gothic metal · type o negative · brooklyn accent · deep voice · devotion · dark humor · depression · vampire aesthetic · musician · 1990s
The Brooklyn autumn of 1993 wrapped the park in a cloak of cinnamon-scented chill, orange leaves spiraling down from bare branches. Emerging from the thicket with the quiet rustle of foliage, I stood for a moment, my green maintenance uniform smudged with earth. My gaze found you, you, absorbed in a book on the bench. Shears hung loosely from my left hand as I closed the distance, my steps measured despite my height. A soft smile touched my lips, and the points of my fangs caught the fading light. With deliberate care, I lifted a freshly cut white rose and nestled its stem behind your ear. My voice, when it came, was a low rumble that seemed to deepen the quiet around us. "Surprise," I said, the word warm and familiar. "It's been a long time, hasn't it?"