bmblbee (bmblbee) wrote in bloodclaim,
bmblbee
bmblbee
bloodclaim

Therapy

Title: THERAPY
11/17
Author: BmblBee
Paring: S/X
Rating: Adult NC17
Warnings: M/M sexual situations, adult language, reference of violence.
Disclaimer: The Bee owns nothing in this world but her own peace of mind.
I have no claim on any of the characters or products named and make no profit
from my stories.

Summary: AU (Human? Vampire?)
This is the simple tale of a successful psychiatrist with a busy practice.
Dr. Alexander Harris lives and works in the rich and colorful area of the Florida Keys
and everything about his life seems right on track. Then, one day a man comes to
him for help. He is troubled with a history of violence that he hopes therapy can
teach him to control. Clear cut? Maybe not.




As always, thanks to the wonderful Petxnd for the amazing banners and loyal friendship

The Florida Keys.

Extending out into the mysterious beauty of the deep blue ocean, the Keys are a
small spattering of land masses. They are the southern most point of the United
States of America and the weather, like the spicy Latino music, is wild, hot
and sultry. They are decadent parties on South Beach where the money and
drugs flow on a 24 hour non stop whirl wind. They are mansions of the rich
and famous who are limited only by their imaginations in their attempt to alleviate
their boredom.

And they are contrast.

While the Keys are a land of haves, they are also a land of have nots. Within
only a few short miles of the gated communities where the wealthy live with
their guards and alarms, there is another population whose view of the great
American Dream is vastly different.

These are the hopeless, the humans living so far below the poverty level that
they know there is no hope for escape. Happiness, full stomachs, pride and
hope for a better future are all illusive promises they have no chance to fulfill.

They live on the streets and in rat and bug infested tenements. They survive
by their wits and ability to skirt the law. They embrace violence as their strength
and, like wolves, they run the streets in packs, ready to kill for just one more
crumb of life, one more day of existence.

This is the part of the Keys were Spike headed. A place where a man dressed
all in black could run the streets with an inhuman speed and attract no attention.
Even the most violent of street gangster would cut him a wide birth. Men who
survived a dog eat dog world knew a pit bull when they saw one.

So he ran. Under the dark, overcast sky, through the stench filled, garbage
strewn alleys, leaping easily over the overflowing dumpsters and cardboard box
homes of the down and out. He ran to clear his mind of the memories that ripped
at his heart and tormented his brain. He ran to exhaust himself into sleep so that
the sunrise would bring some small sliver of relief to his battered heart.

He ran to escape.

When he finally felt his head clear as the miles between them stretched, Spike
slowed. Although he still had hours before daybreak, he needed to take stock
of where he was. He had no intention of being caught by time and forced to
spend the sunlight hours in this squalor and filth. Been there. Done that.

So, he stopped. He turned in a 360 and took stock of his surroundings. He
tipped his nose in the air and inhaled. There was no hint of salt water so he
knew he had wandered far from the coast. He tipped his head and listened
to the sounds coming from the highrise apartments around him.

Salsa music, traffic, domestic arguments, distant gun shots, dogs barking.......

"Hey, Homey, what the fuck you doin' in my hood? You stupid whiteass
mutha fucker. You come in to my hood and you die, Bitch!"

Spike turned slowly around. The young man behind him was short, dark
skinned and had a red bandanna tied around his head. Spike snorted and
shook his head. The boy was a junk yard dog, barking to protect the territory
he was chained to.

"Go home, Boy. You are in over your head."

Immediately outraged at the perceived challenge, the boy reached down and
pulled a buck knife from a sheath strapped on his leg and he stepped up,
waving it in Spike's face.

"No, YOU are in over your head, Honky. You come into my hood without
my permission? Show me some respect, Homey. Get down on your knees
and beg me not to kill you."

Spike calmly crossed his arms over his chest. He and this boy already had
their own determination of how this stand off would end, sad fact was, only
one of them was right.

"You ever kill anyone before, Boy?"

The street punk waivered slightly at the odd response this small white man was
giving him and he scrunched his brow in confusion. Fact was, he didn't mind doing
a bit of bragging before he sliced this idiot's throat. Give the man a chance to know
who he was dying for. Proudly, the young man pointed to the two tear drop tattoos
that fell from his right eye.

"Fuck yeah. You see these? They from two other stupid mutha fuckers that came
into my territory and I sliced them up like a fuckin' Christmas turkey. And know
what else? Tomorrow, I'm gonna get one more to go with. You like that, Homey?
You like knowing that when your fucking body is bleeding out on the street, I'm
gonna be wearing your mark?"

Spike tipped his head to the side and shifted his weight to his other foot.

"You know, Chico, I have a friend who could help you with those anger issues.
He really is a wonderful doctor. You should give him a call. Talk it out. Tell him
what makes you so mad all the time."

"Oh, yeah? Well, I got your fuckin' Chico right here Bitch!"

And the boy lunged. He gripped the handle of the serrated knife firmly and he
swung it in an arc, just the way he had practiced a million times on the neighborhood
cats. At this close proximity, he knew the white man didn't stand a chance.

But this wasn't a man and Spike saw the blade coming long before it caught and reflected
the light from the blue street lamp overhead. He quickly ducked back then caught
the wrist of his assailant as it passed by. His fingers squeezed the boy's hand painfully
as he jerked him closer.

When their faces were nose to nose, Spike's shifted. The sound of the bones
cracking as his forehead ridged added an extra element of terror that the boy
had never imagined. He screamed at the horror of the slitted demon eyes,
the distorted features and the long extended fangs that he knew meant nothing good.

In any other place and time, Spike would have silenced the boy but screams
of fear and pain in this neighborhood were common place. When questioned
tomorrow, none of the residents will claim anything out of the ordinary.

Struggling to free himself, the knife fell from the boy's hand and clattered loudly on
the pavement as Spike grasped his hair and snapped his head to the side, baring
the dark skin of his neck. At the last second, he whispered, like a lover, into
the young man's ear.

"Funny thing about life, Boy. You never know how it will end."

Then he bit. Drawing deeply, he transferred the life giving fluid from one body
to the other till the first was dry and drained. He then tossed the empty shell aside
where it fell next to the forgotten knife.

Before walking away in the direction of home, Spike took a minute to look down
on the pathetic young man who never had a chance at the good life. He swiped
his thumb across a drop of blood that hung at the corner of his mouth and he
touched it under his right eye in a red, blood stained tattoo.
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