For Clover

[Clover]

lov·er

/ləvər/

a person involved in a sexual and/or romantic relationship with someone else; a mistress; a significant other

“i’m a lover to you and of you”

---

The word of the day seems confusing compared to what I have in mind for this entry. I sent an email to Niklaus but I haven’t heard back from him. I asked Vic, thinking that maybe one of his friends would have connections, but he said he wasn’t connected with someone older and more experienced. I could ask Habren or Mircea, but I only spoke to them the one time. There’s no guarantee that they would have any knowledge on the subject. I think if I want to speak to them, I might have to reach out via Kenlie or send them an email. This whole thing is troublesome.

I found out that Jesse sired someone else. He says it occurred before Marian and I actually believe him. Call me crazy. This one is called Odette. I haven’t seen her around. I was half-tempted to say that I had no interest in getting to know her because I wanted to slash her to pieces; I settled on welcoming her to the family. I chose to be nice. I’m not so sure it’ll happen again.

The family seems to be coming around, if the net is any indication. We’re playful. I’m not sure why they’re in such good spirits, but I’m in good spirits because all of our problems may soon be coming to an end. No more forgotten introductions and surprise family members. What’s mine will be mine again. I won’t have to share. I hate sharing.

I shouldn’t say “what’s mine will be mine again” when I never really owned it to start with. It’s my family, but it doesn’t belong to me. He’s my sire, but he doesn’t belong to me. I hold no more sway than anyone else or anything else. And yet I still consider it mine, don’t I? Kaelyn is mine. Pera is mine. Victor is mine. Kenlie is mine. Renee is mine. Axel is mine. Ishaq is mine. Jesse is mine. They are mine. The house is mine. I’ve never felt more possessive than I have now, but I’ve felt the hunger for quite some time. I can’t stand it anymore and I finally have to do something about it. I have to defend what we are right now, what I have right now.

When something or someone is “mine,” I have to possess them. I need as much of it or them as possible. If I don’t get enough, I get angry. I get unhappy. I get murderous. I don’t want more in this family, not right now. I have to fix this problem. If I can’t fix this problem, if I can’t find some sort of “cure” for Jesse, then I have to look at alternatives. I can express my unhappiness again. I can see how far I can get by expressing myself. If he does restrain himself and starts down the path of depression, then I’m sure I could collect people to watch him in shifts and beat the **** out of him.

I’ve considered tying him down. It’s not such a bad life. He’d be fed. He’d be cared for. He’d have as many amenities as possible. He’d never be able to sire again. We’d never have to welcome another stranger into our home. No wonder this option seemed so appealing the other night. On the other hand, babysitting him and coddling him aren’t realistic options. I can’t make everyone happy, can I? He can’t make everyone happy.

Rhett. That’s the one Kaelyn mentioned tonight. She wanted to meet him. She wanted to invite him to the sleepover. He’s one of the new ones Jesse dragged through the doorway. I showed enthusiasm for Kae’s sake, but I’m uncomfortable with the idea of meeting anyone else. I feel like a cornered animal. If he does show up for this sleepover, then I’ll play nice. I’ll make an effort. It’s always easier to be bitchy when someone else is also being bitchy. Maybe that’s why I appreciate Ishaq. Maybe that’s why I appreciate the ones I do.

I have a better chance getting to know the men rather than the women. I could name plenty of reasons why that is, but it doesn’t change the fact that it’s true. I tend to think the worst of other women. I tend to think the worst of almost everyone. I’ll pretend that it’s because I love fiercely rather than the fact that I’m extremely possessive and insanely jealous.

I guess one part of the word-of-the-day works. Love. I love fiercely. I’m slowly coming to terms with myself. It’s not much longer until the pieces come together.

[Clover]

fore·see

/fôrˈsē/

to be aware of beforehand; to forecast; to predict

“i have foreseen this and everything leading up to this”

---

I woke up to a text message from Jesse. He told me that he spoke to Doc and that I should be prepared for “this,” whatever “this” is. There are thousands of scenarios running through my mind and none of them end well for either of us. I’m afraid he’s going to tell me that there’s no solution to his problem. Now he’s texting me. What do I say? Why am I asking a piece of paper to give me answers when I’m the one that’s using the piece of paper to write out my thoughts and plot out my actions? I don’t know, so you don’t know. I just wish someone would tell me what to say.

He didn’t tell me what I thought he would, but it’s just as bad. I suppose I foresaw this. He has to quit “cold turkey,” like he’s quitting something as mundane as cigarettes or as complicated as heroin. He’s not alone though. I told him that he’s not alone. I’ve never tried helping someone through this sort of thing. I have no urge to sire. The one I did sire was an absolute mistake. I can’t imagine what it’s like to have that constant drive.

What if I can’t follow through? He’s scared. I’m scared. I feel like I’m standing outside of the Necropolis all over again, clutching a sword and crying my eyes out. If he can’t make it through the withdrawal, then we’re right back at the beginning and the cycle isn’t broken. If he succeeds, he might have to repeat this process if he ever wants to sire again. What if this is going to be his life? It’s not enough to suffer with thirst alone, is it? ****.

This whole mess is because I don’t want to welcome anyone else into my family. How selfish of me. How awful of me. And yet here I am, still plotting away. What if he kills himself? What if he succeeds in pushing everyone away? I told him he wasn’t alone and I’ll do my best to make sure that’s true. I know he likes to think he’s sparing people by holding it all in. I know that sometimes he uses his sarcasm and wit as a mask. What if I fail though? What if I can’t pull him out and no one else is as committed? What if it’s more than a relapse? What if he kills himself?

Maybe this is why people are irritated and yet they brush it off. I refuse to ignore his actions though because they aren’t right. Isn’t it some sort of threat to the masquerade? Isn’t there some justification other than my own selfish desires? What if he dies, Clover? Is it really worth the risk? What if he dies? I already know the answer to that question. I would end up feeling guilty. I would tell the others that it’s all my fault. I would find some bandaid in the form of killing. And then I would probably kill myself. It’s like tit for tat.

I’ve already thought of the worst scenarios, but I’ve thought of the best. He’ll be fine. He might struggle whenever he does sire again, but he’ll be fine. No more influxes of childer. No more “mistakes.” I’m not really an optimist though. It’s hard to imagine a simple solution and a long-term fix. If I really spend some time on it, I can imagine a larger family with all sorts of new faces, one I’m proud to know and to call my own.

If I admit it to you and to myself, I don’t think I’ll ever have control over my emotions. I’ll never master my rage and my jealousy, the possessiveness that slowly captured me. It’s enough to say that I’m trying, isn’t it? It’s enough to decipher why and how. It’s behind everything I’ve done lately. If I think about it, it’s been behind most of my actions. It’s been hiding or sleeping or lurking in the background. Maybe I’m nothing more than jealousy and greed. Maybe my anger is born of the same. Every action has a reaction. Everything has a beginning.

I stand by my words when I said that I wished he left me to die in the sewers. I’m tired. Stealing and crafting. Stalking and killing. I don’t go to my home anymore because I still can’t get the images out of my head. I can’t stand to be away from the family home. Even when I thought of leaving. Every single time I thought of leaving, I had a breakdown. I can’t leave them. I just can’t let go. But you spend so much time at the bar. But you called the bar home. And yet Larch was here, waiting for me. It’s confusing, isn’t it? It doesn’t always make sense. I don’t always make sense.

I want to go and I don’t want to go. I’m terrified. (There’s that word.) All of these racing thoughts and conflicting emotions are ruining me. I’m separating at the seams. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. It helps to focus on other things and other people. Like Kae’s sleepover. Like Jesse. Like the fact that I think I’m talking in circles when I already know exactly what I want to say. I foresaw this too.

[Clover]

mis·take

/məˈstāk/

an action that’s wrong; an error; a miscalculation

“the definition of mistake should come with a picture”

---

Can something be considered a mistake if one doesn’t feel regret? Right and wrong, in this case, depends on the viewpoint. It’s subjective. It’s so much more complicated than I could have imagined. I’m not telling you what happened. I can’t. I can’t look back on this entry and feel my stomach drop all over again. I can’t look back on this and feel exactly what I felt then and what I feel now.

It’s been days, but I feel just as shitty as I did then. I’ve been waiting for Grey to show up on my doorstep. I’ve been waiting to have a conversation I really don’t want to have with anyone, not even myself. I’ve made plenty of mistakes and none of them have ever been this bad, or this good. But this entry wasn’t meant to be about what happened or didn’t happen. It was impulsive and I’m still in denial. I want to let myself relax in the dark corner known as denial, far away from optimists and realists.

This entry is about something I do regret. I regret it so much that it hurts. I had to kill that man. I had no choice. He’d seen more than he should have and I had to protect the masquerade. I chose that moment to support the masquerade. If I had another chance, I would have turned him. I would have brought him into this family. He would have had a failure as a sire, but he would have been alive. He would have had a chance at survival. I wanted to make sure he didn’t tell anyone about what he’d seen; I acted hastily. I should have kidnapped him and bought more time.

It seems wrong that he’s rotting away in that junkyard. I don’t remember much about how I felt then. I remember showing up at Larch. I remember talking to Axel. I remember Jesse texting me. What I do remember about my time in the junkyard is the stench of garbage and the appeal of blood. I may have defiled his body, but I had enough attachment to stay with him as long as possible. I had enough consideration to roll him off to the side where someone wouldn’t stumble across him and vomit all over the remnants of his corpse.

The point is that I should have turned the man. I shouldn’t have been such a damn coward. I shouldn’t have based my abilities as a sire on the failure of a childe I have now. Then again, I’ve only seen Crimson a number of times and we’ve never had a decent conversation. He won’t let me help him. He won’t stay still long enough for me to find him. And when we do stumble across one another, we’re never productive. The man in the junkyard might have turned out the same way, but he could have turned out like me. I don’t always go to my sire for help, but I go to someone for help.

I made a mistake. My mistake cost a man his life. How is it any different from the other people I’ve killed? I had a choice; I gave myself a choice. I chose whether or not to sire him based off my insecurities and my fears. Up until then, I’d never had the such a golden opportunity. I’d never had such a scenario with Crimson.

Maybe Jesse’s curse is actually a gift. Maybe I should let him continue to sire as he pleases. He can sire for all the times that I can’t and won’t. He can sire someone as caring as the man that had tried helping me. It’s hard to believe that such a meaningless death could hold so much meaning.

I’d like to be done making mistakes now.

[Clover]

hun·ger

/həNGɡər/

having an overwhelming desire or craving for something; emptiness; to covet; to yearn for; starvation; malnutrition


“i hunger for things i’ve sworn to ignore”

---

It’s been days since I last went hunting. I haven’t killed anyone since I lost control and ran back into the arms of the family home. Horus stopped following me around; I told him my wraith there was no need to shadow me. I told myself I never wanted to be in that position again. I never wanted to let one action set off a chain of events that led me to another explosion. And then Jesse paid me a visit.

I’d decided to let him see one of the worst things about myself. I invited him into my home and let him see the destruction brought on by my own emotional storm. I thought it might scare him away. I expected him to admit that I had issues; I expected him to leave me alone. He actually stayed, and I still don’t understand why. Even I wanted to walk away. I wanted to cut my losses, board up the doors and windows, and never look back. I wanted to ignore everything I’d done wrong.

He was supposed to see the house, but not me. He wasn’t supposed to witness me losing my temper. I could lie and say I don’t remember what he’d said to bring out my anger, but lying to myself about it seems counterproductive. It’s a waste of time. What he said had me wanting to shoot him. I really wanted to hurt him. I settled for slapping him. I did what I thought would express myself without getting myself into more trouble. Maybe I’ll shoot him another time.

He told me a lot about himself, whether he meant to or not. It had taken a while for me to peel away one layer of his personality, and I’d only gotten brief glimpses of that part of him. What he shared with me confirmed most of what I had in mind. He’d affirmed my assumptions were more than simple guesswork. Somehow, I understood him.

After I’d regained control of myself, after we’d moved past the point where he wanted to burn my house down (and I was quite the enabler), I gave up. I gave up trying to clean the mess I’d made of my house. I sunk down onto my sofa and I lost myself in thought. I hated myself for not being stronger. I hated myself for not being emotionless. I hated myself for having shared such an intimate part of myself with someone who had no intention of doing the same.

When he left, I let my hunger go along with him, or so I’d thought. I gave up hunting because I felt empty inside. I’d let the cup spill over and all its contents flowed down the drain. Isn’t that ******* poetic? That’s me. I’m empty. Everything I am went down the drain. My anger always leaves me feeling that way. So when I gave up hunting, I gave up killing as well. I gave up two things that gave me some sort of balance.

I never thought I would feel the thirst again, the burning desire to just grab someone, anyone, and rip open his or her throat. I wanted to place my lips to the gushing blood and feel it spill over my skin and along my tongue. I wanted to feel the heat as it flowed down the back of my throat and into my empty stomach. I wanted the blood to fill me in ways I couldn’t fill myself. How very poetic, Clover. Good job at describing the way you’re almost pulling your hair out to keep from tossing this book aside and killing as many people as your sword and your teeth allow.

I’m hungry in ways I didn’t think were possible. I can feel the thirst in my fingers and toes. It’s like a desire that creeps across my skin. I feel like I could reach out and touch someone and they would know the hunger like I know the hunger. I keep telling myself that not everyone feels the endless desire for blood. I keep telling myself that I can force the hunger into submission with blood bags. It’s not working. It’s just not working.

I can’t stop being myself. I can’t flip the switch. I’m not emotionless. Even when I was killing people, torturing people, I felt joy. I felt amusement. I felt excitement. I had emotions. I stopped because of the one I shouldn’t have killed. I stopped because I screwed up, I panicked, and I ran. I’m afraid to start again. I’m afraid to hunt again. I’m afraid that I’ll **** up and I’ll end up needing someone. I’m afraid I’ll **** up and I’ll need someone and no one will be there.

I’m hungry though. I want to taste the blood. I want to feel the blood. I want to smell the blood. I want to engulf myself in it; I want to bath in it. I want to be covered in blood from head to toe.

I can’t take it anymore.

[Clover]

re·lapse

/rəˈlaps/

a setback after a period of improvement; revert; deteriorate


“i’m trying to avoid a relapse”

---

Everything is driving me mad. That should have been the word of the day. Mad. Madness. I’m going mad. Have I used these words before? Have I made references to my own issues using the word mad and its forms? I feel like I’ve been down this road before. I feel like this is the only road I know. I’m moving in one big circle and I can’t seem to break free of the monotony. I just can’t take this anymore. I just can’t be this person anymore. The problem is I don’t know which person I am. I don’t know who I am.

Clover has different parts. Clover is funny. Clover is sarcastic. Clover wants to make people happy. Clover loves fiercely. Clover does anything and everything to keep some balance in her little world. And yet, Clover is rude. Clover takes advantage of people and situations. Clover lies. Clover kills. Clover tortures. Clover does things I can’t even describe. Clover is everything I love and hate. Clover disgusts me. Clover disappoints me. Clover makes me want to be a better person at the same time that she makes me want to be even worse.

I don’t know what I can take; I don’t know what others can take. I wrote that I gave up feeding from humans. I wrote that I gave up torturing and killing. I haven’t relapsed. I haven’t given in to temptation. I haven’t preached about the feeling of fresh blood, food straight from the tap. I’ve remained relatively quiet on the subject of feeding from blood bags. I can’t mock it anymore. I can’t mock feeding from blood bags when I’m doing the same thing. But the fact remains that the blood just isn’t the same. It doesn’t have the same consistency. It doesn’t have the same heat. It’s not what I want or what I crave.

I’ve taken to distracting myself. I’m using people. I’m using new hobbies. I’m trying everything I can to keep my mind preoccupied. I’ll keep texting people. I’ve been texting Jesse, but I need to text more. I need to text everyone I can. I need to socialize. I’m desperate.

Beyond my attempts at socializing and making friends, I’ve started taking dance classes. I’ve enrolled in three classes, but I might enroll in more: I’m taking contemporary, tap, and hip hop. Can you imagine me dancing? I chose contemporary, but don’t think that I chose the last two. I went with whatever classes met most often. I needed something requiring a lot of practice. I needed more than the yoga class I’d signed up for.

I’m not a horrible dancer. That’s why I asked Jesse and Renee to watch or to dance--it’s their choice whether they want to participate or not. While I don’t think Jesse will attend, I really think Renee will. I hope she will. I haven’t seen enough of her or heard enough from her. I need someone. I need something. I’m so desperate.

It would be easier to relapse. I wouldn’t have to spend my hours twirling. I wouldn’t listen to the grating sound of my tap shoes connecting with the wooden floors of the studio. I wouldn’t belong anywhere, but when have I ever belonged anywhere? I’m talking myself out of quitting cold turkey, aren’t I? I just have to wonder why I’m bothering. I’ll meet someone just like Declan and I’ll do the same exact thing. I’ll kill him or her. I’ll wallow in the guilt. I’ll feel like a monster. I’ll reach out for someone. It’s the circle. It’s the cycle.

Relapse. Is it possible to relapse to the person I’m trying not to be? I'm relapsing.

[Clover]

pro·voke

/prəˈvōk/

to give rise to; to incite; goad; to evoke; to elicit

“i wouldn’t say i provoked her”

---

She chose not to speak to me, and I can’t say I’m surprised. I chose not to speak to her. I can say that I never meant to provoke her, but my actions speak louder than my words. I never targeted her anymore than I targeted other family members, but Jesse thinks it’s less to do with the paintballs I shot at her and more to do with what happened at the fairgrounds. She holds a grudge. Well, I hold grudges too.

After I sliced her gut open, I cursed her. I intended on hunting her down and never letting her rest in peace, but something stopped me. I can’t say what pulled me out of that frame of mind and drew me back into reason, other than thinking about the rest of the family. They don’t need to know what happened. Dragging them into the mess would only irritate them. They aren’t interested in the drama because they aren’t a part of the drama. I did drag Jesse into this mess though. I pulled him right into the center.

I chose to reach out to him because I wanted him to know I planned on killing her. I told him if he didn’t talk to her, then I would. I had every intention of waiting there. I was ready and waiting for her to make one move. Jesse told me he’d talk to her. It’s always about her. Poor her. This is the second time she’s pissed me off and I won’t accept a third. I won’t let her walk over me just because he loves what’s between her legs.

I’m angrier now than I was when texting Jesse. I’ve had time to think about what happened. I’ve thought about continuing the game, going behind his back to hunt her. I’ve considered asking others to curse her, without giving any explanation or offering any input. I have so many options. I can use my gun or a sword next time instead of summoning shadows. I’d get joy out of carving my name into her flesh. I should do that. I can make her mine. She’ll be my ***** for a change instead of his. I’d keep her in line, at least.

She is pretty. It’d be a shame for that to go to waste. Maybe she’d appreciate a kiss before I cut off her arms and legs.

I’m not mutilating her because I said I would give Jesse a chance to talk to her. I’m not hunting her. I’m not stabbing her. I’m not shooting her. I’m not cursing her. I’ll pretend that she doesn’t exist. I can, however, watch her. I can watch her to the point that it unnerves her. I think I do want to provoke her. I know she’ll eventually give in, and it makes her look a lot worse when she takes the first shot.

Jesse’s protecting her. I realized that after we stopped texting. He went to talk to her because he’s protecting her. He didn’t give two shits about me. The realization should have bothered me, but it amused me. She’s treated like this fragile little bird when she doesn’t deserve that sort of attention. I mentioned before that I thought about the family and my thoughts pulled me back and dulled my violent response. To be honest, I thought about Jesse and how it would hurt him if she died. I went back and forth on my decision. I switched out my paintball gun for my assault rifle. I traded my knife for my sword.

I don’t think I’ll ever stop provoking her. I admit that now. She escalated the situation beyond bitterness or jealousy or pure irritation. This is my game now. I want to feel the rush again. Hurting her made me feel good. So how am I going to provoke her? How am I going to poke at all of her buttons? I’m not going to do anything at all. When I see her, I’ll sit near her. When she’s talking, I’ll respond to her. I’ll do everything in my power to appear as accommodating as possible. I think it’ll irritate her. And if not? I’ll still enjoy it.

Does this make me a bad person? I think it’s subjective. Once I’ve calmed down, I’ll likely come back to this entry and wallow in some sort of guilt or shame, but not right now. Right now, I feel justified with how I’m feeling and what I’m thinking. No one knows this but me. No one reads these words or hears my thoughts. No one knows my darkest desires or most twisted dreams. It’s okay to be a little bad. When it goes beyond that point, I think it’s even better.

[Clover]

cha·os

/kāˌäs/

a state of mass disorder or confusion; pandemonium; mayhem

“we exist in chaos”

---

For a human, death is permanent. I could split hairs and waste time discussing the possibility of heaven, hell, and reincarnation, but I won’t. For us, death is something else entirely. Death is a moment, a mark upon eternity. And then Mickey decides he wants to blur the mark into a line that stretches on forever. To be blunt, Mickey is dead. He chose a death that he can’t return from, one beyond the shadow realm. He chose a route that ripped Jesse open and tore us all apart.

I didn’t really know Mickey. We ran into one another every now and then, but we didn’t sit down and share our deepest, darkest secrets. He was another “sibling,” another name on the family tree. I shouldn’t have gone to the impromptu family meeting. If I had ignored the stupid message, I never would have seen Jesse. I never would have seen Victor. I never would have said the things I said. I never would have done the things--I never would have….

I don’t know when it stopped being about Mickey and started being about Kaelyn and Victor. I don’t know when it stopped being about them and started being about us, about me. I really fucked up. I didn’t really know Mickey, but I get how this life begins to eat at you. Everything about existing becomes absolutely exhausting. There have been so many times when I wanted to lose myself to the shadows. So when I heard about Mickey, I wasn’t sad. I couldn’t mourn. I didn’t know him, but I think he did the right thing. There’s nothing wrong with letting go.

After Kae shot Vic, we separated. I wanted to go after Jesse, but I thought he needed time alone. I thought he wanted to be alone. So when everyone left, I was still sitting there, staring at my phone. I wanted him to call me. I wanted someone to call me. I’m desperate, disgustingly so. All I want is to feel wanted. I need to feel needed. I said that I wouldn’t forgive Vic until he apologized, but I went to him first. He’s been there for me since the beginning and I hurt him, I cursed him. I thought I’d argue with him and force him into apologizing, but it wasn’t that type of conversation.

I ruin everything and everyone. Those words seem like an overstatement. I seem like I’m being dramatic. I promise that I’m being honest; I’m telling the truth. I was hungry. I was lonely. I was a lot of things.

I don’t regret. I can’t regret. But I’m not happy. I feel just as empty as before, except now my selfish desires have hurt the people close to me. I don’t understand why I can’t want something for myself. I’m trying to fill a hole that grows larger and larger every day. What am I supposed to say now? I’m sorry? I didn’t mean it? I’ve always wanted this? I want to yell. I want to scream at the top of my lungs. I want to shout that his expectations are unrealistic.

I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to do. I’m sorry that Mickey left without me. I’m sorry that I feel even lonelier now than I did just twenty-four hours ago. I’m sorry that I’m not good enough. I’m sorry that I **** things up. I’m sorry I didn’t go. I’m sorry that I just sat there. I could fill every page with apologies and promises.

Should I call someone? Should I text someone? I’ve never felt this kind of raw helplessness. Kae isn’t helping things by talking about Kenlie and Victor. I know she needs someone, but she doesn’t need me. She needs someone that can actually help. She needs someone that isn’t as fucked up as we are.

Chaos. I picked this word for my journal entry because it’s the perfect word of the day. I feel like beneath the surface of my skin, I’m nothing but chaos, and yet I feel disgusting. I feel cold. I feel disconnected. I feel unworthy. I feel chaos. I taste chaos. When I close my eyes, I see chaos.

[Clover]

risk·y

/riskē/

hazardous; dangerous; full of the possibility of loss

“what do we do when everything is risky”

---

Sometimes we sacrifice ourselves for the people around us. Sometimes we **** up so many times that it hurts. Sometimes. To be honest, I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to say. I want to revert back to being human, back to times when I knew. I emailed Jersey. I started talking about the weather. I shouldn’t give a **** about the weather. I shouldn’t care whether it rains or snows; I shouldn’t care whether it’s hot or cold. But I need something to cling to. I need a constant.

He’s not strong enough right now and it’s my fault. He said as much. I know he directed it to everyone, but it’s my fault. I wanted him to stop siring so many people and look what it’s done. I said I would be strong enough to help him through this time and I’m struggling. What if I can’t do it? What if I’m not enough? What happens if I break?

I don’t know. Even though we agreed on honesty, I still don’t know. I’m left wanting. I’ll never get enough answers. I’ll never have that level of clarity. I’m lost. Where have I gone? I feel like all my anger has evaporated and I’ve been left with nothing. Do we all feel that way? Do we all feel this empty? This is all I’ve ever wanted and I feel even worse than before. What have I done? What will I do?

This is the exact same entry with a different word. I keep hoping that writing these things down with spark some type of idea. I’ll kickstart my mind and jumpstart my actions. Right now, I’m sitting in a basement. I’m in a rundown place tucked away in the slums. This is my fault too, but it’s not entirely my fault. I can’t accept all of it when I wasn’t the only one at the gathering. He went on a bit of a spree and I wasn’t there for him. I don’t know how bad it is, since I wasn’t there. I don’t know who he killed. I don’t know how many he killed. I don’t know.

We exist in a state of bedlam. We blossom in blood; we thrive in the fire. I encouraged this behavior, but he did it alone. There’s a difference. When you’re alone, you can’t win. You’re never satiated. At the end, you crumble and you fall apart. You lose. That’s how it is for me. I never stop trying though. I think he lost. I think he tried and he failed. You can’t do it alone. You want to do it alone, or maybe you don’t. Maybe all you want is someone beside you. Maybe you want the conversation, or maybe you want the silence. It doesn’t matter. You need someone there. We’re social creatures by nature. Alone, we can’t thrive. We struggle to survive.

It’s not always about him though. He knows it. I know it. I fucked up and introduced someone else. I’m not quite sure what to say. I want to be there for him. Like I said, sometimes we sacrifice ourselves for the people around us, the people we care for. He was there for me. I don’t know what he wants; I don’t know what he’ll ask for. I don’t know what to say. I keep fumbling over my words and drawing things out. I don’t want it to happen again, but I also don’t want to leave him alone. He needs someone there. He needs to know he’s not alone. Sometimes we grow accustomed to someone being there, and when that person leaves, we become shadows of our former selves. Maybe it’s best that I fumble over my words. Maybe it’s best if I draw things out.

I reached out to Jersey, but I’ll reach out to Athena as well. While I fumble over my words with others, I never fumble over my words with them. I can tell them anything and they would accept me. They judge me less than I judge myself, or at least they tell me what I need to hear. That I’m making a mistake. That I’m no better. That it’s only a matter of time until I’m tossed aside. That I’m being used. That I’m really of no value at all. That I’m playing with fire.

[Clover]

muse

/myo͞oz/

to be absorbed in thought; ponder; contemplate

“what does it mean to muse”

---

I asked myself what would Jersey do, what would Athena do. And as I'm sitting here, I realize that all of my problems arise from the fact that I'm not a whole person. Maybe some part of me passed on. Maybe some part of me stayed in the shadow realm. I could have lost half of myself the moment I learned about vampires. Will I always be this weak? Will I always grasp at straws, unable, or unwilling, to fix the fractures? I'm surrounded by half-people, people that are just like me. We've all lost someone or something. Can we combine to make a whole person? Does that work? Is that healthy? Can vampires lead a whole life or are we just doomed to skim through the years, slowly losing more parts and more pieces, until we finally give up and let go. Until we finally go beyond the shadow realm and sacrifice ourselves to eternity.

What if she's right? What am I walking into? What if I'm destined to fall right into her shoes? Where will I be when it's decided that I'm no longer of use? Will I hold my head high and walk away with such grace, breaking our hearts through a text message? What if I'm her? What if I'm looking into the future? What if I'm just another name, another number, another attempt? What if I'm simply another bandaid? What happens when this is over and we're finally faced with calm, quiet nights, nights free from necessary cuddles and forced civility? Will he know me? Will he understand me? Will I take over his role and resume the dance that doomed his last relationship?

Is this what it's like to let go? I had the chance to walk away. I still have the chance to walk away. In fact, my future is filled with chances to walk away. Vic thinks it's his fault, but he's wrong. He's wrong because he wasn't in control. I was. I'm in control. I orchestrated this masterpiece, this mess of a musical number. If I keep asserting myself, if I keep saying that I'm in control, maybe I'll act like I'm in control. Maybe I'll stop hiding away. Maybe I'll stop hiding my tears. I'm stronger than this. I'm damaged, but we're all damaged. I want to spend time with my bloodlust and give in to the rage, but it's not there. It's left me. I'm alone. Even though Vic says I'm not. Even though Jesse swears that he notices me, that he cares about me. Even when I'm hugging and cuddling and laughing and crying. I guess this is what it means to live. This is what it means to die. This is what's left.

I have time before Kaelyn’s party, time to reconsider going. It’s not the same without Kenlie. I don’t have a right to say that, but it’s true. I miss her. It’s almost like she never existed in the first place. We’re left with the home, the bar, and the memories. She left. But I don’t want to write about her. I could finish this entry and the next one if I only wrote about Halloween memories. For this party, I picked an archer’s costume. That’s what I wanted to where. Now that I look at it, I wonder if it’s too good for this party. Do I really care that much about a stupid party? No. I don’t. I care more about the people attending the party. (Jersey will be included in the numbers.)

I feel like we’re all relying on this party to revive us. We need a source of joy. We need something to take our minds off our own crippling losses. Some lost a great deal. This party reminds me that we still have a way to go. Jesse hasn’t finished with withdrawals. Kenny still isn’t home. Kaelyn still makes me want to shoot her. Ursa still wants to redeem herself for her lengthy absences. Can a party really resolve these issues? Can one party stitch us back together just enough to make us want to rise the next night? I hope so. That’s the reason why I struggle with staying home or going to the party. It could help. Even as the pessimist in me argues that the party is a waste of time, I still see and hear the possibilities. I’m hoping that Vic dresses up. I’m hoping that Jesse dresses up. I hope they go. I hope a lot of people go. I hope they find something that makes their night just a little more bearable.

At first, I wanted to go in my pajamas. I know how boring that sounds, but I have quite the collection of Batman apparel. I could have worn any number of my pajamas and looked like any other twenty-year-old clinging to her teenage years. I had a little help with the costume though. I wanted it to look like I put forth effort. If I go.

You know, maybe we need little things to distract us. It could be a black-light party. It could be a Halloween party. It could be brunch with your close friend. It could be carving pumpkins. It could be taking a walk in the cold, stealing cigarettes just to see the smoke disappear into the starry night sky. Maybe we need arguments. Maybe we need jealousy. Maybe these things, good or bad, keep us in touch with our humanity just enough to keep us moving, just enough to keep us alive.

[Clover]

ster·ile

/sterəl/

free from microorganisms; uninspiring; unproductive; barren

“it’s sterile in more ways than one”

---

I got a call from the hospital. I guess Zach never removed me as his next of kin. Since he's lost everyone else in his life, he probably assumed I would give a ****. In some way, I do give a ****. He's correct. Zach has been in the hospital for months now and he's made no progress. I doubt he'll ever make progress. He's seen the underbelly of this city; he's seen the power of vampires. He knows that he didn't kill his neighbor or the love of his life, so their attempts at prying a confession from him will remain unfruitful. He's telling the truth, and his honesty is costing him his freedom. I almost feel sorry for him.

The hospital called me because he’s in line for relocation. They need the beds and he’s not cooperating. I can argue on his behalf and fight for him to remain in Harper Rock, or I could give permission to have him moved. It makes sense to have him moved. He’s a lying, manipulative ********. At the same time, I know the argument for him staying. I know that, just as I’m his last link, he’s my last link. I’ve emphasized how I feel about it, about him being the last thing from my old life. I haven’t told anyone yet. I probably should have told Jersey. I could have told Athena. I could have told Vic. I could have told Jesse.

After the phone call, I went to visit Zach. His visiting hours are similar to what mine were. Of course, he’s in a different hospital; he’s in a completely different kind of hospital. At first, he refused to speak to me, which isn’t out of the ordinary. We weren’t alone in the room, even though the nurse watching over us seemed more interested in her nails than what we weren’t saying and what we weren’t doing. When he finally spoke to me, he asked me how life as a vampire was going. That comment sparked the interest of the nurse. He looked almost smug as she focused in on the beginnings of a conversation.

“What brings you to see me, Clo-over?”

He pronounced my name that way just to irritate me, but it was the smug smile still etched onto his face that really irritated me. I didn’t know whether they’d told him about his move or not, so I didn’t speak. He repeated his question though. He looked at me as if he’d been pushed to the brink, as if he’d finally given up on maintaining his sanity.

“Why are you here?”

“Do you want to take something else from me?”

“Do you want to really kill me this time?”

“Do you want to tear into my throat?”

“Do you want to try again?”

“Do you want me to apologize?”

“Do you want me to tell you I was madly in love with you and I’ve only just come to my senses?”

“Go ahead, Clover. Take something else from me. That’s what you do. You take. You’re not happy until everyone else around you is miserable, as miserable as you are. And look where you are now. What do you have left? Nothing. No one.”

“You’ll spend the rest of your life alone. That’s exactly what you deserve.”

“MURDERER!”

“YOU ******* MURDERED HER!”

“I’LL ******* KILL YOU!”

I just sat there and watched him. I didn’t know what else to do. I admit that he surprised me. He wounded me. But he was right, at least in some ways. In the end, after the nurse had warned him that she could end the visitation and take him back to his room, he ceased his yelling and settled for glaring at me. His time in the hospital changed him. He’s not what I remembered. He’s not the person I saw before my stay in the hospital; he’s not the person I saw during my stay in the hospital. He seems empty. If I had the chance, if I really had the time, I’d turn him. He’s already dead inside. There’s not much else to lose.

I know I should give up and sever all ties with him. I think it’s coming to the point where I don’t have a choice. At least, I think it’s coming to the point where I don’t feel comfortable maintaining the connection. It’s not someone forcing my hand. I just don’t need to hold on anymore.

I said I was done before, but the phone call really dragged me back into his mess. I keep thinking about what’ll happen when I finally do cut the rope. That’s it. He’ll be right where I was. Completely immersed in that shithole they call a hospital. That was the goal. Somewhere along the way, I stopped trying for that point. Maybe I’ve grown soft.

Right now, I’m trying to save people and fix people. It’s difficult. It’s stressful. I’ve always been the one to clean up, to put things back together, so it’s hard handing over that type of control; it’s hard admitting that I can’t be everywhere. I can’t do everything.

I know that Jesse is struggling, juggling his problems as if he were barely staying afloat. I know Victor misses Kenlie more than anything. I know Jersey misses Peter more than anything. I know. I’m trying to divide my time and be everything to everyone. And at the same time, I’m struggling. I’m juggling. I’m trying to surprise people. I’m trying to drag them out of their manmade chasms and pull them into some proverbial light. I know that it’s hurting Jesse. I know that it’s hurting Victor. I would say it’s hurting Jersey, but I don’t know how Jersey feels about my absences.

Maybe this is a chance to give in. Maybe I can give up on this one thing. It all sounds much easier than it is.