I really don't. So instead of rambling on about random things, I thought I'd share something I wrote a few years ago. This piece was my first foray into writing from the first person perspective, something I'm still not comfortable with. It's set in the Darkness Within world, but deals with 2 characters that haven't been introduced in the books yet.
I open my eyes, jolted from a sound sleep because something wet just slapped against my cheek. My heart bangs against my ribs but quickly calms when my brain finally kicks in.
Normally, I’d be worried. But I’ve been living here long enough to know that nothing bad should befall me. It sounds bad doesn’t it? Nothing bad should befall me. You’d think I’d have more confidence.
But I live with an immortal idiot.
And if there’s one thing I’ve learned in the sixty years I’ve been staring at his unchanging face – nothing’s ever certain with someone like him around.
All I can really do now is wonder what’s against my face. I’d look down to see, but whatever it is happens to be in that one spot I can’t see. It’s like somehow he knows exactly what I can and cannot see.
Wait, he probably does. And that’s probably the very reason he’s got whatever the hell it is, right where it is.
God, what the hell was I thinking when I told him I’d be his Servio?
Obviously, I hadn’t been thinking at all.
I suck in a deep breath, trying to smell for a hint of something familiar. Something that might give me a clue about what wet, sloppy substance is against my face. No dice. All I can smell is old fucking vampire, who’s wearing too much expensive cologne.
I guess I shouldn’t complain. At least he doesn’t smell like old fucking vampire who hasn’t taken a bath in three centuries. FYI – that smell doesn’t come out of anything.
How do I know? I’ll tell you later.
Whatever was on my face disappears for a second, but makes an odd slurping sound when it collides with my cheek again. It feels soft, almost like the gym sock of some Olympic athlete who’s been training for twelve hours straight.
And that’s when it hits me. Not just the thought, the damn thing against my face again.
It is a sock. The bastard is hitting me with a wet sock, repeatedly.
This is so not what I signed up for.
I guess it could be worse though. It could actually be soaked with sweat. But I know it isn’t because my particular brand of immortal idiot doesn’t sweat. He stays comfortably dry all the time, no matter how active he is.
Speed Stick doesn’t have shit on him.
The sock smacks me two more times before I finally roll over, unwilling to endure his childish form of torture anymore. I’d tell you what my ceiling looks like, but I can’t because it’s blocked. He’s standing over me of course, smiling like a cat who knows he just pissed in your favorite shoe, but also knows you couldn’t possibly know yet. He reaches down and pats the top of my head, like I’m a dog he’s had since he was a kid. And that same shit eating grin is still stretched across his face.
He doesn’t even say anything. He just stands there with his hand on my head, that stupid smile on his old face, and that childish gleam in his eyes that really doesn’t fit him. I’ve seen it a lot in the years I’ve know him.
Nothing good ever comes of it.
But it’s like a harbinger of the Apocalypse…or the sun. You know you shouldn’t look at it, you know it’s a bad thing – but you can’t help yourself. You stare at it, mouth agape, just waiting for what you already know is about to happen. And when it does, somehow, you’re still shocked.
The bitch flops the wet sock right across my face. It’s not even a clean sock. I know this because all I can see is dingy grey. You’d think the least he could do was break a new pair out of that Hanes package he’s had for twenty years now. He’s a cheap bastard. He’s a cheap, cheap immortal bastard.
I smile underneath the sock, knowing he can’t see me. He may be a bastard, but hey, he’s my bastard…wet socks and all.
“Why do you keep doing this to me?” I ask, knowing damn well what his answer will be.
“I dunno,” he says, in exact time with my own moving lips.
I told you I knew what his answer would be.
“If you don’t know,” I groan, “then can we find something else to do in the morning? I’m sure, between the both of us, we can come up with something better. And if we can’t…well, we’re fucked.”
He laughs. “Fuck? Can we do that instead?” He says it like a kid asking his parents for an ice cream cone.
I shake my head, knocking the soggy sock off my face. “No. No fucking in the house. That’s your rule, remember?”
His face scrunches up. “Damn,” he grumbles, smacking me again with the wet sock. He does it harder this time. It makes a sick slapping sound against my skin. “Why the hell did you let me make a rule like that?”
I take a deep breath, trying to ignore the cold rivulets of water streaming down the sides of my face. “Because you needed to set some boundaries for yourself, much like those you set for a puppy.”
“I’m not a dog though.”
“No, you aren’t…at least not in visibly.”
His mouth takes the shape of a small ‘O’. “That was mean.”
“So is hitting me with a dirty, wet sock.”
“No. Mean would be tickling you until you pissed yourself. That, my dear, would be mean.”
I glare at him. “If you so much as touch my stomach, I’ll tell everyone I know that you’re in love with Oktober.”
He shrugs. “It’s not true.”
I return the gesture. “Doesn’t matter. Whether it is or not, they’ll still wonder about it. Damage is already done.”
“Oooh, you’re just a nasty bitch.”
I smile. “I learned from the best.”
He beams an accomplished smile, like somehow I just paid him a compliment, then smacks me again with the sock. “Don’t you have an assignment to get ready for? Aren’t you already late for your flight?”
I roll over and bury my face in the pillow. “I don’t want to go.”
“You have to go.”
“I don’t want to go.”
“You have to go.”
I know this game could go on forever. We’ve played for days before. But I don’t have the patience for it right now. “Why?”
“You have to…hey, you stopped.”
“I’m not seventy anymore.”
I can almost feel him smile. “Old age creeping up on you, huh?”
“Yeah, you could say that.”
“You have to go.”
“I already took myself out of the game. But just so you know, I don’t want to go.”
I hear the sock slop against the floor just before I feel him sit down on the bed behind me. He rests his hand on my shoulder. “You need this, Lex. More importantly, you deserve this.” His voice is more serious now. Like somehow dropping the sock made the mischievous child disappear.
“I disagree,” I sigh. And I honestly do. I don’t need to advance in his society of assassins. I don’t want to advance. There’s more to it, but I won’t tell him so.
“This is one of those moments where it doesn’t matter if you agree or not. Even though you’ll fight me all the way, I do know what’s best for you. It’s time for you to move up in the world.”
I roll over to face him, angry that he thinks he knows what’s best for me. He’s an immortal creature who can’t even remember what it’s like to BE human…let alone think like one. He has no idea what’s best for me. “You’re wrong.” I state it like a fact, like it’s already been scientifically proven.
He doesn’t buy it.
“Lex, you don’t have a choice this time. It took a lot to set this all up, and your going. It's seven days, not a fucking decade.” He’s getting agitated. The barely visible vein just underneath his left eye is actually starting to show.
I narrow my eyes at him, my way of hiding that I’m bothered by what he’s said. “What? You don’t want me around?”
Yup, there’s that vein again. He smacks me hard on the arm and stands up. “Why the hell wouldn’t I want you around? You’re my Servio! You’re supposed to be around!”
That’s exactly what I’d hoped he’d say. “If I’m supposed to be around, why are you sending me away for seven days?”
He rolls his eyes and smiles. He knows he walked right into it. “I’m not gonna do this with you, Alexis. You’re going on the trip. I already packed your bags. I even set out some clothes for you. Take a shower, brush your teeth, put your face on, and then I’ll drop you at the airport.”
I open my mouth to voice one last argument, but he cuts me off by putting his finger against my lips. “No, no arguments. No theories, no hypotheses, no excuses. Get your ass in the shower. You have 10 minutes.”
It’s futile, I know it. I also know that when he says 10 minutes, he means it. Last time I took it as a joke – I ended up outside of Lord Locke’s office in my birthday suit.
I was not pleased.
I groan as I roll out of bed, then shuffle across the cold, hardwood floor to the bathroom. It takes everything I have to not to argue with him anymore. It takes even more not to sucker punch him in the dick as I walk past him.
He never was a fan of that – go figure.
I don’t have much time, so I quickly take a shower and follow the instructions previously given to me by my Master, in exact order. He hates it when I do this, which is EXACTLY why I do it.
Showered, check. Teeth brushed, check. Face on, check.
I put on the worn pair of low-rise blue jeans and the black t-shirt he left out for me. Next is the pair of strangely dry socks, and my black leather boots. I grab my watch off the counter and smile at it.
Eight minutes. Damn, I’m getting good at this.
I walk back into my bedroom and glare at him. He doesn’t seem bothered. He just picks up a large duffel bag and gives me the “come hither” finger. I swear to God, if I could throw lightning bolts or something, I’d roast his ass for that.
“I’m not your dog,” I snap. “I don’t come on command.”
He arches a brow. Oh man, I walked myself right into this one. “I could make that happen, you know.”
I roll my eyes and move to stand next to him. “Whatever.”
He wraps a strong arm around my waist and gives me that stupid grin from earlier. “Bitchy, party of one – your transport to Chicago O’Hare airport has arrived. Please fasten your seatbelt and hold on tight, this may be a bumpy ride.”
I shake my head as the rollercoaster ride from hell begins…
