Snippet #1409051

Anthony was warm. His body felt as though it was surrounded in warm towels, the kind that are fresh from the dryer. It stirred memories and dreams for Anthony as he sifted through oblivion. Memories of home and of his family. His older sisters, his baby brother, all of it coming in vivid flashes of color but with faded edges like a worn out photograph. The soft heat of comforting life radiated about him and time stretched on as if it had no real meaning.

The sound of an ornate grandfather clock brought him back to consciousness. The steady beat of the brass arm within its oak cabinet moved on endlessly. Tick, tock, tick, tock. In that terrifying moment he tried to sit up and a flash of pain screamed through his head. He realized then as he laid still and let the pain subside he was in a bed. Easily the largest bed he'd ever been in. It easily held his six foot frame with couple feet to spare. He was underneath a plush down comforter that was embroidered in ivory lace on a gold backing, and his head rested easily in what he assumed was a down pillow.

Memory surged as he remember shooting the girl in the chest. Remembering the seeping holes above and below her breasts not even effecting her small form. He recalled a mouth like a dagger grasping his throat and his body collapsing on a golden floor. What he couldn't remember was why.

He could see through both eyes now and he wondered how long he had been asleep for as he reached to touch the wound in his neck, and there he felt a cotton bandage taped against it. Anthony knew there were two small holes carved there and they reached his jugular. It was then he knew that vampires were not just a creature of legend. He had shot her, been bit by her, all he needed now was some garlic and he'd be certain, if that even worked on them.

His thoughts dwelt on the girl as he looked around the room. The room was enormous, and much what he thought a penthouse suite in a five star roman hotel would look like. Large armories, a sofa in the same fabric as the bed, and a door that looked like it was lifted straight from the Renaissance with its ornate carvings. As he looked around he noticed the attention to detail pressed into every piece of woodwork of the room. Crown molding, unique yet simple, it was made out of a dark wood, and it cupped the top of the walls elegantly. The wall paper too reminded him of the Renaissance, with sweeping vines and fleur de lises all painted in the same ivory and gold color scheme.

He sat up slower this time and realized his clothing had been stripped and no where to be found. He looked at the purple coloration of the bruises against his lightly tanned skin. It was then he also noticed there were no windows to the room, only the door. Gingerly he stood and went to it and checked the handle. Sure enough, it was locked.

"Well now what do I do," he said to himself.