Orange

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic
A vampire, tired of his long and bloody existence, ventures out into the city hoping to meet his end.

Submitted: February 06, 2017

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Submitted: February 06, 2017

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 The moon falls to the earth, and for a few brief hours the sky presents itself with nothing but its sparkles. The pitch of the night begins to fade in the east, giving way to the light of day. The sun hangs low, rising over the horizon in a slow orange glow. Tired green eyes watch the morning ease into itself. Smooth pale skin begins to sizzle and blister as the sun grows higher and higher in the sky. The tired green eyes close as the skin scorches on. The hands catch fire, an eerie orange and yellow blaze that spreads across the naked body and engulfs it whole. The body chars away until only a mess of overcooked flesh and boiling blood is left. The flames die out as the sun finally appears in full, hovering over the horizon.

 His tired green eyes open to the darkness of his casket. The top opens, and out the window he sees the sunset. He sighs and yearns for that orange glow of the rising sun. He has been waiting for that sunrise for far too long now. If only his natural instinct to survive would just die away he could achieve his end, but habits almost as old as time itself refuse to let him go into that eternal slumber.

 His grim bed is left behind as he goes out into the bustling city. He wishes these people, these rats, these perfect specimens of filth and hatred and unyielding desire could end him like that glorious orange sunrise. He wishes they could know of him and his kind, and thus usher in the demise of centuries-old secrecy. He wishes just one of them could give him what he needs, even if just for the night.

 He wanders until he finds the dregs of the city, the lowlifes, the lost souls. This is where he belongs, if he must stay with the living. He belongs in the shadows, calling out to passersby to see if they want to peruse his wares. Such pushers address him, asking if he is looking for a bump or maybe something with a little less kick. Women barely dressed approach him in hopes he’ll put a few bills in their purses. Grimy panhandlers reach out their tin cups with pitiful and desperate looks. All of these are ignored. None of them can bring his destruction.

 His heart lifts with joyous hope as an orange glow envelopes him, but his delusions of becoming a pyre evaporate at the sight of the burger diner sign. Though he enters with a sigh, he keeps that small hope inside him. The doors ding with his entrance, but none of the workers or patrons take notice. His tired green eyes scan the greasy-fingered night owls, and his aching wish grows. A lone man, a dirty long-haired beggar, eyes him as he makes his way to the counter. The young black woman at the register has a dull look in her eyes, but she offers her standard greeting regardless.

 His immediate thought is to take all he can from her as he has done infinite times before. He wants to take everything from everyone. He had done so a week prior in a Mexican restaurant.

 His fingers clutch the collar of her shirt, and he pulls her over the counter and onto the floor. She screams, and the patrons, possibly having heard of the massacre, sprint out the door. His mouth opens and his teeth come close to the flesh of her neck, but something presses against the back his head. Out of instinct he lets the woman go and rises to his feet.

 “Out the door, nice and slow,” the vigilante says, low and gruff.

 He does as he’s told, and the two of them end up in the alley. His hope swells as he is turned around and sent to his knees. The long-haired beggar, his blue eyes narrow and piercing, holds the release, the long overdue end.

 “Are you the one responsible for the killings at that Mexican place?” the bum with a gun asks.

 He does not open his mouth, but nods. For a brief moment, he sees that glorious orange. His hearts lifts and his tired green eyes close. The sunrise comes and he wastes away in its light.


© Copyright 2017 Tyler Gohde. All rights reserved.

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