AS I REMEMBER THESE THINGS, something stands out: I remember these memories as if they really happened, and I am convinced that they are true memories, but I feel no sense of attachment to these visions, these dreams. I can identify that the young man is myself, but the events may as well have happened to an actor in a film, or in a play. I've seen the events, but I don't feel them, except as an outside observer.
Not the strangest thing to have happened to me, and I think there is some literature about that with other victims of memory loss. It is a little disconcerting, but if these memories are true, at least I have a glimpse of who I was before the change.
And as many philosophers have said, in one form or another, one has to remember the past to better understand the present, and to better survive the future.
The best I can do is trust and believe that these memories are indeed true memories; finding understanding and enlightenment can come later. As it is, as I am in a state where healing is my priority for my body, I can let my mind just sit back and watch the show, so to speak.
Xian's Journal
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Xian
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- Joined: 29 Nov 2014, 17:42
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Xian
- Registered User
- Posts: 337
- Joined: 29 Nov 2014, 17:42
Re: Xian's Journal
FOR AS LONG AS HE COULD REMEMBER, the young man had always been good with computers. He just understood how they worked, and what they needed, even beyond the commands, tricks, and scripts he managed to learn along the way. It was like they were alive to him, and each computer system, each computer, each laptop, had its own quirks and eccentricities, and he could tell what they were and what he needed to do to get what he wanted most of the time.
By the time he was twelve, he was programming his own computer viruses, and hacking the source codes of other viruses to knock them out of his systems. By the time he was thirteen, most basic online security wasn't a real challenge to him. Only fear really kept him from really pushing himself; he'd heard stories of G-Men knocking on the doors of those hackers that were good but sloppy, taking on things they didn't realize were too much for them.
To a lesser degree, he also naturally understood electronics. He could tinker with minor devices, electric locks, cellphones. He'd even fixed the microwave once, though it really was just a matter of replacing the electrical wire for its plug. But then again, he was only ten at the time. At eleven, he was trying to understand computer hardware, and would have started building his own custom had he the money for the parts.
By the time he was part of the gang, he was acknowledged as their hacker and tinker. When it would merit it, they would have him electronically scope out a place through its computer systems. Often he could find some weakness in the security they could exploit - guard schedules, shift changes, system down times and cameras and so on. A few times he even manufactured the weakness, and shut down cameras and alarms before the others even came to pick the locks.
At first this was all he was called to do, but eventually he'd joined them a few times. He'd even done a few jobs with just Jet and Kaycee, their way of really integrating him into the gang, giving him a new place, a new usefulness when the others were almost tired of him. Those times, he had been afraid, but between Jet and Kaycee, he knew he was in good hands. They never got into trouble together, the three of them, that they couldn't get out of.
However, this time he could only count on himself.
So he'd taken his time, and found this office building where security was practically nonexistent. The business was failing, and by his check on their finances and email correspondence, it would be shutting down soon. It was even selling off some of its assets already, and laying off some of its staff. Heck, he was probably doing them a favor, giving them a chance to collect even some insurance on the tech he wanted and whatever he could carry and sell quickly. It was a simple matter to loop the security cameras on the second floor, and disable the alarms so they looked like they were on, but wouldn't trigger even if half the building fell apart.
He made his way to the second floor through the fire escape, jumping up from an alleyway in the back. He wasn't too tall, but at least he could jump. He was slim bordering on skinny, though most of it was now lean muscle, though no way would he be able to run any marathons or beat anybody at arm wrestling. He just wasn't much of the athletic type, and the cigarettes he'd smoked to fit in didn't help either.
Once on the fire escape, he took care not to make too much noise; he doubted the night guards were awake, but he didn't want to take any unnecessary risks. Once at the window where he'd looped the cameras, he paused to look up at one, and he gave a little wave, sparing a grin for the watchful but unseeing electronic eye. Then it was a simple matter to unlock a second-floor window - something Jet had taught him - and slide his way inside.
Once he was inside, though, the beating of his heart almost filled his ears. A combination of panic, excitement and worry. He knelt by the window, taking long, deep breaths to calm himself. He uttered his mantra once more, I can do this. I can do this. I have to do this. All the while, he allowed his eyes to adjust to the dark. If the plans he'd downloaded were right, he was actually in the pantry area, and he could just make out a microwave and a small refrigerator. He grinned, stood up slowly and crept silently to the fridge. Maybe there was some small thing there to snack on, maybe a soda. Not much in terms of loot, but a soda to celebrate his first job alone sounded like a good idea.
Stick to the job, celebrate later. Jet's words. He shook his head and had to grin again. I owe you more than I give you credit for, he admitted, and he continued to the next room. There he hoped to find one of the office laptops. Not really great in terms of specs, but better than the simple netbook he'd managed to lift in a cafe last week. Something with a little more power, something that would give him a few more options when it came to finding jobs like this one, maybe even turn a new leaf and try for something legit.
But first, the laptop, the tech. And maybe a few other easily lifted things. Whatever small tidbits that could fit in his backpack should be good. At least should be enough for tonight. Doesn't need to be complicated, nothing too obvious. Maybe he could even come back tomorrow night for another one. Maybe.
By the time he was twelve, he was programming his own computer viruses, and hacking the source codes of other viruses to knock them out of his systems. By the time he was thirteen, most basic online security wasn't a real challenge to him. Only fear really kept him from really pushing himself; he'd heard stories of G-Men knocking on the doors of those hackers that were good but sloppy, taking on things they didn't realize were too much for them.
To a lesser degree, he also naturally understood electronics. He could tinker with minor devices, electric locks, cellphones. He'd even fixed the microwave once, though it really was just a matter of replacing the electrical wire for its plug. But then again, he was only ten at the time. At eleven, he was trying to understand computer hardware, and would have started building his own custom had he the money for the parts.
By the time he was part of the gang, he was acknowledged as their hacker and tinker. When it would merit it, they would have him electronically scope out a place through its computer systems. Often he could find some weakness in the security they could exploit - guard schedules, shift changes, system down times and cameras and so on. A few times he even manufactured the weakness, and shut down cameras and alarms before the others even came to pick the locks.
At first this was all he was called to do, but eventually he'd joined them a few times. He'd even done a few jobs with just Jet and Kaycee, their way of really integrating him into the gang, giving him a new place, a new usefulness when the others were almost tired of him. Those times, he had been afraid, but between Jet and Kaycee, he knew he was in good hands. They never got into trouble together, the three of them, that they couldn't get out of.
However, this time he could only count on himself.
So he'd taken his time, and found this office building where security was practically nonexistent. The business was failing, and by his check on their finances and email correspondence, it would be shutting down soon. It was even selling off some of its assets already, and laying off some of its staff. Heck, he was probably doing them a favor, giving them a chance to collect even some insurance on the tech he wanted and whatever he could carry and sell quickly. It was a simple matter to loop the security cameras on the second floor, and disable the alarms so they looked like they were on, but wouldn't trigger even if half the building fell apart.
He made his way to the second floor through the fire escape, jumping up from an alleyway in the back. He wasn't too tall, but at least he could jump. He was slim bordering on skinny, though most of it was now lean muscle, though no way would he be able to run any marathons or beat anybody at arm wrestling. He just wasn't much of the athletic type, and the cigarettes he'd smoked to fit in didn't help either.
Once on the fire escape, he took care not to make too much noise; he doubted the night guards were awake, but he didn't want to take any unnecessary risks. Once at the window where he'd looped the cameras, he paused to look up at one, and he gave a little wave, sparing a grin for the watchful but unseeing electronic eye. Then it was a simple matter to unlock a second-floor window - something Jet had taught him - and slide his way inside.
Once he was inside, though, the beating of his heart almost filled his ears. A combination of panic, excitement and worry. He knelt by the window, taking long, deep breaths to calm himself. He uttered his mantra once more, I can do this. I can do this. I have to do this. All the while, he allowed his eyes to adjust to the dark. If the plans he'd downloaded were right, he was actually in the pantry area, and he could just make out a microwave and a small refrigerator. He grinned, stood up slowly and crept silently to the fridge. Maybe there was some small thing there to snack on, maybe a soda. Not much in terms of loot, but a soda to celebrate his first job alone sounded like a good idea.
Stick to the job, celebrate later. Jet's words. He shook his head and had to grin again. I owe you more than I give you credit for, he admitted, and he continued to the next room. There he hoped to find one of the office laptops. Not really great in terms of specs, but better than the simple netbook he'd managed to lift in a cafe last week. Something with a little more power, something that would give him a few more options when it came to finding jobs like this one, maybe even turn a new leaf and try for something legit.
But first, the laptop, the tech. And maybe a few other easily lifted things. Whatever small tidbits that could fit in his backpack should be good. At least should be enough for tonight. Doesn't need to be complicated, nothing too obvious. Maybe he could even come back tomorrow night for another one. Maybe.
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Xian
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Re: Xian's Journal
THE YOUNG MAN PICKED UP the laptop sitting on the table, one of those he had hoped would be here. If he remembered correctly, this one was likely assigned to one of the staff most recently laid off. With some luck, the loss wouldn't be noticed until much later, and the staff member who was laid off would be blamed for its absence. If he was careful, there would be no report, no cops, and he'd have another chance at some more tech - maybe another unit he could pawn out this time.
But this one, while not quite the best that could be had, would do well enough for now. He packed it carefully in his backpack, taking care to pack its cables and what accessories would likely not be missed. All the while he wondered why they'd chosen such a pricey model, for a business that seemed to have no idea what it was doing. Still, their loss, his gain. An external drive, possibly containing some worthwhile information, though he doubted it, found its way into his bag as well. So did a pen that he absently thought could be useful.
What was that? He thought, as he heard a noise coming up the stairs, a slow thump, almost lazy and careless. His mind realized it was a guard as he ducked, and leaned on a wall, making sure he was hidden well inside the cubicle. There were many cubicles here, separated only by low walls, high enough to hide in, but not high enough to keep him hidden if the guard came too close.
His mind raced, and traced a path he could take back to the open window. Had he left it open? All of a sudden, he couldn't remember. He'd planned to leave it ajar, easy to leave through, in case things turned pear-shaped. But not wide open to let the sounds of the streets in. But now, he wasn't sure he'd managed to close it. Careless. Careless. He tried to listen to the other sounds in the darkness, straining to hear the sounds from the alleyway that would tell him whether the window was open or closed.
He cursed himself for his carelessness; Do the job, get out. He shouldn't have taken so long thinking about nicking a soda, or thinking about his new prize. He even berated himself for his panic once he'd gotten in through the window. In his mind, while a part of him sought out a solution to his problem of the guard, he also managed to berate himself over and over.
One hand fell to the Glock in the small of his back. Insurance, he had thought as he'd shoved it in there. Now he wondered if he could actually bring himself to use it. He wasn't scared of firing a gun, that he was used to. But the thought of actually shooting and killing someone weighed heavily on him. He wasn't a killer, and he had no illusions about being able to out shoot anyone. It would have to be a shot while the guard was still unaware.
He took out the Glock, and held it in his hand. The safety was still on, though his thumb hovered close to it. He could feel the weight of it, the one time familiar weight becoming an illusion now, a dream that he could have competently used it. Some part of him was happy he had it, now that the guard was moving closer and closer. But he wondered if he had the will to actually shoot - and possibly kill - another person.
The footsteps stopped, and for a long few seconds he heard nothing. Then, a cough, and the creak of one office chair, followed by a long sigh. Carefully, he risked a peek out of the corner of the cubicle, and he saw the guard sitting on an office chair, feet raised on the table before him. Good. That's good. That's an opportunity.
He took another mental image of his path, and he figured that if he was quick, and he was quiet, he could probably make it to the pantry, and through the window he had come in. He made one last check of his backpack, and, confident that it was as secure as he could make it, he crouched low and started to crawl to the next cubicle, further from the guard, and closer to the pantry. He needed some luck, but he could probably just make it out without having to fire a shot, without getting into any kind of trouble.
But this one, while not quite the best that could be had, would do well enough for now. He packed it carefully in his backpack, taking care to pack its cables and what accessories would likely not be missed. All the while he wondered why they'd chosen such a pricey model, for a business that seemed to have no idea what it was doing. Still, their loss, his gain. An external drive, possibly containing some worthwhile information, though he doubted it, found its way into his bag as well. So did a pen that he absently thought could be useful.
What was that? He thought, as he heard a noise coming up the stairs, a slow thump, almost lazy and careless. His mind realized it was a guard as he ducked, and leaned on a wall, making sure he was hidden well inside the cubicle. There were many cubicles here, separated only by low walls, high enough to hide in, but not high enough to keep him hidden if the guard came too close.
His mind raced, and traced a path he could take back to the open window. Had he left it open? All of a sudden, he couldn't remember. He'd planned to leave it ajar, easy to leave through, in case things turned pear-shaped. But not wide open to let the sounds of the streets in. But now, he wasn't sure he'd managed to close it. Careless. Careless. He tried to listen to the other sounds in the darkness, straining to hear the sounds from the alleyway that would tell him whether the window was open or closed.
He cursed himself for his carelessness; Do the job, get out. He shouldn't have taken so long thinking about nicking a soda, or thinking about his new prize. He even berated himself for his panic once he'd gotten in through the window. In his mind, while a part of him sought out a solution to his problem of the guard, he also managed to berate himself over and over.
One hand fell to the Glock in the small of his back. Insurance, he had thought as he'd shoved it in there. Now he wondered if he could actually bring himself to use it. He wasn't scared of firing a gun, that he was used to. But the thought of actually shooting and killing someone weighed heavily on him. He wasn't a killer, and he had no illusions about being able to out shoot anyone. It would have to be a shot while the guard was still unaware.
He took out the Glock, and held it in his hand. The safety was still on, though his thumb hovered close to it. He could feel the weight of it, the one time familiar weight becoming an illusion now, a dream that he could have competently used it. Some part of him was happy he had it, now that the guard was moving closer and closer. But he wondered if he had the will to actually shoot - and possibly kill - another person.
The footsteps stopped, and for a long few seconds he heard nothing. Then, a cough, and the creak of one office chair, followed by a long sigh. Carefully, he risked a peek out of the corner of the cubicle, and he saw the guard sitting on an office chair, feet raised on the table before him. Good. That's good. That's an opportunity.
He took another mental image of his path, and he figured that if he was quick, and he was quiet, he could probably make it to the pantry, and through the window he had come in. He made one last check of his backpack, and, confident that it was as secure as he could make it, he crouched low and started to crawl to the next cubicle, further from the guard, and closer to the pantry. He needed some luck, but he could probably just make it out without having to fire a shot, without getting into any kind of trouble.
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Xian
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Re: Xian's Journal
HOW MANY DAYS has it been since I stirred from this place? Wounded and afraid, I huddled in the darkness of this safe haven, only my mind free to view the returning memories, or to seek out knowledge through the web. At times, I would send messages to my sire, Charlotte, or her sire Keara. I am not completely sure what I have sent, though I believe I cried out to both when I was wounded.
I can see people pass me by; I say "people" but I believe they are vampires all, save perhaps that one human whose blood made mine burn. He's around often, his relationship with the others yet another question unanswered for me. I think I saw him speak with Keara once; she has passed me by, perhaps even cared for me, while I've sat here.
I think even some of the others, vampires, people, I did not know, stopped to care for me. I think one even offered me blood. I don't think I responded much. I feel distanced from my body as much as I feel distanced from the memories that have been returning. But day by day, I feel closer to both, closer to being myself once more.
Charlotte has also been here, I think. I've sensed her presence, and I've seen her face. It was a comfort when I first realized she was, a comfort to see she has stayed more often than not.
I barely register the others' faces, I can barely bring myself to open my eyes. I wake during the night, only to sink back into myself. Sink back into memories, into remembering. During the day, I am trapped in my dreams.
I can see people pass me by; I say "people" but I believe they are vampires all, save perhaps that one human whose blood made mine burn. He's around often, his relationship with the others yet another question unanswered for me. I think I saw him speak with Keara once; she has passed me by, perhaps even cared for me, while I've sat here.
I think even some of the others, vampires, people, I did not know, stopped to care for me. I think one even offered me blood. I don't think I responded much. I feel distanced from my body as much as I feel distanced from the memories that have been returning. But day by day, I feel closer to both, closer to being myself once more.
Charlotte has also been here, I think. I've sensed her presence, and I've seen her face. It was a comfort when I first realized she was, a comfort to see she has stayed more often than not.
I barely register the others' faces, I can barely bring myself to open my eyes. I wake during the night, only to sink back into myself. Sink back into memories, into remembering. During the day, I am trapped in my dreams.
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Xian
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Re: Xian's Journal
THE NOISE drove away any thoughts the young man had of a clean escape. He had made it two more cubicles away from the guard leaning back on the chair, and had even managed to evade being spotted by another guard checking the cubicles with his flashlight. He'd listened to the lazy guard mock the other for even making an effort, while he crawled his way towards his exit.
And then there was the Noise. Something or someone knocked over what sounded like a a heavy filing cabinet filled with crystal Christmas decorations - right behind him. He almost stood up in surprise, but managed to keep his cool and stay crouched. Still, he knew right then and there that he was done for, caught; the sound would draw the guards here, right on top of him. He gripped his Glock tightly, and his thumb flicked the safety off.
He'd been caught one time before, during one of the first few times he had joined Jet. A guard they hadn't been able to account for suddenly popped out of a bathroom while they were slowly creeping down one hallway. There had been a brief moment of surprise between them, but Jet had managed to shake off his surprise first, and lay a heavy right cross into the jaw of the guard, knocking him out. This happened sometimes, Jet had told him. Part of the risk.
Thanks to Jet, they'd managed to nick a few boxes under the noses of the other guards, while leaving the bathroom guard tied up in the toilet. They laughed about it afterwards, and Xian had felt even more confident then doing almost anything with Jet and the others.
But Jet wasn't here now; he could only count on himself.
He spared a glance in the direction of the sound, and found a small device, something he couldn't really make out in the darkness. At the same time, he pushed himself as close to a cubicle wall as he could as the light from the dutiful guard flashed in his direction. The other guard cursed, and he heard the clatter of an office chair, followed by the heavy thump of a body, followed by more curses. The light moved away then, but only briefly.
"What the heck was that?" one guard said. "There's someone there!" the other shouted. It really didn't matter which one was which. Two against one was not a good count, and there was still too much ground between him and the door to the pantry. Worse, there was too little cover in between.
His mind raced, and he knew he needed a distraction, something to take their eyes away from where he was even for a moment. In that moment, he could, maybe, make it. Nearby, he saw a heavy power bank, likely a backup power supply for the computers. It was large and heavy, so he wouldn't be able to throw it too far, but then the other guard wasn't really so far. But he'd need to stand up to throw it any distance, with any sense of accuracy, and he didn't want to give them a chance to get a shot at him just standing there.
Then he saw the small potted plant just beside him, small enough to throw with one hand, while he kept the Glock in the other. He picked it up, and tossed it back-handed to where he last saw the closest guard - the attentive one, the responsible one. As it crashed, he stood and turned, his handgun aimed in the general direction of the two guards. He pulled the trigger as fast as he could, and moved as quickly as he could towards his only hope of freedom and escape.
His attention divided, his backpack snagged on the corner of one of the cubicle walls and he stumbled, just a few feet away from the cover of the pantry. As he leaned on the thin unstable wall, his Glock stopped firing while he regained his balance. This was enough time to let the two guards draw their guns and shoot back.
He saw them raise their guns at him, and time seemed to slow. He saw the flash of one, then the other, then the first one again. And just before he felt something kick into his chest, he remembered what Kaycee had told him about his name, what it meant in Chinese. Kaycee had been half-Chinese, he remembered absently, as the one word meaning repeated in his mind over and over as he fell back.
Immortal.
As he lay on the floor, his blood staining the carpet beneath him, he gurgled a slight laugh at the irony of it.
And then there was the Noise. Something or someone knocked over what sounded like a a heavy filing cabinet filled with crystal Christmas decorations - right behind him. He almost stood up in surprise, but managed to keep his cool and stay crouched. Still, he knew right then and there that he was done for, caught; the sound would draw the guards here, right on top of him. He gripped his Glock tightly, and his thumb flicked the safety off.
He'd been caught one time before, during one of the first few times he had joined Jet. A guard they hadn't been able to account for suddenly popped out of a bathroom while they were slowly creeping down one hallway. There had been a brief moment of surprise between them, but Jet had managed to shake off his surprise first, and lay a heavy right cross into the jaw of the guard, knocking him out. This happened sometimes, Jet had told him. Part of the risk.
Thanks to Jet, they'd managed to nick a few boxes under the noses of the other guards, while leaving the bathroom guard tied up in the toilet. They laughed about it afterwards, and Xian had felt even more confident then doing almost anything with Jet and the others.
But Jet wasn't here now; he could only count on himself.
He spared a glance in the direction of the sound, and found a small device, something he couldn't really make out in the darkness. At the same time, he pushed himself as close to a cubicle wall as he could as the light from the dutiful guard flashed in his direction. The other guard cursed, and he heard the clatter of an office chair, followed by the heavy thump of a body, followed by more curses. The light moved away then, but only briefly.
"What the heck was that?" one guard said. "There's someone there!" the other shouted. It really didn't matter which one was which. Two against one was not a good count, and there was still too much ground between him and the door to the pantry. Worse, there was too little cover in between.
His mind raced, and he knew he needed a distraction, something to take their eyes away from where he was even for a moment. In that moment, he could, maybe, make it. Nearby, he saw a heavy power bank, likely a backup power supply for the computers. It was large and heavy, so he wouldn't be able to throw it too far, but then the other guard wasn't really so far. But he'd need to stand up to throw it any distance, with any sense of accuracy, and he didn't want to give them a chance to get a shot at him just standing there.
Then he saw the small potted plant just beside him, small enough to throw with one hand, while he kept the Glock in the other. He picked it up, and tossed it back-handed to where he last saw the closest guard - the attentive one, the responsible one. As it crashed, he stood and turned, his handgun aimed in the general direction of the two guards. He pulled the trigger as fast as he could, and moved as quickly as he could towards his only hope of freedom and escape.
His attention divided, his backpack snagged on the corner of one of the cubicle walls and he stumbled, just a few feet away from the cover of the pantry. As he leaned on the thin unstable wall, his Glock stopped firing while he regained his balance. This was enough time to let the two guards draw their guns and shoot back.
He saw them raise their guns at him, and time seemed to slow. He saw the flash of one, then the other, then the first one again. And just before he felt something kick into his chest, he remembered what Kaycee had told him about his name, what it meant in Chinese. Kaycee had been half-Chinese, he remembered absently, as the one word meaning repeated in his mind over and over as he fell back.
Immortal.
As he lay on the floor, his blood staining the carpet beneath him, he gurgled a slight laugh at the irony of it.
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Xian
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Re: Xian's Journal
TIME SEEMED TO SLOW as the beating of his heart did. The young man looked up into the darkened ceiling of the office, his chest on fire, his life fading with each weakening beat of his heart. For a moment, he wondered why he had not yet quite passed out; but other things called to his attention.
He was dying. Despite every fiber in him trying to resist the call of the grave, he knew this in his mind. He was good as dead. Twenty-odd years on this Earth and this was it. Gunshot wound to the chest, nobody to help him out. He never figured he would die bleeding out on an unfamiliar carpet in a city he barely knew, far from everyone he had ever loved or cared for. But that's life, isn't it? he thought to himself. Sometimes it just doesn't make sense.
Their faces began to appear before him: his mother, ever so patient with him and his father. Ever so willing to tolerate his father's abuses. Even defending him, when the young man had had enough. His father, loving in his own way, but plagued with demons the young man could never himself understand. He remembered his eyes, the anger, and, he realized now, the sadness and pain behind them. He'd never understand the man now. His sister, whose understanding would never be complete now, why their father was so angry, why their mother so timid, why her brother had to run away from it all.
Jet, who brought him under his wing. The older bother he never had. Kaycee, who, for a while had loved him. Maybe still loved him, in her way. Tim, almost a friend, who had died right in front of him. The others, their names a struggle now to remember, their faces starting to blur and fade. He began to shake ever so slightly, and the thin sliver of hope he had left began to fracture. He managed a weak smile at the joke of his life, and the joke of his death. Nobody else would appreciate it, nobody else could.
Immortal. That was another joke, wasn't it? Ah, Kaycee, how I miss you. I'm sorry mom. I'm sorry dad. I'm sorry Jessie. This wasn't what I wanted.
The young man started to shake some more, and he wished he had the strength to lift his hand to his chest, to stop the bleeding, to keep himself alive just a little while longer. That maybe if he could hang on a little bit longer, he would make it. False hope, he told himself. He felt tears come to his eyes, and heard himself whimper. Each breath was a struggle now, a mountain to climb. Soon, he would just stop climbing, and his struggling would cease.
Screaming? Gunshots? There were more noises, but he couldn't identify them anymore in his state. His fading mind laughed. I must be becoming delirious, he reasoned, while his eyes began to flicker. The ceiling was starting to fade now, his eyes were losing focus. Some part of him knew that soon his heart would give up, his blood stop pumping, his breath cease, forever.
Was that a shadow over me? He felt a tiny flicker, the barest needle of hope still clinging beyond hope. His injuries were beyond help now though, he knew that. Only a miracle could save him now. He closed his eyes, and began to mutter his last prayer; at least this way, give some respect to your mother, he demanded. Was that a shadow? There were stories about the angel of death, perhaps this was she. He opened himself to his death, and accepted it.
He let go of his hope.
This was the end.
And then the beginning.
A drop. The barest sensation of the tiniest bit of liquid. A slick, seemingly thick substance fell into his mouth, meeting his lips and the tip of his tongue. Hallucination, he thought to himself. Something had pressed onto his lips, and his mind seemed to waken slightly, as more of the liquid filled his mouth. His lips eagerly sought the source of the liquid, his tongue reached for it, and he drank of this substance that seemed to slowly restore his strength. I must be dead, he thought, and yet he drank as deeply as he could.
But, was this death? A final sigh left his lips, as the thing that had pressed upon them left. A great sadness fell upon him, as he was cut off from what he thought was a life sustaining drink. He tried to reach for it, and his mouth gave a slight shiver as it opened and closed. But he felt weakness cling to him anew, and, exhausted, he sank back.
Just then, he felt arms pick him up, and he felt himself body rise up, lifted, carried. Surely the dark angel was carrying him now, and he would awaken where the dead things go. He managed a slight smile. So, this is what dying feels like.
And he was no longer afraid.
He was dying. Despite every fiber in him trying to resist the call of the grave, he knew this in his mind. He was good as dead. Twenty-odd years on this Earth and this was it. Gunshot wound to the chest, nobody to help him out. He never figured he would die bleeding out on an unfamiliar carpet in a city he barely knew, far from everyone he had ever loved or cared for. But that's life, isn't it? he thought to himself. Sometimes it just doesn't make sense.
Their faces began to appear before him: his mother, ever so patient with him and his father. Ever so willing to tolerate his father's abuses. Even defending him, when the young man had had enough. His father, loving in his own way, but plagued with demons the young man could never himself understand. He remembered his eyes, the anger, and, he realized now, the sadness and pain behind them. He'd never understand the man now. His sister, whose understanding would never be complete now, why their father was so angry, why their mother so timid, why her brother had to run away from it all.
Jet, who brought him under his wing. The older bother he never had. Kaycee, who, for a while had loved him. Maybe still loved him, in her way. Tim, almost a friend, who had died right in front of him. The others, their names a struggle now to remember, their faces starting to blur and fade. He began to shake ever so slightly, and the thin sliver of hope he had left began to fracture. He managed a weak smile at the joke of his life, and the joke of his death. Nobody else would appreciate it, nobody else could.
Immortal. That was another joke, wasn't it? Ah, Kaycee, how I miss you. I'm sorry mom. I'm sorry dad. I'm sorry Jessie. This wasn't what I wanted.
The young man started to shake some more, and he wished he had the strength to lift his hand to his chest, to stop the bleeding, to keep himself alive just a little while longer. That maybe if he could hang on a little bit longer, he would make it. False hope, he told himself. He felt tears come to his eyes, and heard himself whimper. Each breath was a struggle now, a mountain to climb. Soon, he would just stop climbing, and his struggling would cease.
Screaming? Gunshots? There were more noises, but he couldn't identify them anymore in his state. His fading mind laughed. I must be becoming delirious, he reasoned, while his eyes began to flicker. The ceiling was starting to fade now, his eyes were losing focus. Some part of him knew that soon his heart would give up, his blood stop pumping, his breath cease, forever.
Was that a shadow over me? He felt a tiny flicker, the barest needle of hope still clinging beyond hope. His injuries were beyond help now though, he knew that. Only a miracle could save him now. He closed his eyes, and began to mutter his last prayer; at least this way, give some respect to your mother, he demanded. Was that a shadow? There were stories about the angel of death, perhaps this was she. He opened himself to his death, and accepted it.
He let go of his hope.
This was the end.
And then the beginning.
A drop. The barest sensation of the tiniest bit of liquid. A slick, seemingly thick substance fell into his mouth, meeting his lips and the tip of his tongue. Hallucination, he thought to himself. Something had pressed onto his lips, and his mind seemed to waken slightly, as more of the liquid filled his mouth. His lips eagerly sought the source of the liquid, his tongue reached for it, and he drank of this substance that seemed to slowly restore his strength. I must be dead, he thought, and yet he drank as deeply as he could.
But, was this death? A final sigh left his lips, as the thing that had pressed upon them left. A great sadness fell upon him, as he was cut off from what he thought was a life sustaining drink. He tried to reach for it, and his mouth gave a slight shiver as it opened and closed. But he felt weakness cling to him anew, and, exhausted, he sank back.
Just then, he felt arms pick him up, and he felt himself body rise up, lifted, carried. Surely the dark angel was carrying him now, and he would awaken where the dead things go. He managed a slight smile. So, this is what dying feels like.
And he was no longer afraid.
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Xian
- Registered User
- Posts: 337
- Joined: 29 Nov 2014, 17:42
Re: Xian's Journal
THE POWER OF this last memory, this last dream-recollection, has left me more than a little bit shaken. It was more personal, something I felt a deeper connection with. Previously, it was like I was watching another act out my memories. I this one, I was both watcher and participant. For a while, it even felt like I was experiencing my death all over again; and when, in the dream-vision, I died and looked out into the comforting darkness, I felt that my spirit was more than willing to dive into the abyss and never come back up again.
I experienced again the sensation of the turning, the act of becoming a vampire, something I had once forgotten. The first drop of Charlotte's blood, catching me at the point of death, halting my spiral into the deep darkness. The empowering force restoring my body, repairing and replacing that which it didn't need, amplifying that which it so desired, bestowing that which was now mine to possess.
I felt the new strength come to me again, the memory of the blood completing my transformation. And when I woke, I felt better, and I was no longer afraid.
I felt more whole, more myself, though I still felt a distance, a separation, from my previous life, I could now recall it, or at least enough pieces of it. As strange as this distance seems, from a psychological perspective, I think that is how it should be. I am no longer that young man, much as an adult is no longer the baby they were when they were born. And yet I recognize that I was, indeed, he.
I knew as well that I was recovering physically, and at a rate that was quite rapid. I am sure that it is in no small part due to the assistance of my sire, Charlotte, and her sire Keara, and the seeming legion of vampires offering assistance, or just a sign of support or recognition, that passed me by as I recovered, adamantly staying where I had fallen in the corner of the family haven. I understand now, that this place is one such place, and that the artifact that Keara had left for me had taken me here in my time of need.
When I bothered to check today what had happened to the deep wound at the right side of my skull, I was pleased to feel that new skin had completely regrown to cover it. I could even feel that my hair had grown back, at least in part. I don't consider myself to be vain, but this fact pleased me, I am unashamed to admit. Beneath the skin, I could feel soft tissues that I assumed would soon develop into hard bone. And beneath that, perhaps even the damage that I assume was inflicted upon my grey matter was healing as well.
There is still pain, of course; perhaps the pain will even last longer than the actual wound. It does appear to be so for the wounds I had received on my shoulder nights before. Perhaps that is part of the legacy of our kind, a way to encourage us to avoid such damage, despite our bodies capacity to withstand it. Though if this is true, then it would mean that we eventually develop an aversion to pain. That doesn't seem to be the case, at least not for me, at least not yet.
Just an odd side-mention: I did earlier seem to spit out what appeared to be small splinters or slivers of bone. I felt them on my tongue, and left them on my hand for a while before dropping them to the floor beside me. How they got into my mouth is a mystery that I think I am willing to leave unexplored, something I am not ready to consider at this time.
Anyway, it is truly a wonder how my body, perhaps all our vampiric bodies, are able to do this. Admittedly I had received quite a bit of help, not only from Charlotte, but also Keara, and a vampire I think was named Lorde. I must remember to thank her as well. But all in all, my body somehow remembers how it should be, how it should appear, and how it should function. And apparently has the capability to restore itself.
Little wonder, I guess. I was raised from death, after all. I guess we all were. And I remember the words I had recorded here before: I am more than just my body.
I know that I must look like a decrepit, disheveled mess; until I wakened tonight, I felt fear and despair, and I think I must have sat her in a fugue, my mind hiding from the world. But I do feel renewed, I do feel reawakened. I still feel weak, but I feel stronger in more ways than just in body.
If my heart still beat, I would actually say that it was good to be alive! Heh.
I experienced again the sensation of the turning, the act of becoming a vampire, something I had once forgotten. The first drop of Charlotte's blood, catching me at the point of death, halting my spiral into the deep darkness. The empowering force restoring my body, repairing and replacing that which it didn't need, amplifying that which it so desired, bestowing that which was now mine to possess.
I felt the new strength come to me again, the memory of the blood completing my transformation. And when I woke, I felt better, and I was no longer afraid.
I felt more whole, more myself, though I still felt a distance, a separation, from my previous life, I could now recall it, or at least enough pieces of it. As strange as this distance seems, from a psychological perspective, I think that is how it should be. I am no longer that young man, much as an adult is no longer the baby they were when they were born. And yet I recognize that I was, indeed, he.
I knew as well that I was recovering physically, and at a rate that was quite rapid. I am sure that it is in no small part due to the assistance of my sire, Charlotte, and her sire Keara, and the seeming legion of vampires offering assistance, or just a sign of support or recognition, that passed me by as I recovered, adamantly staying where I had fallen in the corner of the family haven. I understand now, that this place is one such place, and that the artifact that Keara had left for me had taken me here in my time of need.
When I bothered to check today what had happened to the deep wound at the right side of my skull, I was pleased to feel that new skin had completely regrown to cover it. I could even feel that my hair had grown back, at least in part. I don't consider myself to be vain, but this fact pleased me, I am unashamed to admit. Beneath the skin, I could feel soft tissues that I assumed would soon develop into hard bone. And beneath that, perhaps even the damage that I assume was inflicted upon my grey matter was healing as well.
There is still pain, of course; perhaps the pain will even last longer than the actual wound. It does appear to be so for the wounds I had received on my shoulder nights before. Perhaps that is part of the legacy of our kind, a way to encourage us to avoid such damage, despite our bodies capacity to withstand it. Though if this is true, then it would mean that we eventually develop an aversion to pain. That doesn't seem to be the case, at least not for me, at least not yet.
Just an odd side-mention: I did earlier seem to spit out what appeared to be small splinters or slivers of bone. I felt them on my tongue, and left them on my hand for a while before dropping them to the floor beside me. How they got into my mouth is a mystery that I think I am willing to leave unexplored, something I am not ready to consider at this time.
Anyway, it is truly a wonder how my body, perhaps all our vampiric bodies, are able to do this. Admittedly I had received quite a bit of help, not only from Charlotte, but also Keara, and a vampire I think was named Lorde. I must remember to thank her as well. But all in all, my body somehow remembers how it should be, how it should appear, and how it should function. And apparently has the capability to restore itself.
Little wonder, I guess. I was raised from death, after all. I guess we all were. And I remember the words I had recorded here before: I am more than just my body.
I know that I must look like a decrepit, disheveled mess; until I wakened tonight, I felt fear and despair, and I think I must have sat her in a fugue, my mind hiding from the world. But I do feel renewed, I do feel reawakened. I still feel weak, but I feel stronger in more ways than just in body.
If my heart still beat, I would actually say that it was good to be alive! Heh.
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Xian
- Registered User
- Posts: 337
- Joined: 29 Nov 2014, 17:42
Re: Xian's Journal
THEY SAY THAT POWER CORRUPTS, and that absolute power corrupts absolutely. If this is true, does it follow then that all of us vampires, who eventually develop powers far beyond what normal humans are capable of, will eventually become corrupted? Does it follow that, if we aren't already evil, that we will become evil? That the ultimate destiny of all vampires is to become monsters?
There is a lot of basis for this in human history. Noble rebels who become despots when they replace the people in power. Young politicians, righteous in youth, then corrupt in their old age. Decent employees who were trusted by the company, only to become a tyrant in management, or even steal from the company they were once loyal to. Many other examples that seem to prove that, given enough power and authority, any human can and will eventually become corrupt. Evil.
A monster.
And what more supernatural power? The ability to control minds and affect people's hearts. The ability to heal greivous wounds, and destroy minds and bodies. The ability to change shape, affect electronic media, create visions, and many others that we vampires may possess. I've witnessed a few, can imagine some others, have some of my own, and likely have not seen what many others can do. Would these supernatural abilities not eventually corrupt even the most innocent among us? Will these abilities that already make us different, perhaps even greater than the humanity we left behind, change us into creatures corrupted by the power we bear?
If it is true that power always corrupts, then it seems that is our eventual fate. Though I have seen evidence that this need not be so.
I cannot imagine my sire ever becoming a monster. For all her failings, for all her imperfections, I don't see it. And for all the power that I can feel, for all the fear I have for her strength, I can't consider my grandsire a monster either. And she, I believe, has been around for a long while.
"Sometimes the only reason that need they do, is what we are. Sad but true that is." she said to me, as we spoke about the hunters who had so recently caused me grave injury. To my knowledge, I told her, I had done nothing that would merit their attacks on me. Her suggestion drives a surge of righteous anger into me, though it is not an anger that I can act out on.
If it is true that these vampire hunters only hunt us because of what we are, and not because of what we do, then they are monsters as well. Perhaps corrupted by their own power, or even their own self-righteousness. Their belief that their faith and reason is the only truth, the only right way, the only thing that matters.
But I can't claim to know them, of course. I really don't want to make the same mistake that I believe they are making. But I do remember sensing their anger, and their desire to kill me. And I still bear the scars of the wounds they have inflicted, for no more reason than from what I am.
I've written before that people have a tendency to vilify those that they consider their enemies. They will accuse them of acts they have not done, will twist the truth to reflect their bias, will turn them into monsters. Monsters that could not possibly have any sense of good, could not possibly be righteous in their cause, could not possibly have the right to exist. People can tell outright lies to others and themselves to create monsters of their enemies.
With this in mind, I believe that people make monsters of others, so that they do not see the monsters within themselves.
There is another thought that says the only way to fight monsters, is with monsters. Monsters are able to do anything and everything, and the only way to defeat an enemy that is like that is to be willing to fight in the same way. Alternately, it is with greater understanding of the monstrous, that will allow one to fight the monsters. So, in order to fight a monster, one must be a monster.
Putting the two together, people make monsters of themselves in order to fight the monsters they have made of their enemies, so that they do not see the monsters that they have made of themselves.
What does that make me, reborn into this life of a vampire? Perceived as a creature of darkness and death, one that must take blood to survive. One that preys on the humanity that once I was part of? I did not actively choose this existence, though I am not going to give it up without a fight. I live in the darkness because I will die in the daylight. I take only as much blood as I need to survive. I prey with care, I avoid the kill. Though admittedly not entirely out of any overwhelming sense of empathy.
Can I see the monster within myself, the monster I can become? I think so. I do have the capability to overwhelm almost any human and take their blood and their life. I am a creature that can kill. But then, I can say that of almost any normal human anyway. Humans are creatures that can kill. They can choose to do it.
So I guess the question is: can we vampires really choose not to kill, or will we reach a point that we will be forced to kill by our natures? I will admit that I do not feel the impulse to kill, aside from the disgust I feel for these so-called vampire hunters. But I cannot say with certainty that this will always be so.
But does that potential in the future condemn me? There is that science fiction conundrum: would you kill or incarcerate someone for something that they may do, or will do, in the future? Even before they have any inkling that they will even do it? Who would be willing to kill even the most despicable tyrants as children? As infants?
What kind of monster would you be to destroy an innocent, to prevent that innocent from being corrupted? From committing a crime? Even if it were to save so many other innocents in the future? Or should there be found another way, a better way? There are many stories of this in science fiction; the question remains a theoretical one, a matter of intellectual exercise.
But I am no intellectual exercise. I exist, and I have done nothing to deserve destruction except to become what I am. I may do great injustice in the future. I may kill, steal, destroy. But I have not yet done so, and I do not plan to do so. (Well, except maybe the steal part - I may as well be honest with myself here) Do I deserve to die?
By what right do these vampire hunters claim this to be true? By what rationalization, divine instruction, or crazed religious fervor, do they justify their monstrous actions? Do they even see the monsters they have become, in order to fight the monsters that they claim to see? Are they willing, conscious sacrifices to the altar of monstrosity in order to do what they believe to be right? Or are some of them monsters that simply enjoy destroying monsters, that would create new monsters to fight if there were none.
Would they destroy themselves, if they realized what monsters they have become? Or do they destroy us, so that they do not look within, and find the monsters they have themselves been hiding?
What lies these humans tell themselves!
There is a lot of basis for this in human history. Noble rebels who become despots when they replace the people in power. Young politicians, righteous in youth, then corrupt in their old age. Decent employees who were trusted by the company, only to become a tyrant in management, or even steal from the company they were once loyal to. Many other examples that seem to prove that, given enough power and authority, any human can and will eventually become corrupt. Evil.
A monster.
And what more supernatural power? The ability to control minds and affect people's hearts. The ability to heal greivous wounds, and destroy minds and bodies. The ability to change shape, affect electronic media, create visions, and many others that we vampires may possess. I've witnessed a few, can imagine some others, have some of my own, and likely have not seen what many others can do. Would these supernatural abilities not eventually corrupt even the most innocent among us? Will these abilities that already make us different, perhaps even greater than the humanity we left behind, change us into creatures corrupted by the power we bear?
If it is true that power always corrupts, then it seems that is our eventual fate. Though I have seen evidence that this need not be so.
I cannot imagine my sire ever becoming a monster. For all her failings, for all her imperfections, I don't see it. And for all the power that I can feel, for all the fear I have for her strength, I can't consider my grandsire a monster either. And she, I believe, has been around for a long while.
"Sometimes the only reason that need they do, is what we are. Sad but true that is." she said to me, as we spoke about the hunters who had so recently caused me grave injury. To my knowledge, I told her, I had done nothing that would merit their attacks on me. Her suggestion drives a surge of righteous anger into me, though it is not an anger that I can act out on.
If it is true that these vampire hunters only hunt us because of what we are, and not because of what we do, then they are monsters as well. Perhaps corrupted by their own power, or even their own self-righteousness. Their belief that their faith and reason is the only truth, the only right way, the only thing that matters.
But I can't claim to know them, of course. I really don't want to make the same mistake that I believe they are making. But I do remember sensing their anger, and their desire to kill me. And I still bear the scars of the wounds they have inflicted, for no more reason than from what I am.
I've written before that people have a tendency to vilify those that they consider their enemies. They will accuse them of acts they have not done, will twist the truth to reflect their bias, will turn them into monsters. Monsters that could not possibly have any sense of good, could not possibly be righteous in their cause, could not possibly have the right to exist. People can tell outright lies to others and themselves to create monsters of their enemies.
With this in mind, I believe that people make monsters of others, so that they do not see the monsters within themselves.
There is another thought that says the only way to fight monsters, is with monsters. Monsters are able to do anything and everything, and the only way to defeat an enemy that is like that is to be willing to fight in the same way. Alternately, it is with greater understanding of the monstrous, that will allow one to fight the monsters. So, in order to fight a monster, one must be a monster.
Putting the two together, people make monsters of themselves in order to fight the monsters they have made of their enemies, so that they do not see the monsters that they have made of themselves.
What does that make me, reborn into this life of a vampire? Perceived as a creature of darkness and death, one that must take blood to survive. One that preys on the humanity that once I was part of? I did not actively choose this existence, though I am not going to give it up without a fight. I live in the darkness because I will die in the daylight. I take only as much blood as I need to survive. I prey with care, I avoid the kill. Though admittedly not entirely out of any overwhelming sense of empathy.
Can I see the monster within myself, the monster I can become? I think so. I do have the capability to overwhelm almost any human and take their blood and their life. I am a creature that can kill. But then, I can say that of almost any normal human anyway. Humans are creatures that can kill. They can choose to do it.
So I guess the question is: can we vampires really choose not to kill, or will we reach a point that we will be forced to kill by our natures? I will admit that I do not feel the impulse to kill, aside from the disgust I feel for these so-called vampire hunters. But I cannot say with certainty that this will always be so.
But does that potential in the future condemn me? There is that science fiction conundrum: would you kill or incarcerate someone for something that they may do, or will do, in the future? Even before they have any inkling that they will even do it? Who would be willing to kill even the most despicable tyrants as children? As infants?
What kind of monster would you be to destroy an innocent, to prevent that innocent from being corrupted? From committing a crime? Even if it were to save so many other innocents in the future? Or should there be found another way, a better way? There are many stories of this in science fiction; the question remains a theoretical one, a matter of intellectual exercise.
But I am no intellectual exercise. I exist, and I have done nothing to deserve destruction except to become what I am. I may do great injustice in the future. I may kill, steal, destroy. But I have not yet done so, and I do not plan to do so. (Well, except maybe the steal part - I may as well be honest with myself here) Do I deserve to die?
By what right do these vampire hunters claim this to be true? By what rationalization, divine instruction, or crazed religious fervor, do they justify their monstrous actions? Do they even see the monsters they have become, in order to fight the monsters that they claim to see? Are they willing, conscious sacrifices to the altar of monstrosity in order to do what they believe to be right? Or are some of them monsters that simply enjoy destroying monsters, that would create new monsters to fight if there were none.
Would they destroy themselves, if they realized what monsters they have become? Or do they destroy us, so that they do not look within, and find the monsters they have themselves been hiding?
What lies these humans tell themselves!
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Xian
- Registered User
- Posts: 337
- Joined: 29 Nov 2014, 17:42
Re: Xian's Journal
WHILE THE ISSUE of hunters is still a sore spot for me, I find that their behavior, while admittedly an expression of one of the things it means to be human, has not soured me from the rest of humanity. I do understand that humans, as we vampires are, encompass a range of personalities, beliefs, psychoses and contradictions. There are generalities among both races, but unlike other species in the world, there is a great amount of variation.
So, even after everything, I still find myself curious about humanity. Even after I have regained a portion of my memories, I do think I would still enjoy watching them as I did before, imagining their lives and secrets. Living vicariously, sharing the joys and pains of their lives while hidden in secret, issues of race and species left behind.
And while I do make use of the words "race" and "species" I am also unsure if these terms really apply. Actually, I'm almost convinced that they technically don't, though I don't understand all the science involved in defining a race and a species. But I guess these words will have to do, being the closest words to the concept of our vampiric existence. And if I use the word "evolution" to also describe how we are made different, I do so knowing that it isn't just some natural process that has made us what we are.
We are a whole different species, forcibly evolved from humanity through a mechanism or power that is as of yet unknown and incomprehensible. Ha! Eat that science!
Of course, I also concede that it is simply very possible that our understanding of things, having come from the human way of logic and reason, has just not yet been moved to the point where we can define what we do by the science of this time. Another writer has said, and I am paraphrasing, that what we don't yet understand we call magic. And maybe that's all it is - our existence is considered mystical only because our understanding has not reached the point that we can define how we do what we do.
Or even define how we are alive without being alive for that matter. Again, the word "alive" is an approximation of the concept. By virtue of our mobility and sentience we are alive. We do procreate, after a fashion, though by a different means than most other living things. Our existence is also contingent on feeding, much like any other living creature on this planet.
But, I think, as far as human science is concerned, we are dead bodies that are animated by some unknown force. Even thinking about it this way sends chills through my spine still. Not that I don't accept it: yes, I am quite dead, having no need to breathe, eat, sleep, and many other things that typically describe the living of the human species. From a viewpoint of humanity, I am a dead human.
But from the viewpoint of vampires, I and my kind are very much "alive."
I will admit though that it is possible that we are, in a way, simulacra. Copies of our original forms, our original minds, that have managed to, and here I use the word again, evolve into something else. In theory, though not a scientific one of course - I won't claim any scientific expertise - its possible that when we died, the thing that used to be us moved on, went away, and left behind only a reflection or copy of ourselves. A copy so good that it believed that it was the original, and continued to live, so to speak, as if it were.
But if a copy is perfect, if it is exactly as the original, then who can say what is the copy and what is the original?
Reminds me of something mind-blowing that I read some time ago. I won't claim to understand any of the science behind this either: when you take a hologram and divide it into two, you don't end up with two half-holograms. You end up with two copies of the original hologram. I don't mean the kind of holograms that are projected by light to simulate a 3D model of something, at least I don't think so. I refer to a principle of physics that is related to string theory, that also has some relationship to black holes and how the energy of the universe around us behaves...
I was bored that day, and I thought I could handle the science.
Anyway, I think its simpler to return to my original question without diving into things the likes of Stephen Hawking would only understand. Makes me wonder though, how someone like him would handle the transformation into a vampire. What the world could gain with a mind like that able to live forever to ponder the secrets of the universe!
Hrm. I think I've gone far enough away from my original thought that I can't quite trace where I'm going with any of this. But then again, that's not really surprising; I wasn't sure when I began what I was going to say or prove.
That sounds like the story of life.
So, even after everything, I still find myself curious about humanity. Even after I have regained a portion of my memories, I do think I would still enjoy watching them as I did before, imagining their lives and secrets. Living vicariously, sharing the joys and pains of their lives while hidden in secret, issues of race and species left behind.
And while I do make use of the words "race" and "species" I am also unsure if these terms really apply. Actually, I'm almost convinced that they technically don't, though I don't understand all the science involved in defining a race and a species. But I guess these words will have to do, being the closest words to the concept of our vampiric existence. And if I use the word "evolution" to also describe how we are made different, I do so knowing that it isn't just some natural process that has made us what we are.
We are a whole different species, forcibly evolved from humanity through a mechanism or power that is as of yet unknown and incomprehensible. Ha! Eat that science!
Of course, I also concede that it is simply very possible that our understanding of things, having come from the human way of logic and reason, has just not yet been moved to the point where we can define what we do by the science of this time. Another writer has said, and I am paraphrasing, that what we don't yet understand we call magic. And maybe that's all it is - our existence is considered mystical only because our understanding has not reached the point that we can define how we do what we do.
Or even define how we are alive without being alive for that matter. Again, the word "alive" is an approximation of the concept. By virtue of our mobility and sentience we are alive. We do procreate, after a fashion, though by a different means than most other living things. Our existence is also contingent on feeding, much like any other living creature on this planet.
But, I think, as far as human science is concerned, we are dead bodies that are animated by some unknown force. Even thinking about it this way sends chills through my spine still. Not that I don't accept it: yes, I am quite dead, having no need to breathe, eat, sleep, and many other things that typically describe the living of the human species. From a viewpoint of humanity, I am a dead human.
But from the viewpoint of vampires, I and my kind are very much "alive."
I will admit though that it is possible that we are, in a way, simulacra. Copies of our original forms, our original minds, that have managed to, and here I use the word again, evolve into something else. In theory, though not a scientific one of course - I won't claim any scientific expertise - its possible that when we died, the thing that used to be us moved on, went away, and left behind only a reflection or copy of ourselves. A copy so good that it believed that it was the original, and continued to live, so to speak, as if it were.
But if a copy is perfect, if it is exactly as the original, then who can say what is the copy and what is the original?
Reminds me of something mind-blowing that I read some time ago. I won't claim to understand any of the science behind this either: when you take a hologram and divide it into two, you don't end up with two half-holograms. You end up with two copies of the original hologram. I don't mean the kind of holograms that are projected by light to simulate a 3D model of something, at least I don't think so. I refer to a principle of physics that is related to string theory, that also has some relationship to black holes and how the energy of the universe around us behaves...
I was bored that day, and I thought I could handle the science.
Anyway, I think its simpler to return to my original question without diving into things the likes of Stephen Hawking would only understand. Makes me wonder though, how someone like him would handle the transformation into a vampire. What the world could gain with a mind like that able to live forever to ponder the secrets of the universe!
Hrm. I think I've gone far enough away from my original thought that I can't quite trace where I'm going with any of this. But then again, that's not really surprising; I wasn't sure when I began what I was going to say or prove.
That sounds like the story of life.
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Xian
- Registered User
- Posts: 337
- Joined: 29 Nov 2014, 17:42
Re: Xian's Journal
"DO YOU UNDERSTAND NOW?" She asked me, the woman in blue. We were standing on what seemed to be the top floor of a tower in the middle of a vast city. Was this Harper Rock? I couldn't say with any conviction, which I found odd but not completely so, as this was, again, another dream. But I don't remember a tower like this in the middle of Harper Rock, and I didn't think Harper Rock was ever so large.
Strangely, I think this may have been the first time that I recognized that I was dreaming while I was within the dream; in previous dreams that featured the woman in blue, I only realized the fact upon waking. Perhaps there was a certain new awareness now that I possessed; or perhaps my fears have been realized and my memories of things are changing without my noticing them. A combination of the return of some of my memories, the changing of some others, and the head wound I had recently suffered perhaps.
Or maybe it was just this one dream, just this one time.
There were stars in the night sky, just as there were electric lights beneath us, though the skies were far more silent than the city. The city itself seemed to stretch to the horizon in all directions, moving lights revealing streets, pathways, moving, breathing humanity.
She was facing away from me, with both of us close enough to the edge to hold the railings which were all that kept one from leaping down into the busy streets below. She was leaning on the rail lightly, palms down and arms relaxed. She watched the city below with lazy eyes, and before I realized it I had been staring at her for a long time, without having answered her question.
"I'm not sure I know what you mean," I finally said; I decided the truth would be preferable. An oddity, not because I chose the truth, but because, in other dreams, I understood things. Things that I would not always remember when I woke, but were clear and rational in the dream. We'd talked about a great many things in dreams, and I'd always felt like I was granted clarity by the conversations I couldn't even remember. But now I felt ignorant, but at least not ashamedly so.
She shook her head, but there was a slight smile on her face. "Understanding will come," she said. "Eventually." I noticed then that her smile was a slight deception in that her eyes were uncommonly sorrowful.
I wasn't quite satisfied by this, but I knew there would be little else she would say on the matter. For some reason, this aspect of our dream relationship I seemed to understand. For now, though, I contented myself that I was with her, and that she believed I would understand. So I believed as well.
I still do not know who this woman is, or even what she really is. In my dreams she is a vampire, but what if that's just how my consciousness perceives her as during the dream? Once I had even suspected that she was my sire's sire, Keara Aithne. But I have since met my grandsire, and I feel certain that this is not she. Aside from their outward appearances, Keara speaks in a way that is quite unique, even when we converse mind-to-mind.
Maybe I should ask Keara about her? If only I had a way to show my visions of her to others. Hmm.
I believe also that she is not just someone from my past. The fragments of memories that I now have, as incomplete as they may be, has revealed to me several faces of people important to me in the past. She is not Kaycee, or any of the women in my gang family. Or in my real family for that matter. Neither is she an approximation, or gestalt of them.
She also doesn't seem to be some artist or model I have adopted in my mind to make a construct of. Or at least that I am aware of; while I have started to trust my memories more these nights, I remain conscious that memories are malleable. But in either case, she appears only in my memories of my dreams with her.
I nodded to accept her words, and I almost ask her name. But I hesitated when she turned and faced me. With her head tilted, she seemed to be considering something, so I waited. She turned away and looked to the far horizon.
"Soon enough," she said, in her bare whisper of a voice. I wondered if this was an answer to my unvoiced question, or a continuation of her previous statement. It may have even been both.
"Look," she said, and raised one arm to point towards the horizon. I turned to look towards where she was facing, and I found that I could see a distinct light. It seemed brighter and more alive than the other lights around us, and it seemed to beat with a rhythm that was beyond hearing. Slowly it seemed to grow, taking in more and more of the horizon as I looked on. It seemed to stretch and reach out towards us; I felt a tiny sliver of fear.
"It's coming," she whispered, her voice close to my ear.
The light brightened, and my eyes opened; the day was over, night had come again.
Strangely, I think this may have been the first time that I recognized that I was dreaming while I was within the dream; in previous dreams that featured the woman in blue, I only realized the fact upon waking. Perhaps there was a certain new awareness now that I possessed; or perhaps my fears have been realized and my memories of things are changing without my noticing them. A combination of the return of some of my memories, the changing of some others, and the head wound I had recently suffered perhaps.
Or maybe it was just this one dream, just this one time.
There were stars in the night sky, just as there were electric lights beneath us, though the skies were far more silent than the city. The city itself seemed to stretch to the horizon in all directions, moving lights revealing streets, pathways, moving, breathing humanity.
She was facing away from me, with both of us close enough to the edge to hold the railings which were all that kept one from leaping down into the busy streets below. She was leaning on the rail lightly, palms down and arms relaxed. She watched the city below with lazy eyes, and before I realized it I had been staring at her for a long time, without having answered her question.
"I'm not sure I know what you mean," I finally said; I decided the truth would be preferable. An oddity, not because I chose the truth, but because, in other dreams, I understood things. Things that I would not always remember when I woke, but were clear and rational in the dream. We'd talked about a great many things in dreams, and I'd always felt like I was granted clarity by the conversations I couldn't even remember. But now I felt ignorant, but at least not ashamedly so.
She shook her head, but there was a slight smile on her face. "Understanding will come," she said. "Eventually." I noticed then that her smile was a slight deception in that her eyes were uncommonly sorrowful.
I wasn't quite satisfied by this, but I knew there would be little else she would say on the matter. For some reason, this aspect of our dream relationship I seemed to understand. For now, though, I contented myself that I was with her, and that she believed I would understand. So I believed as well.
I still do not know who this woman is, or even what she really is. In my dreams she is a vampire, but what if that's just how my consciousness perceives her as during the dream? Once I had even suspected that she was my sire's sire, Keara Aithne. But I have since met my grandsire, and I feel certain that this is not she. Aside from their outward appearances, Keara speaks in a way that is quite unique, even when we converse mind-to-mind.
Maybe I should ask Keara about her? If only I had a way to show my visions of her to others. Hmm.
I believe also that she is not just someone from my past. The fragments of memories that I now have, as incomplete as they may be, has revealed to me several faces of people important to me in the past. She is not Kaycee, or any of the women in my gang family. Or in my real family for that matter. Neither is she an approximation, or gestalt of them.
She also doesn't seem to be some artist or model I have adopted in my mind to make a construct of. Or at least that I am aware of; while I have started to trust my memories more these nights, I remain conscious that memories are malleable. But in either case, she appears only in my memories of my dreams with her.
I nodded to accept her words, and I almost ask her name. But I hesitated when she turned and faced me. With her head tilted, she seemed to be considering something, so I waited. She turned away and looked to the far horizon.
"Soon enough," she said, in her bare whisper of a voice. I wondered if this was an answer to my unvoiced question, or a continuation of her previous statement. It may have even been both.
"Look," she said, and raised one arm to point towards the horizon. I turned to look towards where she was facing, and I found that I could see a distinct light. It seemed brighter and more alive than the other lights around us, and it seemed to beat with a rhythm that was beyond hearing. Slowly it seemed to grow, taking in more and more of the horizon as I looked on. It seemed to stretch and reach out towards us; I felt a tiny sliver of fear.
"It's coming," she whispered, her voice close to my ear.
The light brightened, and my eyes opened; the day was over, night had come again.