Tell A Tale — Gothic Fiction

Allaenia's Encounter By Llukwell Dert-Ethrae

The street lay dark, save for the few lamps that fizzled in and out. Traffic buzzed in the distance and the hacking of a flu infected bum cracked harshly in the slum of a neighbourhood. Passing vagrants and potential clients for the red-lit house in the centre of the lane ignored the woman in black, who stood as a statue, looking at the curtained windows. The hair on her neck and arms rose as feelings of despair, hatred and pain filtered through the smog. The edge of her mouth rose up in a half smile, for amidst the opiate smoke, behind the moans and gasps of pleasure, lay a cold agony she had not encountered in an age. In this pain lay a potential. In this potential lay an eternal possibility too good to pass over. It was in this potential that the woman saw herself. She entered the inn.



She asked for the fourth room. The woman knocked on the filthy door. It opened.



Fierce green eyes blazed under a long fringe of tousled black hair. They were neither welcoming nor repelling. They were apathetic. The woman’s heart raced. She entered the room.



It was typically garish, with all the pink and crimson fuzzy items strewn about. Several needles lay on the bed alongside well-used vibrators. There were musty teddy bears of all sizes in the corner with feather boas. The girl lay on the bed and began to strip. The woman stopped her.



Curiosity burned from beneath the black bangs. The woman felt drawn to her and touched her face. The girl stared back coldly. Potential.



They talked over the cruelty of life and the resultant subjugation she had thus far endured. The woman offered the girl an escape, and the power to avenge herself. The girl, having with bated breath moved closer to the woman, whispered acceptance.



Blood drained in a flash and was consumed in frenzied hunger. Life was routed within her amidst violent writhing on the sex-stained floor, her strained cries muffled through her firmly clamped jaw. At long last and laying quite still, she re-opened her eyes. The girl was no longer potential. Now, she was. The woman named her Saramort.



She called her perfect.



Saramort kissed the woman who made her and asked for a name. The reply was whispered in her ear: Allaenia. Saramort sucked her tongue and Allaenia ravenously reciprocated. Then they stopped. The houses’ time had come.



For all the years of pain they had brought her, their punishments were swift and bloody. Life sprayed the walls, the blood of prostitute and pimp alike giving the house reason to be red. The newly undead Vampire was ravenous and indiscriminate in her vengeance. Allaenia stood by and proudly watched as her Daughter, her perfect lover, slaughtered all the inn’s occupants, drinking and painting their essence on the walls.



The only red lights that remained were the wrathful, triumphant eyes of Allaenia’s encounter: Saramort.


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