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Description
The man was alone in the sparsely furnished room, sitting on the edge of the bed and idly picking at the fresh bandage that covered his left forearm. The bedsheets were rough and stained with blood and other bodily fluids. On a stand next to the head of the bed was a single fat candle, lazily casting a low light across the room. An armoire sat in one corner of the room, likely disused and empty. The hard wood paneling was stained as well. Soft, muffled music found its way in through the cracks in the door frame as well as the occasional moan of pleasure.

As the man pushed a stray lock of dark hair from his eye, the lone door to his right opened and with a rush of whispers in was ushered a girl. She was short and young, though how young he couldn't tell. Her skin was pale and her short brown hair covered one eye. In her other eye, brown, he could easily recognize her fear. Barely in the dim light could he see her almost transparent red dress, slashed in two baring her midriff. A single pock-marked marred her cheek below her left eye. Still, in the dim light, she was quite pretty.

She fidgeted in place a long while under his scrutiny. He was silent, still itching away futilely at the bandage on his arm. The weight of this moment was sagging his spirit heavily, even though he knew it was necessary. For all he had lost. For all he would lose. What is one more life... he thought.

"Undress," he managed to croak out. She jumped, startled. The depth and anger of his own voice had startled him as well. This was becoming too easy. Far, far too easy. She obliged with a feeble nod and slipped from her garments. He stared at her naked body very closely, watching the way her small, pale breasts rose with every breath, following the budding contours of her waist with his eyes. There was no lust; only sadness. She couldn't be more than half my age, he thought to himself. What am I doing here? By the gods, what have I become? His dark mood plunged even further.

A soft whimper split the otherwise relative silence. His gaze immediately shifted to her face. Her makeup was smearing as tears streaked down her round face. She gripped herself tightly, fighting with every fiber not to try and cover herself with her hands. Light bruises and faint scars along her arms and legs attested to what happened when she tried.

He stood slowly, coming to his full height and towering over her. Her whimpering quieted but her tears came even faster now. He reached out with one hand and brushed her chin with a finger. She recoiled quickly before remembering what she was and moving her head back toward his hand. He brushed the hair and tears from her covered eye and very, very gently gripped the side of her head. She stood perfectly still, a grim certainty holding her as thrall.

"Why the tears?" He croaked again, his voice even deeper.

She sputtered through her fear and tears, "The girls who come back here. They never come back out." Her voice was lightly accented, but it was an accent he couldn't place. They'd spent a lot to try and erase it from her.

He continued to brush the tears from her eye with his thumb. She wanted to jerk back from his hand and flee the room, he knew, but she couldn't. And she knew it. They were waiting for her. "I can't tell you I'm not like them. But I can tell you I'm not them," he rasped.

He let go of her and turned around, toward the window opposite the door. All he could see was black. "All things come in their time. This I can assure you. It is the only thing that has kept me alive all these years..." A hand came up to his throat, his hand, and gently grasped the area around his collarbone through the tough, black fabric there. "But until then, I'm going to have to ask you to sleep."

A questioning sound was cut off by a shocked gasp and then a long series of terrible choking noises as he spun around and firmly took her slender neck in his hands and squeezed. Her hands came up feebly to shake his arms off or pound his chest and face. Her face began to darken in the pale light and her eyes to bulge. Strangled, wheezing breaths were cut off in the still air before they began. A sense of strange and dire power welled up within him as she went limp in his hands. He released her, her body collapsing roughly to the hard floor. The rush of anger and joy that had overtaken him started to subside as he stared at her crumpled form, the last sputtering light of the candle allowing him to glimpse the angry bruise he had caused all around her neck.

He left the room, then, and two men dressed much as he was in black waited not far beyond. They passed him and went into the room. Words came to him as he wound his way through the corridors, "Must have been too excited, huh? Hardly looks like he used her at all..."

"Yeah. Look... she's still breathing. Can't have that, can we?" A queer laugh echoed out from behind him. I am sorry. I truly am. But things are as they must be. All things will come in time, even to these men. And I will see to it, personally.

Description
The man was alone in the sparsely furnished room, sitting on the edge of the bed and idly picking at the fresh bandage that covered his left forearm. The bedsheets were rough and stained with blood and other bodily fluids. On a stand next to the head of the bed was a single fat candle, lazily casting a low light across the room. An armoire sat in one corner of the room, likely disused and empty. The hard wood paneling was stained as well. Soft, muffled music found its way in through the cracks in the door frame as well as the occasional moan of pleasure.

As the man pushed a stray lock of dark hair from his eye, the lone door to his right opened and with a rush of whispers in was ushered a girl. She was short and young, though how young he couldn't tell. Her skin was pale and her short brown hair covered one eye. In her other eye, brown, he could easily recognize her fear. Barely in the dim light could he see her almost transparent red dress, slashed in two baring her midriff. A single pock-marked marred her cheek below her left eye. Still, in the dim light, she was quite pretty.

She fidgeted in place a long while under his scrutiny. He was silent, still itching away futilely at the bandage on his arm. The weight of this moment was sagging his spirit heavily, even though he knew it was necessary. For all he had lost. For all he would lose. What is one more life... he thought.

"Undress," he managed to croak out. She jumped, startled. The depth and anger of his own voice had startled him as well. This was becoming too easy. Far, far too easy. She obliged with a feeble nod and slipped from her garments. He stared at her naked body very closely, watching the way her small, pale breasts rose with every breath, following the budding contours of her waist with his eyes. There was no lust; only sadness. She couldn't be more than half my age, he thought to himself. What am I doing here? By the gods, what have I become? His dark mood plunged even further.

A soft whimper split the otherwise relative silence. His gaze immediately shifted to her face. Her makeup was smearing as tears streaked down her round face. She gripped herself tightly, fighting with every fiber not to try and cover herself with her hands. Light bruises and faint scars along her arms and legs attested to what happened when she tried.

He stood slowly, coming to his full height and towering over her. Her whimpering quieted but her tears came even faster now. He reached out with one hand and brushed her chin with a finger. She recoiled quickly before remembering what she was and moving her head back toward his hand. He brushed the hair and tears from her covered eye and very, very gently gripped the side of her head. She stood perfectly still, a grim certainty holding her as thrall.

"Why the tears?" He croaked again, his voice even deeper.

She sputtered through her fear and tears, "The girls who come back here. They never come back out." Her voice was lightly accented, but it was an accent he couldn't place. They'd spent a lot to try and erase it from her.

He continued to brush the tears from her eye with his thumb. She wanted to jerk back from his hand and flee the room, he knew, but she couldn't. And she knew it. They were waiting for her. "I can't tell you I'm not like them. But I can tell you I'm not them," he rasped.

He let go of her and turned around, toward the window opposite the door. All he could see was black. "All things come in their time. This I can assure you. It is the only thing that has kept me alive all these years..." A hand came up to his throat, his hand, and gently grasped the area around his collarbone through the tough, black fabric there. "But until then, I'm going to have to ask you to sleep."

A questioning sound was cut off by a shocked gasp and then a long series of terrible choking noises as he spun around and firmly took her slender neck in his hands and squeezed. Her hands came up feebly to shake his arms off or pound his chest and face. Her face began to darken in the pale light and her eyes to bulge. Strangled, wheezing breaths were cut off in the still air before they began. A sense of strange and dire power welled up within him as she went limp in his hands. He released her, her body collapsing roughly to the hard floor. The rush of anger and joy that had overtaken him started to subside as he stared at her crumpled form, the last sputtering light of the candle allowing him to glimpse the angry bruise he had caused all around her neck.

He left the room, then, and two men dressed much as he was in black waited not far beyond. They passed him and went into the room. Words came to him as he wound his way through the corridors, "Must have been too excited, huh? Hardly looks like he used her at all..."

"Yeah. Look... she's still breathing. Can't have that, can we?" A queer laugh echoed out from behind him. I am sorry. I truly am. But things are as they must be. All things will come in time, even to these men. And I will see to it, personally.