Imperfection
folder
Hellsing › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
10
Views:
5,709
Reviews:
10
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Hellsing › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
10
Views:
5,709
Reviews:
10
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Hellsing, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Sweet sixteen, unlikey to be kissed (guess)
Integra Hellsing is sixteen.
She is tall, blonde and, to anyone unacquainted with the abrupt growth spurts of teenagers, alarmingly skinny. Her hair is wet. She is wearing a bathrobe and watching television. She is sixteen.
On the screen flickers a succession of images: black and white horror, lurid romance, animals fighting and fucking and dying... The remote in her hand clicks and clicks. The television murmurs inconsequentials.
Integra is sixteen.
She has never had a boyfriend. She has never been kissed in passion or desire. On her tenth birthday her father had pressed his lips to her hair and ground her face into his breastbone. He was drunk. He smelled like beer and hand-rolled tobacco.
She presses the buttons, click click click. Her hair is wet. There are callouses on her hands from holding a gun.
Today she sent a group of men to purify a building, a den, a coven. It had once been a school, filled with children. The coven master was a child-vampire. He was sixteen. He was handsome. He was a monster, he was a hundred years old. He knelt before her and swore that he would serve her. She put a gun in his mouth and Alucard laughed.
Fearless Rosaleen on the television screen wanders from the path. In the heron's nest the babies hatch and she paints her mouth with rouge. She is sixteen. She is pleased with her reflection in the little mirror. Integra shudders and clicks the remote and something sweeps the hair back from her neck.
Walter today brought her afternoon tea into the office, on a neat little tray, in neat plates and bowels. He'd poured from a delicate porcelain teapot into an equally delicate porcelain cup. There were violets painted along the rim. She looked at his broad hands, the gloves he never took off, the rings he wore even when he slept, the Angel of Death, sudden, gruesome, violent death pouring tea into a cup painted, of all things, with blue violets. She took the cup and took a sip, and he smiled at her. There were biscuits and delicate little sandwiches that he made himself. She almost asked, why? Why is the Angel of Death making tea and sandwiches and smiling at her when she eats them? But she is sixteen and he is sixty and they are both murderers, and she drank his tea and ate his biscuits and thanked him for it.
Integra walked through a shopping mall once.
She was with a cousin. She was pretending to be normal, but of course it didn't work. She walked past a man who smelled so much like her father she almost followed him home. She raises the remote; once again, click. An image of a man and woman making love. Click. Something invisible sniggers in her ear.
Integra Hellsing is sixteen. She has never been kissed, and is unlikely to be. She is a killer. She is sixteen. She is watching television, the remote in her hand, and she is crying, and she doesn't know why. When she feels invisible fingers stroke her ankle, and invisible hands gently push apart her legs she says nothing, just lets it happen. Because of all the things she is, she is only sixteen.
@->>--@->>-
Bonus points for those who can tell me what movie Rosaleen's from. :-)
She is tall, blonde and, to anyone unacquainted with the abrupt growth spurts of teenagers, alarmingly skinny. Her hair is wet. She is wearing a bathrobe and watching television. She is sixteen.
On the screen flickers a succession of images: black and white horror, lurid romance, animals fighting and fucking and dying... The remote in her hand clicks and clicks. The television murmurs inconsequentials.
Integra is sixteen.
She has never had a boyfriend. She has never been kissed in passion or desire. On her tenth birthday her father had pressed his lips to her hair and ground her face into his breastbone. He was drunk. He smelled like beer and hand-rolled tobacco.
She presses the buttons, click click click. Her hair is wet. There are callouses on her hands from holding a gun.
Today she sent a group of men to purify a building, a den, a coven. It had once been a school, filled with children. The coven master was a child-vampire. He was sixteen. He was handsome. He was a monster, he was a hundred years old. He knelt before her and swore that he would serve her. She put a gun in his mouth and Alucard laughed.
Fearless Rosaleen on the television screen wanders from the path. In the heron's nest the babies hatch and she paints her mouth with rouge. She is sixteen. She is pleased with her reflection in the little mirror. Integra shudders and clicks the remote and something sweeps the hair back from her neck.
Walter today brought her afternoon tea into the office, on a neat little tray, in neat plates and bowels. He'd poured from a delicate porcelain teapot into an equally delicate porcelain cup. There were violets painted along the rim. She looked at his broad hands, the gloves he never took off, the rings he wore even when he slept, the Angel of Death, sudden, gruesome, violent death pouring tea into a cup painted, of all things, with blue violets. She took the cup and took a sip, and he smiled at her. There were biscuits and delicate little sandwiches that he made himself. She almost asked, why? Why is the Angel of Death making tea and sandwiches and smiling at her when she eats them? But she is sixteen and he is sixty and they are both murderers, and she drank his tea and ate his biscuits and thanked him for it.
Integra walked through a shopping mall once.
She was with a cousin. She was pretending to be normal, but of course it didn't work. She walked past a man who smelled so much like her father she almost followed him home. She raises the remote; once again, click. An image of a man and woman making love. Click. Something invisible sniggers in her ear.
Integra Hellsing is sixteen. She has never been kissed, and is unlikely to be. She is a killer. She is sixteen. She is watching television, the remote in her hand, and she is crying, and she doesn't know why. When she feels invisible fingers stroke her ankle, and invisible hands gently push apart her legs she says nothing, just lets it happen. Because of all the things she is, she is only sixteen.
@->>--@->>-
Bonus points for those who can tell me what movie Rosaleen's from. :-)