Slender fingers swathed in black cloth tapped gently on the dark wood of a battered Chinese table, dangerously close to the guttering flame of a candle stub. Hooded scarlet eyes watched the digits move with mild interest, dully noting that they had struck the surface of the table exactly seven hundred and seventy-seven. Ironic. A smile spread across his face, but it felt like someone else's mirth. "After all, how many people count off the number of years lived on their fingers at my age? Or have so much spare time that they can laze around drumming their fingers incessantly for hours at a time in the first place?" His fingers ceased their spastic movements, instead roaming upwards to run through his mid-length gingery blond locks and fiddle with the ribbons streaming from his top hat before once again lighting upon the burnished wood.
The man's eyes moved to the candle, whose wick was nearly spent; the flame stalwartly continued to burn, but the candle itself had been reduced to little more than a misshapen lump of paraffin, thick globules of wax running down into the holder like fat white tears. A stream of chill autumn air blew in through the open window, ruffling the moth-eaten curtains and snuffing the flickering flame out. He smiled once again and this time there was a trace of humour decorating his features, but it was underlined with bitterness. "Like the ephemeral flame of a candle, life flickers into existence only to be unceremoniously snuffed out...My, I'm rather depressing today," he murmured, addressing the gilded portrait across the room, now drumming his fingertips against his jaw line. "Then again, I haven't much to be happy about, do I?" The vacant smile of the painting seemed to encourage him, for he went on. "I've lived too long, and especially too long without you." Here, he removed his gloves so that he might stroke the cheek of the painting's face, frowning when his hand met with rough canvas rather than flesh. "Cursed to live this half-life, wallowing in a derelict mansion full of ghosts, my only solace a decaying portrait of the beauty that was once you...Not even a corporeal imprint, but a mere pitiful representation." Unconsciously, he dug his nails into the walls, resulting in deep groove marks and a shower of crumbled plaster. Wild-eyed, he edged so close to the painting that his forehead brushed against the canvas. "But it'll be all right. My seven hundredth and seventy-seventh year has finally come, the number of perfection, and soon we'll be reunited, my dearest."
Eighteen-year-old Elizabeta Héderváry was sitting alone at the table farthest from the drunken revelry with her chin propped in her hands, glaring dully, at her drink, completely out of her element. Thunderous bass pounding in sync with the grinding parody of sex that had the gall to call itself a dance, flashing strobe lights throwing the mashed-together bodies into sharp relief and highlighting the glistening flesh with unnatural colours.
It was gauche, it was uncouth and for some mysterious reason, she just couldn't bring herself to enjoy it. Well, perhaps that was a bit of a lie; Elizabeta knew the source of her despondency, even if she wasn't willing to admit it.
She'd been plagued by a dream-nightmare, actually, for weeks on end. In it, she crept through a dilapidated corridor, floorboards creaking and decayed leaves crunching beneath her feet. Damp, dust and the moist, squalid seduction of rot wafted through her nose, making her head swirl. It was dark as a night with neither moon nor stars, and she could barely make her way down the seemingly endless hall, leaning on the wall and feeling her way down. Finally, she made it to the end of the hall, where she would come face to face with a massive painting that stretched from the top to bottom of the wall from which it hung. It was then that the dream, at first merely disconcerting and surreal, took a turn for the macabre. For the face of the portrait belonged to none other than herself, her visage captured so perfectly on canvas that it felt more like staring into the glass depths of a mirror rather than a picture. As she gaped at her oil and glaze doppelganger, a long, pale hand would descend on her shoulder, the fingers spindly and spiderlike but powerful and she would be spun around, the cold hands now tangling into her hair and tilting her chin upwards, where she would be met with burning vermillion orbs that glinted darkly at her with a predatory combination of desire and purpose.
"It's been too long, iubirea mea," were the words that would reverberate through her head before teeth like serrated knives tore into her neck, severing the carotid artery and splattering the painting behind her with blood.
Elizabeta shook herself from her musings, golden-brown hair whipping about her pallid face in wild tendrils. "Get a grip," she whispered furiously. "You can't let your life be dictated by a dream, even if it is recurrent and creepy as fuck." Irritated with both herself and the hot, over-sexualized atmosphere, she slammed her hands down on the table's surface with such force she was surprised that it didn't crack down the center.
A man, who had walked up to her table and was eyeing her turned pale and fled into the tangled crowd of gyrating bodies, shoving his way past the sweating couples in search of attractive female company that didn't look as though they would like to rip his manhood off and stir their drink with it before throwing it in his face. Elizabeta snorted. "Wow, a man who can actually pick up moods and signals. Amazing." She crossed her arms over her ample cleavage, which had been the main focus of the stranger's attention. "Damn Gilbert for talking me into this shit and this Sluts-R-Us outfit anyway," she groused. "When he gets back here I swear, I'm going to deck him right in the-" Her musings were interrupted by the reappearance of the man of the hour, who plunked down in the seat next to her with his usual shit-eating grin firmly in place.
"Heya Liz, what're you mumbling to yourself about?" He shouted in her ear. "How I'm going to punch you in the cracker jacks for dragging me into this God-forsaken nightclub. Really, this is supposed to take the edge off my anxiety?"
Gilbert's grin deflated somewhat. "Unless you're planning on kissing them better, don't harm my love spuds tonight; I'm going to need them in full working order for later," he said, throwing a furtive glance at the bar. "What's got you so worked up anyway? I can't help unless you tell me, and none of this 'I haven't been sleeping well' shit, because I know it's more than not, or my name isn't Gilbert Beilschmidt, King of Awesome!"
Elizabeta stared at him blankly. "It's not." Gilbert tilted his chair back so that it was balancing on the back legs. "It is in my head and soon, if the papers come through, it will be legally." He looked her, a frown replacing his usual smirk. "Seriously Liz, what the hell is going on?" She plucked a strand of hair from her bare shoulder and shrugged. "Nothing you'd understand." "Try me."
Emerald eyes glittered dangerously at him. "Fine. You want to know what's been fucking with my head? Well here it is." Tears of frustration formed in the corners of her eyes as she spilled the essence of her nightmares to her best friend, detailing the oppressing feel and dank stench of the decrepit mansion, the combination of curiosity and trepidation as she stared at the portrait that shared her face, the terror that gripped her heart with hands as icy as the ones that stroked her face before a mouth full of razor-edged teeth ripped her throat open.
"And that's it," she whispered, clenching her fists. "It sounds crazy, I know, but I feel as if this dream is... "Prophetic?" Gilbert offered, sucking on the filter of an unlit cigarette. He rhythmically flicked his cross-patterned lighter on and off, as if toying with the notion of actually lighting his cigarette up. Elizabeta stared at the ghostly flame wavering in the dim confines of the club, entranced. "Pretty much," she admitted. "Stupid huh?" She asked, hoping that he would say yes, so that they could both laugh it off and she could just put it all behind her.
Her hopes were dashed when Gilbert took on an uncharacteristically solemn expression. "I don't know, Liz, a dream that realistic and chronic seems sort of like...A warning, maybe." Abruptly, he flicked his lighter off for the last time and slid it into the pocket of his jeans. "Maybe you should stay over at my place tonight?" He offered. His suggestion was met with a look of mingled disapproval and amusement. "Thanks for the offer Gil, but I don't think that's the best idea. We both know how you get when drunk, and I'd really rather not be around for your alcohol-fueled shenanigans."
"Touché, Liz. But for real, if you do feel like you need some company later tonight, I'll come right over. And I promise, no drunken groping this time." He looked so earnest that Elizabeta had to crack a smile. "All right, she giggled, I'll hold you to that."
The words were barely out of her mouth before the sonorous throbbing of Rihanna's "S&M" began to blare throughout the club, throwing the already frenzied dance floor into further chaos. Gilbert smirked and barked out his trademark "Kesekesekese", white hair highlighted a garish shade of pink as a flurry of multi-hued lights hit their table. He jumped to his feet, rolling his hips in a manner that even Elizabeta in her agitated state could appreciate as sensual.
"I'm gonna hit the dance floor. Holler if you need me. God knows you're loud enough to be heard even over all this noise." Ducking a good-natured swipe of her fist, Gilbert snaked his way into the tangled sea of bodies where he proceeded to put the (dance) moves on a rather buxom woman with close-cropped corn silk hair and an oh-so-serious expression. Oddly enough, despite her no-nonsense look, she seemed responsive to Gilbert, or at least not unresponsive, as she began to match her movements with his, albeit somewhat stiffly.
"Gilbert Beilschmidt, professional lady killer and man eater," Elizabeta quipped, rolling her eyes but smiling fondly. Her smile fell, however, replaced by a look of deep contemplation. She just couldn't bring herself to enjoy the club settings. In her frazzled state of mind, it was just too dark, too hot, too close. The bass seemed to beat in synchronization with her heart, the flashing strobe lights left spots of colour dancing in her vision long after they'd faded and the gazes that men and women alike were giving her put her on razor's edge. The very air seemed to vibrate with heat and sound alike and she felt an intense desire to run out into the frigid night air and escape the wanton eroticism and deafening noise, if only for a minute.
Scraping her seat back, Elizabeta bolted to her feet, fully intending to slip on her jacket and slip out the back door, instead stiffening when she felt a hand slide down her bared back and across her shoulders. Snapping her head around so quickly she got whiplash, she opened her mouth to tell whoever was touching her to take their hand off before she broke it off, only to freeze up when she met a pair of amused blood-red eyes slightly obscured by strands of strawberry-blonde locks. The thought that these eyes were simultaneously so similar to and yet so unlike Gilbert's eyes flashed briefly through her mind before instinct set in and she swung a fist at the man's face. To her dismay, he caught it easily, smiling a close-lipped smile all the while even as he leaned towards her and inhaled deeply. Oh God, my nightmares come true and now he's going to rip my throat open and paint the walls with my blood and I never even told Gilbert to feed my dog in the case of my untimely death.
Instead of tearing into the flesh of her neck as expected, the stranger instead began to plant butterfly kisses down her neck and across her collarbone, mumbling about how he had 'finally found her' in a thick Eastern European accent. Definitely not as painful and terrifying as what her dreams had foretold, but definitely just as unwelcome and Elizabeta seized the opportunity while he was distracted assaulting her neck to deliver a vicious right hook to the side of his head. Whereas any other person would have dropped like a rock, he merely ceased his ministrations and looked up at her quizzically. "Did you want to ask me something, iubirea?"
Rubbing her sore knuckles, she stared at him, abject terror written across her face. I might as well have slammed my fist into a wall of granite. And what the hell does this asshole mean by iubirea? I am NOT his love! Her trepidation increased tenfold as he slid behind her in a fluid motion so fast she couldn't even see him move before wrapping his arms around her and licking the shell of her ear, his tongue leaving a trail of saliva that burned when it came in contact with her flesh. Elizabeta whimpered, her legs trembling as a hand came up to squeeze one of her generous breasts, toying with her nipple through the thin fabric of her dress. Just like his tongue, his hands seemed to radiate heat wherever they touched her, despite the fact that they were initially cold as ice to the touch.
Biting her lip against the moan that was about to spill from her mouth, Elizabeta redoubled her efforts to escape his grasp, clawing at him violently, but his arms felt like steel rods and rather than a grand escape, she instead found herself being dragged along by him towards the floor so quickly that she stumbled. He smirked at the angry and fearful look thrown his way, taking her momentary loss of balance to pull her up against him once more. The tempo of "I Like That" began to throb as the anonymous bodies around them began to move in sync with the beat. Grinding his hips against hers, he slid his hands down the smooth expanse of her back before resting them at the curve of her hips, swaying her closer.
You're dressed to kill me kill me
So if I die tonight
At least you'll thrill me thrill me
My body rocks a rhythm, you beat my drum hard...
The words "thrill me and kill me" echoed through Elizabeta's mind, goose bumps erupting against her flesh despite the multitude of perspiring bodies clustered around her. She had to escape this man's grip, but the only thing he seemed intent upon was feeling up every inch of her that he could reach. He stroked his hands up and down her abdomen, dipped them between the swell of her breasts, rubbed her hips, all whilst making sure to just barely graze her more intimate spots.
Elizabeta grit her teeth as he turned her so that her back was facing him, gyrating his hips against her bottom. At this point, she'd almost prefer that he kill her rather than assault her body with his burning touch and erotic movements.
Without warning, he tilted her backwards so that she fell backwards against his chest. Unconsciously, her legs splayed slightly to regain her balance, which he interpreted as an invitation to stroke his hands against her inner thighs. Humiliated, Elizabeta drove her elbows into his gut, praying that she'd at least be able to loosen his grip, but once again, her attacks entertained him rather than injured him.
"Really dear," he purred, "you should of realized long ago that your attempts at doing me injury are for naught; just relax and let me take care of you." At this, he nuzzled the juncture between her neck and shoulder, grazing his teeth against her skin, fingers creeping upwards from her thighs to the hem of her panties.
Hissing in rage, Elizabeta struggled so ferociously against his grasp that he actually had to tighten his hold on her. "The fuck I'll let you 'take care of me'," she snarled. "Let go of me this instant or I swear, I'm going to cut a hole in your scrotum with a rusty dagger, stick an M80 in there and blast your-"
Her colourful threat was cut short when he tilted his head down and captured her lips with his. Her mind went blank as he nipped her lower lip hard enough to draw blood, eliciting a pained gasp from her before sliding his fire-hot tongue inside of her mouth, flicking it against hers and exploring the warm, damp cavern of her mouth, sliding against every tooth and crevice. She knew that she should fight, shove him away from her and run away, but his mouth apparently produced some sort of mild venom, for she found her muscles growing lax and weighted, as though they had been filled with warm sand, her head felt light, and she would have fainted had his arms not been supporting her. Feebly, she pushed her hands against his chest in a last-ditch effort to push him off of her, but more of the toxic liquid oozed into her mouth from both his saliva and the small bite he'd inflicted on her lip. As the white dots blurring her vision darkened into a thick black veil that she seemed to pitch backwards into, she couldn't help but wonder how the hell it was that nobody had noticed her struggling with her assailant right in the middle of the dance floor.
