Name: Joanna Morales (Jo)
Age: 13 years old
Date of Birth: Febuary7 1993
Horoscope Sign: Aquarius
I am worth, $2,456,190
melody_clarie@hotmail.com
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The sun had risen only moments before they made it back safely to the house, and even then, there were slight burn marks on Samantha’s cheeks, Samantha’s shoulders, that had been caused by brief exposure. Whether she felt any pain or none at all, was something impossible for him to figure out. The vacant look in her eyes told him she simply didn’t feel anything, or just didn’t care. It was that same empty look in her eyes, that told him she had withdrawn completely into herself, the way she had done since the beginning, and was now disconnected from the world around her. Whatever flickering signs of intelligence, emotion, and consciousness that might have been in use while she deliberately made her way to Michael’s hotel room moments ago, were now irrefutably gone. This infuriated him to no end, for the simple reason that he had no control over anything. He didn’t know what to react, not even what to expect. Would this last a few more days? A couple months? Perhaps a year? He was losing his patience with each passing moment, while Cytherea was no more than the incarnation of serenity and composure. All the thick velvet curtains in the household were shut, the way they were always shut before sunrise whether Cytherea slept or not. She was in her painting studio, surrounded by unfinished portraits and half-sketched scenes. Her attention was focused on her one of her old, neglected pieces; a tragic scene of death and decay. It was a ghastly painting. Something in the style of Fusseli’s “The Nightmare”; a beautiful nymph draped over the end of a withering bed of wild flowers and wilting roses in the middle of a dark forest , lying on her back with her head hanging down, exposing her long neck, and bare breasts. One of her hands held a single rose, which lay limp on the water of a flowing stream. The rose had pricked the nymph’s hand, causing the blood to ooze out, and taint the stream’s pure water with the crimson blood. “She won’t speak, she won’t feed—…She’s no more than a mindless puppet!” Cassian glared at his motionless fledgling, and forced her impatiently, to sit on one of the couches in the room. He let go of her bruised wrist, and in his frustration, knocked over one of the paintings. “You lack tact and patience. You’re no more a willing teacher, than she a willing pupil.” Cytherea said patiently, too focused in her work to truly mind her fledgling’s temper and frustrations. “Then what do you suggest I do?” He threw his arms, raising his voice. “Strike some sense into her? Leave her as she is, and expect her to regain full consciousness eventually? I don’t recall reacting this way when I was turned.” He began to pace about the room more out of anger, than out of true concern, glancing over at Samantha ever couple of words, noticing no real change in her overall attitude despite his efforts. “The death and the awakening will always damage the human soul.” Cytherea finally let her paintbrush down, and turned to face him. “She’s emerged mad and unable to cope. Without the proper instruction, she locked herself inside her mind, and won’t come out until she’s ready to come out.” She walked slowly, barefoot, feeling the cold marble tiles against her feet. Taking a seat next to Samantha, she lifted her chin, noticing the burn marks, and brushed a couple loose strands of brown hair behind her ear. “Your brutality, and lack of sensitivity is only worsening things, never mind the fact that she refuses to listen to you, or me.” She bit the tip of her thumb with her teeth, and rubbed her healing blood against the burnt flesh, as if trying to paint a more lively blush to a tarnished porcelain doll. There had been the slightest hint of affection and endearment in the way she healed the Samantha’s wounded skin. She almost felt sorry for her, vulnerable darling that she was. But what was this? Had this empty shell of a woman truly stirred some sort of feeling in her? Why, even now she had half a mind to tell Cassian to get rid of those dirty clothes of hers, bathe her, clothe her, and adjust his impatient demeanor, if only to wake his newborn fledgling from the agony of her trance. But she knew Cassian would never do such a thing, the way she knew she would never be able to quicken the remnants of her lost humanity. “Call the other one.” Cytherea said gently, moving on to her arms and shoulders. She bit the wound again to increase the amount of blood that poured down in thick, tiny droplets of ruby red. The burnt tissue began to regenerate itself in a matter on seconds after her gentle applications of the healing blood. “What the hell are you talking about? What other one?” Cassian stopped his pacing, somewhat puzzled, though refusing to show it. He’d crossed his arms stubbornly, in that defiant, boyish attitude he tended to take on, at the sound of a command. “The British gentleman. The handsome boy with the— ” Cassian cut her off with a little growl, scowling crossly at the mention of the brown-haired youth, the vampire Jan. What on earth was she coming at? Did she truly believe he would allow that pathetic excuse of an immortal set foot in his territory? Deal with his fledgling? The mere suggestion all but struck him across the face, keenly aiming for his vanity. It was already bad enough he had had the audacity, of all things, to barge into his home behind his back, never mind make Cytherea speak, and take an interest in him. Did she really expect him to allow that chivalrous buffoon to take a step near Samantha after he made it clear he wanted to take the girl away from him? How could she possibly believe he would allow— “You will call on him.” She said coldly, regaining that tone of detachment and authority in her voice, though there lingered the lightest trace of tenderness in each glance she gave the motionless puppet of a vampire that sat in agonizing silence on her couch. “You will call on him,” she repeated, “and you will allow him to stay, if you have the slightest concern for your young one.” She stroked Samantha’s brown, flowing waves, caressing her whitish cheeks one last time, before signaling Cassian to clean up the mess he’d made, and take care of everything. The topic was not up for discussion. She was going to bed. Account statement that shows a balance of at least 42 thousand dollars— show that there is that money in cash available to be accessed at any given moment.
She had been hasty. Unwise. She knew she shouldn’t have gone to see him, and with such limited amount time of time on her hands. What did she expect of all things? That he wouldn’t notice? That somehow he’d see past the blood thirst, past the preternatural sheen of her skin, and the wild gleam in her starved eyes? And even if he had, what good would it have done if she had deliberately blurted everything right on the spot?
She should have listened. She should have fed first, but she was so desperate. And to think he’d actually said those words! “I’m not asking you to give up anything. I want you as your are.” He could not have possibly have meant that. There was no way. Not now, not ever. They belonged to different worlds, after all. And his reaction! That had been the most painful, to watch him step back in such horror. Everything would have been fine, had she not seen that blatant expression of sheer terror in his loving countenance.
Would it really be this way with every mortal she encountered hereafter? She wasn’t a monster. Not the way Cassian was a monster, or Cytherea was a monster. She was convinced of that, the way she was convinced Jan was no fiend, regardless of what he said. No. He was a tender, loving soul.
Cytherea’s monstrosity only lied solely in her age: her marble skin, her statuesque build, and her growing detachment from everyone, and everything. Feeling made things earthly, and her lack thereof, was what stressed her otherworldly qualities. Cassian’s lied in his cruelty, and his lack of heart. He had been an imbecile through and through. Nothing had changed. But then again, she’d never expected any change to even happen, so his lack of tact, deemed no surprise.
“I didn’t know you would be as stupid as to pull a little stunt like that.” Cassian’s raw words struck her. He grabbed her by the wrist, and did all but tear it off with his tugging and pulling, as he dragged her, and forced her to run at an inhuman speed. The night sky had long ago began to fade and lighten, and the first morning birds had already begun to fly and sing. She thought of the sullen morning sky, following his pace clumsily. It would be a cloudy day, surely. She’d seen the faintest traces of lighting out from Michael’s window earlier, and the evening had been bitter, and smelled of moist earth. The sun had not yet risen, and wouldn’t for enough time for them to make it back home.
“Did you really believe he wouldn’t see through your little façade? Wearing a bloody neon sign wouldn’t’ve made things any more obvious. Now, not even faking your own death will solve anything now, because the idiot already knows you’re dead!” He scolded. She didn’t say anything. She knew very well she deserved his cruelty, regardless of how much she hated him. She had behaved like a perfect idiot ever since the transformation, and would continue to do so, until she set her mind to rest. She had to get a hold of herself. Analyze things. She had to truly stop, and actually start thinking, rather than act on impulse.
“ You can’t just go to people, and expect them to—” He stopped. He didn’t need to read her thoughts to take notice of the overwhelming agony that currently ate away at her already withering sanity. Her emotions and attitudes had taken a much more vivid, and reflective quality in her entire expression ever since the change took place, making her face continuously, and painfully animated. Was this the Dark Blood working its magic, or simply Samantha in a state of wavering and bewilderment? And it wasn’t as if he could, actually, read her thoughts… Even if the dreaded veil of silence had not closed their minds to each other, her instability, and confusion created far too much chaos for him to tap into anything clear and logical he could interpret. Reason had abandoned her, the same way self-control had.
Perhaps she was weaker that he thought. Perhaps he had been wrong to judge her, to take her. It would’ve certainly explained this… whatever this was. The shock of her death must’ve only started to sink in, and in her desperation, she cast off all logic and reason, and gave into impulse and desolation. Surely he wouldn’t be so exasperated, or annoyed at her helplessness, and her foolishness, if he only knew how to deal with this, how to proceed with all this.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
But what did she want? What was she looking for? Michael had spoiled her, invested so much time and affection in her, that she couldn't help but miss that feeling— being cherished, loved, needed. She needed Michael. She really did. Or maybe a relationship was all she needed. Not for the sake of physical satisfaction, not for the sake of just 'having' an inamorato. She needed the support of a partner— the emotional attachment. She was tired of having to strive to be strong for herself, of always having to play the role of the emotionally independent, self-sufficient woman with no need for anyone or anything. That's the role everyone had attributed to her, hadn't they? But then she'd catch herself in her weakness, in her need for attention, for affection, and something within her, automatically struck back. "What are you saying, Samantha? That you're weak? That you can't handle things on your own? Here you go victimizing yourself again. Quit reveling in despair, and get a grip on yourself. You don't want to rely on medication? Then prove to yourself you can handle these little slip-ups." That had been the story of her life, hadn't it? She always had something to prove to herself. And even now, she was scared of calling Michael, scared of hearing his voice. She knew she would crumble down if she heard his voice. And that's when she understood the irony of it all. The one person who made her the strongest, was her greatest weakness. Was she really going against her nature? How many times had Michael not told her that no man was an island, that it was human nature to crave, to need someone to care, to love you? Did that mean it was OK to be so needy? She hated that part of her, that flaw. The worst part was that she was painfully aware of her flaws, and the fact that she couldn't do nothing about them, tortured her. She knew she was dysfunctional. She knew she was unstable. She'd been unstable for more than four months already. She knew she had only herself to blame. Free will. Cause and consequence. She had willingly ceased to take her medication because she felt it didn't work. She'd rather not take anything at all, and deal with it herself. She knew she could handle it… but Michael didn't know this, and she was scared of calling him, telling him she was going through an episode. She was afraid of telling him she had been feeling the overwhelming sadness, the despair, sneaking up on her. That she was having self-destructive thoughts, thoughts of worthlessness, uselessness. She didn't want to disappoint him. He'd gone through all the trouble of creating a system for her that worked, though he'd said it'd been no trouble at all. She didn't stop taking her medication on purpose, of course. She simply forgot about it. There were just so many things on her mind, and the watch he'd given her was packed away somewhere. Eventually she realized her oversight, when she started to go through a manic depressive episode, and didn't find her bottle of medication until it was too late. It'd been neglected, accumulating dust in one of the boxes she hadn't opened. She coped with the episode purely by will, by talking herself out of it, and it worked. After a while, she purposely stopped taking it. She wasn't weak. She could take it. She was sure of herself. And it was partially true. Yes, she could talk herself out of an episode, but it would only block it for a small about of time, before it would hit her again, and it would become a vicious cycle after that.
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Saturday, March 1, 2008
Michael wrapped his arms around her, pressing her face against his chest, below his chin. There was a growing sob she tried to hold within her chest. "Why the hell did you come here?" He asked, his tone as bittersweet as the look in his eyes. "Michael, I'm not" She couldn't speak. Her voice cut off by a sob. She swallowed hard, and took in a deep breath through her mouth. She was trying so hard, not to cry. "Why did you come here?" He pressed. "I-I don't know, Michael." She sobbed. "I don't know anymore." She could hear the beating of his heart, feel it pumping the blood all over his body. So delicious
No. You can't do this. You can't. Her eyes widened, then narrowed. The electric flare in them, making them seem wild, treacherous. "T-to apologize
" She said, finally, trying to regain some coherence in the chaos that was her mind, her thoughts. "I wanted to tell you I loved you, before" He cut her off, hugging her tighter, pressing her face against his shoulder, his neck. You don't know what the hell you're doing, Michael. "I'm not asking you to give anything up. I want you as you are." Her clenched teeth began to relax, and soon her whole body began to give in. She was feeling drowsy, weak, and her lips pressed against his neck, and he felt her kissing him softly. He felt two sharp blades pierce his skin suddenly, and his instant reaction was to push Samantha away violently. He immediately rubbed his hand against his neck, and looking at what exactly had caused him such pain, he realized there was a warm trail of blood, dripping down his hand. "What the" He looked at her, horrified. Eyes widened, and staring back at her, he noticed the fierce look in her eyes, that savage piercing gaze he'd seen only in Cassian's eyes, and Jan's eyes. Samantha lay motionless on the floor. Knees bent to her side, her arms pressing against the cold floor in two clenched little fists, she looked at him. "That's what I've been trying to tell you
." More tears slid down her cheeks, the blood soaked handkerchief lay folded on the ground. "We belong to different worlds, now." She smiled softly, miserably, and turning to look at the lace handkerchief, she stood up. She avoided his gaze. She didn't want to look at his horrified expression. Her telepathy took care of it, and she realized his thoughts were more than enough for her, so quietly, she took each and every one of the blows, slowly. I'm crazy. This is a dream A Nightmare. Not. Alive. Not Alive. Not. Human. Not. Samantha. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead.
"Michael, you don't know what the hell you're talking about." Her voice quivered, on the verge of breaking. She bit her bottom lip slightly, as if she were about to cry, and soon enough, a thin veil of red liquid began to form in her eyes, and it began to overflow down her cheeks. She was feeling things so deeply, so intensely. The hurt, the pain she would've felt as a human, magnified by the tainted blood. "But Michael," She shook her head, trying not to frown. She was reaching in her pocket for the white lace handkerchief to dry the bloody tears, a small pitiful smile, trying to cover her actions up. "I'm not human anymore, I'm not" She laughed. The tears sliding too fast for her to dry them before he noticed. A trick of light and shadow, he thought.
Friday, February 29, 2008
You can't tell me that you don't feel anything at all, Michael. I'm not denying it. I just don't go around parading my sexual urges the way you do, and I don't succumb to them as easily. Why? Because it's wrong, Samantha. People just don't do that. It's not proper. Especially not in women. Talking about things like that makes them seem… loose— You mean sluts, or whores. I never said those words. You were thinking them. I can see you're about to bite my head off, so why don't we drop the subject, and do something else? No, Michael, I need to talk about this, and I need you to listen. The art gallery down town is having a display of new oil paintings, we could— Why do you want to avoid the topic so much? Is it making you uncomfortable? Because if it is, then I'll drop it. It's not making me uncomfortable. I just want to avoid a petty fight. We're not fighting. We're arguing. We're discussing a subject that matters to me. I just don't understand why it's so wrong! What makes it so wrong? Society, Samantha. Society is what sets the boundaries of what's proper and improper. To hell with society! I don't give a damn about what society deems right or wrong! Free will is what it all comes down to. I don't see why I should abide by their rules— You live in their— Let me finish! Everyone tells me to exercise my freedom. To break free of my bindings, break free from my boundaries. The greatest artists— the most memorable and writers, have always been the ones to break the rules, the ones who follow what they think is right, and don't give a damn about what society thinks. I want to do it. I really want to, but I can't. I hate the fact that I'm ashamed to be myself in front of others, ashamed of the fact that I have to play the role of the sophisticated, proper, little erudite. The little saint—the innocent child. I'm not a saint. I'm not innocent. And I'm not a child! I'm an adult, imprisoned in the body of a child, and that makes people dismiss me, and chastise me with much more ease than others. I'm drifting in limbo, as an outcast until the age of twenty-one, when society will finally recognize me as an 'adult', and even then people will take me lightly. I can't be taken seriously, because I'm 'just a child', because I'm not 'mature'. Age has nothing to do with anything! You have men and women, thirty years of age, and they're as irresponsible as your stereotypical five-year-old. I know 'children' twelve years of age with the mind of people thrice their age! You look into their eyes, and you feel sorry for them. You feel sorry to know they'll never be taken seriously. They'll never belong with other kids their age, and by the time their body has caught up with their psychological maturity, or by the time society recognizes them as legal adults, it'll be too late. Society silently represses sexual freedom, sexual expression, and yet you see it plastered all over the walls, the internet, broadcasted in movies, TV shows, published in books, and magazines. We're being bombarded with sexual innuendo, and both subtle, and blunt sexual propaganda, since the day we first open our eyes to the world, and then society looks down on you when you actually want to exercise that freedom. I can't write anything slightly erotic under my own name because of this. The images are so vibrant in my head, so vivid! But I simply can't. There's always something holding me back. And no one's going to read this stuff! That's the worst part! It's meant for my own amusement, my own entertainment. But I turn on the computer, place my fingers on the keys, and all of the sudden, all the inspiration, all the motivation, vanishes. It frustrates me to feel so limited! Honey, no one is limiting you. No one can dismiss you easily. You don't let them. You're not conscious of this, but you have one of the most intimidating, most impressive way of carrying yourself, of acting, when you're in the presence of others. You feel limited, because you're limiting yourself. You say you don't care about social norms, but the truth is that you do. And it's alright, Samantha! If people weren't the slightest bit self conscious, the world we live in, would unravel into chaos. You don't care if other people dismiss you, or your work. You've never cared about what others might think, or say about you. You've said so yourself! Critique, you ignore, unless it's constructive— unless it helps you improve. The rest, you can dismiss. What you're afraid of, is what we might say, or think about you. What the people whose opinions really matter, might say. And people might think what you're doing is wrong, and be shocked by it. They might be repulsed by it, and look down on you because of it. But you have to know that you will never be able to please everyone, and that the people who react negatively to your work, and can't realize, and accept the fact that it's a part of you, don't appreciate you, and can't accept you for who you are. I enjoy reading your work. I'm shocked with every paragraph, every turn of the page, yes, but I enjoy it because it makes you happy. I would never read stories like this. I have no care for them, but because they're written by you, I do it. Because I love you— all of you. And I support you, fully. You'll never be able to do anything that will make me look down on you. And the same goes for your parents. Caroline loves to read your work! And so does Carmilla. They're the ones who fully endorse your experimentation. We will always support you regardless of what you say, or what you write. If you're so concerned with marring your image as "Samantha", adopt a pseudonym. Writers do it all the time, and you can have so much freedom with it! Especially online. Once you're pleased with a story, and want to show it to people, choose them wisely, and tell them that it's intended strictly for entertainment and to circulate among a few close friends. If it's only our opinions that matter, then you can rest at ease, knowing we'll always be there to support you in your pursue of becoming a better writer. Just… stick to your vision, and don't change it for anyone, unless you think it's OK. Write the stories you've looked for, but haven't been able to find. Write the stories you want to read. Odds are, if you find it interesting, some else is bound to find it interesting too.
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Tuesday, February 26, 2008
The thought of merely showing herself naked overwhelmed her. She had been foolish, thoughtless, and hastily, she began to draw back. It had been a mistake, this. She shouldn’t’ve incited him to cross his boundaries, the boundaries that for years, they’d abided by. The blood inside her began to boil, and she could feel her heartbeat increasing; the heat between her legs, the fluttering butterflies in her stomach— the craving that always meant she had to pull away, almost unbearable. Michael, stop it. He kissed her, hungrily, his tongue pushing harder into her mouth, drawing the breath out of her, hand cupping her cheek, possessively, as she tried to pull back. He wasn’t going to let her get away again. Oh, no. Not this time. Michael, I’m serious. But she wasn’t serious, and she knew that this was clearly what she wanted: one last night with him. And she knew that if he stopped— if he dared let her get away, she would hate him. Suddenly, she pushed Michael away violently. She couldn’t take it. It had been enough, she told herself. It was already late, and she needed to get home before things went too far. “What, am I not good enough anymore?” He asked angrily, sitting up on the bed, and slamming his fist on the mattress. “ What the hell does Cassian have that I don’t?” He stood up. Samantha turned away, looking around for her black purse as Michael paced about the room, panting frustratedly. She had to get out. “Michael…” “Before, I was the one who had to call out it was enough, and now—“ “Michael, you don’t understand! Cassian is not—” He didn’t understand. He didn’t understand anything of what was going on. Bit how could he? All he knew, was that there was a new man in Samantha’s life, the raven haired man, with the electric blue eyes—Cassian, and that the more time she spent with him, the farther she drifted from within his reach. Rapidly, Michael grabbed her by the shoulders, and pinned her against the wall, kissing her, his body pressing against hers, wantonly. “Michael, I don’t love you!” She blurted out, the sentence bursting in the most abrupt, and unexpected manner, as she shoved him to the side. “…What?” He looked at her, dark brown eyes staring back at her own, shocked, bewildered. She couldn’t’ve said that… Had she really just told him she didn’t love him? Told him, Michael Raleigh, she did not love him? Michael, her high school sweetheart. Michael, her intimate friend, and confidant. Michael, her beloved. A dark, ugly feeling passed over him. “You don’t mean that.” He said, but her words had already taken effect, and he felt his heart stop.