Status: updated semi-regularly. incomplete.
The Girl With the Blue Eyes
one.
George Caruso was a hair taller than 5”7, with long, greasy black hair and a broad Brooklyn accent. His eyes were, as a result of his diet, the shade of congealed blood. It had been days since he had last drank and he was getting irascible and agitated. He tugged at the necktie at his throat, faded and worn, like the rest of the suit he wore – the suit he had been murdered and subsequently changed in.
His changing had been one of chance. As a young man of nineteen, walking back home drunk from his best friend’s wedding, he had been attacked by a vampire. She had gone a little too far in her attack – she meant to merely nip him here and there, nothing a drunk would notice, but the taste of blood had sparked a frenzy within her. On a cold November night in 1916, George was left to bleed to death in a dark street. Only, he didn’t. His coat, a thick blend of materials, absorbed most of the blood he lost, kept him warm and staunched the bleeding fairly quickly. He had considered leaving his coat at home, with his mother, Joan, and sister, Mary, and he praised his own decision to take it with him after the first ten hellish years of his new life, when he had been grateful to be saved.
After decades of self-impressed isolation in remote areas of the Americas, George ventured into Manhattan, where he found a girl, so young, barely old enough to be out of school, beaten, broken, bloody in a disused factory he had been living in. He had only planned to stay for one night – Manhattan was expensive and the inhabitants not to his taste – but she opened her eyes and he saw her tears. Her eyes were once a vivid blue, now bloodshot. The light had gone out of them. There was nothing for it. How could a girl so young and so beautiful die in a grimy, dusty factory? The clothes she wore were old and threadbare. She was homeless, and had been for a very long time. Her hair hung around her waist, unwashed and un-brushed for years. He heard her heartbeat fade, what to do? He was so alone in the life he detested.
His changing had been one of chance. As a young man of nineteen, walking back home drunk from his best friend’s wedding, he had been attacked by a vampire. She had gone a little too far in her attack – she meant to merely nip him here and there, nothing a drunk would notice, but the taste of blood had sparked a frenzy within her. On a cold November night in 1916, George was left to bleed to death in a dark street. Only, he didn’t. His coat, a thick blend of materials, absorbed most of the blood he lost, kept him warm and staunched the bleeding fairly quickly. He had considered leaving his coat at home, with his mother, Joan, and sister, Mary, and he praised his own decision to take it with him after the first ten hellish years of his new life, when he had been grateful to be saved.
After decades of self-impressed isolation in remote areas of the Americas, George ventured into Manhattan, where he found a girl, so young, barely old enough to be out of school, beaten, broken, bloody in a disused factory he had been living in. He had only planned to stay for one night – Manhattan was expensive and the inhabitants not to his taste – but she opened her eyes and he saw her tears. Her eyes were once a vivid blue, now bloodshot. The light had gone out of them. There was nothing for it. How could a girl so young and so beautiful die in a grimy, dusty factory? The clothes she wore were old and threadbare. She was homeless, and had been for a very long time. Her hair hung around her waist, unwashed and un-brushed for years. He heard her heartbeat fade, what to do? He was so alone in the life he detested.
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i know i know i know i know i'm so sorry.i've been editing this and revising this for so long.
( i got an offer from bangor university studying english language with creative writing! )