The moon hangs over Detroit and casts elongated and warped shadows on the streets and the gaggles of pedestrians. What was once the automobile capital of the nation now stands as a monument to the old ways of America. It failed to keep up with the changing world, and now it has been left as a bleak reminder of what once was. Sirens cry in the distance, and a few dogs bark here and there. If one bothers to wander about on the edge of town, they will come across the run down Victorians of years past. They house the vagrants of the city, those who lost their former glory as the city did. Very few look the way they did in years past, but this one, the one with a charcoal exterior and hints of various, out of place architectural styles, has more secrets behind its doors than many would care to find out. But that building isn't where we begin.
Instead, we begin in a warehouse that once spat car after car out on to the roads. Like the city, it has changed, but it remained lively, bustling not with life, but perhaps with the absence of it. It depends on whether one believes a vampire is actually a living creature still. From the outside, one would not give it much credit, for it certainly appears lifeless. Within, however, vampires move about fluidly, sharing stories of what once was. They come from various, innumerable time periods and locations. Some claim they were some of the first vampires, but very few these days can even recall the Dark Ages or the Renaissance. Fewer still can remember moving beside mankind as the first uneasy steps were taken toward innovation and discovery.
Regardless, Caius took care in the design of Blood Bath. The warehouse had been divided into three floors, and from there, it had been divided into spacious rooms. Caius had decided, however, that mere rooms were not enough. And so, each room had been designed with the architecture and art of certain time periods in mind. The bottom floor houses rooms from the 1900s and on. As one climbs higher up, they move further back in time until they reach the ancients. The accuracy startles many and evokes nostalgia for what once was.
Caius never stays in one place during the night. He tends to wander about, playing music in the various rooms. The room dedicated to the seventies pulses with the sounds of Caius's progressive rock night. There are very few genres that have made their impact on him, yet he keeps a special place in whatever remains of his heart for the genre. Lydia had not been alive long enough to truly appreciate the genre, yet she still adored it. And, therefore, Caius adores it.
The bass causes the amps to thump, and the drums keep the rhythm while Caius grips the microphone on its stand. A slightly distorted guitar slides slightly, opening Pink Floyd's "Comfortably Numb". His voice comes as something between a rasp and a croon, and it is impossible to describe besides that. It is a trained voice, one he has perfected over the years. His electric guitar dangles before him on its strap, for it won't be used until the refrain. Caius's body moves with the music, and he looks about as if searching for someone...but he knows he won't find her.
Suddenly, the music grows lighter as it slides into the refrain. His face twists, contorting slightly in a pained expression, yet it is not too dramatic to appear comical. Rather, the audience can tell that he truly feels these lyrics. He hits the higher notes with ease, hair falling in front of one eye as he hunches passionately over the microphone. Without looking down, his hands find their way on the strings and neck of the guitar, and they solo with ease, Caius plucking with his fingers.
They repeat, moving on to a new verse and a varied refrain, but Caius maintains his enthusiasm throughout his performance, keeping the audience hooked. Perhaps they too can feel his obvious pain. His guitar finally fades out, and he holds it there for a moment, fingers still gripping the last note as a deafening silence grips the room. Caius does not relish in the applause, however. He merely nods and waves before walking off of the stage with his guitar still in his hands. The albums begin to play again after he departs, filling the silence that consumed the room. There are a few bursts of applause, as if some feel he needs to be praised, but the reoccurring guests know that Caius does not play for the crowds to adore him.
He plays to remember, to try to cling on to those last few reminders of her. Of Lydia.
It is times like these when he suddenly remembers that she is no longer here, and he craves solitude. Guitar still held in his hands, he stalks off toward the back of the club, into a room he set aside for himself. The walls have been covered in layers of posters, ticket stubs, and photos. In one, he stands beside Kurt Cobain. In another, he and Lydia pose with John Lennon. Caius leaves the door open a crack, his way of leaving it open for guests and for Annelise. He sets the guitar, one of the closest things he has to a child, on its stand before sprawling out on the blood red chaise. His feet rest on the back of it, and his head dangles over the edge so that his hair brushes against the thick carpet. On one of the cluttered tables, a radio warbles at a low volume that even Caius can not understand.
A sigh brushes past his lips and his fangs, which have slowly descended as his eyes grow a bit bloodshot. Sometimes, he wonders if it would just be best to allow himself to starve and perish. He is stopped each time, however, by the irrational worry that death will not, in fact, reunite him with Lydia. Religion states, of course, that a vampire has no place in Heaven nor Hell. If so, then why does this existence feel like the latter?
A quick expression of some sort flashes across his face. That would certainly make a wonderful line to a song.