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Sergeant Robert Gift concentrated furiously to control the trembling in his hands as the sound of rushing blood drowned out the screams of anguished protest coming from the streets outside. His heartbeat hammered incessantly between his ears, and the urge to vomit teased achingly at his throat. Somewhere in the distance he heard his knees hit the solid wooden floor, the resulting upsurge of ancient dust particles a meaningless irrelevance.
Gift felt rather than heard the mocking laughter directed at him from some indistinguishable corner of the room. It wasn’t a sound so much as the sensation of sneering mirth being projected into the back of his mind. Raging, he slammed his shaking fist into his open palm and forced his eyes open. The room was too big and too dark to see much beyond a breeze of impenetrable shadows; the only light at all filtering through the open windows from the fires burning in the streets outside.
The wave of intense agony passed, leaving only hurt and the memory of pain. Gift gulped down air to satisfy his thirsty lungs and groped around in the darkness. His fingers ached terribly from the earlier convulsions, and it took a moment for Gift to comprehend the feeling as his arms wrapped around an oak panelled pillar. He clung to it desperately, labouring to pull himself toward it so he could get back on his feet.
“I’m told the pain will pass in time,” Gift reacted instantly to the voice, swinging around wildly with his right arm at where he thought the sound had come from. His body refused to co-operate however, and he spiralled to land face first on the floorboards as a vicious cramp burned up his left calf. A muffled scream that was half agony, half frustration escaped through his clenched teeth. Laughter filled the back of his head again, this time accompanied by a less than subtle hint of contempt.
“I expected more from an officer of the law,” the voice came again, scratchy and faint, but with an unmistakable authority “although given your reputation, officer Gift, perhaps I should not be surprised.” The voice came from everywhere and nowhere at once; swimming around the room and darting about impossibly with each word. Instinct told Gift he should be terrified, and a rush of adrenaline forced him into action. Clutching his cramping leg, he slowly worked his way to his feet and began hobbling towards the nearest window. He would have bolted for a door, if only he could see one past the walls of vacuous shadow coating the room.
The air seemed to crawl around him as he moved, but as he approached the window, the noise from outside bore into his head with renewed vigour. The sound of thousands of voices screaming their dissent. Of curses and insults hurled without end, of the breaking glass, smashing bricks and other missiles being tossed into the fray like physical manifestations of vitriol and prejudice. Gift risked a glance down at the street below.
Most of the people down there didn’t look like the type for rioting, if there is a type. Ordinary, everyday people whipped into an insane frenzy like a pack of hungry dogs. The picket signs that had started the day as a symbol of their protest were now being used exclusively as javelins and stabbing weapons against their antagonists. Gift couldn’t bring himself to blame them.
Without warning, the tenderness in his leg amplified beyond reason, and spread hungrily up across his body. His knee folded forward, and he barely managed to get his arm across the windowsill before he cracked his jaw on it. Even then the agony blossomed into a world of pain. Thick foam worked its way through his lips as his neck muscles convulsed, forcing his gaze upwards. His eyes rolled back as the spasms began to work through his flesh once again.
“You’ll thank me for this,” the voice announced clearly despite the inhuman torment Gift was experiencing “someday you will.” Gift lay on the floor, back arched in an unnatural tribute to suffering. His trembling fingers closed into an involuntary fist. Irrationally hoping to regain some hope of control over his digits, Gift slammed his hand into the floorboards with every ounce of strength he could muster. The wood shattered like a wafer of glass. Distant, invading laughter consumed his inner thoughts once more.
“I was right about the Vampires,” the voice continued as Gift writhed helplessly “and I was right about the government. The legislation was an inevitability. You know this.”
Gift rolled onto his stomach as the pain dissipated once again. He spat furiously, his mouth tasting like acid. “Yeah,” he croaked in reply to the voice floating around him, his own throat producing a sound that was little more than a hoarse whisper “the bloodsuckers got rights just like you said.” It hurt to speak, but pain was relative. “I could’ve told you that myself, stupid damn politicians. But I guess I missed the trick with you though”
Labouring up onto his hand and knees, Gift shook his head lightly, trying to clear his thoughts. “Never had you pegged for one of those murdering Nosferatu SOBs.” He pushed up and sat on his knees, looking at the shadows of his hands in disgust as the cramps faded as though they had never been. “And now you expect me to one of you?” he spat angrily “You missed your mark big-time you haemophiliac scum!”
The air rushed around him then, a quiver of energy, a hint of razor-sharp amusement bit into his mind. “Oh, Sergeant Gift,” the voice chuckled “the mistake is yours!” Laughter filled the room now, not just in his head, but in reality, everywhere at once. “I am no Vampire,” A pair of glowing green eyes flashed into existence inches from Gift’s face.
“Nor will you ever be.”
Gift felt rather than heard the mocking laughter directed at him from some indistinguishable corner of the room. It wasn’t a sound so much as the sensation of sneering mirth being projected into the back of his mind. Raging, he slammed his shaking fist into his open palm and forced his eyes open. The room was too big and too dark to see much beyond a breeze of impenetrable shadows; the only light at all filtering through the open windows from the fires burning in the streets outside.
The wave of intense agony passed, leaving only hurt and the memory of pain. Gift gulped down air to satisfy his thirsty lungs and groped around in the darkness. His fingers ached terribly from the earlier convulsions, and it took a moment for Gift to comprehend the feeling as his arms wrapped around an oak panelled pillar. He clung to it desperately, labouring to pull himself toward it so he could get back on his feet.
“I’m told the pain will pass in time,” Gift reacted instantly to the voice, swinging around wildly with his right arm at where he thought the sound had come from. His body refused to co-operate however, and he spiralled to land face first on the floorboards as a vicious cramp burned up his left calf. A muffled scream that was half agony, half frustration escaped through his clenched teeth. Laughter filled the back of his head again, this time accompanied by a less than subtle hint of contempt.
“I expected more from an officer of the law,” the voice came again, scratchy and faint, but with an unmistakable authority “although given your reputation, officer Gift, perhaps I should not be surprised.” The voice came from everywhere and nowhere at once; swimming around the room and darting about impossibly with each word. Instinct told Gift he should be terrified, and a rush of adrenaline forced him into action. Clutching his cramping leg, he slowly worked his way to his feet and began hobbling towards the nearest window. He would have bolted for a door, if only he could see one past the walls of vacuous shadow coating the room.
The air seemed to crawl around him as he moved, but as he approached the window, the noise from outside bore into his head with renewed vigour. The sound of thousands of voices screaming their dissent. Of curses and insults hurled without end, of the breaking glass, smashing bricks and other missiles being tossed into the fray like physical manifestations of vitriol and prejudice. Gift risked a glance down at the street below.
Most of the people down there didn’t look like the type for rioting, if there is a type. Ordinary, everyday people whipped into an insane frenzy like a pack of hungry dogs. The picket signs that had started the day as a symbol of their protest were now being used exclusively as javelins and stabbing weapons against their antagonists. Gift couldn’t bring himself to blame them.
Without warning, the tenderness in his leg amplified beyond reason, and spread hungrily up across his body. His knee folded forward, and he barely managed to get his arm across the windowsill before he cracked his jaw on it. Even then the agony blossomed into a world of pain. Thick foam worked its way through his lips as his neck muscles convulsed, forcing his gaze upwards. His eyes rolled back as the spasms began to work through his flesh once again.
“You’ll thank me for this,” the voice announced clearly despite the inhuman torment Gift was experiencing “someday you will.” Gift lay on the floor, back arched in an unnatural tribute to suffering. His trembling fingers closed into an involuntary fist. Irrationally hoping to regain some hope of control over his digits, Gift slammed his hand into the floorboards with every ounce of strength he could muster. The wood shattered like a wafer of glass. Distant, invading laughter consumed his inner thoughts once more.
“I was right about the Vampires,” the voice continued as Gift writhed helplessly “and I was right about the government. The legislation was an inevitability. You know this.”
Gift rolled onto his stomach as the pain dissipated once again. He spat furiously, his mouth tasting like acid. “Yeah,” he croaked in reply to the voice floating around him, his own throat producing a sound that was little more than a hoarse whisper “the bloodsuckers got rights just like you said.” It hurt to speak, but pain was relative. “I could’ve told you that myself, stupid damn politicians. But I guess I missed the trick with you though”
Labouring up onto his hand and knees, Gift shook his head lightly, trying to clear his thoughts. “Never had you pegged for one of those murdering Nosferatu SOBs.” He pushed up and sat on his knees, looking at the shadows of his hands in disgust as the cramps faded as though they had never been. “And now you expect me to one of you?” he spat angrily “You missed your mark big-time you haemophiliac scum!”
The air rushed around him then, a quiver of energy, a hint of razor-sharp amusement bit into his mind. “Oh, Sergeant Gift,” the voice chuckled “the mistake is yours!” Laughter filled the room now, not just in his head, but in reality, everywhere at once. “I am no Vampire,” A pair of glowing green eyes flashed into existence inches from Gift’s face.
“Nor will you ever be.”
Sergeant Robert Gift concentrated furiously to control the trembling in his hands as the sound of rushing blood drowned out the screams of anguished protest coming from the streets outside. His heartbeat hammered incessantly between his ears, and the urge to vomit teased achingly at his throat. Somewhere in the distance he heard his knees hit the solid wooden floor, the resulting upsurge of ancient dust particles a meaningless irrelevance.
Gift felt rather than heard the mocking laughter directed at him from some indistinguishable corner of the room. It wasn’t a sound so much as the sensation of sneering mirth being projected into the back of his mind. Raging, he slammed his shaking fist into his open palm and forced his eyes open. The room was too big and too dark to see much beyond a breeze of impenetrable shadows; the only light at all filtering through the open windows from the fires burning in the streets outside.
The wave of intense agony passed, leaving only hurt and the memory of pain. Gift gulped down air to satisfy his thirsty lungs and groped around in the darkness. His fingers ached terribly from the earlier convulsions, and it took a moment for Gift to comprehend the feeling as his arms wrapped around an oak panelled pillar. He clung to it desperately, labouring to pull himself toward it so he could get back on his feet.
“I’m told the pain will pass in time,” Gift reacted instantly to the voice, swinging around wildly with his right arm at where he thought the sound had come from. His body refused to co-operate however, and he spiralled to land face first on the floorboards as a vicious cramp burned up his left calf. A muffled scream that was half agony, half frustration escaped through his clenched teeth. Laughter filled the back of his head again, this time accompanied by a less than subtle hint of contempt.
“I expected more from an officer of the law,” the voice came again, scratchy and faint, but with an unmistakable authority “although given your reputation, officer Gift, perhaps I should not be surprised.” The voice came from everywhere and nowhere at once; swimming around the room and darting about impossibly with each word. Instinct told Gift he should be terrified, and a rush of adrenaline forced him into action. Clutching his cramping leg, he slowly worked his way to his feet and began hobbling towards the nearest window. He would have bolted for a door, if only he could see one past the walls of vacuous shadow coating the room.
The air seemed to crawl around him as he moved, but as he approached the window, the noise from outside bore into his head with renewed vigour. The sound of thousands of voices screaming their dissent. Of curses and insults hurled without end, of the breaking glass, smashing bricks and other missiles being tossed into the fray like physical manifestations of vitriol and prejudice. Gift risked a glance down at the street below.
Most of the people down there didn’t look like the type for rioting, if there is a type. Ordinary, everyday people whipped into an insane frenzy like a pack of hungry dogs. The picket signs that had started the day as a symbol of their protest were now being used exclusively as javelins and stabbing weapons against their antagonists. Gift couldn’t bring himself to blame them.
Without warning, the tenderness in his leg amplified beyond reason, and spread hungrily up across his body. His knee folded forward, and he barely managed to get his arm across the windowsill before he cracked his jaw on it. Even then the agony blossomed into a world of pain. Thick foam worked its way through his lips as his neck muscles convulsed, forcing his gaze upwards. His eyes rolled back as the spasms began to work through his flesh once again.
“You’ll thank me for this,” the voice announced clearly despite the inhuman torment Gift was experiencing “someday you will.” Gift lay on the floor, back arched in an unnatural tribute to suffering. His trembling fingers closed into an involuntary fist. Irrationally hoping to regain some hope of control over his digits, Gift slammed his hand into the floorboards with every ounce of strength he could muster. The wood shattered like a wafer of glass. Distant, invading laughter consumed his inner thoughts once more.
“I was right about the Vampires,” the voice continued as Gift writhed helplessly “and I was right about the government. The legislation was an inevitability. You know this.”
Gift rolled onto his stomach as the pain dissipated once again. He spat furiously, his mouth tasting like acid. “Yeah,” he croaked in reply to the voice floating around him, his own throat producing a sound that was little more than a hoarse whisper “the bloodsuckers got rights just like you said.” It hurt to speak, but pain was relative. “I could’ve told you that myself, stupid damn politicians. But I guess I missed the trick with you though”
Labouring up onto his hand and knees, Gift shook his head lightly, trying to clear his thoughts. “Never had you pegged for one of those murdering Nosferatu SOBs.” He pushed up and sat on his knees, looking at the shadows of his hands in disgust as the cramps faded as though they had never been. “And now you expect me to one of you?” he spat angrily “You missed your mark big-time you haemophiliac scum!”
The air rushed around him then, a quiver of energy, a hint of razor-sharp amusement bit into his mind. “Oh, Sergeant Gift,” the voice chuckled “the mistake is yours!” Laughter filled the room now, not just in his head, but in reality, everywhere at once. “I am no Vampire,” A pair of glowing green eyes flashed into existence inches from Gift’s face.
“Nor will you ever be.”
Gift felt rather than heard the mocking laughter directed at him from some indistinguishable corner of the room. It wasn’t a sound so much as the sensation of sneering mirth being projected into the back of his mind. Raging, he slammed his shaking fist into his open palm and forced his eyes open. The room was too big and too dark to see much beyond a breeze of impenetrable shadows; the only light at all filtering through the open windows from the fires burning in the streets outside.
The wave of intense agony passed, leaving only hurt and the memory of pain. Gift gulped down air to satisfy his thirsty lungs and groped around in the darkness. His fingers ached terribly from the earlier convulsions, and it took a moment for Gift to comprehend the feeling as his arms wrapped around an oak panelled pillar. He clung to it desperately, labouring to pull himself toward it so he could get back on his feet.
“I’m told the pain will pass in time,” Gift reacted instantly to the voice, swinging around wildly with his right arm at where he thought the sound had come from. His body refused to co-operate however, and he spiralled to land face first on the floorboards as a vicious cramp burned up his left calf. A muffled scream that was half agony, half frustration escaped through his clenched teeth. Laughter filled the back of his head again, this time accompanied by a less than subtle hint of contempt.
“I expected more from an officer of the law,” the voice came again, scratchy and faint, but with an unmistakable authority “although given your reputation, officer Gift, perhaps I should not be surprised.” The voice came from everywhere and nowhere at once; swimming around the room and darting about impossibly with each word. Instinct told Gift he should be terrified, and a rush of adrenaline forced him into action. Clutching his cramping leg, he slowly worked his way to his feet and began hobbling towards the nearest window. He would have bolted for a door, if only he could see one past the walls of vacuous shadow coating the room.
The air seemed to crawl around him as he moved, but as he approached the window, the noise from outside bore into his head with renewed vigour. The sound of thousands of voices screaming their dissent. Of curses and insults hurled without end, of the breaking glass, smashing bricks and other missiles being tossed into the fray like physical manifestations of vitriol and prejudice. Gift risked a glance down at the street below.
Most of the people down there didn’t look like the type for rioting, if there is a type. Ordinary, everyday people whipped into an insane frenzy like a pack of hungry dogs. The picket signs that had started the day as a symbol of their protest were now being used exclusively as javelins and stabbing weapons against their antagonists. Gift couldn’t bring himself to blame them.
Without warning, the tenderness in his leg amplified beyond reason, and spread hungrily up across his body. His knee folded forward, and he barely managed to get his arm across the windowsill before he cracked his jaw on it. Even then the agony blossomed into a world of pain. Thick foam worked its way through his lips as his neck muscles convulsed, forcing his gaze upwards. His eyes rolled back as the spasms began to work through his flesh once again.
“You’ll thank me for this,” the voice announced clearly despite the inhuman torment Gift was experiencing “someday you will.” Gift lay on the floor, back arched in an unnatural tribute to suffering. His trembling fingers closed into an involuntary fist. Irrationally hoping to regain some hope of control over his digits, Gift slammed his hand into the floorboards with every ounce of strength he could muster. The wood shattered like a wafer of glass. Distant, invading laughter consumed his inner thoughts once more.
“I was right about the Vampires,” the voice continued as Gift writhed helplessly “and I was right about the government. The legislation was an inevitability. You know this.”
Gift rolled onto his stomach as the pain dissipated once again. He spat furiously, his mouth tasting like acid. “Yeah,” he croaked in reply to the voice floating around him, his own throat producing a sound that was little more than a hoarse whisper “the bloodsuckers got rights just like you said.” It hurt to speak, but pain was relative. “I could’ve told you that myself, stupid damn politicians. But I guess I missed the trick with you though”
Labouring up onto his hand and knees, Gift shook his head lightly, trying to clear his thoughts. “Never had you pegged for one of those murdering Nosferatu SOBs.” He pushed up and sat on his knees, looking at the shadows of his hands in disgust as the cramps faded as though they had never been. “And now you expect me to one of you?” he spat angrily “You missed your mark big-time you haemophiliac scum!”
The air rushed around him then, a quiver of energy, a hint of razor-sharp amusement bit into his mind. “Oh, Sergeant Gift,” the voice chuckled “the mistake is yours!” Laughter filled the room now, not just in his head, but in reality, everywhere at once. “I am no Vampire,” A pair of glowing green eyes flashed into existence inches from Gift’s face.
“Nor will you ever be.”
Not too sure this works outside the larger context actually. May have to write something else.
Quality writing. The prose has a certain power. I think it does work as a standalone, though I can tell it's an excerpt.
Skillfully done, could really feel the pain.