amityville_sweetheart: (Nightmare Sleeping)
Here and now, there is fitful sleep. Very boring.

December eighth, two-thousand and five is quite the opposite.

Four days ago, Corrine Bertrand's boyfriend killed a vampire. Brutally. Now so far removed from the incident, she can't help but think that maybe the whole thing wasn't so bad. After all, vampires are minions of evil, right? Does it really matter if they're tortured a smeensy before their imminent doom? And even if it did matter, who on earth would it matter to?

And to complicate matters more, she really couldn't take that stance. If all accounts were to be listened to, Corrine's beloved father was a tyrannical, cold, homicidal psychopath with a disgusting love of power and dark arts. There was a great possibility that her father even sent a demon to kill her.


'The only difference between fiction and fact is something you can put your hands on', her brother Louis was fond of saying. So to Corrine, it was at best only a theory, yet to be proven or disproven. Enough to maim the memory of her papa, but not enough to wound her mortally.

And, beyond that... she still missed her father more than anything in the world. Sometimes she could find him on the battlefield, promising her success in all things if she only wanted it bad enough.  Sometimes she could find him at the bottom of a bottle, his blue eyes faded and restless and tired, torn between desire and obligation. Sometimes she could find him in Caleb's eyes, not the color or the correct shape, but something about the message inside of them... a longing for more than your worth, a fiery intellect, several guarded thoughts before careful words.

The last factor, not the least to be ignored; the demon she shared a bed with most nights of the week. Caleb. And if it was to be believed, Corrine herself was a holy vessel. Oh, it wasn't all like that, although she was sure several individuals probably thought she was kidding herself. But she was the very last person to ask about evil and good. If you asked her, it was a football field's length of gray, with two inches to each side, one for good and one for evil.

No one was asking her, though, and thank kittens for that. Caleb has no real family, few friends, and there's always so much going on at the JSA, it's been easy to keep him under watch. Evil? Not her call to make. But he's definitely crazy. Not the crazy she was used to with him, either, but a stark-raving, paranoid, talking-to-himself absolute nutbar.

Corrine lifts her head from under the blanket, staring blearily out her bedroom window. It's still snowing.

That last thought and the silence is actually what rouses her from half-sleep. It's the first multi-hour sleep she's had in a day or two, and she hadn't even noticed the lack of Caleb's presence beside her.

The Shining does Metropolis, she thinks bitterly as she pulls herself from bed.

There's no sounds of distress, and the cats are curled up on Caleb's side of the bed quietly. No ruckus of Caleb going crazy. Perhaps he passed out from exhaustion finally? Did he wander outside? Maybe he just went home. Which one, though? Oh, there was no use getting herself bent out of shape before she searched the apartment.

For all she knew, and she hoped this was the truth, he could be asleep on the couch. Finally.
amityville_sweetheart: (Cry)
Warning: Very nasty stuff. Not for the weak of heart. The pup kicked me out of a sound sleep for this, and it's not pretty. You've been warned.

Corrine darts up the stairs to the second-level apartment, clutching the bags to her chest as she makes it in the front door and slams it behind her. "Cops are everywhere, Greg..." she mutters, making her way through the one-bedroom apartment to the kitchenette area.

She drops the bags onto the table, turning towards her boyfriend's back and the television. "Greg? Greg?" She approaches, putting a hand on his shoulder. He moans and slouches a bit, before sitting up to acknowledge her presence.

There's the stench of rum on him, and the box is sitting on the table, open. He's been hitting the angel dust again, but she doesn't know how long ago.

The whiskey isn't working anymore )


Dec. 28th, 2005 09:05 pm
amityville_sweetheart: (Miss you - Caleb/Corrine)
She is looking through a window.

She stands on her tip-toes, looking through it. There’s a parlor, and a little girl and a woman sitting at a fireplace. She squints. The little girl has bandages on her hand. The woman is crying. “Again,” the woman says.

“Outside are the dogs and the sorcerors and the immoral persons and the murderers and the idolators, and everyone who loves and practices lying,” the little girl answers.


“Outside are the dogs and the sorcerors and the immoral persons and the murderers and the idolators, and everyone who loves and practices lying.”

“The -what-?” the woman snaps.

“The sorcerors,” the girl answers. There are tears in her eyes now.

“The who, Therese?”

“The sorcerors,” Corrine finds herself answering.

The woman is now throwing books into the fire. Alice in Wonderland. The Hobbit. The Wizard of Oz. The Silver Chair. The Secret Garden. The fire licks around their pages, consuming them. Corrine is mesmerized.

A noise stirs her from her sleep. She sits up, looking around. The room is dark, then she suddenly remembers. She was at home, after the mess with the Al Koyet-- finally. Upon arrival, she'd collected all the darker-shaded curtains she could find, and almost every blanket got unfolded and was now covering the windows. She'd unplugged all the clocks as well as her home phone and cell phone. Any TV station that covered news got temporarily blocked from the set, and even her JSA communicator was turned off. If it was really tragic and important, they could come drag her back kicking and screaming. But right now, her plan was to just make the entire world go away for a few days.

She hears the familiar sound of Caleb's footfalls approaching the bedroom, and despite the lack of light, she turns towards the door. "Hey, baby." A long, long yawn. "What time is it?" Waving a hand frantically, she cuts him off before he can completely answer. "No, nevermind! Forget I asked. Don't wanna know."

Caleb chuckles, and she can feel him sit down next to her. He leans down and gives her a quick kiss, and then there's a warm mug in her hands. "Drink this. You need the strength."

Sniffing it quizzically, she hesitates to drink. "What is it?" It's not that she doesn't trust him, but, well... she had brothers growing up. You never drink or eat anything asked of you before testing it first.

"Tomato soup," he says simply, and she hears him taking a sip of his own.

Satisfied, Corrine takes a tenative sip. She didn't even know she had tomato soup in her cabinets. "Needs milk," she says tiredly, then sets the mug aside and hugs him around the waist. "So, how long do you think we've been here?"

There's silence for a few moments, then Caleb leans over to set his own mug on the nightstand. "Twenty four hours, at least. I know you slept for about twelve."

"You didn't sleep?" Corrine remarks curiously, snuggling back into her pillows and blankets. She'd noticed him stirring shortly after she'd fallen asleep, but she didn't think much of it. She'd been too tired to think much of anything. Unconsciously, she'd reached over and patted his back reassuringly, but that was the last thing she could remember before sleep overcame her.

"There's a lot on my mind," he says, and he sounds tired. Her brow creases as he continues. "The past few days have been... harrowing. I just need time to wind down, that's all." A kiss on her forehead, and then Caleb's next to her, his head against her shoulder. "Nothing to worry about, I'm sure."

There's a little giggle from her in the darkness, and then the feel of her hand running down his side. "You seemed to take your mind off it all for a couple hours there, at least."

Corrine can see the smile on his face as he looks up at her, a hand slowly trailing down her jaw. "You have that effect on me. Besides, I'm enjoying that I was, uh... pleasantly surprised at you not being dead." Then, in a slightly sadder tone, "And myself, if not for the... state of affairs which established that."

She doesn't really much want to think of that right now, so instead she shifts on the bed to face him. "How long do you think it'll be before someone comes looking for us?"

Another chuckle from Caleb. There could be worse things than this. "Let's just hope it's not angels this time. I, uh... I don't think I'll be happy to be seeing that shrew again anytime soon."

"Haha. You called an angel a shrew," she mocks, beeping his nose. "Guess you're gonna have to go to confession now and everything."

"Or you," he says quietly.

She sits up on an elbow, creasing her brow at him. "What?"

He turns to her, smiling-- crazed, not quite there. "I'm not the one sleeping with demons."

Corrine startles up, finding herself wrapped in sheets and blankets on the floor. She's next to her bed in the JSA Brownstone, staring wildly around. Light is coming through the windows. She rubs her head, feeling the hangover already.

She pulls herself to her feet shakily, looking about the room. In seconds she's running around the suite, gathering the alcohol and pouring it down the drain in the bathroom sink. For several minutes she stands at the sink, empty bottles on all sides, staring blearily into the mirror.

The tears start again, and she sinks to the floor, pulling her knees to her chest.
amityville_sweetheart: (DarkMage)
She's dreaming again. The same one.

"Gene?" she says, shirt still pulled up over her mouth.

"Uhh," he answers, still bent over in the grass, holding his stomach.

"Can you breath?" She's not even looking at him. She's looking at the barn. The fire sounds like war, crackling and splintering wood, pops and bangs. She's got ash in her hair, and her lungs burn and feel tight and she can't get her eyes to water.

"...Yeah," he finally says after a moment, staggering to his feet.

"Go get Pamela Denni. Call 911," his sister's voice says calmly, almost numbly.

"But Casey--"

"Go," she insists. Then, after a moment, she shoves at him. "RUN!"

He does run. He's going as fast as he can, but she knows it isn't very fast at all.

She stares up at the house. She can hear things clanging and breaking and something running around at break-neck speed. It's rushed. It's frenzied. It's not thinking about her, or Genie. It doesn't hear them. It doesn't even know.

She sits down on the grass, staring down in front of her.

She remembers when she was just a little girl, and she used to fall asleep on her papa's lap in church. She'd lean around the edge of the pew to get the cool air coming in through the open front doors. It was a tiny church. No air conditioning. Her mother would always slap her hand, and she would pretend she was still asleep.

She could remember the licorice candy-- the Cin-Cins in her papa's coat pocket. She would sneak into her parents' closet, and close the doors behind her. She'd sit on the floor under all of the good sunday clothing, and reach her hands inside the coat pockets, digging for a stash of the candy. One time she'd found an entire pack, and eaten all of them. She was very sick the next day, and mama gave her a lashing she still hasn't forgotten.

And finally she remembers accompanying her father to the hardware store. He always picked her to go over the boys. She'd wander around and screw nuts onto bolts, and ask what that does, and can I get one of these?, and papa, look, lookit what it does! And he'd say yeah pumpkin-head, 'm busy right now. Or your mother'd never let you play with that, but maybe when she goes shopping next week I'll show you how to use it, huh? and a wink.

And sometimes she'd stop to look at something, and get distracted, and he'd call from three aisles over where are you, Roary Corri? And she'd come skidding down the aisle, standing beside him while he spoke to an employee, looking as if she'd been there all along. And he'd say you went invisible, Roary Corri! And sometimes the helper would smile and say what a sweet little girl. So quiet.

That's what papa always called her-- Roarin' Corrine, usually added with a sarcastic note from mama the little girl who never said a word.

And she thinks, pretty indignantly, that she did say something from time to time, but no one ever really listened. She thought maybe the less and less she said, the more people would pay attention when she did speak. But no one ever really did. No one even really noticed when she started talking again, except for papa. And then he left.

She stares up at the house. Everything's gotten very quiet. There are sirens in the distance. How long has she been here? Not sure.

She stands, staring down at her father's blank stare. He looks almost like a gaping fish she realizes with some horror, and she pulls his shirt up to cover his face.

There are people walking towards her now. Gene is next to Jake, the volunteer firefighter from the hill. They're both staring at the house, at the busting windows and the popping and banging aluminum siding. Then the roof comes down in a puff of smoke and ash and red, and Corrine finds herself jumping back just as Gene is jumping forward.

Jake and Officer Paits and the Denni boy are all trying to pull him back, and he's screaming, screaming worst than in the barn, and Jake says not now not now too late boy you're gonna die no one'd be in there. And Corrine thinks of how wrong he is when the EMTs pull her away.

She watches from the stretcher as the fire begins to die out minutes later; as the firemen stand there watching quietly, bewildered; as Gene gives her long, numb looks.

For the first time she realizes how much pain she's in. She can't feel her arm. The air isn't coming. Something's pressing down around her skull, squeezing it like a vice.

It all goes black.

Corrine Bertrand wakes up, staring around at her empty apartment. There's nothing but the sound of her cat purring at her feet. She pulls the blanket over her head, and listens carefully.
amityville_sweetheart: (Bad news)
It’s late. She can hear the clock ticking.

Corrine rolls over, Kinsey hopping from the bed at her sudden movement. He gives her a decidedly dirty look before exiting the room. She responds with a kitten-noise, and her head retreats under the blanket.

It’s a game, really, but only to her. She’s been playing it since she was a child. Hide under the covers when it’s dark, and see what you can hear that you normally wouldn’t be able to. She listens carefully. Tick. Tick. Tick. The clock. Eeeer-wooo. Eeeer-wooo. An ambulance on the street below. Cuusht. Someone closing the window in the adjacent apartment. “—not a second time!” The neighbor scolding his children playing in the hallway.

“Are you coming, or not?”

She blinks, tilting her head to the side curiously. That was too close. She listens harder. “Well, I’m not going to wait forever. I have places to be.”

Corrine realizes the noise is not outside of her apartment, but inside of it. She’s alone, though. Tentatively, she pokes her head out from under the covers. There’s a little boy on a big wheel in the middle of her bedroom. She finds herself wanting to be slightly disturbed by this fact, but it’s curious that she isn’t.

“C’mon, this way,” he says with a sigh, and pedals out into the hallway.

She follows. It’s the polite thing to do, isn’t it, when a strange child shows up in your apartment at—she glances at the clock—two fifteen in the morning? The apartment isn’t the same, though, she realizes as she follows behind him. His pedaling is echoing strangely through the halls that have become suddenly very gray. “Currrsh, currsh, currsh…” they echo. She makes a small sound. It doesn’t echo. Strange.

“Where are we going?” she asks, taking in her surroundings. There are big, metal doors lining both sides of the hallway. They must’ve been white at some time, but the paint is chipping.

“To find where it’s all going.”

“Where what’s going?” she asks, and it seems like a very stupid question.

It is, if the child’s voice is any indication. He stops pedaling. “The magic, stupid! Didn’t you read the memo? It was your thought.”

Corrine looks down. There’s a little yellow sticky-pad stuck to her shirt. It reads: ‘Something’s going on. The magic’s acting weird lately’. She shakes her head. “I meant to find out about that.”

“Well, lucky day for you, isn’t it?” he says, and continues pedalling. He’s a very rude child.

She can hear things, now, all sorts of things. There are people arguing, people whispering, people laughing and screaming. A phone is ringing. A fire is crackling. A dog is barking. She can hear the static of a movie theater reel starting up. She stops. It’s coming from a door. There’s little glass windows on all the doors. “Where are we?” she asks.

“Don’t look in the windows,” he says without stopping.


He’s getting smaller and smaller in the distance. She glances to the left. It must be an old movie. She loves old movies, especially ones with Audrey Hepburn. ‘Maybe it’s an Audrey Hepburn movie. Then it won’t hurt if I take a little peek.’ She presses her face to the glass, using her pajama sleeve to wipe the grime and dinginess away. She can’t see anything at first, just the flicker of light. Then, slowly, her vision adjusts. She can see chairs. And there’s people, but she can’t make out the forms. Three or four people, tops. They don’t seem to notice her, or even know she’s there. She squints, trying to see if she can recognize the people.

“Don’t LOOK!” A deathly cold hand grips her arm, and she jumps away from the window. The child is giving her scolding eyes. “That is none of your concern. What did I tell you, huh? And people say children never listen. Come on.”

With a final look at the little window, she continues to follow him.

There’s no one else in the hallway. The lights are overhead are very dim. “Are we in a sanatorium?” She can see an abandoned medicine cart, overturned to her right. The wheels are spinning.

“Do you always ask so many questions?” He pedals around a corner, and she nearly trips over him. He’s stopped. “This is it,” he says, staring at the only exit or entrance to the otherwise dead-end. “Wait here.” He gets off of the big-wheel, pulling the big, metal door open and going inside.

Corrine waits. The hallway is very creepy. The sounds from earlier now seem very far away, but she can hear one voice above them all. She turns towards it, back towards the hallway. He told her to wait. She sighs, going towards the sound. There’s a window, now, where one hadn’t been before. She stands on her tip-toes, looking through it. There’s a parlor, and a little girl and a woman sitting at a fireplace. She squints. The little girl has bandages on her hand. The woman is crying.

“Again,” the woman says.

She looks around. She’s in bed. Sunlight is shining in through her blinds. The clock says 8:39. In her lap, is a note. “Next time, stay put.”


amityville_sweetheart: (Default)
Corrine Bertrand

October 2009

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