The Consort's Fate

Chapter 2

Bogdan

How long does it take before an appearance becomes obsolete? Whether beautiful, ghastly, or somewhere in between, there comes a time when the brain becomes accustomed to an appearance. Desensitized, if you will.

With humans, a quality appearance is an indispensable asset, when circumstances allow for such a thing to be prioritized. The image of 'perfection' continues to evolve over centuries, aligning to whatever ideals are spoon-fed by the socialite influencers of their time. People strive to attain it, to modify their appearance to either 'fit' the mold of beauty, or to make a statement to defy it entirely. It is why I believe humans are bizarrely obsessed with mirrors.

In their defense, whether through time, disease, or self-imposed modifications, a copious amount of change occurs in a single lifespan. Each day their appearance changes slightly, and over time, drastically. For an immortal, however, we become desensitized to our own appearance. It never changes. I do not remember the last time I indulged in the humanly past time of leaning into my reflection, studying myself at all angles.

Yet now I find myself doing just that, glowering at the faded mirror before me. Beneath yellowish, florescent lighting, a slightly different reflection glowers back. Red eyes are now lightened to a forest green. A lumpy wig sits flush against my scalp, the auburn wisps falling across my forehead and tickling my eyebrows. I pick up the fake earrings from the cerulean countertop and fixate them in place - one hoop for my eyebrow, and one hoop for my nose.

I smooth out the gray vest and mis-matched pants before stepping back to appraise the transformation.

It is hideous.

I emulate a hapless man clinging to the notion of being 'hip.' Anyone who passes me will surely assume I've been hoodwinked into buying my entire ensemble from someone half my age (well, perhaps one-tenth of my age) at a clothing department. Working on commission, of course.

Kelly shouts from the back door that it is time to leave. When we first started traveling together, I reminded him that shouting of any sort was not needed. He was a vampire at one time, too. He experienced the heightened senses first-hand. After three years, however, I realized my comments were futile. So, for the last two years, I have been subjected to a myriad of yells, shouts, whoops, and hollers that are so reminiscent of the human character.

Just before I leave the bathroom I reach into my coat and transfer the two blades of grass to the pockets of my absurd slacks. A curious frown knits through my eyebrows as I slide my thumb across the blades. What a nostalgic fool I have become.

Kelly's smirk is slow when he sees me, but the laugh which follows is almost immediate.

"This is golden. I wish I had a camera."

He feigns taking a picture, squinting one eye, and sounding out the c-l-i-c-k to complete his mental snapshot. His short hair is hidden beneath a baseball cap which has been spun to the back. His deep brown eyes are now a muddied blue. If I did not know him by his scent, I would hardly recognize him.

"Laugh all you desire," I mutter, opening up the back door. "And see who's there to help the next time you need one of your vile deer carcasses drained of blood before you make meals out of them."

He clutches his side and shakes his head, attempting to sober up. "I'm sorry. I mean, I'm not, but damn, Bog-man. I had no idea you could look like anything other than an uptight, brooding vampire. Now you kind of look like..."