Title: Grey Street
Author: Crazy_Girl_Mary
Email: crazy_girl_mary@yahoo.com
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: female/vamp male
Feedback: It’s a beautiful thing! -crazy_girl_mary@yahoo.com-
Summary: She’s on the run but only when the man chasing her allows it to be so.
Author’s Notes: This is not a sequel to The Long Journey Into Darkness. It just follows the same theme. I hope to make this a series. This part is unlike LjiD because I had a different couple in mind, and I’m going to delve into the occurrences before the fic as it progresses.
I’m including the back story I left out in the first part of the series because I think it tends to the story, being a story in itself, and adds a different aspect, although I liked the lack of back story in the first one and the option for the reader to freely create their own to accord with the characters, so I think in the third and probably final story I’ll have it with no back story again.

Part V: Religious Mockup


His hunger is the most intense I’ve ever seen. It’s not the pure, understandable hunger any vampire has for the taste of a victim, even a beautiful well tortured victim. This is hunger beyond normal comprehension, hunger for a million things I’ll never know until he shows me. I decide not to give him the chance.

But all this isn’t in my head at the time, not until now. The only thing in my head is death, and it’s not my own. I run forward and he meets me halfway, slamming me to the ground but I easily flip him over in my anger as the flames build around us. He holds the stake as a weapon against me, that irony, probably not lost on him either. He even manages to smile as we both struggle with the stake. I’m pulling on it with all my strength, knowing that when I get it, I won’t hesitate to cremate him. Maybe that’s why he lets go, and the force of my tugging has the stake flinging out of my hand, up into the air and gone from my view.

He manages to take me by surprise and flip me over onto my back, now temporarily dominant. I roar as my head rises and makes contact with his, and I barely register the pain or the blood as I throw him off of me. He moans in pain as he slides away on the carpet, his weakness giving me time to break a leg off of the table that had been holding the candles. The fire starts to reach the high ceilings, and gives the whole building an out of place brightness.

I turn back to him and he’s standing on wobbly feet, preparing for a defense, maybe even an attack. I don’t give him the chance. I raise the thick wooden leg like a baseball bat and swing it towards his head with all my strength. He raises his hands and wraps them around it, but they only continue on with the wood and bounce off of his head before he crumples to the floor.

I don’t think for a second about anything, not how easily he went down, or the fire roaring around us, no room in the moment for fear or anything but anger. I hit him with the leg, and keep hitting him, until my headache surges worse from the thuds, until his true face comes forward, until I can’t hit him anymore. Then I raise the leg high over him and stare into his eyes, searching for the fear, but it never comes. I realize the flames reflecting in his pupils are getting larger only a second before the huge wooden ceiling beam crashes through the floor inches behind me and brings the fire dangerously close with it.

I fly forward with the force and the dodging and my weapon slides out of my hand and across the floor into the flames. I stare down at him, he’s practically dead, and he will be soon. The flames are too close, and he can’t survive them, or run away. I look around anyway, for something to dust him with, but there’s nothing, and if I want to make it out alive myself I’ve got to go now. I turn and I don’t look back as I run from the church, and I run until the smell of fire sweats off of me, but the girl’s eyes never leave my face.

At what’s left of my home I wake from a dead sleep, months after the fire and I still dream about it every night, but the dream didn’t wake me, the phone did. I reach for it, “Hello?”

“Hey… you awake?”

I open my eyes and stare into his. The room is no longer spinning, but this still feels like a dream, and last nights dreams were so vivid it could have very well happened all over again. Just in case I look around to make sure I’m not there.

“You have a bad dream?” he asks like a concerned lover, looking at me from a chair across the small, dark, concrete shell of a room.

“No, I woke up to one,” I answer groggily and this earns me a chuckle. He stands and walks towards me. There are tight shackles around my wrists and ankles with long chains around them, which are thread through massive rings in the ceiling and floor. They allow me a little room to move, and I’m sure to his pleasure, a little room to fight.

I stand from the dirty concrete floor and the nausea hits. He steps back, and lets a look of disdain pass over his features at the thought of vomit on his floor, however rugged it may be. Then it passes with the threat and he steps forward again, just out of my reach.

“So now what?” I ask. “You have me, what next?”

“I’ve always had you.”

“You’ll never have me.”

He smiles and steps inside my reach zone. I lurch towards him but just my fingertips reach his throat as he smiles so sure of himself. “Always.”

Then his hands come up and grip mine forcefully and he brings them painfully down his chest. Thankfully the chain doesn’t allow them to go any further. “But now that you mention it,” he says before letting go, stepping back, and continuing. “You’re right. I have you so it’s only fair I let you know what’s in store for you.”

He turns and takes a few steps over to the wall and suddenly the room is bathed in unnatural bright light. I squint and my head spinning returns momentarily. When I open my eyes again he’s patiently waiting for my attention. The small room has thick rough concrete walls and floors and the wall opposite me is covered in a thick black drapery. In the corners of the ceiling there are three speakers and a camera pointing right at me.

He grabs the black fabric, gives it a good tug, and pulls it to the dirty floor revealing an open apartment. There are no windows other then the one I’m looking out so it must be underground somewhere. I doubt we’re still in New York. The apartment has a romantic fireplace, a large bed, a sitting area, a bathroom and a massive steal dining room table with two chairs around it. The table looks more like a slab in a coroner’s office then a dining room table, although I don’t doubt he eats off of it.

When I fully take in the room I turn my attention back to him. He motions to the camera. “That camera is hooked up to a television set hanging just over this one way mirror and a computer in another room.” He gives the camera a little wave and then looks to the door. It slides open and I catch a glimpse of a hall and then a door straight across before two people enter and the door closes again.

“This is Samantha,” he says running his hand through a young blonde girls fine hair. She looks like she’s about eight and she has a pretty but depressing black dress on and almost black eyes that shine at me. “Say hello Samantha.”

She addresses me by name, which is more then unnerving, and the fact that she’s human, and under his dangerous hand at the present moment, is also unnerving. I stare dumbfounded and he shakes his head at me, “That’s not very polite darling.”

“Forgive me if I’m not in the mood,” I answer sarcastically.

He smiles and turns his attention to a man framing the doorway and eying me indifferently. “And this is Six.”

I turn to him, awaiting the explanation of all of this, but for the first time maybe ever, he doesn’t give one. “Alright then,” he says simply before turning to the door. I wait for a moment, the cold ground beneath my feet and the dangerous possibilities of it all, making me shiver. Then he appears before me in the window. “Goodnight sweetheart.” He turns down the lights and puts on his coat then waves lightly before exiting a door out of the view of the window.

I stare around the room I’m held in. It’s small and plain and cold. Suddenly I hear a beep and the door slides open again. The young blonde girl enters with a key. The hope that she’ll release me is too desperate to voice right up until the point when her little hand wraps around mine and she unlocks one cuff.

“Oh good, good, we have to get out of here!”

She looks at me with a small smile. “Oh we’re not leaving.” She unlocks the next wrist and then kneels before me, careful not to soil her dress, to unlock my ankles. “No we have to!” I say urgently, “He’s going to kill us all.”

She pulls her arm roughly away from my grasp and addresses me by name again. The knowledge and insanity all rolled in one that I’ve suddenly noticed in her eyes shakes me to the bone. “We’re not going anywhere.” She turns and points to the camera, “watching… he’s always watching.” She walks over to the black draperies that are crumpled on the floor. “He asked that I freshen your room while he’s gone,” she says while struggling to fold the large velvet fabric in half.

“Gone?” I say moving toward her again, “If he’s gone then we can get out. We have to get out. It doesn’t matter what he’s told you, he’ll kill you, he’ll kill us all.”

She looks frightened by my frantic rambling. She looks deep in my eyes and then to the camera. “Always watching,” she mumbles lightly before turning back to her folding like falling out of a trance. “You can sleep here.”

I follow her to the door and wait until she opens it. “We have to get out of here!” I say picking her up and moving out into the small hallway. I look up and Six is standing there in the doorway.

“He’s always watching,” she repeats, before squirming slightly to be put down. I comply and she walks over behind him, still smiling innocently under his hard gaze. He holds a mean looking gun straight out and aimed at me. “It wasn’t her, I am to blame, just don’t hurt her,” I argue, desperate for the poor little girl to avoid danger.

She peeks her head out from behind him, “She wanted to leave him, to run away.” He smiles and pulls the trigger. I try to avoid the shot but the hallway is too tight and my movements are anticipated. I feel the pellet rip into the skin over my stomach and the pressure of the shot sends me to the ground. Looking down, I see the small dart sticking out through my shirt, and the unconsciousness begins to take me over so fast I know exactly what it is. I’m terribly disappointed it wasn’t my quick and welcome death.

Black comes over my eyes and he stands over me, leans down, picks me up, and throws me over his shoulders. The last thing I see is the floor spinning underneath me. Damn with the floor spinning already!

“Please! I don’t know what you want but I’ll give it to you! I’ll give you anything just let me go!”

“You aren’t wrong about that,” he replies slyly, circling around his innocent captive and sending a simply evil glance right into my eyes as if he can see me where there is only darkness.

“Please! I have a family- children I have to take care of! Two girls, Sa-Samantha and Molly!” The woman’s shrills are growing louder and more forced and desperate every second.

“Not anymore, I took care of them for good.”

Tears fill my eyes and my stomach heaves with the physical pain of true and deep guilt, but there’s nothing to spill out onto my chest. I press my hands up to the window. “No…” I whisper, “No, no, no.”

“What’s your name darling?” he asks. My blood runs cold and my muscles clench at the knowledge of his motives. The answers to his questions will give this woman a life in my eyes, knowing her place in the world that will now be empty, will make watching her murder even worse for me. He’s also putting on a show for me.

“Pa-pa-Pamela,” she stutters out through her sobs. She is crouched on the floor in the center of the apartment, far from anything to shield her or hide her.

“Pamela,” he says with a sadistic smile, “and what do you do for a living Pamela?”

“P-please!” she spurts out, “please let me go!”

“If you answer my questions I’ll consider it.” False hope, it breaks them down. Her last hope in the world will be crushed and she’ll die an utterly broken woman.

“I’m just a stay at home mother.” Her sobs are shaking through me like tuning fork vibrations. “My husband is a psychiatrist! We have money! I can give you as much as you want.”

He ignores her pleas. “Just a stay at home mother? That seems like a big job to me. Raising up your two young girls to be stable and well rounded young women.”

She nods lightly, shaking in her crouched position, tears rolling down her cheeks and accumulating on her soiled silk blouse. “Your husband, is he a good psychiatrist?” he asks calmly.

She doesn’t answer and he kneels down before her and follows her head with his own as she tries to look anywhere but into his dark eyes. I don’t blame her, I know what she’ll see there, nothing but pure evil, and the lack of sympathy would definitely drain her hope in its tracks. “Come on sweetheart,” he coos running a hand through her tousled crimson hair, “Is your husband a good psychiatrist?”

“Yes, yes.”

“Yes,” he repeats. “And does he teach you all about what makes people do the crazy things they do?”

He stands and circles around her again, waiting for the answer she doesn’t give. Not happy, he crouches before her again and grips her chin tightly, earning a sharp cry from her and me, but hers is the only one he can hear or is concerned with at the moment. “Do you know what makes people crazy enough to butcher each other?” he pauses and rephrases quickly. “Does he tell you about the crazy people he talks to everyday and why they are different then you and your perfect family?” His voice is mocking, and not bitter, he’s beyond killing for revenge, or killing because daddy didn’t love him enough. Now he’s only killing for me.

“No!” she stammers out. “Please! Please don’t hurt me!”

His face changes suddenly so close to hers, but his smile is still visible beneath the distortion and she stumbles backwards shaking with fear. “Think this is enough incentive?” he asks advancing slowly on her, letting her crawl, letting her at least put up a little resistance.

“No!” I crash my palms and then closed fists into the window as hard as I can, but it’s impossible, I won’t make it break, I can’t even make it rattle. The windowpane is double thickness, bulletproof, sound proof, shatter proof, and behind the one I’m beating myself up on is about an inch air gap and then another one. I’m not going anywhere. I’m not going to conjure a miraculous escape and save Pamela-the-stay-at-home-mother from her horrible fate. My only role in this scenario is to watch, and to grieve, and to give him all the sweet emotions he desires until he grows bored and kills me. There’s nothing else I can do.

I turn away from the window and crouch below it, pulling my knees into my chest and trying to block out the sounds of her death which are pouring in from the speakers all around the room, but I can’t escape them or the guilt they bring. My own tears are running just as Pamela’s had and pooling on my own soiled shirt.

After a while there is no more screaming, no more scraping, no more moans or thuds, just silence. I open my eyes and stare at the rock wall, willing myself to turn around, willing myself to witness his actions as if his hold went even into my brain. I stand slowly and turn to the window.

I yelp and jump backwards, fear taking over my chest and leaving my lungs cold and empty. He’s standing right outside the glass, blood running down his beautifully restored face, chest, and hands. I can see what’s left of Pamela across the room, only a red splotch in the corner of my eyes, but I’m too scared to look. He’s staring right into the mirror and into my eyes as if he knows where I am. Then he looks up at the television screen above the mirror and gives a little nod, “I’m ready to confess.”

I stare in shock and confusion as he pulls over a chair until he’s sitting right in front of me. I hear the magnified sound of something clicking on above me. I know the microphones in here weren’t on earlier or the woman would’ve looked over here when I screamed, but they are now. He wants to have a conversation with me, not just speak himself.

He unbuttons the rest of his bloody shirt and uses the clear spots to wipe some of the blood off of his face and chest and then licks his fingers clean. I gag slightly and he smiles, giving away just how much he can hear. If a mouse took a shit in here he would hear it with this equipment, probably give him a fucking headache. “It’s like talking to a brick wall with you!” he jokes, staring at the window. He’s rarely looking at the television to see where I am, probably knows it’s much more unnerving for him to just stare.

This is his stage. It’s unmistakable how theatresque it all is. After a year in the theatre capital of the world I can recognize a performance a mile away. He is putting on a show for me, a terrible provocative tragedy, and now he is turning to address his audience about his feelings and how the plot has progressed so far.

“It’s sharing time dear,” he says lightly. “I’ll tell you how I feel if you tell me how you feel.”

I turn and walk to the corner, curl into a ball and scowl at him. “I don’t want to know how you feel!”

“Well,” he says standing. He mocks his earlier victims terrified stammer as he says her children’s names. “I’m sure Sa-Samantha and Molly will want to know how I feel. What do you think?” He’s looking at the television screen now, watching my reaction. “Think they’ll want to know as bad as the girl with your eyes?”

I rest my head on my knees to try and hide the welling tears from his view. “You look terrible,” he continues, “all weak and helpless, you’re breaking down far too easily.”

I look up again and he’s peering in the window right at me, but then his eyes shift to the door out of my view. “Well,” he stands, “I’m off.” He grabs his coat from a chair back. “I wonder how old Molly and Samantha are.”

“Don’t,” I say lightly, knowing he’ll hear me and also knowing it still won’t be good enough. Even if he’s bluffing, even if they’re already dead I can’t let him leave to find entertainment elsewhere.

“What was that?” he asks, crooking his ear. “I didn’t hear you. Did you say something?”

I stand and walk to the window. “I feel like my insides have been hollowed out. I feel responsible and guilty. I feel like I should’ve killed you when I had the chance, but it’s hopeless to even hope because it’s obvious I couldn’t then, and probably can’t now. I feel like I’ll never leave this room. Perhaps you’ll keep me here to helplessly watch your crimes until my heart breaks and saves me from any further torture. Or maybe you’ll just get bored and show me what hollowed out really feels like. I feel like perhaps becoming an angry vampire clan’s fuck doll was a far better fate. I feel like I want you to just end it right now, but I know you won’t, this is far too fun for you. I feel like I could skin myself alive at least to escape this torture.” I sigh and look deep into his eyes, “I feel scared to fucking death but I won’t die. Not until you find me ready, and it fucking drives me crazy… and so most of all I want to cut your fucking dick off with a meat slicer, piece by piece and make you eat it.”

There it is. That’s all of it, all the crazy feelings he was looking to cut and cry out of me. Sorry you sick fucking bastard, no such luck, there’s what you want so fucking kill me already. He only smiles and removes his coat again before sitting down in the chair right before me. I feel like he could reach out and touch my face, maybe wrap his strong hangs around my neck and squeeze until my head pops off in a gory mess and there’s no chance for more of this shitty life. A girl can dream.

“Well that was fun and long winded,” he says with a smile on his face and in his voice, “not everything I wanted to hear, but a nice start.” He sits still, calm, and absolutely impious before me. “That meat slicer thing was fearsome baby. Just as I thought, you’re a wonderfully gruesome and polluted woman. Maybe I’ll bring one in and do a demonstration for you so you know what it looks like since you’ll never get the chance to do it.”

Great. I’m giving him ideas, and horrible ones that I’ll have to witness and claim responsibility for, which makes it all the more heart-wrenching. He’ll make this a ritual, a daily game, his present for me and for himself. I don’t know whether he thinks I secretly enjoy this, or knows how much it tortures me.

“Nothing more to say?” he asks. I don’t answer so he continues, “There’s no questions you have for me?”

“How did you survive that fire?”

He smiles. “Leave it to you to live in the past while surrounded by such a promising future.”

“What is my future promising?” I ask. “A terrible life leading to a terrible death.”

“I’m offended,” he says lightly. “Haven’t I always given you what you wanted? What you deserved?”

I can’t even think of anything to say, he knows how I feel, and if not I’m sure my expression is saying everything. “You don’t want to stay here?” he asks.

“I want to die.”

He stands slowly, and walks out of my view and then I hear the door opening. I stand, and prepare for his advance but it doesn’t come. “If you don’t want to stay I’m not going to force you. You are my guest, my princess, and until you can appreciate what I have to offer then you can leave… no one will stop you.”

He walks back out into the main room and sits down on the couch. He flips on a remote and soft classical music floods loudly to me, echoing off of the heavy stonewalls. I’m completely confused, as if in a daze, but the confusion quickly steps aside for the certainty. I’m certain there’s a catch. He’s not going to let me just leave, not forever. I know he’ll only come find me again. But what if I’m not there to find. I know I can’t disappear, he’s too smart, too determined, too connected. The only way to know for sure that he won’t kill me in his horrible way is if I beat him to it.

I look at the door again, and then out into the room where he’s sitting on a couch, listening to his music, an old book in his lap. I can’t just stand here and stare all day, he’ll take the opportunity before I’m sure I have it. I start for the open door, look quickly his way once I’m there, and seeing he still hasn’t turned my way I get out into the hallway and run all the way down it to a door at the end, seeming at the end of a dark tunnel.

I can’t hear the music anymore, and I don’t hear footsteps chasing me, only the thundering of my own heart pounding in my chest. I break through the unlocked door and race up a dark set of stairs to another door. It’s big and heavy and metal, and if it’s locked it means that I’ve just played into his cat and mouse game, and I’ll be caught in a dead end, forced to turn around and go back, or crouch and wait for the cat.

I put my hands cautiously on the door and push it roughly open. A dark gray sky meets my eyes and I squint even at this minute amount of sunlight and stumble forward into it. I look around and see nothing but dead grass and the ruins of a previous industrial section, only the hint of a city far off in the distance, a small peaking shadow. I look down at my soiled and ripped clothes, my dirty skin, and then at the door from which I’ve come.

He let me go, because he thinks I’ll see this and give up and come back, but that city, no matter how small it appears now, is far too promising to turn down. I take off running, bare feet in the dirt, rocks breaking the skin and leaving an obvious trail for him but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but the running, running as fast and as far as I can, running away from him and his death, always running. He’s given me the chance so who am I to do different? I’m nothing if not predictable.




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