Disclaimer: Soren (XD) Tran, Luke and so on and so forth are all property of Poppy Z.
Brite. Really, I just wanted to write a story about Soren! (And I'm still not sure where it's
going) So this is the start of it. Reviews are always appreciated, thank you!
Okamanootoko@aol.com
"When all the leaves have fallen and turned to dust, will we remain entrenched in our ways?"--Bauhaus
Aesthetic Shadows
-Chapter 1-
It wasn't enough. It was never enough.
Soren stared, transfixed, at the pallid palms of his hands, shaking slightly as he
tried to conquer a bout of nausea. He had been crouched before the porcelain seat for
some time now, his stomach desperately trying to heave out anything he might have
injested recently, but failing miserably. His mind was blank; the only thought that ran
through it in a constant stream was the bitter realization that nothing would stop this
monster from devouring his insides. He had never felt as desperate as he did at that
moment, his guts churning, his head pounding, and his mouth burning. Nor had he ever
felt as angry, he didn't understand why this senseless virus was eating away at his life
and he didn't understand why he might never live to see thirty, all he understood was
Lucas Ransom's outlook on the world. Although he had never before held it against the
world that he should be one of the unfortunates to have their death neatly labeled on a
vial of blood, he now found himself thinking Luke's words, and agreeing with them...
"Well, shit, Martyr...why don't we give a big shout-out to all the breeders who
tune into our show for a sick way to appease themselves and make them feel better for not
being us. Trade places with us for a few fucking months, or years...however long it takes
for the sickness to set in for you. I'd like to see how you would handle being split open
from the inside, a sepulchral banquet for a virus with an insatiable appetite...something
100 times smaller than a sperm cell yet able to bring the biggest man to his knees, puking
his guts out and praying for death. Let's see how humble you are when your body
becomes nothing but wreckage, held together only by your will to stick around"
That was about six months ago, when his pirate radio station WHIV was the one
thing that motivated Soren to get off his ass and do something, be committed to
something as opposed floating through the rest of his years in a mindless haze all because
of an uncertain death sentence. It had been two months since he had last seen Luke, after
he quit WHIV, the writer had just disappeared and Soren hadn't heard from him since.
He worried that Luke had checked out in a similar manner that their friend Johnnie had
when the radio station shut down, but then again, he hadn't seen or heard from Luke's ex-
boyfriend Tran either, so perhaps they had gotten back together after all and left New
Orleans for good. It didn't sound plausible, but it made sense, and it made Soren feel a bit
better.
Wiping his mouth free of a thin line of spit that coated his lower lip, Soren sat
back, his chest heaving with heavy, exhausted breaths. The nausea let up, and he dropped
his head back against the wall. Emerald eyes of startling sharpness gazed over the
contents of his bathroom, bathed in an iridescent light. It was cluttered with hastily
discarded clothes in an effort to find 'the look' but other than that was rather orderly.
Soren thrived on organization; he was prone to freak out should he misplace whatever
object he desired at the time. This, he had noted at one time, drove the few friends that
did come over insane.
The incessant ringing of the phone jarred Soren out of his tranquility. He
murmured a silent 'no', unwilling to get up, knowing movement might throw his body for
a loop and he'd be back to dry heaving, but who ever it was on the other line must have
had something urgent to say, because they didn't take the hint that Soren might not be
home. Of course he hadn't hooked up his answering machine, not after the stream of
obsessed calls from a fling who began to leave death threats on his tape, telling him he
was going to find out where he lived and then stalk him, rape him, and murder him if he
'didn't pick up the fucking phone'. They never worried Soren, he knew they were
harmless, but they did get somewhat tiresome. Waking up at 3 in the morning to someone
screaming his name in that way was not a pleasant experience.
After twenty or so rings, Soren braced himself on the edge of the tub and pulled
himself up, feeling ridiculously old for a nineteen year. Of course you'll be the ripe old
age of twenty next week Soren! His mind quipped cheerfully as his bare feet lazily padded
across the polished wooden planks of his floor and made their way over to cordless phone
positioned atop his nightstand. He plopped back into the satin sheets that instantly
molded to the curves of his body and languidly reached over to retrieve the phone.
It clicked on as soon as he picked it up, but as he cradled the smooth plastic of the
phone between his shoulder and his ear, all he heard was some kind of shuffling. There
were seemingly endless seconds of silence, then a short low buzz, and finally a voice
crackled into the phone, as if coming over an intercom.
"I'm sorry."
The voice was hesitant, unsure of either himself or calling Soren. Soren waited for
a moment, and then ventured "...for what?"
As if Soren's voice triggered some reflex, the phone on the other end was hung
up. An eerie silence, with Soren on one end and god knew who on the other. He thought
he heard breathing, but it might have been his own worried breath echoing into the
receiver. What had just happened? Quickly, to disconnect himself with whoever might
have still been on the line, he pressed 'end' and returned the phone to its rightful home.
He had never favored phones. Used them, of course, but they were so impersonal.
Soren thought of himself as a good judge of character, but without facial expressions,
body movements; without feeling the person's breath even, he quickly lost any ability to
read anything about the person he was conversing with. All of this said, the phone was more
for business calls than personal, asking him out somewhere, telling him a snippet of
news...he never spilled his guts to anyone over a phone line, not like some people. To
some it was a comfort, not being able to see or judge the reactions on someone's face, but
to Soren that was a cop-out, and more so, knowing how they reacted was much better
than guessing.
His nausea didn't return as predicted, one small victory for his body. Feeling
better about this, he rolled over onto his side and slid off his bed. His sheets slipped off as
well, and collected beside his feet in an ivory pool. Now that he was no longer feeling
sick, he discovered his stomach was gnawing at him in hunger. It had been awhile since
he had last eaten, so he felt no guilt about deciding to treat himself to some greasy
takeout. He thought of Chinese, but just as soon discarded that thought. Anything oriental
made him think of Tran, and in the depths of his heart he knew his reasoning was no
more likely to happen than it would be for him to have been abducted by aliens. He
would never forget the last look he had seen on Tran's face before he climbed out of
Soren's car and began to walk in the direction of the French Quarter. It was a mixture of
anticipation, anxiety, and dread. There was also a flicker of knowledge in those dark
golden brown eyes, Soren may not ever know what became of Tran, but even then there
was proof that Tran had always known of his own destiny.
Soren couldn't even remember how many times he had wished for just an inkling
of what the future held in stock for him.
****
Brite. Really, I just wanted to write a story about Soren! (And I'm still not sure where it's
going) So this is the start of it. Reviews are always appreciated, thank you!
Okamanootoko@aol.com
"When all the leaves have fallen and turned to dust, will we remain entrenched in our ways?"--Bauhaus
Aesthetic Shadows
-Chapter 1-
It wasn't enough. It was never enough.
Soren stared, transfixed, at the pallid palms of his hands, shaking slightly as he
tried to conquer a bout of nausea. He had been crouched before the porcelain seat for
some time now, his stomach desperately trying to heave out anything he might have
injested recently, but failing miserably. His mind was blank; the only thought that ran
through it in a constant stream was the bitter realization that nothing would stop this
monster from devouring his insides. He had never felt as desperate as he did at that
moment, his guts churning, his head pounding, and his mouth burning. Nor had he ever
felt as angry, he didn't understand why this senseless virus was eating away at his life
and he didn't understand why he might never live to see thirty, all he understood was
Lucas Ransom's outlook on the world. Although he had never before held it against the
world that he should be one of the unfortunates to have their death neatly labeled on a
vial of blood, he now found himself thinking Luke's words, and agreeing with them...
"Well, shit, Martyr...why don't we give a big shout-out to all the breeders who
tune into our show for a sick way to appease themselves and make them feel better for not
being us. Trade places with us for a few fucking months, or years...however long it takes
for the sickness to set in for you. I'd like to see how you would handle being split open
from the inside, a sepulchral banquet for a virus with an insatiable appetite...something
100 times smaller than a sperm cell yet able to bring the biggest man to his knees, puking
his guts out and praying for death. Let's see how humble you are when your body
becomes nothing but wreckage, held together only by your will to stick around"
That was about six months ago, when his pirate radio station WHIV was the one
thing that motivated Soren to get off his ass and do something, be committed to
something as opposed floating through the rest of his years in a mindless haze all because
of an uncertain death sentence. It had been two months since he had last seen Luke, after
he quit WHIV, the writer had just disappeared and Soren hadn't heard from him since.
He worried that Luke had checked out in a similar manner that their friend Johnnie had
when the radio station shut down, but then again, he hadn't seen or heard from Luke's ex-
boyfriend Tran either, so perhaps they had gotten back together after all and left New
Orleans for good. It didn't sound plausible, but it made sense, and it made Soren feel a bit
better.
Wiping his mouth free of a thin line of spit that coated his lower lip, Soren sat
back, his chest heaving with heavy, exhausted breaths. The nausea let up, and he dropped
his head back against the wall. Emerald eyes of startling sharpness gazed over the
contents of his bathroom, bathed in an iridescent light. It was cluttered with hastily
discarded clothes in an effort to find 'the look' but other than that was rather orderly.
Soren thrived on organization; he was prone to freak out should he misplace whatever
object he desired at the time. This, he had noted at one time, drove the few friends that
did come over insane.
The incessant ringing of the phone jarred Soren out of his tranquility. He
murmured a silent 'no', unwilling to get up, knowing movement might throw his body for
a loop and he'd be back to dry heaving, but who ever it was on the other line must have
had something urgent to say, because they didn't take the hint that Soren might not be
home. Of course he hadn't hooked up his answering machine, not after the stream of
obsessed calls from a fling who began to leave death threats on his tape, telling him he
was going to find out where he lived and then stalk him, rape him, and murder him if he
'didn't pick up the fucking phone'. They never worried Soren, he knew they were
harmless, but they did get somewhat tiresome. Waking up at 3 in the morning to someone
screaming his name in that way was not a pleasant experience.
After twenty or so rings, Soren braced himself on the edge of the tub and pulled
himself up, feeling ridiculously old for a nineteen year. Of course you'll be the ripe old
age of twenty next week Soren! His mind quipped cheerfully as his bare feet lazily padded
across the polished wooden planks of his floor and made their way over to cordless phone
positioned atop his nightstand. He plopped back into the satin sheets that instantly
molded to the curves of his body and languidly reached over to retrieve the phone.
It clicked on as soon as he picked it up, but as he cradled the smooth plastic of the
phone between his shoulder and his ear, all he heard was some kind of shuffling. There
were seemingly endless seconds of silence, then a short low buzz, and finally a voice
crackled into the phone, as if coming over an intercom.
"I'm sorry."
The voice was hesitant, unsure of either himself or calling Soren. Soren waited for
a moment, and then ventured "...for what?"
As if Soren's voice triggered some reflex, the phone on the other end was hung
up. An eerie silence, with Soren on one end and god knew who on the other. He thought
he heard breathing, but it might have been his own worried breath echoing into the
receiver. What had just happened? Quickly, to disconnect himself with whoever might
have still been on the line, he pressed 'end' and returned the phone to its rightful home.
He had never favored phones. Used them, of course, but they were so impersonal.
Soren thought of himself as a good judge of character, but without facial expressions,
body movements; without feeling the person's breath even, he quickly lost any ability to
read anything about the person he was conversing with. All of this said, the phone was more
for business calls than personal, asking him out somewhere, telling him a snippet of
news...he never spilled his guts to anyone over a phone line, not like some people. To
some it was a comfort, not being able to see or judge the reactions on someone's face, but
to Soren that was a cop-out, and more so, knowing how they reacted was much better
than guessing.
His nausea didn't return as predicted, one small victory for his body. Feeling
better about this, he rolled over onto his side and slid off his bed. His sheets slipped off as
well, and collected beside his feet in an ivory pool. Now that he was no longer feeling
sick, he discovered his stomach was gnawing at him in hunger. It had been awhile since
he had last eaten, so he felt no guilt about deciding to treat himself to some greasy
takeout. He thought of Chinese, but just as soon discarded that thought. Anything oriental
made him think of Tran, and in the depths of his heart he knew his reasoning was no
more likely to happen than it would be for him to have been abducted by aliens. He
would never forget the last look he had seen on Tran's face before he climbed out of
Soren's car and began to walk in the direction of the French Quarter. It was a mixture of
anticipation, anxiety, and dread. There was also a flicker of knowledge in those dark
golden brown eyes, Soren may not ever know what became of Tran, but even then there
was proof that Tran had always known of his own destiny.
Soren couldn't even remember how many times he had wished for just an inkling
of what the future held in stock for him.
****