Atone For the Crimes

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     Marcel laid quietly in bed, though he was not tired in the least. Quite simply his mind raced in thoughts and fears. What had happened to him? What has he become? Surely God has forsaken him for his ill crimes this time, his past catching up to him. To some, they knew him as a simple writer for a news magazine, though that was all a facade, a grand lie to make him feel better for what he had done.

     Emerald eyes dulled at the aching and most odd feeling in his body. Marcel was dying a slow death, yet with each moment he was gaining new life as it were. Inside, his organs were failing, slipping into nothing as they died one by one. Though his heart already stopped. What an odd feeling he thought...one being able to feel his own steady rhythm beating in his chest. A hand moved to feel the wrist of the other. No, no pulse. For some reason, Marcel though that perhaps this was some silly nightmare he had been having, that come the morning sun he would awaken alive and...human once more.

     Sadly this would not happen for him. He was cursed it seemed, doomed to live forever in a world such as this one. Cold and uncaring in so many ways. Tonight he witnessed children being killed, being forced to watch as their parents died before their innocent eyes. Yes, this must be what they call 'karma'. Rolling over, he moved to face away from Rosalyn who was sleeping soundly next to him in their bed. His eyes fluttered when he felt his own cold touch, a mirror that was placed on a hutch next to him showed nothing. Marcel was no longer able to view himself anymore. Shutting his eyes, he thought back to all he had done, the deal he made and the woman he gave up as 'collateral' to save his business.

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     Marcel had been no writer, not at all. He only read the papers not wrote for them. Even in his eyes that was a lowly job and he has his own needs to keep up on as it is, surely something as that would never afford him the life he had now. He was a cold business man, owning a mill that stocked, traded and produced cotton. Marcel ruled over it with an iron fist, the master of his mill was indeed known and to never be fussed with. In his eyes, the only things that mattered were his name sake, profit and trades. Day after day he stood high above the floor, a stern glare and all the workers below him. The mill was filled with loud sounds from the machinery and fluffs of cotton that made the place appear as if it were always snowing inside. It would be considered a most beautiful sight if the darkness did not over shadow the light within it.

     However much he produced, it seemed that people never wanted to wear the cotton, they believed that such a thing was silly and that it will never last. Trading had slowed down for him as well, another mill had seemed to open closer to one of Marcel's largest buyers, thus out doing him by price of sale. Times were growing hard for him, many of workers had gone on strike, forcing most of the mill to shut down around him as if time itself had stopped. When alone, Marcel would wonder the empty work ways, hands moving over the machines as if the feeling rekindled the fire of a working man. He was becoming desperate and needed a solution quickly, as he was not able to pay his workers anymore. He was offered the idea of hiring men, women and children from over the seas to work, though that would make him look bad among his peers and fellow business men. A man would handle his issues without the need of others, and that was always the path Marcel had chosen.

     When the winter months hit, the mill ran no more. In fact, it would not be uncommon for Marcel to be the only man inside the building. Only if he could run these machines by himself, he would do it! However that simply not an option for him at all.

     One evening as was strolling back to his estate, Marcel felt himself being followed down. His eyes narrowed in after a few steps and turned to see a man standing a few feet behind him. The shadows covered his face as they both stood in a remote alley way behind an old tavern. Marcel would stroke like a python if he felt himself in danger, for among his social circle, he was known as one of the best bar knuckle boxers this side of London. However the shadowed man made nor shown any threat to Marcel. The two struck up a conversation concerning his mill and what means Marcel had left. Marcel was shocked to hear the man knew so much of his business and even offered his hand to help him in securing profits and sales. Desperate Marcel was indeed. When asking why and what this man needed in return, he simply told Marcel that his workers would return in the morn, and that to work them harder so they will listen and never leave again. Though there was a catch to all this, as it could not be this simple. The mysterious man stated that as the workers perished, he was to receive the bodies at night. They were to be left behind the mill and away from prying eyes.

     Surely this man cannot be serious? Though how could Marcel pass up any thought on getting the mill back up and running. As soon as Marcel moved to shake a hand in agreement to these terms, the man had vanished from sight.

     As promised, the stroke seemed to end as quick as it had come. The workers returned with no question as the humming of the machines filled the mill once more, the snow like cotton flying through the air all around them. However, Marcel was changed. Every night it seemed at least three workers a day perished under his labor, and as promised the bodies were left out back for them to simply vanish by the morning light. Marcel became colder, more brutal to his workers. Stories floated about town of him beating them, or using a belt as form of punishment. His screams would fill and echo around them loudly. Yet when he left, he had become a charming and very well to do man.

     Many woman swooned for him, hoping for a chance at his heart. However he was already betrothed to another named Rosaline. She was the grandest in his eyes, the most beautiful to behold in all of London. He loved her with a firey passion that could not be put out. That is to say until his morals started to eat away at him. He became less harsh with the workers, less loud and belittling. he simply could not carry on this ruling of an iron glove. As he had softened up to them all, the less bodies were offered to the strange man. Up until the second winter season of all this, Marcel seemed to be fine with less offering for the man who was supplying buyers and income into the mill.

     One evening as Marcel was locking up the doors to head to his estate, the man returned and this time not alone. Marcel froze in place as he seen his beloved in the mans clutches. He held her by the soft blonde curls the danced around her neck and shoulders, blue eyes blinded with primal fear. The man spoke on about Marcel not holding the end of his deal up, and that he must pay his debt. When Marcel pleaded, the man simply did not agree to anything Marcel offered, not even the mill itself. The man carried on about a deal being a deal, and that punishment happens when one does not comply.

     Much to his horror, as the man smiled in delight, a lit lamp near by cast a reflection across the mans teeth, his rather large fangs. Before Marcel had even had the smallest of chances to snatch her away from him, it...the vampire, they were already gone from sight.

     Business can do that to a man, not allow him to think of his choices and future paths. Marcel was simply too caught up in the glory of it all, then height of his newly reformed social status and the fine china cups that were laid across the newly made oak dining table. All of it had no meaning, and it took the kidnapping and possible murder of his lover to see this.

     That night, on the Decembers Eve, the town of London would watch at the Falconi mill was caught a blaze with roaring fire, burning to city's ground.

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     As Marcel shut his eyes, one could almost see the reflection of the flames against the dull shades of emerald. Memories seared inside him, locked away to forever haunt him. Forever they would as his tongue ran across his own newly formed fangs. For all the hate he held for vampires, it was just desserts on his behalf that he was turned into the very things he hated, the very things that destroyed his life.