The Other Side Of The Door

2008-07-01T11:00:00.001-07:00

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.

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.

2008-03-12T12:43:00.001-07:00

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.

After dwelling for a bit too long on the matter, she came to the conclusion that breaking up with Michael had been her fault too. He wanted a long-distance relationship, after all. At the age of nineteen, he was ready for that kind of commitment. He was truly, deeply in love with her, but Samantha had insisted she didn't want neither of them to feel restricted.

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2008-03-01T18:17:00.001-08:00

"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.

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.

"Funny, isn't it?" She mused, chuckling to herself. "Your Samantha, a vampire, of all things." Her gaze shifted from the handkerchief, to his dark brown eyes, and immediately, he backed away a couple steps, tripping over a chair, and falling back on the floor. "I just came to say goodbye, Michael." She said softly under her breath, and walking out the door, she whispered 'Goodbye'.

2008-02-29T11:34:00.001-08:00

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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Rendezvous with Death-- Argument

2008-02-26T19:52:00.000-08:00

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.

Rendezvous with Death-- Michael pt. 3

2008-02-05T00:12:00.000-08:00

What the hell was he doing?! I almost bit him. I wasn’t expecting him to counteract that way. Get. Off. Me. The moment I felt his body deliciously crush my own, I recalled that dream I’d had years ago. Except the guy pinning me down now wasn’t a faceless stranger. It was Michael. And he was kissing me, to shut me up. Never in my life had I known such sweet paralysis. I couldn’t scream anymore… and that swoon— that… that sudden rush of adrenaline that flooded my whole body made every square inch tingle for a couple seconds, then loosen up, and relax.

Michael stared at me with his big brown eyes. He was scared, frightened. His breathing rapid, and his heartbeat apparently competing with my own to see which one could pump the blood fastest without causing neither of us to pass out. His fear, and my excitement, only intensifying every movement, every touch. I would go insane, if he didn’t get off me! But I didn’t want him to get off, and he could see in my eyes, the conflicting emotions.

He covered my mouth with his hand once again, and whispered something in my ear. It must’ve been something along the lines of ‘I’ll get off if you promise to be quiet’, though in all honesty I wasn’t paying much attention to anything that was going on. I was lost somewhere, outside of my body, and I could feel my heart rising up to my throat, the blood pumping harder and harder in my ears, and I couldn’t hear, or see anything.

Get off, me just get off me…

No. Don’ do it. Stay….

And then the idiot did the worst thing he could have done. When he whispered, he unintentionally brushed his nose against my neck. The urge, the craving, the wantonness. Things I’d only been able to feel, or ‘understand’ indirectly through books, or movies… it all sprung the moment I felt his breath against my skin, and culminated in that awful electrifying feeling of guilty pleasure, and helpless paralysis. Michael had no idea of what he had done. How could he? It was all so alien to us! More him, than me, it seemed. All he was worried about, was keeping me quiet so Ana wouldn’t come in.

I involuntarily pushed him off the bed, almost gasping desperately for air as I clutched my chest, as if doing that, would make any difference on its fast pace. “I’m sorry, I— …You wouldn’t be quiet!” He blurted out, standing up from the floor, and rubbing his back. I burst out laughing, and fell on the floor. Might as well’ve proclaimed that day the official “Erratic Behavior Day”. We were both acting like idiots! And it had all been due to the lack of communication.

“Samantha!” He hissed, threatening to cover up my mouth again. He was making it seem as it were a bad thing. I just laughed. I knew I wouldn’t’ve minded, if it meant him kissing me again, and triggering that rush. “OK,OK! Jeez, Michael. Relax!” I said, letting out a bitter, and frustrated sigh. Curses… “You want to come over for dinner? I’m sure the moment you set up foot in the house everyone will know we’re now an ‘official’ couple. ” I said that in the most sarcastic tone possible. I even acted out the little quotation marks with my middle, and index fingers for emphasis.

Michael only chuckled, and rolled his eyes, taking a seat beside me, and sitting me on his lap. He sighed. I assumed he was glad it was all over. I could see how the weight of the world had finally been lifted from his shoulders, as that glare in his eyes began to fade, and soften up.

“Finally!” Ana and Carmilla burst into the room all of a sudden, startling Michael and I, while in the middle of a hug. He instinctively pushed me away, and I glared at him. The two girls had been listening to everything. I didn’t even know Carmilla had come over! That sneaky little vampire. She probably came over to get me, and plotted with Ana spy on the two ‘love birds’, as they referred to us, when she told her I’d dropped by, but supposedly gone home. Were my actions so predictable? Maybe I should’ve closed the window…

“Oh, Michael, we caught you guys red-handed!” They giggled, and spoke in that teasing, taunting ‘singy-songy’ voice; pointing their little accusing fingers at us, and squealing with delight. They were more excited about the whole thing than we were! We were more concerned with being cautious about the matter. We were putting everything at stake. Simply dumping all we had on the table. There was a fifty-fifty chance, and Michael never gambled anything with those kinds of odds. Then again, he never gambled unless he knew he was going to win, so that gave me some comfort, and security.

“The two of you, out of my room. Now.” Michael stood up, angrily, and stomped his way to the door, shutting it rather hard, and loudly. Hard enough, that I think I felt the house shake a bit. The two girls, terrified, ran next door to Ana’s room, and locked themselves inside. He grumbled, and sat back on the floor.

“So…” He cleared his throat, and stretched, grabbing me by the waist, and sitting me back on his lap. Everything was back to normal again.“…you were saying somethin’ about dinner tonight?” He rested his chin on my shoulder, and looked at me with that innocent look on his eyes. The kind of look he always pulled out when he wanted me to forgive him. “No. Sorry, Michael. You ruined everything.” I said with hints of sarcasm in every other word, teasing him— playing with him, as I shrugged, crossing my arms, and shook my head.

“Whaaaat?”

“You heard me. No dinner for you tonight.”

I stood up, and headed out the window again. I was too lazy to walk all the way to the door. “Oh, you’re mean.” He said. I laughed, waving goodbye, not even bothering in looking at him. “I’ll drop by at eight!” He said. “Yeah, Well I ain’t opening no door!” I jumped over the fence, and skipped my way home. Glad things were solved. Everything was back to normal.

Rendezvous with Death-- Michael pt. 2

2008-02-04T15:55:00.000-08:00

The day after, Michael did not speak to Samantha, and if he did, his tone was remote, detached. During first period, he didn’t pester her. During third period, he didn’t sit next to her, or share the textbook like they usually did. Everyone was shocked, when Michael didn’t eat with Samantha during break or lunch, and assumed the worst. That they had had a fight, and were no longer on speaking terms. Such a waste, they’d say. They’d only been voted the ‘cutest couple’ in high school for the Hall of Fame section in the yearbook a day or two ago.

Samantha seemed surprised, though not concerned. When people asked her what was going on, she said she didn’t know. That he was probably worried about something, and didn’t want her butting in. It was natural, after all, for people to have an off day or two. And that was her answer, time and time again, that she would give him his space, if that’s what he wanted. But she knew that it was her fault he was behaving like that.

She had stirred things in him, that he had probably not ever felt before, and she knew it. It had been a bad idea to kiss him so abruptly, to have crossed the line from the ‘friend zone’, to… whatever it was she had set her foot on so hastily. Uncharted territory, no doubt, for both of them.

She handled the issue better than he did, it seemed. She didn’t think it’d been a big deal. It was just a simple, stupid, ‘meaningless’ kiss, after all. Curiosity. Nothing more than curiosity. And the week came and went, and Michael didn’t drop by Samantha’s house to study, and Samantha didn’t bother Michael at home. He needed his own space to meditate on things. His dazed, agitated glare told her as much.

It wasn’t long before she had enough of his aloof behavior, and began to grow more and more concerned. Whenever she hugged him ‘good morning’, whenever she took a ride to school with him in his black BMW X3, at the request of her parents, he grew stiff, and awkward. In the fifteen, maybe twenty-minute ride to school, there was nothing but an awful, uncomfortable silence. It always seemed he was about to say something, but he never did. His mouth would open every now and then, his eyes glaring at her with that unwonted, cold, piercing gaze… but the words never came out. By the end of the week, she had had enough. She would take no more of it.

“What is going on Michael? You’re acting strange, and it’s bothering me.” Silence. Just the sound of the engine, mixed with the low muffled murmuring of David Ault, playing the role of Doctor Who in one of those audio dramas by Darker Projects he liked to listen to. “You’re home, and your dad’s waiting.” He didn’t bother in turning off the car like he usually did after dropping Samantha off from school. He wouldn’t get out, open the door for her, and escort her home. She assumed he wouldn’t be staying for supper either.

“Is this about the other night? Because if it is, you’re acting like a perfect idiot.” He set the car on ‘drive’, and pressed on the breaks. “ I’ll see you tomorrow.” He said, and Samantha grabbed her things, and got out of the car. Her father was waving at Michael, and he was waving back at him, actually smiling. It’d been a while since she’d seen him smile. Not even a fake smile, like the one he seemed to be forcing.

She couldn’t concentrate. Now she was making a big deal out of things. How could she have been so careless? She should’ve asked him first. Wait… what’s going on? Aren’t I the girl? Shouldn’t it be me overreacting? By sunset, she was on her way to his house. Just a couple blocks away. No big deal. No need to take the car.

She knocked on the door, and it was Ana who answered. “ Hey Sam, Mike’s not here. He went out. Soccer practice, or something. He’ll be back in a couple hours, if you want to come over.” She was lying. His car was parked in the driveway, but she didn’t point it out.

“Fine. Tell him I dropped by”

“Will do. Tell Carmilla to call me”

“Bye.”

Ana closed the door, and Samantha resorted to his window. Time to jump the fence, jump over bushes, and climb to the window. She thanked God Michael, too, slept on the ground floor. The window wasn’t locked. Bingo. No way he could get out of talking now.

Samantha slid his bedroom window, and climbed her way into his room. He was barely getting out of the shower, when he shut the bathroom door abruptly upon seeing her. “What the hell are you doing here?” He asked angrily, not expecting her visit after Ana had told her he wasn’t home. And even if she knew she was lying, she should’ve gotten the hint. He didn’t want to see her.

He came out moments later with a towel wrapped around his waist. That was the first time she’d ever seen his shirtless body up close, wasn’t it? She was impressed, but now wasn’t the time to admire his athletic physique. She was there on a mission. A very important, high-priority mission. “ Michael, we need to talk.” He was walking back into the bathroom for a small towel with which to dry his hair and face. She followed, never mind the fact that the boy was soaking wet, and half naked. Was she crazy? What would his parents say if they walked in on them? “Yes. We do. But not now. Go home.”

“…excuse me?” She was incensed. How dare he talk to her like that? The girl had slapped him out of impulse, and forced him to take a seat on the edge of the bed. Moments later a red mark began to appear on his right cheek, but he hadn’t even flinched, in spite of the pain. “Can’t I at least get dressed?” He sat up and looked through his drawers for a change of clothes. Sweats, socks, boxers, and an old, torn up shirt comfortable to sleep in. “Fine.” She lay on his bed, contemplating the ceiling as she waited for him to come out of the bathroom.

It was about time…

“Why have you been acting so damn weirdly?” She asked, brown eyes still fixed on the ceiling, as Michael leaned on the frame of the door, giving the impression he didn’t want to go near her.

“Define ‘weirdly’”

“Don’t answer my question with another question, Michael.” She glared at him, and sighed. The tension emanating from him, almost palpable. “You don’t talk to me. You neglect me. You stiffen up every damn time I hug you. You’re always anxious, and there’s always this horrid awkward feeling. It's been a week already. I’m sick of it. I thought if I left you alone, it would go away, but apparently not. The least you can do is explain why the hell you’ve been acting like this. Why should I have to suffer?” silence when we’re in the same room together, and it’s been going on for over a

Once again his mouth opened as if he was about to say something, but once again, no words came out. “You have something to say, then go ahead and say it, damn it!” She propped herself up from the bed, still enraged at his indifference, and threw a pillow at him out of irritation. Apparently she was making up for his lack of emotion, by blowing her own out of proportion.

“I love you.” He said, finally. Yet, he hadn’t answered the question, and his answer had made no sense. What? She thought he was merely being an idiot. Whether she said it out loud or in her head, she didn’t know. Nevertheless, Michael repeated what he’d just said.

“I love you.”

“Love you, love you, or love you—”

“Love you, love you”

Silence, and then that feeling again. That pleasurable tingling in the pit of her stomach. That light, pleasant swoon. She laid back down on the bed. Shudder.

“I’ve been acting strange because I’ve been trying to figure things out. When you kissed me— I wasn’t going to tell you something I didn’t actually feel. I had to make sure. And I didn’t— I don’t want to ruin our friendship. You saw what happened Denzel and Blair. Seven years of friendship down the drain. I don’t want it to be the same with us.”

Silence. She was speechless. She didn’t know what to say.

“ I didn’t know what to do, or how to react…I talked to my father, I talked to my mother. I talked to your step-mother, Ana and Carmilla. I even discussed matters with your father before he left, when he came over to pick up Carmilla the other day….” He sighed frustrated.

He had to be joking. Was he actually serious? Why hadn’t anyone told her?

“ … but I’m sick of thinking. I’m just wasting my time. I’m just going to put all I’ve got on the table. New York, medical school— our friendship…” He paused, leaving a bit of room for Samantha to say something if she had anything to say, but she was just staring at him, her eyes wide in sheer shock, the way his eyes had been when she’d kissed him during the movie.

“I know for a fact I love you. At first I doubted it, but right now, I’m one hundred percent sure. I love you, and I want to move our relationship to the next level. I want you to be my girlfriend.” He kissed her, and wrapped his arms around her. “I love you, Samantha.”

And just like that, all the tension, all the rage, all the bottled up contempt, and frustration in the room vanished. “Samantha, are you even listening?” No reply. “Blink twice if you—“ She blinked once, then twice. She’d stopped breathing. She didn’t know whether her heart had stopped beating, or it was simply beating too fast. The point was, it hurt. It felt as if someone had given her a blow to the chest, and she was suffocating. She felt it was about to burst at any moment if she made a sudden move, and though she tried to speak, the words wouldn’t come out. No, it wasn’t the words that wouldn’t come out. The words were in the tip of her tongue. It was her voice that refused to make any sound.

Michael grew anxious. “…S-Samantha?” And then it exploded. “Michael Desrochers, you son of a b—…!” She sat up, grabbing him by the throat, pinning him to the bed, almost strangling him. “What the bloody hell were you thinking? Why didn’t you tell me anything?! You behave like an asshole for a week, and you don’t even talk to me, and now you’re asking me to be your girlfriend?” She yelled like a lunatic. She was outraged. Bewildered. Panicking. “And why the hellme?!” would you talk to anyone about this before

Michael tried to explain. He tried to tell her that he needed to make sure he hadn’t been the only one who felt anything when she kissed him, that he needed his father, and her father’s approval before anything could happen. That he needed to make sure of what his intentions were, since he didn’t want to regret his decision, and wound up hurting her. But he couldn’t. She wouldn’t let him talk. His words came out choked and half-said, as she smothered him. She couldn’t make out anything of what he was saying. She wasn’t even listening!

“For Chrissakes, Mike! Lower the volume on your sissy-girl soap operas. I’m trying to concentrate on a reply for Carmilla’s roleplay!” Ana banged on the door, but Samantha wouldn’t cease her yelling. Michael covered Samantha’s mouth, and without the littlest effort, pinned her down on the bed. She was kicking, and screaming under the crushing weight of his body, and he didn’t get off, until she calmed down. Never in his life had he seen a woman react that way. He was frightened, to say the least. Shocked, even.

Rendezvous with Death-- Michael

2008-01-29T20:14:00.000-08:00

Michael and I were the perfect couple. We had a perfect relationship. Both my father, and my stepmother loved him, and so did I. Carmilla, and his sister, Ana, were even ‘blood sisters’. His parents only spoke of what a delight it was to have me around their home, and admired very much how sophisticated, and cultured I was. I would make the perfect daughter in law, they’d say jokingly.

Michael was a tall, toughly built, teenager when I met him. He had big brown eyes, and thick, brown, masculine eyebrows. There wasn’t the slightest feminine thing about him, when it came to his physical appearance. He liked to style his hair like Dane Cook, in his Vicious Circle routine. We loved to watch Dane Cook. He didn’t even mind the cussing that much.

He was fifteen when I met him, though I personally thought he was eighteen, maybe nineteen. Everyone thought he was older than he looked. He’d started to shave at the age of thirteen, and his voice had started changing at the age of twelve. His parents loved to tell me anecdotes of his childhood, something he detested.

He was a very imposing young man. Tough, serious, and somewhat mean-looking. His face had always reminded me of a fox for some reason. He had the features. And he had the most charming smile. I liked to call it his ‘Cheshire cat smile’.

Since the moment I’d met him, I’d been was hopelessly attracted to him, but never really done anything about it. Guys didn’t really interest me back then. I just liked to look at him in his soccer uniform when he played. He was the captain of the team.

He came to my school at around seventh grade, after having supposedly spent all his life, in a Catholic school. He’d just moved in from the east coast, a couple blocks from me, with his family. It wasn’t until tenth grade, that I really started talking to him, and it wasn’t until eleventh grade, that we started dating.

He wasn’t like the rest of my classmates, whom in all honesty, I didn’t get along with. I’d always been the outcast, the outsider. I didn’t even limit myself to idle prattle. I didn’t believe in “small talk”. Such a waste of the English language.

It was his egoless openness, and his literary mind, which I found most attractive. Since the moment I saw him, I’d said to myself ‘This guy’s really going to be someone in life’. He was ambitious, and competitive, though not in a threatening way. He was very passive, and mellow, for the most part. He had his feet on the ground, and he knew where he was going.

Ana would always come to my house, to hang out with Carmilla, and Michael would always drop by to check up on her, and pick her up. We’d greet each other casually, but never really exchanged more than a couple words, before moving on with our own business. Then on the last semester of tenth grade, our English Literature teacher sat us together, and that was when things clicked. We hit it off right away, and became inseparable. We had the same ambitions, the same goals. The same tastes in films, movies, music— everything.

It was his receptiveness, and his passion, I also found very attractive. We could talk about absolutely everything. Well, it took a while for me to loosen him up. He was very shy, and that was the reason he didn’t really talk to anyone outside the soccer team. I just laughed, when he confessed his timid nature. “ Jeez, no wonder you kept on neglecting those girls who kept on literally throwing themselves at you.” I said. He laughed nervously, still somewhat hesitant. He had the looks, and the personality, but he didn’t really know how to deal with women. Especially not women our age. They were too sexually awakened for him, and he had a hard time dealing with that. Even though I was probably the same as them, I didn’t flaunt it around the way they did.

He had the bad habit of just treating women like ‘another one of the guys’, or simply withdrawing, when things became awkward. It took me a while to break that. It was all a matter of getting accustomed. He was a gentleman, no doubt about it. His parents expected as much of him. He was a good little catholic boy, with a ‘bad-boy’ charm to him.

By eleventh grade, we’d grown so used to, and comfortable with each other, that I couldn’t really recall a time when we weren’t together. It was just so natural for us! We were a couple, though we were completely oblivious to it. In the eyes of everyone, we were basically married. We went to the movies, and everyone knew the drill— Samantha likes the middle, and Michael’s bound to sit next to her, and serve as a pillow, so sit anywhere beside the two seats in the center of the row.

Michael and I had a perfect relationship. We could talk about absolutely anything, and be perfectly fine with it. The word ‘taboo’ didn’t exist in our vocabulary. We told each other everything. We were that close. I could go ahead and discuss my artistic preference for women, and my infatuation with androgyny, and he would tell me whatever was on his mind at the moment in such a way, that regardless of what he said, his words never hurt me, or made me bitter.

One night, while watching Pride and Prejudice (in spite of being a chick-flick, mind you), I felt like kissing him, so I did. We were lying on his bed, and I was curled up into a ball against him, arms wrapped around his chest, nuzzled against his neck. He was falling asleep.

The moment I pressed myself against him, and kissed him, he stared at me, brown eyes opened wide, in sheer shock. There was no resistance. He didn’t know how to react. He was paralyzed. I could feel his heart beat increase considerably, and there was an awkward silence. At that very instant, when our lips locked for those brief, yet seemingly endless moments, something stirred inside of me, that didn’t really give me a swoon, but gave me more of the equivalent of that sensation you feel when you stand up too quickly, after having been sitting, or laying down for a long while.

I pulled away immediately, though his arms were loosely wrapped around my waist. I didn’t know what to say, so I just chuckled gawkily, in order to kill the silence, and made some utterly stupid comment about how much I hated Lydia, and Mrs. Bennet because of their lack of common sense.

The movie kept running, and he just kept staring at me. Something had clicked, and I had officially tainted him. It had all been casual, oblivious dating until that moment, when I somewhat hid my face in shame for what I’d done, and he lifted my chin, and kissed me back. I’d corrupted an innocent catholic schoolboy, and his sister had come barging into the room with Carmilla, asking whether or not I’d be staying for dinner.

I quickly propped myself up from the bed, and grabbed my things. “No, I have something I need to finish at home.” I lied. “I’ll drive you” Michael said, getting up, stopping the film, and grabbing his keys from the nightstand. “Psh.. no.. there’s no need to. I’ll just walk, or whatever.” I said anxiously, as I waved goodbye, jumped out his bedroom window onto the yard, past the fence, and ran home.

Samantha

2008-01-05T17:35:00.000-08:00

...

Quiet Inside

2008-01-04T22:17:00.000-08:00

Sleeping Beauty could die at any moment. The tragedy was that she hadn’t. She was consciously drinking herself to death. One day, she would pass out with a lit cigarette, and burn to death. The tragedy was that she hadn’t. What she had wasn’t a physical addiction to alcohol. It was a mental one. Every night, she’d drink herself to sleep. She craved it, needed it— depended on it to appease her guilt; her self-loathing. She needed it to sleep well. She had more guilt than she knew what to do with. And those dreams, those nightmares. Those nightmares the drugs were supposed to restrain. Even after all those years, they still haunted her. She thought they made her forget everything, but in reality, they only made the images worsen. They made the images more vivid. She was just too drunk to care. Too weak. Too drunk to even pay attention to anything. Everything felt so much better. Even as she cried, she felt better. She couldn’t cry unless she was completely, and utterly wasted.

Sleeping Beauty, lying on the couch. Sleeping Beauty, crying. Sleeping beauty wasting herself away in her misery. She was careless. She’d pass out every night, lit, half-burnt up cigarette in one hand, bottle of liquor in the other. A bottle of Xanax she had no need for spilled on the rug. Her body, a pathetic mess. Carelessly abused and uncared for, wrapped in nothing more than a wet towel. She was supposed to have died years ago. The tragedy was that she hadn’t. Neglected cuts and bruises from past fights or jobs, half of them she had no clue where she’d even gotten them from.

Things always looked better when she was asleep, when she was cut off from everyone and everything. When she’d taken a handful of antidepressants with her nightly glass of whiskey, finished half a pack of cigarettes, and passed out peacefully weeping on the black leather couch. It was heaven. Babies couldn’t sleep that well. The phone line disconnected, the door not even locked. The dog would take care of any unexpected stranger.

Sleeping Beauty could die at any moment. She knew it. The tragedy was that she hadn’t. She was consciously drinking herself to death. One day, she would pass out with a lit cigarette, and burn to death. The tragedy was that she hadn’t.

Sleeping Beauty knew the Prince was never going to come…and maybe Sleeping Beauty was already dead.

Ties

2007-12-26T21:42:00.000-08:00

We’re all interconnected here. It’s really quite amusing, you see. It all started with Etnana Yumi. She married Ayoria Nightwalker, and had five children: Necro, Victoria, Deidra, Evan, and Logan. My nephews and nieces, all of them. Etnana turned out to have a twin sister, my beloved Antonia, whom I fell madly in love with. We’ve been betrothed for six months now, actually. Well, I took over the Nightwalker Coven, and took ownership of Ayoria’s younger fledgling, Ximiko. Unruly little fledgling…

Etnana and Antonia have a cousin—Aaron, who died three, maybe five years ago, and went from mortal to cherubim? I’m not so certain. I’m not familiar with the angelic hierarchy. I merely know how things are ran in the underworld. . Regardless, he was in charge of guiding souls to heaven or hell, respectively. A type of psychopomp. Aaron was promoted, and became our superior. A high adviser among cherubims. He rules over Morrigan, who we know as Remin, who rules over us as what you would consider to be our “Boss”. She carries out the job of messenger between Aaron, and the Reapers. Specifically, the Nightwalker coven.

Mirrow, I met when I woke up. She became a my caretaker for the couple months it took me to recover from my two century slumber. After two centuries of sleeping, you become emotionally stunted for a little while. It’s really quite a horrid experience. I wouldn’t recommend it. Ayoria had taken one of Mirrow’s loved ones long ago—her husband, I believe. Rather than resent him, however, she became fond of him. Who knew? Humans don’t usually see Reapers, but apparently she had a slight sensitivity for the preternatural, so she became his confidant, and vice versa. Her husband had left her to care for her sister-in-law, Valentina. A very violent, very vicious, almost sardonic excuse for a lady. When Mirrow opened her café, she asked both her sister-in-law, and me to perform every so often, since we both have certain skill when it comes to playing musical instruments. Though an awful, wretched woman, she knows how to play the violin exquisitely. She mimics Giuseppe Taratinni like no other performer i've ever had the pleasure to hear. I play the pianoforte every other Tuesday evening… but you already know that.

Valentina fell in love with a strange man… Kael, I believe is his name. Odd fellow. His sister, whose name I must admit I do not know— beautiful woman, by the way, though extremely intimidating. Both of them, actually. They’re both very intimidating indeed. Nevertheless, they’re both acquainted with my beloved Antonia. They were coworkers, or something of the like. I know the sister and my fiancé share an apartment, and that Etnana is fondly acquainted with her, as well as Mirrow, and Valentina… and

Years ago… three, maybe four, Etnana dated, and got engaged to a young man by the name of Spencer. No, not Spencer... Spencer James Raphaelo Hiroshi Ishmael Milagro Michael Tyler Staph. A gorgeous Italian man. By all means, the incarnation of Aphrodite’s mortal lover Adonis himself! He dated my darling Antonia when they both assisted the same high school. He was—is, still a friend of Aaron’s. Spencer also passed away, and took over Cupid’s position as the angel of love. Hmm… apparently we have everything in our family: Angels, demons, vampires…all we’re missing are witches!

Through Spencer I became acquainted with Angela, or “Reiv”, as she is commonly regarded. My sweet Angela, my doomed Angela. Sister to Victor and Nicholas Maverick. Charming young men. Redheads, all of them. Karen Maverick’s deranged niece. She lost her mind at the young age of sixteen, and ten years later it’s only gotten worse. Poor darling… It was through Angela that Mirrow met Lady Karen, and not long after that, they opened the café we all frequent, which now bringing us to a full circle! Will you look at that. Oh, but how rude of me! All this time I’ve been yammering about my acquaintances and myself, and neglecting my duties! Would you like a cup of tea?

"For once put out thy light...."

2007-12-19T05:26:00.000-08:00

I felt the cold grip of Death’s hand against my throat, choking on to it as I struggled like an animal, desperate to get out. I yelled, cried— screamed. Every fiber of my being was overcome by panic. “What are you doing?! Let me go! Don’t do this! Don’t do this to me!” My nails dug deep into his flesh, as his left hand swiftly covered my mouth, wrist pressed violently against it as he pinned me up against the wall. Once again I tried to tear away from him, but his body pressed mine against the wall, crushing a few ribs; feet floating in mid air, as he continued to hold me prisoner. “Please!” My cries and sobs muffled by the monster’s arm. “Shhh” He purred softly into my ear, kissing my neck, the rush of adrenaline heightening my senses— I could feel my heart racing, coming up my throat, as I cried inside. The throbbing of the hot blood against each and every single one of my veins, painful.

Death, breathing down my neck. Death, chuckling, laughing— mocking me as I struggled. I don’t want to die. Not yet! Please! Jan! Eric! Please! Help me! Someone, help me! I bit the wrist that prevented me from calling out for help, tearing at the preternatural flesh, and out streamed the life out of him, into my self. A heated wave of poisoned blood. The fiend roared with laughter. He lived for this! The struggle, the rush, the helplessness of his victim. Yes, his victim. Nothing more than his victim. A toy. A Source of entertainment. A feast. A disposable object. Moving on.

Tears streamed down my cheeks as I lost consciousness. A violent shocked passed through me, and a sudden paralysis took over. I could no longer move. My body, a mass of dead weight. A rag doll. A puppet. I couldn't fight my assailant anymore. I hadn't the strength. I felt my eyes slowly roll to the back of my head, as I drifted into a a half-conscious state. From then on, everything ran in slow motion. Two sharp daggers pierced at my throat, sending one last wave of unbearable suffering though every square inch of my body. I felt the life drawn out of me gulp after gulp. Flashes of blurred images rushed before my eyes like an old film playing backwards. A dream. An illusion. My life flashing before my eyes as it was slowly drawn out of me— drawn out into oblivion.

I could not breathe, only swallow. Swallow the blood in hopes for a single breath; in hopes of one last breath. What a miserable way to die. I’d lost all control over my body. Mind blurred, senses numbed. I tried gasping for air. I was choking, and my lungs were filling up with the poison I couldn't cease to drink. A toxic substitute for oxygen. All I managed to take in was his blood. His blood. His life. His death. Drink from me, and live forever... Soon, there wasn’t the slightest bit of a struggle left in me. No more resistance. No more grief. Just a tingling sensation; an overwhelming flash of warmth flowing down my spine, enveloping my limp body. Peace. Tranquility. Silence. Understanding. For once put out thy light... one cannot give it vital breath again. I was already dead.

Rendezvous With Death

2007-12-12T11:47:00.000-08:00

. . .

Foolish. It had been a foolish idea to have gone out so late, and in such humid conditions, too. The next evening, I woke up with a puffy nose, and a horribly swollen throat. I could scarcely speak. Splendid. I was now being stalked by a figment of my imagination— a lunatic who claimed to be a vampire— I’d been lacking an awful lot of sleep thanks to his frequent, yet sporadic visits, and I had now lost track of how many times I’d missed class ever since I met him. Need I add the fact that I had just caught a cold, and was suffering from it? Never mind the fact that I could lose my life at any second at the hands of said lunatic, simply for living an ordinarily dull mortal life, were he actually a real person. I would be very surprised, if I made it through the semester without a mental breakdown.

I had just gotten out of bed, and grabbed my glasses from the nightstand, when I realized that the bed I laid in, was not my own. I was dreaming. The sheets felt, and looked expensive. All around me, everywhere I looked— sheer luxury. I felt as though I’d spent the night in one of those extremely overpriced suites. Looking back on it, I feel somewhat silly; having taken such meticulous notice of all those pointless details. Then again, isn’t that second nature to all writers?

The room— the house itself was a character all on its own; a living, breathing, entity. The heavily decorated moldings at the foot of the walls, the beautiful realist paintings framed in elaborate golden margins. Allusions to Greek mythology, most of them— scenes of ill-fated lovers hinting Cupid and Psyche, as well as Orpheus and Eurydice; all painted in a style strikingly similar to William Bouguereau’s. It was all so beautiful, so… intoxicating. All my life I’d dreamed of owning a house like that. This was by far the grandest hallucination my mind’s eye had ever created. Aside from Cassian, of course. Now he had been one hell of a delusion, and he would surely be the death of me— both literally, and figuratively speaking. I wouldn’t’ve been surprised if by the end of the semester I ended up locked up in a padded room in an insane asylum with a name like ‘Serendipity’, or going though electric shock therapy.

Why did logic and reason have to ruin everything? No. Why did I have to make sense of everything; keep my feet on the ground? Why couldn’t I simply give in to my insanity? Yes, I’ve lost it. Yes, I talk to people who don’t exist— to people only I can see. Did I mention they’re the most beautiful monsters I’ve ever seen? I’m suffering from both visual, and auditive hallucinations, and I’m having the time of my life. This is what literature does to you. Art, writing, and literature combined will heighten your imagination, and creativity, to the point where it takes completely over your senses, and you can’t control it anymore.

Defilement

2007-12-10T13:26:00.000-08:00

Invitation to i m m o r t a l i t y— Nay!

R a p e !
D e c i e t !

Bewildered heart,
s m o t h e r e d in the shadow of an instant;
drowned in a whirlpool of d e l i g h t—
a whirlpool of funerary splendor.

H a r p y !
D e v i l !

Mother—dead
Lover—lost
Will to live—a h o p e l e s s dying ember;
a futile s t r u g g l e.

M o n s t e r !
D e m o n !

The curtain falls at T w i l i g h t
Sweet scent of bloody G a r d e n i a s

F a l l e n !
T a i n t e d !

The curtain falls on this night of c o r r u p t i o n,
and d i s a p p e a r s into the wandering night.

Rendezvous With Death

2007-12-03T21:04:00.000-08:00

…..

“Do you love him?” He asked. “No.” I stood motionless, still staring at my reflection, looking at him somewhat vaguely in the window. “Then why do I sense so much hurt in you?” There was a long pause. It felt as though an eternity had passed, but he calmly waited for my reply. I took a deep breath, trying my hardest not to let my voice crack, or my eyes tear, but my eyes already felt as if wrapped in cellophane. “Attachment.” I said coldly, slamming the phone on the table, tensing up, fists clenched at my sides, and walking down the small corridor down to the bedroom to grab my denim jacket. Completely disregarding whatever it was he’d said to me afterwards.

“I’m going out. I don’t want you anywhere near me.” I strolled down the stairs, past the living room, and literally slammed the door on his face. I got in my car, and headed out the gate, into the highway. Not once did I look at him on my way out. I didn’t know where the hell I was going, nor did I care. I’d immediately turned off my phone the second I slowed down at the first stoplight. No interruptions, no distractions, no pity party— just some time to think on what had just happened, some time to meditate.

I drove for hours all the way to only God knows where, and stopped at the highest point in town, where I could get out the car, sit down on the ground, and simply stare at the tiny illuminated town, hundreds of miles below me. The ground was wet still from the storm earlier, and it still drizzled slightly. The humidity in the air, and the cold temperature made me thankful for the fact that I’d brought my jacket with me, and in an odd way, brought me comfort. I loved the rain. I simply adored cloudy skies for some reason.

It was the stupidest thing, really. I’d only known the guy for three months, and dated him for two and a half. I didn’t love him. I knew that. The only reason I’d gone out with him in the first place was because I knew nobody, and he’d been the one with the interest since the beginning. And he didn’t love me either. Not the way he’d said he did when we first met each other, anyway. I liked… the attention, the little pleasant details— the company. It was a nice feeling, being ‘loved’, and needed. I’d never even been close to experiencing anything like that when I was in middle school, or high school. I was an outcast. I’d always been. I was still an outcast even now, and I was angry at myself for even considering my need of someone to care about my feelings.

I’d been in love before, and had my heart broken many times silently, indirectly, buy guys who wouldn’t even acknowledge my existence. And I was fine with it, because it simply wasn’t their fault. Now I felt horrible, useless. I felt as though I’d never be good enough for anyone, and wished I’d had my heart beaten to a pulp a hundred times before when I was younger, if only it would make things less painful as I sat there, contemplating the tiny cars speeding down the streets below.

I sighed a long, mournful sigh, full of hurt and regret. Heartbreak. So stupid… I repeated those words over and over. The whole situation was stupid. No, you did not love him. No, it wasn’t your fault. You can start crying now. But I couldn’t. Regardless of the effort I was putting into it, and the fact that the tears were there, waiting to leak out, I simply could not cry— get it over with. Just cry. Cry, let it go, and it’ll all be over before you even know it. It was all a useless struggle.

“You think you can ignore me, and slam the door on my face as if I were just anyone?” I felt a horrible chill run down my spine, and through every square inch of my body as my senses caught notice of that melodic preternatural voice. So familiar. “You” I whispered, glaring behind me at the nothing, then at the sudden materialization of wild blue eyes so dangerously near me, invading my personal space. “I told you to stay away!” I attempted to hit that meddlesome immortal, but just as expected, his movements were too fast for me, and just as the thought of punching him had slithered its way into my mind, he already held me captive; hands imprisoned tightly behind my back, fangs precariously close to my neck, grazing my throat ever so slightly. Gasp. Fear. Silence. Shudder. Panic. “Foolish little ingrate” He laughed.

Rendezvous With Death

2007-11-27T04:50:00.000-08:00

…..

“No,” I laughed. I knew I was beginning to lose my mind. I clutched my hands to my head, and pressed the palm of my hands against my temples to get rid of the horrible pain that suddenly pierced through my ears. “I think I’m insane, and you’re my insanity!” I glared at him, still laughing, having a breakdown right there on the couch. “Especially you. You don’t exist! Cytherea? She doesn’t exist either! You’re just—… a voice in my head! You’re all in my imagination, and I’ve read too many vampire novels. No. My cousin was right. I’ve read far too many novels, period!” I groaned. I wanted to pass out from the pain.

All this time, Cytherea lay motionless on the sofa. Legs together, tilting ever so slightly to the left, in an inclined position; much like a French porcelain doll. Her eyes were shut, and I could simply not stop looking at her. They were both so real! There wasn’t the slightest bit of emotion in her. No shock, no surprise, only an expression of deep understanding, and pity towards me. “You can’t expect the child to believe in all you’re pouring down on her.” She sighed, a bit of a Mediterranean accent lingering in her words. “You’ve confused her. Our existence is but a myth to these mortals, and she’s having a perfectly human reaction.” She opened her eyes, and looked directly at me, her fierce eyes piercing my despairing gaze. They were hazel, yes, I already knew that, but in all the time I spent contemplating her features, I never noticed the various shades in between the spectrum from brown, to olive, to amber, and blue. They were absolutely beautiful, and it wasn’t long before I became drowsy, falling spellbound to the color of her eyes— the delicate fierceness of her gaze.

I must’ve passed out, since when I opened my eyes, it was 6:22 AM, and Cassian had come by around 11:00 PM, along with Cytherea, the latest addition to the Nightwalker coven. I was in my bedroom for some reason, yet I didn’t seem to remember waking up at any moment, and shifting from my studio to the bedroom. Had Cassian carried me and tucked me in? I immediately headed back to the studio, never mind the fact that my hair was an absolute mess, my glasses were still on the night table, and I was still wearing nothing but a skimpy pair of boxer shorts, and an old T-shirt with paint splotches all over it, now dried up, and probably permanent.

There was a note adhered to my computer screen, written in elaborate cursive writing I had a hard time deciphering.

My Dearest Samantha,
Please forgive the ill-mannered behavior you witnessed last night. I should have been more considerate of you. I apologize for the lack of tact, and sensitivity I displayed. I wish to make it up to you . Over a cup of hot chocolate perhaps? I’ve noticed your dislike for caffeine. Meet me at The Witching Hour an hour after the sun sets. We have matters to discuss.

Sincerely,
Cassian, the imaginary voice in your head

Good God… what the hell is going on?! I took a deep breath, trying to get a hold of myself. No, you’re not insane, and no, he’s not imaginary. Quit overreacting, you didn’t make him up! I spent over an hour trying to make sense of things. Was I insane? Deranged? Delusional? None of the medication I took said anything about hallucinations. I was talking to people who weren’t there; who didn’t exist, and apparently now, I knew how to write in flamboyant cursive writing.

I ripped the note from the computer screen. It looked real. It felt real. But was it? All trace of logic and reality had been obliterated. I had gone to The Witching Hour, and befriended Death. I had gone to The Witching Hour, and had gotten myself involved with a Vampire. And to think months ago I used to write stories about vampires, witches, ghosts, and what not, thinking it was all fiction.

“Oh, not at all, my dear!” He’d said to me, ordering a couple of hot drinks. He would have the same thing I would, he said— a cup of hot chocolate. “Take a look around you. Especially here. This place is plagued! I could pin point a couple vampires right here, right now. Witches too. See that woman over there?” He pointed to a young woman sitting next to a tall man near the counter. They were both redheads, blue-eyed. “ The woman with the white tank top and red stripes… you know, the one with the short denim skirt, white heels, and a bow tying up her hair? Yeah, she’s a witch. And so is the man she’s having a drink with. Her brother, I believe.” He said nonchalantly, as if seeing witches, and vampires sitting at a café drinking coffee was the most mundane thing in the world. “ Angels, demons, werewolves, vampires, spirits… the list goes on, darling. They walk amongst you everyday.” Our drinks had arrived, and I was staring at this man, this…lunatic. I could’ve simply walked away. I had no intention to stay more than a couple minutes. “So you’re telling me that you’re a vampire, and that everyone here is some kind of… mythical being?” I asked. I was… shaken, to say the least. Not at the thought of him being a vampire, but rather at the thought of him being some sort of psycho. Great idea going to a random coffee shop without so much as an escort in a completely new town. The worst part was that he looked like your average young adult male! Black hair, blue-green eyes, I hadn’t paid much attention to him. I was too busy getting familiar my surroundings.

Rendezvous With Death

2007-11-25T21:24:00.000-08:00

. . .

“Will I ever rid myself of you?” I asked. Cassian had already made his way into the sofa and turned on the plasma television set to see what shows were on at the moment, and I was still clutching my head, trying to get some writing done. No inspiration. “ You’ve classified me now as some kind of disease?” He laughed, flashing his fangs boldly, crossing his legs, and flipping through the channels with a speed not even close to that of a human. He’d already made himself comfortable in the comfort of my black leather couch. Wait. How on earth did he— did I leave the gate open?! “I told you before. My intention is not to annoy you, and it seems I’m not interrupting anything, so I thought I’d drop by. I was around the neighborhood, as you say, or don’t you mortals drop by every so often out of the blue for a small, pleasant visit?” He smirked, not even looking at me, his blue eyes plastered on the television screen, as his thumb came to a sudden halt, and the TV screen went black.

“Could you put on one of those old radio shows? The CBS Radio Mystery Theatre? I want to listen to ‘Cat’s Craddle’.” He was now only centimeters away from me; he was sitting on the black rolling office chair behind me, and his chin was resting on the space between my head, and shoulder. “Wait, no. I want to listen ‘Lady Macbeth at the Zoo’. Remember we never finished listening to that one.” I could feel him breathing down my neck, and that made me awfully uncomfortable. A shiver passed through me, and he merely chuckled. “I’m not going to bite you. I have outstanding self-control, and I’ve already fed.” He whispered in my ear. Another shiver crawled its way down my spine, and I pushed my chair backwards so he’d bite his tongue, or hit himself, or simply hurt himself. “You’re being far to bold, and I don’t like it. You’ll either behave, or get out of my house.” I hissed, refraining from looking at those pale blue eyes of his. From the moment he’d come in, I’d noticed they didn’t have that cute ‘puppy-dog’ expression they usually had, and I knew that wasn’t a good sign. His eyes were narrow now, fierce. They were overflowing with dominance, confidence, and control.

“There’s no need for you to be discourteous, my dear.” He nodded, brown eyebrows perking up in slight surprise at my overall attitude towards him. “What are you doing here Cassian?” I sighed, rolling my eyes, and switching the song from something classical, to “Monophobia” by Malice Mizer. Symphonic Metal— my anti-drug. I let out a deep, pleasant sigh, and rolled my shoulders. Standing from the chair, I stretched my limbs. I walked over to the couch, and plopped onto it; head resting on one of the arm rests, legs spread across the cushions. Taking a deep breath, and closing my eyes shut, I took in the strong smell of leather that plagued the couch. I loved that scent. “ Ugh… you’re just like Lilith, listening to that ruckus! Doesn’t it annoy you?” He lowered the volume on the speakers, and sat on the couch adjacent to the one I lay on.

“Like I said, just a small visit. I’m actually showing a fellow Nightling, around the neighborhood.” He smiled; glad to see me in a better mood already. “…And you left him alone just to come say ‘hi’ to me?” I asked in disbelief, mocking him. There had to be another reason for his visit. Yes, he did come by often without calling, or informing he’d drop by, but I’d seen him but a couple days ago at the coffee shop we both frequented— the Midnight Lounge. “ First of all, my dear, it’s a she. And second of all, would you think me as insensitive? Of course not. I take pride in my manners, and chivalrous character.” I let out a sudden laugh in spite of my self. “Samantha, I would like you to meet Cytherea.” He prodded my shoulder, so I’d open my eyes. In front of me, sitting on the armchair opposite to me, was a young woman, not much older than I was. A waterfall of long, cascading blonde curls flowed all the way covering her mid-back— a beautiful golden veil. Mediterranean features chiseled into her marble face, she surpassed by far Cassian’s level of preternatural beauty. Her skin was as white as those ancient Greek marble statues. She was, in fact, a living, breathing statue. She was a Nightling, all right— Sandro Boticcelli's Aphrodite herself! “You flatter me, young one.” She spoke, giggling slightly; her voice soft, and melodious. Young one? There seemed to be a realm of wisdom behind those four words, though they meant absolutely nothing; a realm of insight.

I didn’t want to be rude, I wanted to shake her hand— give her a hug, or a kiss on the cheek, as I often did when greeting someone, but something didn’t let me. I was paralyzed. My eyes would not cease their square-inch analysis of Cytherea’s features. Cassian prodded my shoulder again, and Cytherea shook her head, closing her hazel-colored eyes for a moment. “Don’t be frightened, child.” She approached me; Cassian offered his hand to lift me up from the sofa. There was something horridly intimidating about her. Her physical appearance was simply the paragon of preternatural child beauty, clad in a gorgeously embroidered white cotton dress, with an embroidered belt wrapped around and tied in the back. She opened her eyes, and smiled at me, as if understanding all to well my reaction—as if all this time, she’d expected this from me. Was that the reason she didn’t show herself earlier? “Well, don’t be rude, and greet her properly, Samantha!” Cassian scolded me. “She’s an ancient one. Show her you’re not an ill-mannered young mortal woman, and sit up.” He grew tired of extending his hand in a failed attempt for me to grab it, pulled me himself up to my feet. “I-I’m sorry…I…—” An ancient one. An ancient one in my home. I couldn’t believe it. How old was this child, and what were Cassian’s intentions in bringing another of his kind into my study like that?

Fallen

2007-11-23T18:28:00.000-08:00

"I fall astray
Surrendering to gravity and the unknown
Trying to stay away
Unable to be alone"

"My sins begin to gain weight
My body feels the gravity of it all
Is this truly my damned fate?
Please save me from this endless fall"

Damned to a life of darkness
Condemned to a world of sorrows
The angel falls broken and wingless
In its misery it wallows

It falls without emotion
Accepting its final fate
It proves its fierce devotion
Yet now, it is too late

Fixation

2007-11-23T18:24:00.000-08:00

Infamous insanity that haunts my mind
Obliged to take that necessary "fix"
Ravenous monster that haunts my kind
Imprisoned helpless by the crimson kiss

Unhealthy addiction I try to hide
The spurious mask of smiles and grins
Something to which I never applied
The monster inside constantly wins

Logic and reason are rapidly lost
Hidden under that phony face
Sleeping the monster at a heavy cost
Denial and negation slowly take its place

Craving to walk in the light
A pointless feat, a useless fight

Nocturnal Romance

2007-11-23T15:33:00.000-08:00

1. Gardenia

“Drink.” She said, her voice, a soft velvet whisper in his ear. “You’re running a fever. This’ll make it better.” A hot, burning liquid poured down his lips, and into his throat as he swallowed. A shiver passed through him, struggling not to cough out the medicine. Such a warm, pleasant sensation. It felt like poison to him. It made him drowsy. “I-..I beg your pardon, mademoiselle. It was never my intention to have the lady of the house assist me.” Thick scarlet liquid trickled down his pale lips— a trail of blood flowing down a path melting of snow.

“Oh, nonsense, young Maverick.” She scolded. “You gave all of us a fright out in the garden. And we were having such an enjoyable time too. Your cousin Mina tells me you’re quite gifted when it comes to playing the piano forte. We have one in the drawing room. Surely you could play a piece to entertain your beloved mother and I— a duet maybe? Once you recover, of course.”

“ Mademoiselle Baudelaire—“ He coughed.
“Chandelle. Please call me Chandelle, monsieur. There is no need for all those formalities in my household.” She placed the cork back in the small vial of medicine, and set it back in the beautifully ornate wooden box containing at least a dozen more vials of red liquid. “Please, monsieur Jan, there is no need for you to sit up. You’re sick. You should be resting. You really frightened little Mina, and the rest of us, losing consciousness just like that. This medicine should make you feel better in no time. Hopefully by supper time? I hear the Chef will be cooking duck a’lorange this evening. Your brother’s catch, I believe.”

A coughing fit overcame the young man as he sunk further into the covers, and set his head against the vividly embroidered pillows, a hand trying to cover up the cough, or at least make it sound less horrid. Lady Chandelle looked at him in slight horror, and attempted to assist him. “I beg of you, Lady Baudelaire, please leave me to my sickness, and delight the others with your presence. You’ve been here long enough, and they must be wondering if they should start getting concerned. It’s nothing more than a minor chest cold, I assure you. There’s no need for a medic. We already have enough with Mother being ill, and my sisters being unable to assist her. It’ll pass. Please don’t make a big fuzz about this little cough of mine. I dread the family will add another worry to their already endless list of—…Gardenias?” He blinked. His eyes had caught a glimpse of the bouquet of white flowers set in a glass vase beside him on the wooden night table.

“Your favorites, are they not?” Lady Baudelaire asked, looking at the flowers herself, and noticing the fallen petals for an instant. He began to cough once again, only allowing a couple of nods to serve as his poor reply to her inquiry. Yes, Gardenias. So beautiful. So delicate. So pure. Wait. How did you know? “You have very beautiful eyes, if you don’t mind my saying so, young Maverick. Your mother agrees in spite of her poor eyesight. Such a cold, icy blue. Yet, they differ from your twin’s. Not in color, or shape, of course. You two are identical in that sense, no doubt about that. There’s a…a certain innocence in your eyes, which Joseph lacks. Warmth— something untainted, and naive. Much like these flowers.” A soft giggle escaped those red-tinged lips, hints of a smirk almost visible on either corner of her delicate mouth. There's something almost angelic about them...

“Oh, but I digress, monsieur, and you must be sick of me already. The others must be tired of waiting too. Please forgive my idle prattle, but I do so much enjoy having someone to talk to. It’s been years since I’ve had company in this lonesome estate.” It’s a pleasure caring for your mother. I love her dearly. Mina as well, that precious little darling.” She continued to speak as she walked about the room. She seemed to be heading towards the door, now; the lower layers of her pompous silken dress dragging behind. “Don’t hesitate to call if you need anything. The servants will come lend a hand in whatever it is you require. They’ve been instructed to do so. As long as you remain in my estate, you’ll be treated not as a guest, but as an actual member of the Baudelaire family. The same goes for Lady Maverick, Joseph, and Mina.”

To Be Continued...

Thank you

2007-10-17T10:43:00.000-07:00

I was gazing at the distorted image on my window, when I started counting, one by one, the tears that made their way back into the bittersweet sky; a thank you note attached, showing my gratitude for the priceless treasure you gave me- the gift of a lesson well taught.

“You would never betray me…” I thought, and countless times, I repeated those words to myself, over and over.

What a fool I was, to let myself be blinded by the deceitful fold of your affections; so wrapped up in my innocent world of childish dreams.

What a fool I was, to let myself fall victim to your fickle heart; lured into your trap by a mirage of seemingly unconditional love.

“You could never betray me…” I thought, and countless times, I repeated those words to myself, over and over.

What a fool I was, not to realize that the time we spent together was created on nothing more than a foundation of lies.

What a fool I was, not to realize that the time we spent together was nothing more than an illusion.

I was gazing at the faint reflection on my window, when I started counting, one by one, the tears that made their way back into the bittersweet sky; a thank you note attached, showing my gratitude for the precious gift you bestowed upon me- the gift of a lesson well taught.

What's wrong little bird?

2007-10-16T19:30:00.000-07:00

What’s wrong little bird?
Why can’t your heart begin to move?
Are you still trapped inside that golden cage of empty dreams?

On your accomplished wings, fly to a far away place.
Depart to a place for no one to know
Follow that beam of pallid light into a realm only you know
Embrace those unfulfilled dreams that lie before you

It’s such a beautiful night
It’s such a lonely night
It’s such a sorrowful night,
embraced by the moonlight in a deep sleep

What’s wrong little bird?
Why can’t your heart begin to move?
Has that wound in your chest not mended yet?

Don’t let yourself be intoxicated with the poison
Don’t let yourself waste away every breath
Don’t let yourself waste away in a state of alienation

What’s wrong little bird?
Why can’t your heart begin to move?
Are your wings so tainted with insanity you can no longer fly?

Cast the madness off your feathers
The dead are best left to reside in their coffins.
Embrace those unfulfilled dreams that lie before you

It’s such a beautiful night
It’s such a lonely night
It’s such a sorrowful night,
embraced by the moonlight in a deep sleep

Cheer up little bird.
Don’t let yourself be lured into a trap by the bittersweet fragrance of wilting roses
Don’t let yourself be enveloped by the sweet deceiving comfort of delusion

Cheer up little bird
It’s such a beautiful night
But even though It’s such a lonely night,
Such a sorrowful night, embraced by the moonlight in a deep sleep

Soon you’ll fly to a far away place.
Depart to a place for no one to know
Follow that beam of pallid light into a realm only you know
And mend your broken heart in the rays of sunlight in a lazy afternoon.

Make it fade away

2007-10-16T18:50:00.000-07:00

Throw everything away. Make it fade away- vanish.

Embrace the melancholy in the wind, as we intoxicate ourselves with the poison

Throw everything away. Make it fade away- vanish.

Come lie with me here among the pricking thorns-
among this infinite garden of wilting red, and embrace it.

Throw everything away. Make it fade away- vanish.

Come play with me among these crimson ruins of sorrow and regret.
Embrace the melancholy in the wind, as we intoxicate ourselves with the poison,
here in our far-off world of wilting red, as we lie among the pricking thorns.

Let's create an enchanting dream

2007-10-16T18:24:00.000-07:00

Let’s create an enchanting dream, before the flower that blossoms dies and shrivels away.
I’ll enchase the memory in my chest as though it were a precious jewel invulnerable to the passing of time.
Soon, I’ll learn the meaning of that everlasting downpour of tears coming from my tainted skies, and the withered, lifeless trees in our desolate garden, will murmur words of overflowing memories along the roadside.

Tomorrow night, after the rain ceases to fall,
I’ll look up above, and wish upon a starless sky.

Untitled

2007-10-15T21:39:00.000-07:00

I was nothing compared to him. He was young, beautiful, elegant- everything I wanted to be. He had the strength, the power, the control I yearned for. He could tell himself lie after lie, and find true comfort from each and every one of them. I was nothing but a coward. I still am nothing more than a coward, and I hate myself for it.

“We all want to be happy, and we are all going to die. Those are the facts that apply to every single one of us, and both of them, are inevitable. In the long run, we are all dead. That is the ultimate goal of our existence- death. Since the day we are born society teaches us how to die. Some of us are dead to begin with, or die in the midst of life. Those who die before their time, and don’t die fully, are the ones left to be nothing more than empty, wandering corpses who’ve served their purpose, but still remain standing, because their hearts refuse to stop beating. Emotionally, we are dead, but physically, we remain somewhat alive.” Those were his words, and they were engraved into my mind the moment he spoke them: “That is the ultimate goal of our existence- death”

I knew he was wrong. I knew he didn’t really believe that. I knew I didn’t really believe that, yet somehow, hearing those words come out of his mouth brought me comfort. They were so amazingly soothing! They made so much sense! Even if his cynicism was nothing more than a grand facade, those words brought me the comfort I’d been lacking, and miserably craving for so long.

I knew right from wrong, just as I knew a the truth from a lie, and I very well knew pain from comfort because of the excess of one, and lack of the other. And it was because I knew the difference, that I consciously made the decision of believing a lie, because the pain had already served its purpose: I was already dead on the inside. It was just a matter of time before death’s carriage stopped by to finish the job he’d already started.