Short Story: "Siren" (Original Fiction)
Sep. 7th, 2019 07:31 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
deemoyzaSiren | 865 words | Fantasy/Horror
(Inspired by this prompt.)
The years weighed heavy on her, their frustrations and tragedies accumulating like weights around her heart, darkening her vision until all she could see were ulterior motives and impending disaster, dampening her spirit with sharp and bitter homesickness.
She'd been up here for twenty-two years, but walking in the city never got easier. Legs and feet were unreliable things, muscles and tendons crying out in pain over the slightest injury. In her younger days, she'd swum for miles on the open ocean, never tiring; why, then, was walking so hard for her?
Especially when it came so easily to the lesser beings around her?
But she'd made her choice, all those years ago, and she was determined to abide by it. To return home, especially as she was now, was to admit defeat.
And wouldn't her sisters love that?
A cheerful male voice called out her coffee order, dispelling her dark thoughts and drawing her back to the present. Sighing and shaking her head, she approached the counter and accepted her cup with a quiet thanks. The barista responded with a bashful grin.
Cute.
She adjusted her purse strap on her shoulder and turned toward the door. As she walked toward the exit, she glanced down at her cup. "You're beautiful" was written in place of her name. She glanced back, and their eyes met.
She couldn't help but smile. He really did have lovely eyes. Honest eyes. Hopeful eyes. The eyes of someone whose heart was far softer than they ever wanted to admit; an easily-bruised heart, to be sure, but a resilient one, nonetheless. Eyes that took in the graceless mess of humanity and still found qualities to admire.
Silver-lining eyes.
She wouldn't mind seeing the world through those eyes, if only for a little while.
She softened her own gaze and glided back toward the counter, equal parts seductive and shy, the blood of her forebears running hot in her veins, guiding movements that had been honed beneath the waves for millennia before she'd learned to be weightless on land.
Weightless, artless, disarming.
"I'm sorry," she said, her voice an octave higher than the one in which she'd placed her order, edges sanded off the consonants, sliding off her tongue like warm caramel, "but I think you gave me the wrong cup."
"Not at all." The barista grinned, and glanced up at her briefly before pretending to be absorbed in straightening the display of mints beside the register. "That one's all yours."
"Oh. But you see, you spelled my name wrong." She fished inside her purse and produced a pen, then reached across the counter and took his hand. He didn't resist as she turned it over and began writing her name across his palm, but shivered in her grasp with each stroke of the pen.
"See?" she continued, releasing his hand. "Nerissa. I hope you can remember it."
"I couldn't forget if I tried." The barista stared at his palm, color rising in his face.
"Just to be sure, I think I should test your memory. Would tonight be a good time? Seven o'clock, at that little bistro on Twenty-sixth and Harvey?" She blinked at him. "It's near my apartment."
His eyes widened, and she saw herself reflected there. And, in her reflection, her bloodline. Wild, all of them. Cunning. Insatiable.
Irresistible.
Oh, how she wanted to see through those eyes. Just for a little while.
He laughed awkwardly and stammered, finally agreeing to meet. She smiled and tossed her hair as she turned, sinking the hook into his heart, far beyond the sharpened barb.
Oh, how she wanted those eyes.
***
He'd been too eager. Wasn't that the curse of all boys, the demon they battled on their way to becoming men?
No matter; it had only made things easier for her. She stood before her bathroom mirror and pressed her palms against her eyelids, waiting for the movement beneath them to calm, waiting for the eyes to adjust to their new host. When she felt the detached nerves and vessels fuse into her own, she removed her hands and lifted her lids a crack.
Light.
Color.
Her own reflection staring back, wild, cunning, temporarily sated.
As the blood from these new eyes mingled with her own, her cynicism trembled and fell away, like an ill-fitting contact lens, revealing a world that was beautiful despite its tragedies, full of possibilities and people who were inherently good.
She hadn't felt like this in centuries, and wondered why her ancestors had settled for the jaded eyes of sailors for so long. She had half a mind to boast about this, to slip beneath the waves of the harbor and tell her sisters of the sweet and soft boys who roamed the city streets, eyes attuned only to beauty, ignorant of its inherent danger.
Perhaps, one day, she would.
But right now, this view felt too good, too delicious, to share.
She could hardly wait until sunrise, until she could feel the warmth of the first light on her face, feel the excitement of a new beginning.
The whole world was an open treasure.
And she was not about to forego her share.
(Inspired by this prompt.)
The years weighed heavy on her, their frustrations and tragedies accumulating like weights around her heart, darkening her vision until all she could see were ulterior motives and impending disaster, dampening her spirit with sharp and bitter homesickness.
She'd been up here for twenty-two years, but walking in the city never got easier. Legs and feet were unreliable things, muscles and tendons crying out in pain over the slightest injury. In her younger days, she'd swum for miles on the open ocean, never tiring; why, then, was walking so hard for her?
Especially when it came so easily to the lesser beings around her?
But she'd made her choice, all those years ago, and she was determined to abide by it. To return home, especially as she was now, was to admit defeat.
And wouldn't her sisters love that?
A cheerful male voice called out her coffee order, dispelling her dark thoughts and drawing her back to the present. Sighing and shaking her head, she approached the counter and accepted her cup with a quiet thanks. The barista responded with a bashful grin.
Cute.
She adjusted her purse strap on her shoulder and turned toward the door. As she walked toward the exit, she glanced down at her cup. "You're beautiful" was written in place of her name. She glanced back, and their eyes met.
She couldn't help but smile. He really did have lovely eyes. Honest eyes. Hopeful eyes. The eyes of someone whose heart was far softer than they ever wanted to admit; an easily-bruised heart, to be sure, but a resilient one, nonetheless. Eyes that took in the graceless mess of humanity and still found qualities to admire.
Silver-lining eyes.
She wouldn't mind seeing the world through those eyes, if only for a little while.
She softened her own gaze and glided back toward the counter, equal parts seductive and shy, the blood of her forebears running hot in her veins, guiding movements that had been honed beneath the waves for millennia before she'd learned to be weightless on land.
Weightless, artless, disarming.
"I'm sorry," she said, her voice an octave higher than the one in which she'd placed her order, edges sanded off the consonants, sliding off her tongue like warm caramel, "but I think you gave me the wrong cup."
"Not at all." The barista grinned, and glanced up at her briefly before pretending to be absorbed in straightening the display of mints beside the register. "That one's all yours."
"Oh. But you see, you spelled my name wrong." She fished inside her purse and produced a pen, then reached across the counter and took his hand. He didn't resist as she turned it over and began writing her name across his palm, but shivered in her grasp with each stroke of the pen.
"See?" she continued, releasing his hand. "Nerissa. I hope you can remember it."
"I couldn't forget if I tried." The barista stared at his palm, color rising in his face.
"Just to be sure, I think I should test your memory. Would tonight be a good time? Seven o'clock, at that little bistro on Twenty-sixth and Harvey?" She blinked at him. "It's near my apartment."
His eyes widened, and she saw herself reflected there. And, in her reflection, her bloodline. Wild, all of them. Cunning. Insatiable.
Irresistible.
Oh, how she wanted to see through those eyes. Just for a little while.
He laughed awkwardly and stammered, finally agreeing to meet. She smiled and tossed her hair as she turned, sinking the hook into his heart, far beyond the sharpened barb.
Oh, how she wanted those eyes.
He'd been too eager. Wasn't that the curse of all boys, the demon they battled on their way to becoming men?
No matter; it had only made things easier for her. She stood before her bathroom mirror and pressed her palms against her eyelids, waiting for the movement beneath them to calm, waiting for the eyes to adjust to their new host. When she felt the detached nerves and vessels fuse into her own, she removed her hands and lifted her lids a crack.
Light.
Color.
Her own reflection staring back, wild, cunning, temporarily sated.
As the blood from these new eyes mingled with her own, her cynicism trembled and fell away, like an ill-fitting contact lens, revealing a world that was beautiful despite its tragedies, full of possibilities and people who were inherently good.
She hadn't felt like this in centuries, and wondered why her ancestors had settled for the jaded eyes of sailors for so long. She had half a mind to boast about this, to slip beneath the waves of the harbor and tell her sisters of the sweet and soft boys who roamed the city streets, eyes attuned only to beauty, ignorant of its inherent danger.
Perhaps, one day, she would.
But right now, this view felt too good, too delicious, to share.
She could hardly wait until sunrise, until she could feel the warmth of the first light on her face, feel the excitement of a new beginning.
The whole world was an open treasure.
And she was not about to forego her share.
