Post by Alice Wilde on Mar 3, 2006 13:08:51 GMT -5
The room spiraled as he sipped the last drops from a burgundy bottle. The sleeping figure in front of him didn’t stir. Judging from the black crescents under his eyes, he hadn’t slept in a while. Good. Olaf didn’t want him to have rest, after everything he caused.
He was worse than a virus, feeding on thriving cells until they burst. Abhorrence slithered up his throat along with the wine. Olaf swallowed, covering his mouth.
You nauseate me.
Suddenly, the figure turned, the grey covers, basking in the moonlight, falling down to his waist. Olaf softened. He was a striking man, Lemony Snicket, though he hid it well, with heavy overcoats and hats.
Trying to create the aura of mystery?
Now he was dressed simply in flannel pajamas, reminiscent of ones that he had worn as a child. Old habits die hard, Olaf thought. He shook his head and began to search for Lemony’s wallet. He had been low on cash since the orphans’ escape.
Well, one couldn’t call it an escape. Surely, they thought it was a triumph, little children beating the big bad monster. A red leather number stuck out of the pockets of neatly folded khaki pants. He snatched it and dug for dollar bills.
Look at you, scrounging for money. You were once great, once brilliant…Then he wrote those potato ing books.
Nothing. Lemony must have operated entirely on bank cards. His PIN number was probably easy enough to remember. 0-6-6-7. Beatrice had suggested that would be a good headquarters and he always agreed with her.
Even in death.
Thumbing through various false identification cards, Olaf stumbled across a photograph.
Must be of his lost love. Or those idiotic children.
It was two men, arms across each other’s shoulders. They were dressed impeccably, brown suits, youth on smiling faces. It appeared as though the photographer had caught them just after a punch line had been uttered. A bead of sweat fell from Olaf’s hairline.
It was him. He and Lemony, at 667 Dark Avenue. Must have been taken before he switched over to the other side of the schism. What was Lemony doing with-
“Please give my wallet back.” A whisper echoed across the room. Sleeping Beauty had awoke.
Olaf smirked, standing up and waving the wallet. “I’m sorry but I’m afraid I’m a little low on funds. Wouldn’t you like to help a poor beggar?”
“Not when he deserves to be poor.” Lemony answered, turning on the light on his dresser, next to his own separate bottle of alcohol. As his eyes dilated, a look of fury turned into smooth resentment. “Hello, old friend. I thought you would visit me soon.”
Olaf swayed, alcohol sloshing around in his stomach. “But…you wrote that I had perished.”
“At the time, I thought you had. Further research lead me to believe that you hadn’t.” Brown eyes stared at the drunk. “I’m glad to see that you can read about your treacherous deeds. I could scarcely write them.”
“I wouldn’t call it writing. That was exaggeration in the highest. You seem to forget all that we had-” Olaf snarled.
“I haven’t forgotten.” Lemony said, quietly. He eyed the photograph that Olaf was holding. “We slipped away from the meeting and stole a bottle of brandy that night. Beatrice smelled the alcohol on me. She knew I had been with you.”
He paused. “I feel now that she hated you.”
“Just like you!” Olaf laughed, a shrieking throaty pierce in the night. “You…you hate me as well. Paint me a murderer in those novels, a greedy fiend…”
Lemony watched his scrawny frame teeter. “Please. Sit down.” He said.
Olaf looked about him, could not locate a chair, so sat on the floor, cross-legged. Lemony slowly emerged from his bed, grabbed his former comrade by the wrists, and pulled him back to the bed. He remained standing, looking down on Olaf.
“I’ve never hated you. I wrote you badly for Beatrice’s sake, for the Baudelaires. I no longer think you a noble person, yet I never truthfully had. You’re…you’re not good, but I still…I still love you.”
Olaf reached for a pillow and drew the covers over himself. “Like you loved Beatrice?” He murmured, dreamily. Lemony nodded, leaving his place by the bed to get something on top of the dresser.
“Like I loved Beatrice. Unfortunately, Beatrice is gone. And it’s your fault.” His hands were fumbling with something. Olaf couldn’t quite tell what it was.
“And because it’s your fault, I have to do one last thing.” A match suddenly caught flame above Olaf. Lemony grabbed the bottle of alcohol and threw it on the man in the bed. The match dropped.
Lemony could still hear his screams as he left the room. On his typewriter was one unfinished page of his thirteenth novel.
“Though he was my old friend,” He typed, screams growing louder. “the death of Beatrice had preyed on my mind for so long that killing him was the only way that she would rest and I could finally type these words.
The end.”
He was worse than a virus, feeding on thriving cells until they burst. Abhorrence slithered up his throat along with the wine. Olaf swallowed, covering his mouth.
You nauseate me.
Suddenly, the figure turned, the grey covers, basking in the moonlight, falling down to his waist. Olaf softened. He was a striking man, Lemony Snicket, though he hid it well, with heavy overcoats and hats.
Trying to create the aura of mystery?
Now he was dressed simply in flannel pajamas, reminiscent of ones that he had worn as a child. Old habits die hard, Olaf thought. He shook his head and began to search for Lemony’s wallet. He had been low on cash since the orphans’ escape.
Well, one couldn’t call it an escape. Surely, they thought it was a triumph, little children beating the big bad monster. A red leather number stuck out of the pockets of neatly folded khaki pants. He snatched it and dug for dollar bills.
Look at you, scrounging for money. You were once great, once brilliant…Then he wrote those potato ing books.
Nothing. Lemony must have operated entirely on bank cards. His PIN number was probably easy enough to remember. 0-6-6-7. Beatrice had suggested that would be a good headquarters and he always agreed with her.
Even in death.
Thumbing through various false identification cards, Olaf stumbled across a photograph.
Must be of his lost love. Or those idiotic children.
It was two men, arms across each other’s shoulders. They were dressed impeccably, brown suits, youth on smiling faces. It appeared as though the photographer had caught them just after a punch line had been uttered. A bead of sweat fell from Olaf’s hairline.
It was him. He and Lemony, at 667 Dark Avenue. Must have been taken before he switched over to the other side of the schism. What was Lemony doing with-
“Please give my wallet back.” A whisper echoed across the room. Sleeping Beauty had awoke.
Olaf smirked, standing up and waving the wallet. “I’m sorry but I’m afraid I’m a little low on funds. Wouldn’t you like to help a poor beggar?”
“Not when he deserves to be poor.” Lemony answered, turning on the light on his dresser, next to his own separate bottle of alcohol. As his eyes dilated, a look of fury turned into smooth resentment. “Hello, old friend. I thought you would visit me soon.”
Olaf swayed, alcohol sloshing around in his stomach. “But…you wrote that I had perished.”
“At the time, I thought you had. Further research lead me to believe that you hadn’t.” Brown eyes stared at the drunk. “I’m glad to see that you can read about your treacherous deeds. I could scarcely write them.”
“I wouldn’t call it writing. That was exaggeration in the highest. You seem to forget all that we had-” Olaf snarled.
“I haven’t forgotten.” Lemony said, quietly. He eyed the photograph that Olaf was holding. “We slipped away from the meeting and stole a bottle of brandy that night. Beatrice smelled the alcohol on me. She knew I had been with you.”
He paused. “I feel now that she hated you.”
“Just like you!” Olaf laughed, a shrieking throaty pierce in the night. “You…you hate me as well. Paint me a murderer in those novels, a greedy fiend…”
Lemony watched his scrawny frame teeter. “Please. Sit down.” He said.
Olaf looked about him, could not locate a chair, so sat on the floor, cross-legged. Lemony slowly emerged from his bed, grabbed his former comrade by the wrists, and pulled him back to the bed. He remained standing, looking down on Olaf.
“I’ve never hated you. I wrote you badly for Beatrice’s sake, for the Baudelaires. I no longer think you a noble person, yet I never truthfully had. You’re…you’re not good, but I still…I still love you.”
Olaf reached for a pillow and drew the covers over himself. “Like you loved Beatrice?” He murmured, dreamily. Lemony nodded, leaving his place by the bed to get something on top of the dresser.
“Like I loved Beatrice. Unfortunately, Beatrice is gone. And it’s your fault.” His hands were fumbling with something. Olaf couldn’t quite tell what it was.
“And because it’s your fault, I have to do one last thing.” A match suddenly caught flame above Olaf. Lemony grabbed the bottle of alcohol and threw it on the man in the bed. The match dropped.
Lemony could still hear his screams as he left the room. On his typewriter was one unfinished page of his thirteenth novel.
“Though he was my old friend,” He typed, screams growing louder. “the death of Beatrice had preyed on my mind for so long that killing him was the only way that she would rest and I could finally type these words.
The end.”