the unknown story

Thinking and walking, walking and thinking. Your feet go where they wish while your mind lingers on the past. You'd give anything to have her back - even taking back her accursed mother if it meant you could see your daughter's bright smile one more time.

Before you know it, you find yourself in an unfamiliar part of town, but not unknown. There's little to fear, though you do have a twinge of anxiety. Though any anxiety is quickly abated as you come across a flickering neon sign for a bar - The Dusty Tomb. Or at least you think it's a bar.

What you need right now is a good drink or three to quiet the thoughts and ghosts of the past.

The door creeks as it swings open and you step inside. Dark, dank, and filled with smoke. Just like any other hole in the wall. The best kind of place to hide away from the world for a short while.

A few other patrons glance your way as you ease to the bar and take upon a stool, but none linger. The barkeep is a plump woman with long, unkempt hair and an odd skin hue, but that must be your eyes playing tricks from the dark. You order something simple, something strong. With few words she delivers your drink and you hunch over the bar as you nurse it. Normally you'd lean back and keep yourself open, but not tonight. You want to be alone.

One drink. Two drinks. Three and four. Warm and numb, the memories comforting rather than haunting now. It's easy to see how people can become alcoholics, you muse. You did always avoid the drink around your daughter. Model father and all that. But now? Now you're free. For better or worse.

Five drinks and six. Just as you take another sip you nearly jump out of your flushed skin as a cool hand rests upon yours.

A short woman with remarkably, absolutely remarkably pale skin rests her hand upon yours.

"Haven't you had enough to drink?"

Your mind reels and fumbles about in a stupor as you struggle to process this surprise. Was it just your imagination or was her touch rather cool? Maybe your skin is just warm. And why is she telling you how much you can have? Who does she think she is?

"I see that you have," she says, reading your expression.

You snort. Just another woman hitting on a single guy at a bar. Can't they just leave you the fuck alone for like five fucking seconds? Bad enough you were a single dad and had to deal with a deadbeat mother (So common, these days), but now you can't even grieve on the anniversary of your daughter's death in peace.

Any semblance of niceties fly out the window, partly because of your drunkenness, partly because you just don't care anymore. You think your words will instantly drive away this short woman, this woman with unnerving pallor and disheveled hair, but she just watches. And smiles. The fury in your sails does not last long, and soon you find yourself just mumbling and rambling about woman this, whore that. Yet she never stops smiling. Not a smug grin, nor a superior smirk. Just a wry, knowing little smile.

Finally, after you fall silent and stare into your glass, the woman speaks up. Though something is peculiar about her voice, that you only just now notice.

"What grieves you so?"

You furrow your brows and level a stare at her. Most would've left in annoyance long ago. Being an abrasive, drunken wreck is usually a sure-fire way to drive off any potential predators. Is she just that desperate? You shake your head and laugh, telling her it's none of her business. What's lost is lost and can never come back.

Her eyes glint and she smiles knowingly.

"What is lost can be reclaimed," she says matter-of-factly. "Don't give me that look; I know your type well."

Once again you're given pause, and you so very dearly wish you weren't so desperately drunk. You steady a look on the barkeeper who returns yours with a smile, followed by a glance towards the woman seated next to you. Their skin tones are... very pale. Lifeless, one might say. Your mind quickens and you whirl around and study the others, rude as it may be. A thought creeps forward: You've probably got the most blood of anyone here. Maybe more than everyone else combined.

The Dusty Tomb. You laugh inwardly, and quickly attempt to excuse yourself, racist as it may be. Undead may be part of the citizenry, and they're well-to-do folks, so you've been told, but you've got other places to drink yourself stupid at.

She doesn't try to stop you - physically, at least.

"Who have you lost? Wouldn't you like to see their return?"

She didn't need to. You turn about, scarce steps from the door.

"Wouldn't you like to hear more?"