The Vampire and Gear-head

Vile (Karl Heisenberg)

She rested on her back, staring up at the ceiling and listened to the steady beat of breathing that came from beside her. His snoring kept her up, which she didn't mind. She wasn't sure what was better— staying awake in reality or dreaming of what she could of had. She longed to dream of the life she had before; dream of her parents, a handsome lover... a happy life... only to be woken by and realize that it was nothing but a dream. She was here, in this mechanical prison her husband calls his kingdom. Husband. That's who lay beside her now, snoring ever so carelessly. He didn't feel what she felt. Fear. Dread. Mourn. No, he was relaxed, able to sleep and dream about whatever he took pleasure in. His naked body completely limp with content, the sheets tangled around his torso as he tossed onto his side ever so often. While he slept, she stayed awake, staring at the ceiling and trying to ignore the soreness between her legs.

Earlier that evening he had approached her with a look in his eye she didn't like. He staggered a bit and she had to wonder if he was drunk. Her husband didn't drink much but when he did he always had the dark and hard liquor. He had grabbed her with his thick gloved hands and tossed her over his shoulder as if she weighed nothing. As she pleaded with him to let her be, he protested against her wishes and took her into the bedroom. There, he flung her onto the bed and took her. This wasn't uncommon of him to do. Whenever he felt frustrated or tense, he came to her. Most of the time he didn't care where they were— if they were in the courtyard of his factory he'd bend her over the nearest object and spill into her without a thought. However, that evening he was patient.

She turned onto her side to face away from her husband. As tired as she was, she couldn't bring herself to become too comfortable. She had been here so long but it didn't settle the fact that was still prisoner to this factory and to her marriage. One would've thought she was a lucky woman— to be chosen. The life she lived before might've been poor but at least she was happy. She had been born in the village below and she had been raised by parents who didn't have much to their name but they were happy. She had a lover, a man she was soon to marry... but that didn't happen. Mother Miranda announced that Lord Heisenberg needed a companion, a young woman who could stand by his side and serve him. As she had stated, woman was created for man. At first, our little maiden hadn't feared the possibility that she may be chosen to be by Heisenberg's side for she was engaged to another.

However, fate would changed in an instant.

Mother Miranda had not cared if there was a ring on her finger, she was destined to marry Heisenberg— whether she wanted it or not. The young maiden was torn from her family. He fiancé intervened, trying to stop the lord that was to take his future wife and in exchange for trying to intervene— he lost his life. Now heartbroken and weak from trying to flee from the lord's grasp, she was taken into Heisenberg's arms and taken to the church, where Mother Miranda married them. During the ceremony, the young maiden was barely conscious. And later that evening, Heisenberg took his wife for the first time, all while she pleaded him to kill her before he lay a hand on her womanhood.

That was six years ago.

Now, she could only imagine what it was like outside of the walls of the factory. Her fiancé long dead, her parents' fate undecided and her fate unknown to them. For all she knew, they were delighted that she had been chosen to be a lord's wife. To be hand chosen by Mother Miranda herself— it was a gift, a blessing. Surely their daughter must be living like royalty amongst the lords. Yes, they had not heard from her since but surely she must be happy. Surely.

She jolted when she left her husband turn on his side and drape a thick arm over her form. The hair on his arm tickled her naked body, feeling like incest on her skin. She thought she'd rather have that than him near her. She felt his breathing down her neck and she wondered if he was even asleep at all. The scruff of his beard scratched the swoop of her neck and suddenly she felt him kissing her shoulder. Her body stiffened, scared that he would get on top of her and take her once more. This was common most nights. He had a habit of waking up in the dead of night and roll over to mount his wife. Even if he was tired and on the verge of sleep, he always seemed to have enough energy to spill into her before falling back asleep. The scariest thing of all was that he wouldn't say anything. He wouldn't call her pet names or tell her what to do when he took her. He'd grunt most of the time and sometimes hiss if her got overstimulated. It was as if she wasn't even there and her body was merely a play thing.