Disclaimer: I did not, do not, nor never will own Vampire Hunter D or its
affiliates or anything of the kind. I repeat it is not mine. I am poor
and work at a grocery store so if some big company wants to sue me they
won't get much. So please do not sue me. I am just expressing how much I
like the character and the stories by writing my own little piece of
fanfiction.
This is something I wrote, while I was suffering from writer's block for my story "The Color of Night". The idea popped into my head while listening to Beethoven. I thought writing a short piece might also help me get over the wb. This is just a One-Shot. Don't worry fans of my other story I have not in anyway abandoned it. Drop me a few reviews and make me happy : ).
Summary: Short piece dealing with D and his observations of his father. Soon after his mother's death and how they are dealing. It's not long so just read already.
Hands of My Father
I sat outside the door. I didn't dare go in. I didn't dare disturb him. I just wanted to listen. If I disturbed him then he would remember. He would remember why he was in there. I just wanted to listen. Mother had been dead for two years now. Two years were nothing to him. The twenty years together were not long enough for him, a creature who lived forever. But the pain was something. It was the only thing that lasted. The pain was just as eternal, as the being on the other side of the door. I felt the pain too, but I just wanted to listen.
As I look back, I realize that I inherited much from my father besides my vampire half. With the exception of a softening of the angles, I am his spitting image right down to my hands. Delicately boned with long slender fingers, give a deceptive appearance of frailty. They are not the large, calloused, tanned, or hairy hands often associated with warriors. They are thin and pale. Almost flawless, as my mother, would often say. But then perhaps, my father and I were not meant to be warriors. We both made exceptional fighters, don't get me wrong, but there always seemed to be something missing. I have seen in other warriors, hunters, and fighters a spark when they fight. They put everything into it. It was like, that was what they were put on this God-forsaken earth to do. They may not enjoy killing an opponent, but they enjoy the thrill of adrenalin. But my father and I never had that spark. Unless the issue hit close to home, we were cold and indifferent. We were never emotional. We were never embodied with a true warrior's spirit.
When I listened I could hear it, however, I could hear the spark. I could sense the spirit of emotion. I could feel the pain, the love, the anger, everything! When I listened it was ok to feel or forget. All I wanted to do was to listen. I didn't go in. I just sat outside the door. I just wanted to listen. He probably knew I was there. He should have been able to sense my presence, but then again maybe he didn't. Playing was the one time when, he too, would forget.
For you see, when my father played, he gave everything. His heart and soul poured into the piano making the very notes alive. He would close his eyes and just play. Never say anything, never open his eyes, and never remember the pain. He just wanted to play, and I just wanted to listen. That night he played Beethoven, his favorite, sonata for the Piano No. 14 "Moonlight Sonata", to be precise. I could play it, but not nearly as well. At least, I couldn't then. The lilting melody washed over the senses like warm water. It made the brain go numb and forget, like an anesthetic. The only thing one could do was to feel the music and let it carry you.
I could envision my father playing. He would no longer be the King of the Night. He would simply be a man at the piano. His satin shirt would be wrinkled and untucked, with the sleeves bunched up half way between his wrist and elbow. His hair would be untied, as that is how mother liked it. Thick dark locks would hang in his face, but since his eyes were closed, he wouldn't care. He would bow his head and sway to the music. His delicately crafted hands, so much like my own, would glide across the keys. My father's hands may not belong to a warrior, but they were perfect for the piano.
And so he played, and so I listened. I sat outside the door. I didn't dare go in. I didn't dare disturb him. I just wanted to listen. If I disturbed him then he would remember. He would remember why he was in there. I just wanted to listen.
End
Well got that out of my head now. Maybe I will be able to get back to work on 'The Color of Night". Drop me a review. You know you want to. ; )
Starmaster
This is something I wrote, while I was suffering from writer's block for my story "The Color of Night". The idea popped into my head while listening to Beethoven. I thought writing a short piece might also help me get over the wb. This is just a One-Shot. Don't worry fans of my other story I have not in anyway abandoned it. Drop me a few reviews and make me happy : ).
Summary: Short piece dealing with D and his observations of his father. Soon after his mother's death and how they are dealing. It's not long so just read already.
Hands of My Father
I sat outside the door. I didn't dare go in. I didn't dare disturb him. I just wanted to listen. If I disturbed him then he would remember. He would remember why he was in there. I just wanted to listen. Mother had been dead for two years now. Two years were nothing to him. The twenty years together were not long enough for him, a creature who lived forever. But the pain was something. It was the only thing that lasted. The pain was just as eternal, as the being on the other side of the door. I felt the pain too, but I just wanted to listen.
As I look back, I realize that I inherited much from my father besides my vampire half. With the exception of a softening of the angles, I am his spitting image right down to my hands. Delicately boned with long slender fingers, give a deceptive appearance of frailty. They are not the large, calloused, tanned, or hairy hands often associated with warriors. They are thin and pale. Almost flawless, as my mother, would often say. But then perhaps, my father and I were not meant to be warriors. We both made exceptional fighters, don't get me wrong, but there always seemed to be something missing. I have seen in other warriors, hunters, and fighters a spark when they fight. They put everything into it. It was like, that was what they were put on this God-forsaken earth to do. They may not enjoy killing an opponent, but they enjoy the thrill of adrenalin. But my father and I never had that spark. Unless the issue hit close to home, we were cold and indifferent. We were never emotional. We were never embodied with a true warrior's spirit.
When I listened I could hear it, however, I could hear the spark. I could sense the spirit of emotion. I could feel the pain, the love, the anger, everything! When I listened it was ok to feel or forget. All I wanted to do was to listen. I didn't go in. I just sat outside the door. I just wanted to listen. He probably knew I was there. He should have been able to sense my presence, but then again maybe he didn't. Playing was the one time when, he too, would forget.
For you see, when my father played, he gave everything. His heart and soul poured into the piano making the very notes alive. He would close his eyes and just play. Never say anything, never open his eyes, and never remember the pain. He just wanted to play, and I just wanted to listen. That night he played Beethoven, his favorite, sonata for the Piano No. 14 "Moonlight Sonata", to be precise. I could play it, but not nearly as well. At least, I couldn't then. The lilting melody washed over the senses like warm water. It made the brain go numb and forget, like an anesthetic. The only thing one could do was to feel the music and let it carry you.
I could envision my father playing. He would no longer be the King of the Night. He would simply be a man at the piano. His satin shirt would be wrinkled and untucked, with the sleeves bunched up half way between his wrist and elbow. His hair would be untied, as that is how mother liked it. Thick dark locks would hang in his face, but since his eyes were closed, he wouldn't care. He would bow his head and sway to the music. His delicately crafted hands, so much like my own, would glide across the keys. My father's hands may not belong to a warrior, but they were perfect for the piano.
And so he played, and so I listened. I sat outside the door. I didn't dare go in. I didn't dare disturb him. I just wanted to listen. If I disturbed him then he would remember. He would remember why he was in there. I just wanted to listen.
End
Well got that out of my head now. Maybe I will be able to get back to work on 'The Color of Night". Drop me a review. You know you want to. ; )
Starmaster