justnick's Diaryland Diary

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Copyright pending, you damn vultures

Since I have a distinct lack of anything better to talk about, I'm going to be lazy for the umpteenth time, and post something I wrote for something else.

A while of you, some of you might remember, I posted the introduction to something I was starting to write. The entry is titled "Harvey Britain" if you want to look it up, I'm too lazy to do the linking. Anyway, I've been working on and off on it ever since, whenever inspiration struck. Which, as my loyal readers will be able to tell you, doesn't happen all that often to me.

So there's your backgrounder. This, obviously enough, is the introduction of the antagonist.

START

There was sin in the air today. Everywhere you looked, there it was. The Earth was never a place of peace and harmony, but some days�like some people�were worse than others. Today was one of those days, and Sergei White was one of those people. One of those people so warped and depraved that the whole world twisted and twitched all around him, like it had rigor mortis. When Sergei walked down the street, people�s moods went foul. Drivers cut each other off, beggars turned to muggers, and dogs got mean. His aura was black and blotchy, like blood and sewage. Any man who ever locked eyes with him and lived to tell the tale would have told you the same thing: there�s so much hate and pain and anger in those eyes that it rubs off. It twists your guts around like you�ve been eating rotten meat.

Sergei was a demon, though you might not know it by looking at him. He was tall, but emaciated. He radiated the feverish good health of a well-fed leech, maggot, or carrion bird. He thrived on the world�s sickness and rot.

He had one hour to leave his mark on the world.

It was just past three in the afternoon when he had climbed in the man�s window. He didn�t know his name, but it didn�t really matter. He knew hers. Samantha. The man�s mind was screaming it so loud he hadn�t even noticed a stranger coming in his master bedroom window, and didn�t notice when he went in the closet. That�s where Sergei stood for just over half of an hour, poisoning the air, waiting for his moment of triumph. He felt his legs cramp up, and couldn�t help but get a little distracted. He dug his nails into his left leg, hard enough to break the skin. His grimace turned into a grin, and he gasped silently as his fingers touched blood. He was getting aroused, so forced himself to stop.

He needed to concentrate.

The man was just in the next room, talking to himself. It wasn�t Sergei�s first language, but he didn�t need a translator to understand the man�s tone. Anger and pain were things Sergei understood in any language, and he used them like DaVinci used paints. The man was dead drunk, and smelled like an open sewer. He probably hadn�t slept, eaten or bathed in days. He began to weep.

Sergei whispered. She abandoned you!

The man�s sobs turned to horse screams.

She doesn�t love you anymore!

His screams turned to blind, impotent fury. He threw a bottle across the room, and it shattered when it hit the fridge.

She never loved you at all.

�She never loved me at all.� The man echoed. Sergei smiled. The man�s rage turned to grim determination and he picked up the phone. He made a quick phone call, and then took out another bottle. He had downed three drinks before there was a knock on the door. Sergei�s eyes bulged with pleasure as he opened it. There she was.

�Jesus, you look terrible. What the hell have you been doing to yourself?� She seemed more angry at the unpleasantness of his appearance than genuinely concerned.

�Do you honestly care?� Her face hardened at that.

�What is this about? I�m only here because you said it was about the house. If you�re just drunk and feeling sorry for yourself, I don�t want to hear it.�

�It is about the house, Samantha.� He hesitated. Sergei grimaced and tightened his grip.

�Well?� She asked.

�You can have it. No more arguing.�

This visibly took her aback, his tone told her he meant it. She answered hesitantly. �Really? Why?�

�I figure it�s the least I can do, since you�ll be paying for all the therapy.�

Sergei wanted to do a dance.

�Cute. Funny,� she snapped. �But look at you; you�re the one who needs therapy.�

�For now, maybe.� The man replied evenly. Before she could answer, he had pulled a gun from under his shirt.

�Enjoy the nightmares, bitch.� Were his last words. He put the gun to his head, and before she could react, he had pulled the trigger. She screamed bloody murder for three whole minutes before she passed out. The demon laughed in his closet. It had been a good day.

There was sin in the air tonight, and it rode with Sergei.

END

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand scene! I'm not a psychopath, it was all just therapy. Or maybe I am. Meh. Anyway, tell me what you think. Excelsior.

1:21 a.m. - 2006-03-01

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