Burning From The Inside

For a whopping 230 days per year, Manchester revels in the masochistic pleasure of gray skies and endless rain. The sun, neither ally nor foe, makes too infrequent an appearance to have any real impact. And what's the use in searching for sunshine when you're already consumed by darkness? Then Manchester was a perfect choice. "Interested in watching The Hunger? I love Bowie," Rannva nonchalantly applies deep blue lipstick on her lips, prepared to be a genuine hunter tonight. "It's unfortunate that you didn't get to know him during the 1970s, Lorrie." It's a peculiar existence to live solely for oneself while still grappling with a new identity. His only companion, whose desires are more insatiable than his own, adds some excitement to his monotonous days - from long hours at the donor station to late nights at local clubs. A decade ago, he would have scolded his own granddaughter for such behavior, but now he's forced to live it himself. "I desire to see Bauhaus live once more before they disappear in various directions. Perhaps Murphy could provide me with his chaotic vivid energy. He seems the newly crowned prince of darkness, doesn't he?" She will gladly suck life energy from another one of those goth lads from the scene, no doubt. Lorrimer wearily rolls his eyes, when he glances at yet another record purchased by Rannva from a nearby flea record store. His well-honed intuition rarely fails him, even after all this time: it's highly likely that the slender lead singer and the eccentric guitarist have been drifting in the realm of night for quite a while now, leaving no trace of real interest for his Iranian demoness flatmate. "Let's actually go watch the film... The synopsis seems quite relatable to... our own experiences." For the past decade, he has been defying the laws of time, bending it to his own advantage. Hoqever, even becoming immortal, he now feels like a mere shadow of his former self, an insubstantial replica with someone else's name attached. Jessica, on the other hand, seems content with her mundane life as a stay-at-home mother of two. She definitely doesn't grief over her poor grandfather anymore. Just a few years ago, he would still occasionally observe her from a long distance, striving to keep up with her life, but even that connection eventually dissipated, becoming a meaningless relic of the past, a swiftly fading memory. "Why the long face? Is some past memory haunting you again?" Rannva whispers as she leans her curly-haired head against his shoulder. "I'm not feeling sad, just feeling bored." "Can I take a wild guess? Are you longing for your granddaughter or feeling nostalgic about the library?" The old mansion he bitterly left behind holds most of his rare, expensive, alluring books but it would be a difficult task for Lorrimer to sneak them out without raising suspicion. He's an official deceased house owner and has no more rights there. As they stroll down the street, they notice picturesque city center punks who boldly meet their gazes, whistling and hooting in response to the captivating stare of a raven-haired femme fatale, who eagerly scans the crowd for amusement later in the night. “Take my life, but leave me my soul,” he whispered almost helplessly to his killer. Despite dying in such an undignified manner, he was still able to trick the bloodsucker who had taken control of him into the lethal grasp of the thorn tree. It happened quite the opposite way. Van Helsing's existence didn't end with demise, yet his control over his spirit no longer belongs to him. "You and I resemble a fine father-daughter pair who have chosen each other. A perfect harmony, don't you agree? Or are you looking for someone else to join us?" With her bottomlessly black eyes narrowed to resemble an abyss, she impatiently taps her sharp nails on his shoulder. How many ordinary men have been destroyed because of her seductive power? Lorrimer, while clutching the brim of his hat with his bony fingers, reflects on the fact that he can never go back to who he was before. But still, he won't kill to satisfy the monster inside him. There was only one occasion in his entire life where he had the chance to kill, when he received an unexpected kiss of his merciful and generous Death. Death appeared to him in a black cloak with a crimson satin lining, gazing into his eyes and silently revealing the horrirs, sins, and guilty indulgences of this dying world. And he, being deadly wounded, killed the Death himself. "You are my last creation" the dark prince whispered, before fading into the shadows and transforming into ashes. "You are now a reflection of me."  Neon signs at night flow like liquid plastic in new puddles, painting them a intensely bright red, hot and captivating. Rannva's half-closed eyelids only seem deceivingly sleepy: her untamed desert spirit never lets go of its watchfulness or its lethal hold. The outward father-daughter dynamics in their unique friendship actually represent the vice versa bond between an ancient mother figure and an adopted son who still remains very vulnerable in this unfamiliar world. "No words can describe how much I hate this completely rotten core of Manchester," she enjoys pointing out, observing as numerous human hands desperately, unconsciously seek her attention in a downtown bar. "But, even more than that, I despise the sun." Lorrimer, hiding his pale face with his gloved hands, regrets that he didn't have the bravery to end his own life at some point in the past. He also lacks the courage to finally kill someone else by ripping their beating heart from their chest, which might alleviate his guilt-ridden conscience. Lorrimer Van Helsing sacrificed his life for a stagnant world that lacks direction. The new world he was born into is even bleaker and has no way out. He slowly gets used to the noise of Bauhaus or Siouxsie and The Banshees, while living alongside an ancient succubus from Persepolis who now resides in Manchester, appearing like an average provincial gothic lady. "I'm extremely exhausted, my dear. He didn't say that eternity can become that deadly monotonous." "Either you had to consider taking your own life along with his, or decide against killing him, Lorrie." The final words sting him deeply, striking directly at the indomitable heart, causing the urge to anxiously run his tongue over the sharp teeth. Maybe it wasn't worth it after all. Perhaps things would have taken a vastly different turn. "Running without aim Through the razor weeds That only reach my knees And when I'm lying in the grey sleep I don't know how to walk the boards I open my eyes, and look at the floor And now I don't see you anymore" Someone with the name Lorrimer Van Helsing, taken away from the register of the living, waits silently at a nighttime crossroads, wrapped in his torn long leather cloak. And now he curses himself incessantly for... desperately, painfully, hopelessly missing his killer and sacred victim in one person. "There is no choice, we make a point To counteract a threatening hand Close my hold Let's be near"