsters one sees when combing their hair..?
Why did he give in to his urges?
Benevolence to fellow man? For the glory of God? To protect humans.
But you are also hungry.
Protecting humans is a secondary motivation. You want to..
Destroying Methuselah…it's what you do in order to feed.
Perhaps you justify it by saying you're protecting humans. But that is at your own convenience.
Like all monsters, you are selfish.
The last drop of hot liquid fell from the edge of the cup. Abel let it sit there for a while, burning the tip of his tongue. How strange that that very same tongue would be licking cold undead lips later that night.
Sometimes I don't feel I know myself.
That scalding feeling of the tea numbed that roaring anticipation of undead blood, that feast of unlife----a chill of terror bled through his very bones. Had he unconsciously activated the system?
No…it was only in his mind that the tea was his latest victim's blood.
Only in his mind.
Abel removed himself from the chair, his slight frame standing to its full height. The sun at its height underscored the man's shadow. A trick of the eyes—he blinked. Too much staring into the sun---he managed an awkward smile at his own outrageousness, and tried to ignore how his shadow raised a clawed hand to push on the bridge of his glasses.
The cleric trudged away from the empty cup. His stomach no longer clamored audibly, but his hunger raged in a silent fury.
Hello, my name is Father Nightroad. Who are you?
Oh, you murder countless Methuselah and drink their blood? What a coincidence! I do as well!
We should get along just fine.
And later that night, tonight's victims begging and pleading turned into hideous shrieks of terror as their veins dried up, as their blood soaked into the body of the grinning devil standing above their heads, rapidly becoming little more than hollow husks of muscle and bone. The creature drank serenely, the vessels of his neck now crammed and bulging with blood painfully visible as it craned upward, gazing at the naked moon.
Ah…what a glorious night!
Thus Father Nightroad finished his tea.