Polly Gautier

I'm not the girl your mom warned you about; her imagination was never this good.


Antiseptic air. Gas-station flowers. Watery coffee. Those are the first things to stir her senses, those mingling smells. She identifies them idly, with an almost amused detachment. What a horrible mixture. Experimentally, she wrinkles her nose a little. Hmm.

Sounds begin to filter in. She tries not to listen. They get louder when she listens, and that hurts her head. But, of course, the more she thinks about it, the harder it is to ignore. That beeping grates on her nerves. What is it? Almost sounds like an alarm clock. Shit. How late is it? Got to get the kids ready for school, make sure Ian's shirt is pressed, find him a tie. Bah. Time to wake up then.

With a wince, she opens her eyes. And finds herself looking into a pair of hazel ones, only inches from her face. How bizarre, her mind absently ponders. Why didn't she notice? Usually you can tell when someone is so close.


The nurse offers comforting words, her tone a balm to the ragged edges of awareness. Not that her words are really heeded. They're.. blurry. Difficult to interpret. But in a pleasant way. Fingertips stroke and caress sweat-dampened hair back from feverish skin, the nurse's gaze holding. Steady. Reassuring.

What's she saying now..? Something about morphing. Morphing? ..oh. Morphine. That explains the lovely sensation of floating, almost as if she were outside of her own body. How she would like to be, sometimes. Hurtling toward forty, with three children and a paunchy husband to show for it; life hasn't exactly been fair, when it comes to youth and beauty. In truth, she still considers both exotic strangers. Too late to make their acquaintance now.

The nurse is pretty. Then again, everything is pretty. The blinking lights on the monitor sparkle with the glitz of a thousand fairies. The flash of metal rails on passing trolleys are the gleams blades of white knights. So appealing, yet so out of reach.

Oh. She's saying a name now. Whose is it. Huh. Ian. He must be here, somwhere… no? No. NO!

Her hands twitch, spasming involuntarily in reaction to words she barely comprehends. Dead? How can that be?! Who would want to kill poor, beer-gutted Ian? He was only an accountant…

The door closes, she hears it click. Left alone to her grief. The nurse probably thought it was a kindness, giving her a little privacy. But suddenly, she wishes desperately for those hazel eyes. The soothing voice. The gentle touch.

A single tear squeezes from beneath her lashes, trailing down her cheek and falling silently onto the cheap, sterile pillowcase.

Dabbing the last specks of crimson from her lips with a clean handkerchief, Polly stepped out into the hall, her hazel gaze cast in either direction as she pulls the door of the private room gently closed. It's a habit she hasn't managed to shake; she'd know if anyone were here. Still. No harm in being human for a moment.

The pleasant glow of warmth provided by the middle-aged woman's blood brings a smile to the nurse's lips. Satisfaction. Has anyone ever embraced their nature so joyously? She can't imagine so. The morphine was an added bonus. It's like being drunk. For a moment, she leans back against the door's supportive presence, simply taking the time to savor. Watching kaleidoscopic colours. Listening to the quiet hitching of breath that assures her, yes, her patient is weeping.

Crumpling the tissue, she slides both hands into the pockets of her soft cotton cardigan. It takes a careful predator to wear pristine white cotton. Of course, it takes a careful vampire to pass for a night nurse.

Should she have killed the woman? Probably. Nobody would have been surprised. She lost a lot of blood in the attack that claimed the lives of her three children. And the unborn one in her swollen gut that she probably wasn't even aware she had carried. But it was somehow just… more delicious this way. Oblivion was sweet enough. Why shouldn't she deal with a little despair and heartbreak, first? Polly would live that way forever. The bitch could tolerate an hour or so. Then she'd die anyway. The glammer was enough to keep her quiet, til then. Let her rot in her self-imposed mental jailcell.

Polly offered a coy smile to a passing doctor, who, startled, then gave one in kind. She turned a corner, content in her masquerade.

She didn't know why the family had to die. She hadn't bothered to ask. Pushing down the handle of a side door, she stepped inside, pivoting a little on her standard-issue pump. The stairs led down into darkness, but she didn't bother flipping the light switch. She simply descended into the pitch-black embrace. It felt like coming home. Like stepping into a cool lake. Like the caress of a lover. She supposed, in a way, it was all three.

When the Baron wanted someone dead, it was a matter of when. Not if. She was pleased that the Wraths he had sent had taken care of the matter so swiftly. But moreso that the woman had survived. Critical. Not dead. That gave her the opportunity to partake of some entertainment… as well as replenish the stock for her master. He did so enjoy her taste.

She approached the metal shelving at the far side of the disused basement. It warmed her long-dead heart, having a collection to call her own. A veritable, tangible scrapbook of her accomplishments since she became a vampire. Bending at the waist, bracing her hands at her stockinged knees, she admired the various jars in the darkness. It seemed somehow fitting that Ian's head now rested beside his unborn child.

Misery loves its company, after all.

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