Death Do Us Part

This story follows a vampire (Hal), a werewolf (Charlie) and a ghost (Anna) all under the same roof. As Hal's wife comes back to warn him of an active vampire revolution, he is sucked into the memories and temptations of his past - but can he stay blood free in troubled times?

Inspired by Being Human - BBC 3.

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2. The Church

The church was cold, quiet and damp. Hal sat patiently at the back of the church, on both knees. His hands were clasped together and he could feel the full force of the solid, hard ground. ‘Forgive those their trespasses and all those that trespass against you,’ he mutters to himself, ‘lead me not into temptation.’ He was wearing a brightly coloured, thick rich material, underneath his coat, a silk shirt plainly patterned showed. He also wore shorts of a cream colour and long socks to accompany this. His shoes were real leather and stunk from all the sewage he must avoid on the street.

His hair, in jet black curls out of control to match the King’s hair style. Both Hal and the king wore wigs, but didn’t everyone?

  Behind him appeared a women in a white wedding dress, her veil was neatly placed to preserve her wig, which was uncomfortable and riddled with lice. He turned to her stiffly, ‘we’ve done it, and we’ve actually done it!’

‘Hal?’

‘Yes, Scar.’

‘I love you.’

‘I love you too.’

‘Can I ask you a question?’

‘Of course, my love.’

‘Why do you pray in the crypt?’

His eyes pricked slowly to her face. Was she afraid of the answer? He sighed slowly and inhaled. Yes, she did sound frightened.

‘I find it much better to reflect on the troubles in the universe,’ he corrects himself, ‘which God has given me.’

‘Oh,’ she squealed, ‘Are there many?’

‘Plenty, my sweet. The main one is how very beautiful you are.’

Scarlett laughed, it was a girly laugh, like a small child, not a woman’s laugh but she was only sixteen, so it’s not unnatural. Hal quickly tugged at her skirt. He found her suspenders and snapped them thoughtlessly. He rolled her stockings down being tentative to her legs.

‘Hal?’ the girl squeals with laughter.

  He stopped, he looked at her. She was blushing at him, and then slowly, warmly, he took her legs, in his strong hands, pulling her down. She half heartedly fell to the floor. Her bare knees felt the cold crypt beneath her. He kissed her, using his tongue, intricately licking her mouth. He was a good kisser, still is. He put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her so she was lying down. He piled clumsily on top of her in a rush. He slid her dress off carefully. She arched her back so he could get to the cords cutting her oxygen supply. He used his fingers nicely, snapping each cord, one by one, before her dress just slid off. He didn’t have much regard for her under-garments and just tore through them recklessly.

  He kissed her neck and sat up towering over her. He tore his shirt off to reveal a picturesque chest. He lay down again, so their chests met and his lips trailed up her neck again. She started breathing heavily. Suddenly, she looked down at him. Something was wrong. They were in a church? No, it was him. He was cold, freezing, in fact. He had red lips, his teeth were offensive, terrifying. But it was too late; he knew what he had to do.  Even worse, he wanted it, it was his instinct. His fangs tore into her neck. She screams but he doesn’t hear, he just carries on. He was amerced in the blood. He’d craved her blood, desired it, ever since he changed. He had unbelievable self control to keep her breathing this long. He carried on sucking her life away until eventually all that was left was a pale, lifeless body. He had blood all over his face, chest and clothes. It was everywhere. A puddle stood around Scarlett and he looked at her peaceful face, he sighed. He curled himself up so that his legs were by his chest and he ripped his wig off. Tears rolled down his face as he looked at the mess he’d created. Perhaps the worst thing was: he’d do it again. He could see the blood around him. It was smug, it mocked him, told him he was weak. But he didn’t regret what he had done. He could still taste traces of her blood in his mouth, he cherished them. Each drop was like heaven, beautiful, attractive. He smiled at the taste. He longed to do it again; he wanted to keep the taste. He was disgusted at himself, at his weakness. Tears fell more vigorously; he rocked himself back and forth.

  He had made the girl he loved into a monster too. Any moment she would arise as thirsty as him. How could he do that to her? He hated himself. He looked at the wedding dress. It was torn, distressed, unloved. ‘The trouble with white is,’ he thought quietly to himself, ‘the stains are murder!’

 

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