Author: Magical Shovel PM
A surge of images is the equivalent to a surge of memories. Chaos with fondness and pain... Drabbles that pertain to Charles Bromley. An attempt to dig into the 100 prompt challenge.Rated: Fiction T - English - Angst/Hurt/Comfort - Charles B. - Chapters: 2 - Words: 1,798 - Reviews: 2 - Favs: 2 - Updated: 08-20-11 - Published: 07-22-11 - id: 7208257
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
A/N: Thanks for the reads/reviews! I know it's been a long time since I've updated this. I'm sorry about that. I've been busy. =w=; I vow to finish this, though! I will do one hundred prompts. / Anywhosel, I hope you enjoy this!
Golden eyes widened as he doubled over, choking and coughing. A terrible ache surged through his body. The pain felt similar to when he first made the step towards immortality. He gagged, clutching the table for support. Through the midst of pain, he seethed.
How dare he be fooled?
Had he not been weakened, he would've killed Dalton on spot.
Unfortunately, he couldn't as he was secured to throne of a chair. Gold dissolved into natural cerulean. Thrust into the elevator, Bromley headed towards his demise.
39. Coffee Break
"Coffee?" The female assistant inquired with a simple gesture.
"Do you have a preference as to the type?"
"Type O Positive would be lovely," he murmured whilst scanning his paperwork.
He swallowed the cocktail of pills with distaste. They were always chalky no matter what liquid he drained them with.
He ran a calloused hand over his weathered features. A deep sigh rumbled from the depths of his chest. Discoloration hung underneath his eyes.
One of these pills would have to work eventually.
He made a vow that he wouldn't abandon Alison.
Power came in the form of a corporate suit. He felt like a king rather than a mere vampire. He played the game of God.
He was in charge of the blood banks. He controlled the fluctuation (or lack thereof) of that crimson substance.
It would all come down to a price.
Power always crumbled within.
8. White Noise
He walked into his lovely abode, much like a panther. Shoulders lowered and raised as he made his descent down the dark corridor. Glistening boots clicked against the simplistic wood. The CEO dipped his hand into the collar of his shirt, effectively loosening his tie.
He ignored the harsh noise.
Bromley prowled his domain as he surely was king. After 'settling down', his shoes had been kicked off. His blazer was draped over the dark futon. He turned on the television, wine glass in hand. Static jolted on the television. Hues of black, sprinkled with white, crackled and snapped. Snow. White noise.
Bromley zoned out. The noise was not too soothing as it brought back one too many memories.
37. Lonely Road
Pale hands gripped the steering wheel of his sleek Jaguar. The sky was perfectly clear for once. No clouds, no stars. The moon, too, seemed to be hidden from Bromley's golden gaze. The corner of his lip curled, resembling something of a snarl.
Even the road was empty as no cars tailgated or sped by.
The monotony sent him into a trance-like state. He paid little head to the lithe figured that were about to scurry across the road. A female face turned to look at the car. Her gaze fixated on the driver's side.
Bromley skid to a halt, holding nonexistent breath.
He would let the humans live.
All because she bared resemblance to her.
50. Played for a fool
Charles Bromley despised betrayal. It was the ugliest trait of humankind. It was slimy and crafty (similar to himself). The simple act of betrayal brought out the worst in the vampire. Alison's death had proved such. Her damned resilience- Just like her mother. Until the very end…
So, why should he be fooled again?
Rather… Why was he betrayed for the third time?
As cliché as it was: elementary. The way Dalton begged for vampirism was damn near pathetic as his human concubine bled. It brought a sneer upon Bromley's face even as his shoulders hunched in a predatory stance.
It was the humanity in Dalton's eyes.
Humanity in Alison's eyes.
That was what drove him to sink his fangs deep into the nape of Dalton's neck. The new, live blood coursing through his veins served as atonement.
"I'll buy you anything, Allie. Sweetheart-" His voice was desperate, shaky.
Charles' hands clamped together in a desperate attempt to hide the pill bottle.
"I don't need that, Dad," Alison spoke softly. She didn't look at his hands. She already knew the truth that lurked within his frantic, cerulean eyes.
"Oh, Sweetheart. If only I could buy us more time…" He began before his body gave out to a brutal coughing fit.
"Why don't we try this, Dear?" Her perfectly manicured nail pointed at the bold word.
"Marzipan Tart?" Charles inquired with a lift of his brow.
She nodded with an equally perfect smile.
"And if we share, does that mean you'll marry me?" He asked with a coy grin.
Under no circumstance, could Charles Bromley cook. It was a known fact of life as he slid the spatula into the pan. He flipped the pancake, only to have it stick to the ceiling. Complete and utter confusion filled his face. To top it all off, the plastic of the spatula began to melt. He repressed a groan.
His daughter watched with wide, brown eyes. She looked at her father before looking at the ceiling. Once more, she looked at him and back to the pancakes on the ceiling.
"You tried, Daddy."
He sighed, running a hand through his ruffled locks.
"But can we go to iHop?" Alison asked.