*
"So, this is the place?" Shannon asked with a warm, supportive smile.
Halen looked up at the all too familiar sight of the seven story building that he'd called home for as long as he could remember. Unconsciously his gaze was drawn towards the window on the sixth floor that was part of his father's flat. With a great amount of effort, Halen forced himself to look at the faded bloodstain on the cobbles not ten feet in front of him.
Shannon followed his gaze and breathed in sharply. "Is that .." she began, not able to finish the question.
Halen nodded slowly. "That's all that's left of her now I suppose."
There was a long, uncomfortable pause during which neither of them said anything.
Shannon wrapped both of her arms around him and leaned against Halen's shoulder familiarly. Comfortingly. She reached up and kissed him on the cheek. "You don't have to do this, you know. We can buy you more clothes."
Halen smiled down at her and gazed longingly into her deep green eyes. He tried to speak but had to clear his throat violently to get beyond the rasp. "I know. But I have to at least see him one last time."
"Why?" Shannon asked feelingly. "You can't tell me that you owe him anything?"
"Oh, I owe him everything," Halen objected with a sudden, angry glint in his eyes. "I owe him for sixteen long years of Hell. I owe him for driving my mother to suicide. I owe him ..."
"Shhh." Shannon urged, placing one of her fingers over his mouth to keep him from speaking.
Halen calmed himself down and wrapped both of his arms around her slender frame. She held him right back, silently giving him the support that he needed.
They kissed softly under the cloudy London night sky for a brief moment, ignoring the chill November wind. Rain began to fall lightly around them, but they didn't seem to care. They had each other, that was all that mattered.
"What did I ever do to deserve you?" Halen asked quietly as the rain began to fall more heavily.
Shannon quirked one of her famous half-smiles and cocked her head at him. "Well, you saved my life, for starters."
"Big deal, you saved mine first."
Shannon laughed. "True enough."
"I think that you'll have to give me a better reason then, won't you beautiful?" Halen squeezed her protectively against him.
"All right then," she nodded in acquiescence, her long red curls bouncing slightly. She pursed her lips in thought for a moment before looking up at him coyly. "You made me fall in love with you?" she suggested softly.
Halen smiled. "And God knows you certainly didn't make that easy on me."
"I should say not! I'd have hated for you to think that I fell for every dashing young man in a uniform who saved my life."
"Really? Just how many of us poor saps were there?"
Shannon smiled lightly and kissed him again. "Just you."
Halen laughed. "Come on, let's get you in out of the rain."
Lightning streaked across the sky just as Halen opened the door for Shannon. He turned in surprise at the violence of the thunder, and at how close it sounded.
"Something wrong?" Shannon asked, following his gaze into the sky.
Halen shook his head negatively after a moment. "Nah. Let's just get this over with."
They climbed the stairs in silence. It was a strange homecoming for Halen in both a good and a bad sense. There were many times that he had climbed these stairs with his mother as a child. There had been happy times in his life before, it was just that the bad times seemed to outweigh all the good ones.
As they reached the sixth floor landing, Halen had an incredibly strong flashback of an eleven year-old version of himself sprinting down this very same hallway with his heart in his throat. His heart was in his throat again, but this time the anxiety was more of a wrenching sensation than a pounding necessity.
Shannon squeezed his hand and they continued on.
They stopped in front of the door to his father's flat. Halen took several deep breaths as Shannon ran her hand up and down his arm soothingly. He stared woodenly at the door, suddenly hoping that his father wouldn't be home. Halen was afraid that he'd somehow revert back to a childlike state if he even saw the man. But, after only a brief hesitation, Halen cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders. In one brisk motion, he opened the door and stepped through.
The flat was mostly as he remembered it. Dirty, unkempt and with the stench of stale tobacco and old whisky permeating the air. Much of the old furniture and ornaments that he remembered from his youth seemed to be missing. Most likely pawned by his father for more booze.
"Who's there," slurred an older man's voice from around the corner.
Halen didn't answer right away and Shannon didn't say anything. She squeezed his arm comfortingly, letting him know that she wasn't going anywhere. Halen walked until he rounded the corner into the living room.
There, in the same chair that he'd had for as long as Halen could remember sat his father, Harold Marcus. Former beat cop turned retired drunkard. Fifty-three years old, balding, pot-bellied and filthy. He looked like he hadn't shaved in three days and bathed in even longer. His undershirt and slacks were rumpled, obviously slept in and stained. He wore no socks and his suspenders were laying on the floor beside the chair.
As always, his father's chair was positioned right next to the radio so that he wouldn't have to actually get up and change the station when he wanted to listen to something else. The ashtrays were all overflowing and there were stray cigarette butts and empty liquor bottles lying everywhere.
"I said ..." Harold Marcus began again before noticing that someone else was in the room. He squinted his bloodshot eyes at Halen for a long moment before he recognized him. When he did, he leaned back in his chair with a completely unreadable look on his splotchy face. He took a long, silent pull from the whiskey bottle in his left hand and ostentatiously wiped his mouth with the back of his forearm.
Halen forced himself to stand rock steady and not squirm under his father's harsh scrutiny. Shannon stood right behind him and tried not to seem too noticeable. Outside the window, the rain was pouring steadily. Lightning lit up the dim room and the thunder drowned out the radio.
Deliberately grinding out his cigarette butt into the arm of his chair, Harold Marcus took another brief pull on his whiskey before speaking. "Just what in the hell are you doing here?" His voice was ragged, the product of chain smoking and alcoholism.
Halen cleared his throat. "I came to gather up the last of my things ...."
"Your shit's gone," his father broke in, sipping from his bottle. "When you left, I had all of your leftover crap sold for more important things."
"Yeah, I can see that," Halen muttered darkly.
"What was that, boy?" Harold snapped, lurching out of his chair and taking a wavering step forward. He pointed a nicotine stained finger at his son and snarled. "Are you daring to talk back to me?"
"It's not going to be like that, Dad," Halen retorted quietly. "I'm twenty years old now. I'm not the little boy that you kicked around anymore."
Harold laughed coldly, flexing his fingers. "Just because you're bigger than me now don't mean that I still can't kick your ass!"
Harold Marcus had been an imposing man at one time. There was no question as to which side of the family Halen got his size from. The older man was easily over six feet in height. And, though out of shape, his arms and shoulders were still very thick. Most frightening of all was the dead look in Harold's eyes. He looked like a man who truly did not care about anything.
Halen lowered his eyes first. He had been praying that this sort of thing wouldn't happen. He had truly wanted to avoid a confrontation. "Dad," he began before his voice gave out on him, dying in a raspy cough.
"What the hell's the matter with your voice," his father asked irritably. He motioned towards the ugly scar around his throat. "Did you cut yourself shaving in the army or something?" He chuckled brokenly at his own poor joke.
Shannon lurched forward then, her eyes flashing with a horrible anger. "A Nazi nearly killed him. Most of his vocal chords are destroyed and he'll never be able to ..."
Halen grabbed her by the arms and slowly tried to push her out of his father's sight. "Shannon, please don't," he pleaded.
Harold Marcus stared openly at the tall redhead. He took another drink from his bottle. "Who's this then?" he asked harshly, daring his son to say something.
"She's none of your business," Halen snapped.
His father's face went red with indignation. "You bring some tall, flame haired harlot into my house and you have the nerve to tell me that it's none of my business!" he hollered. His finger jabbing repeatedly and his bottle-wielding arm flailing around blindly. Cheap whiskey sloshed over the lip and fell to the filthy carpet.
"She's my fiancee!" Halen shouted back.
Harold blinked in surprise and took a step back. He seemed uncertain as his son's eyes blazed dangerously.
Shannon seemed to want to say something else but Halen put a hand on her arm and silently urged her to silence.
Halen went on more calmly. "We were just coming back here grab the last of my stuff before going to the airport and catching a plane for Canada." He paused to let his words sink in. "That's right, Dad. I'm leaving the country. You'll never see me again. I just thought that I'd make sure you knew that." He paused, his heart in his throat. "Even after everything, I thought ... I thought that you had a right to know."
There was another long period of silence during which the only thing anyone could hear was the rumble of thunder and the crackle of the radio hissing in the background.
After taking another drink, Harold's face darkened visibly as lightning flashed outside, silhouetting him for a brief moment. The squawking could just barely be heard amidst the heavy thunder background. "You useless fucking git," his father muttered.
"Halen blinked. "What?" he blurted incredulously.
"You've got some fucking nerve, I'll say that much." He took another drink.
"Dad, what the hell are you talking about?"
Harold Marcus lit another cigarette and threw aside the empty pack before speaking, each word accentuated with a puff of smoke. "You come crawling back here, into my home after God only knows how long ..."
"Four years, Dad," Halen interrupted softly.
He pretended that he'd never even been stopped. " ... You come back here, asking for stuff that you lost any right to after you ran out of here with your tail between your fat little legs." He took another drag from his cigarette. "And you have the gall to bring her here!"
Halen was bewildered and far too upset to comprehend. "I ... I don't understand."
More lightning and thunder rocked the London sky as Harold's face got darker. "You brought her here to rub it in my face, didn't you?"
Halen could take no more. "What are you talking about?"
"You know how much I loved your mother!" Harold Marcus screamed drunkenly, stunning Halen to complete silence. The silence dragged on for several minutes before Harold continued. "And now, years after you killed her, you have the out and out gall to bring this harlot here, into my home, to make me realize what I've lost all over again!"
Halen wanted to scream in frustration, his eyes beginning to fill with tears. He blindly walked the few steps to window and pointed out to the stormy sky beyond. "I rushed in here to keep her from jumping that day, Dad!" Halen had begun to sob brokenly by this point. "You didn't have to see her fall to the street! You were off getting drunk! AGAIN!"
"You shut your mouth!" Harold screamed. "You will speak when I tell you to and not before, do you hear me boy!?"
"I will not shut my mouth!" Halen was nearing complete hysteria and couldn't find any way to stop himself. His hands were pulling at his hair and his face was contorted painfully. "You killed her, Dad! You treated her like shit! You beat her! You took advantage of her and you called her down at every single opportunity! You may have not actually thrown her out this window, Dad. But you did the next best thing! You made her do it to herself!"
Harold howled in frustration and hurled his whiskey bottle at his son. Halen, not expecting the sudden attack, was caught completely flat footed and watched as the bottle ricocheted off his head and crashed through the window to the street below. Lightning flashed and thunder rolled outside as Halen dropped to one knee, the rain now pouring into the room and starting to soak into his clothing.
"Halen!" Shannon cried, stumbling towards him. Tears openly rolling down her face as she was overcome with emotion.
Harold Marcus strode forward and swung a vicious backhand blow at Shannon and connected just on the side of her jaw. "Stay out of this, Bitch! This is between me and him!" he snarled in anger.
Everything seemed to slow down for Halen. He saw the exact moment in which his father's hand struck Shannon's face and heard the smack of flesh even over the roar of thunder from outside. He watched as Shannon's lithe body twisted, her long red curls flailing madly as she collapsed to the floor.
He could feel each drop of water trickle down his scalp as everything slowed down for him. His pulse seemed to pound directly behind his ears, every fiber of his being seemed to tingle with a particular energy and electricity.
Every bottled up feeling, emotion and hatred that he had stored since the beginning. Every nasty thing his father had ever said or done to him or his mother. All the names that he had been called, all of the awful things that he had seen, all of the feelings and people that he had let roll off of him like the rain water now rolling down to the floor off of his shoulders.
Halen Marcus cracked.
Stone cracked.
He never remembered surging forward to tackle his father to the ground. He never remembered what he had been shouting. But he never forget how wonderful it felt each and every time he drove his fist into that fat, old bastard's face.
His arm was like a piston-driven jackhammer. Pounding down relentlessly, over and over again. He lost track of time, space and being. He just screamed and flailed away amidst the biggest thunder and lightning storm that London had seen in years. Rain poured into the room, making the floor slick and slippery to walk on, but on his knees Stone couldn't have cared less as he continued to relentlessly beat away on his father's face.
Slowly, ever so slowly, Stone regained his senses.
At long last he stopped driving his fist down. His shoulder slowly began to let the rest of him know that it was sore and tired. His fist was bruised and split at the knuckles, dripping with blood that was only partly his own.
Looking down at his father's face, Stone could barely recognize him. There was almost nothing left of his original features. Teeth were missing, the jaw was grotesquely broken in at least two places. Blood covered every inch of flesh and was puddled beneath his head and spreading across the floor.
Dropping his father's limp form to the floor, Stone noticed the most horrifying detail of them all. Harold Marcus' head was twisted at an angle that was impossible for a living person.
Harold Marcus was dead.
Stone quickly, and to his great surprise, found that he wasn't in the least bit disturbed by this fact. It just seemed like the only real option left to him.
Rising to his feet, he stared down at his father's corpse and ran his bloody hand across his lips, leaving a crimson streak behind. He just couldn't bring himself to feel anything at all.
And he was trying.
That was when he remembered Shannon.
Snapping his gaze to her, he saw that she was huddled against the wall on her knees. The tears had stopped rolling down her face but a look of abject horror remained. Her luscious red hair was ragged and her eyes were wild. Her lower lip had started to swell from his father's blow, but it didn't look to be at all serious.
Stone held out his hand to her and tried to calm her down. "Shannon," he said calmly.
She swung her gaze towards him, the fear intensifying.
"Don't worry,"
Stone reassured her, smiling through the blood on his face. "It's me ... "
Slowly Shannon rose to her feet, always trying to keep her distance. She shook her head. "No," she whispered.
Stone was confused. "What do you mean, 'No'? It's me!"
Shannon shook her head more fiercely and began slinking towards the door. "No," she insisted. "No, it's not." And then she turned and bolted, slamming the door to the flat behind her.
Stone stood there, staring at the blank wall for a long moment, not quite registering what had just happened. Then he slowly made his way to the door, picking up speed with every step.
He burst into the hallway. "Shannon?" he called softly.
She was nowhere to be seen.
He bolted for the stairs, bursting through the door leading to the landing. Faintly he could hear the sounds of footfalls at the very bottom of the staircase.
"Shannon, wait!" Stone called as he leapt down the stairs, heedless of his own safety and well being.
He kicked open the doors to the building's entrance without breaking stride and was soaked to the skin after taking two strides. "SHANNON!" he bellowed, searching in every direction for her. Off in the far distance, Stone thought that he could faintly see someone fleeing away from him. He started sprinting after that image, repeatedly calling out her name.
As he ran on, the rain got heavier and the visibility got worse. Almost immediately, Stone lost track of any image he'd had of Shannon. And after five minutes of sheer sprinting, Stone realized that he'd lost interest in finding her.
He kept running though. He didn't know what else he was supposed to do. He'd murdered his father, forever destroyed any chance at happiness that he may have had with the woman he loved.
No friends. No family. No feeling.
He was Stone.
How long he ran for, Stone could never have said. But when he finally tired, he staggered to a stop and stumbled into an alley. He had every intention of collapsing into a gutter and laying there until he died.
Lightning flashed brightly, silhouetting a dark figure sprinting directly towards him down the alleyway. He was dressed all in black and appeared to just have been severely beaten.
Stone watched dispassionately as the figure turned his gaze forward and caught sight of him. There was a brief widening of the eyes before the figure smiled.
In shock, Stone saw that the figure had abnormally long canine teeth.
Vampire!, his mind screamed at him.
But even before he could tell his mind that it was obviously imagining things, the figure moved impossibly fast and closed the twenty foot gap between them in half a second and sank his teeth deeply into Stone's neck.
Both men crashed to the alley's garbage strewn floor. Stone gasped in pain as he felt his very essence of being leaking out of his body. Immediately he began to lose strength and sight.
Now that he was being given his wish of death, Stone suddenly found that he no longer wanted it. But he no longer had control of his arms or legs. As it was, he was slowly losing the ability to open and close his mouth.
So he fought back with the only weapon left to his disposal, and bit down into the vampire's neck.
Blood flowed into Stone's mouth and trickled down his throat.
All went black.