Another text written for Writer’s group. I decided the challenge “colours” and so everyone had to draw a colour from our sorting hat (lol) and write with that colour in mind, whether it was the colour itself of what it symbolised. I drew green. The others were reminded of jealousy when I read my text aloud. Funny as it is, I didn't have that theme in mind when writing; "life" was what it was supposed to represent. I guess dear Jamie imbeds emotions on his own accord when I write, the bastard.

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He laughs when he feels happy. Most people do, but usually, he isn’t like most people. When laughing, I think he feels normal, balanced – something he must enjoy because usually, that isn’t the case.

Even before I’ve stuck the key in the lock, I can hear the bubbly but still muted sound that makes his sort of laugh. It’s not even because I haven’t heard it before, but the sound alone seems to surprise me time after time. I open the door, step in, toe off my shoes. There’s a female giggle accompanying his, and suddenly the apartment appears to me more alive than I remember it ever doing. It’s odd. I enter the living room and stand in the door way staring at the two figures sprawled on the couch, arms and legs and torsos oddly tangled, just... laughing. As to what they’re actually doing, I have absolutely no darn clue. I clear my throat. The siblings turn their heads and look up at me completely simultaneously with identical eyes, smiles, an action that never ceases to make me shudder just slightly, and their laughing stops. The four gleaming, brown eyes watch me attentively. I lift an eyebrow in question, and they glance at each other secretly. Then Kei starts giggling, Raijin bites his lip to not follow her lead, and that’s all it takes for me to throw my arms up with a loud “What?”

He gets up, the quiet chuckle regaining a little strength again; quiet, yes, but as soon as it has left his lips seeming to draft around the room, like musicals notes wafting and spiralling, gracing the walls with the odd and pleasant sound before it bounces on. Temple bells chiming in the spring breeze. Angelic fingers caressing your skin, all formed by sound. His voice is a hushed, strangely happy whisper as he says my name, and arms wind around my neck. There’s a little glint of green hidden behind his bangs; jade ear rings that must be Kei’s. And he mutters;

“Nothing. Just life.”

This is Jamie. Jamie has been a WIP for a while, but now he finally seems to be close to done. For those who have read parts of my Hear You Me stories, will know who he is; Raijin’s boyfriend, 26 years old, ex-prostitute, adorable.

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Tagged with a warning due to mild violence and some moral sensitivity.

Iseul again. This is a continuation of "Hunted" - which means still part of his past. The clan holding him captive are specialists concerning what would plainly be described as some sort of mindreading. In their book, this young man has potential, and so they spend time breaking him down to obey their will.

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Iseul has been curled up quietly on the floor in the dark room for almost thirty minutes. He is asleep, but only lightly so because he in the bottom of his mind knows that sleeping is dangerous. But he is so tired. Days have passed, six as a minimum, he's certain, even as it appears him difficult to separate one day from the other. Still he hasn't slept, not until now where his mind has conquered the rapid beating of his scared heart.

They have blocked the windows, cleared the room they keep him in and taken his clothes. He is still in his own house, the far eastern part of the building where he usually has no business, because it is the servants' quarters. So ironic, he pondered when his mind for a moment was not a mess of fear; to be prisoner in your own home like this. He could get out without breaking a sweat, they might as well have locked him in a paper box with no lid – like those the children make out of rice paper and put candles in – but they would find him anywhere. He tries not to think of his spouse, his two daughters.

When Iseul wakes up with a start, it is to the weight of a body suddenly settling on his lower body. Instinctively, he kicks out, only to be pinned to the floor. And he lies still. From the first day, he learned to not move, or they would simply hurt him more. He still is not quite certain for what purposes they are keeping him trapped. The man on top of him has a slim face and a waterfall of dark hair spilling over his shoulders. Stray strands tickle Iseul's cheeks, his tight jaw and his nose. The man smiles. Korean, Iseul learned, unlike the man that seems to be their leader, who - he is almost entirely confident of that, at least - is Chinese. The man above him has a name that does not sound Korean when he heard it, though - not at all Asian either, but Iseul can not bring his usual curiosity forth, if only for a moment. It has hidden away with the courage he too thought he possessed.

The man settled on his narrow hips places a hand on his forehead. Iseul's breathing is growing quicker. He can feel his own frantic heartbeat hammering in his ears, feel the way his body shakes. The man above him whispers things, sly things supposed to scare him, he knows, and unfortunately it works. The hand is feeling along the lines of his skull, and the feeling of things shifting and being stirred up inside his head has become familiar already. But it sounds insane, outrageous; they can not be demons of another world when they look so human, it is not possible. But the pain in his head is real, the nausea very existing indeed, and Iseul is forced to believe, for that can not only be caused by the fear he feels. If not demons, then maybe something else. Their yellow and dark eyes too tell of deeds more ghastly than human kind could possibly think of.

When properly settled in his head, the indescribable feeling travels south. It feels like leeches small enough to fit under his skin and into his blood vessels, leeches that feed on his knowledge, the knowledge he has worked so hard for. There is a sudden stab of pain in his chest, and Iseul can feel it worse than previous times, but the man pinning him down does not take any notice of the sobs building in his throat, the way his bare stomach is shuddering violently and tears are falling down his cheeks.

Iseul's sobs are becoming loud once more as his chest heaves up and down hurriedly. He can not breathe properly, his throat feeling as though it has been closed off entirely, and soon, his small sobs turn into gasps for air. The feeling of some other presence than himself in the most hidden parts of his own body makes lights dance before his vision. His fingertips are buzzing.

Then suddenly the hand and the presence and the body on top of his own sweat-clammy one disappears. Iseul takes in a large gulp of air, so sharply it almost hurts his lungs. There is no fireplace lit, but he stopped feeling cold after the second day, even as it made his teeth clatter at night. Maybe he is already sick, pneumonia most likely, but all the other pressure on him makes such a thing seem almost trivial.
Slowly his breathing returns to almost normal. Iseul presses his palms against his eyes. The sobs tumbling from his cracked lips are strained, panic-stricken mixed with his wheezing breaths. He never truly cried before, nor did he ever have a reason too. The blackness that had crept at the edges of his eyes retreats.
So scared. He is so scared.

Iseul is yet another character of mine, from the H.Y.M. project. He's blonde, he's North Korean, and he's born around 1780. At the age of 25, a minor Chinese-Korean clan of vampires took over his household, and the nobleman found that being smart proved to be dangerous. A year later, Iseul wasn't breathing anymore, even if he still walked the Earth. This is the beginning of his story.

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I do not know if I should be thankful or terrified that the anchae* is entirely deserted as I sprint down the corridors and out into the larger part of the house. My feet carry me almost quicker than I can actually run, and my hair whips around my face as I look back frantically over my shoulder. I pick up speed as I round a corner and just miss slipping on the smooth wooden floors. I look back again. The shadows are still, alarmingly still, and even though I can barely hear anything, the very slight sound of feet chasing right behind me makes the fear burn beneath my lungs and I clench my hands. They're quick, the steps, certainly multiple, and light but all the same so weighty that the floors shake below me like when the thunder is particularly deafening. They just might as well be so loud it numbs my hearing; tricking me into thinking them silent.

I can feel them closing up on me, so I try to make my legs work faster, and I toss my head back in the direction of my invisible pursuers countless times, until suddenly the front edge of my hanbok*disappears under my left foot. I don't even react quickly enough to manage a scream before the ground vanishes beneath my feet, and I smash down hard on my chest with my hands barely breaking the fall. Dizzy from the impact my head made with the floor, I manage to get up, and I stumble backwards with a frightened shriek; my followers have come into view. I can faintly make out the silhouettes of three men, one immensely tall and broad as a giant and two men smaller than me. I have always been considered quite high locally. With quivering hands I retreat the knife hidden beneath my garments. As they slowly approach me, I feel my way backwards until my back presses against the end of the corridor. I release a shuddering breath and hold out the knife in stretched arm.

"Do not come any closer!" I cry, my voice hoarse from fear and lack of breath. The large man steps closer and I whimper audibly and flail my weapon towards him.

"Get away from me, who are you?!" I yell, feeling my legs quivering beneath me. Unconsciously my eyes stray to his background. It takes me less than a second to notice that the two men behind him have gone, before I am pinned to the wall from both sides. A set of hands close around my wrists and the knife falls, another hand covering my mouth and a third grasping the base of my throat. My breath hitches and I stare up into a pair of narrow, black eyes crowned by dark brows.

From his position right in front of me, I figure him to the owner of the hand covering my lips and the one on my throat. I can feel my shoulders and legs shaking more and more. His glare is cold like the frosty rocks by the lakes in winter, hard golden flickers impeded in the black colour, and to my horror I can feel cold radiating from him instead of warmth. Gods, let this be a nightmare, please!

"I will remove my hand now. And you will not scream. Understood?" he says lowly, and nod as much as I can manage with my head locked in position. The hand disappears and I instantly open my mouth to protest, to beg, to understand.

"I will give you anything, please! I have a woman and children, they need me!" I plead, and the hand around my neck tightens just the slightest. A smile flutters over the tall man's lips before fading into his expressionless mask again. "No you don't." he replies coldly, and my heart drops. I feel my legs give in, and I faint before I know it.



*Anchae: the inner wing of an old-fashioned Korean house.
*Hanbok: traditional Korean clothing.