For Clover

[Clover]

pan·ic

/panik/

a sudden anxiety; sudden, extreme fear; alarm; nervousness

“she really made me panic”

---

I tried writing last night. I locked myself in the bathroom in an attempt to isolate my thoughts and force them onto paper. Needless to say, I didn’t succeed. I curled up into a ball and cried, just like I used to do whenever I found Zach with another woman or whenever I found my dad drinking with his prescription pills or whenever I had a shitty day at work. I cried because I didn’t know what else to do. I hid in the bathroom because I didn’t know where else to go. I needed a small room where I could be by myself. I always found that bathrooms were perfect places to cry because you could wash the shame off when you were done. Shower all the shame down the drain. Isn’t that cute? It rhymes.

I found Jesse. Really, I found whatever was left. He’s missing a hand. His throat’s been ripped out. His throat worries me most of all. I enjoy hearing him talk. I didn’t lose my temper; I didn’t lose control. I had a small meltdown and I sobbed, but nothing compared to what I really wanted. I guess I could write down the first text message I sent to Jersey. I texted her when I was at my lowest point. I really don’t know what I’d do without her. She’s being my rock right now, despite the fact that it’s not her responsibility. It’s my responsibility.


[To: Jersey] Jesse tried killing himself. I found him passed out on the floor at Third Circle. Jersey, his throat was ripped out. He’s missing a hand. I don’t know what the **** to do. I’m so scared. There was blood, and I just. My clothes. My hands. What if he didn’t come back? He’s going to kill himself. I’m scared and I’m miserable and I can’t help him. I don’t know what to do to help him. I’m curled up on the ******* bathroom floor, crying my eyes out. Because I don’t know what to do, Jersey. I just want to kill him and get it over with. I want to kill myself and get it over with. I care so much and he doesn’t care enough. I feel like I’m still sitting on the roller coaster, waiting for him to kiss me all over again. And he just can’t. He won’t.

I can’t keep doing this, but I can’t and I won’t leave him. He’ll be over this addiction and things will go back to normal. And I keep...I keep thinking he’ll finally be able to care about me too. He can’t talk to me. He can’t reassure me of anything. I’m ******* sorry that I’ve sent you one big text message. I’m sorry it’s an odd hour. I just don’t know what else to do. I couldn’t text Athena. I just can’t. I don’t know. I just don’t want to be the one to find him like this again. He looks like he was mauled. What if you found Peter this way? What would you do? Where would you go? I don’t even know first aid. I’m ****.

The worst part is that I did want to leave. You know? I thought about just leaving him there. I thought about finishing it off. I thought that it would just help things. He’s doing so much worse, Jersey. He wants to go to sleep forever. It was probably an accident that he ended up at home. I keep telling myself he can’t help it. He’s depressed. He’s suffering. But I’m watching him and it’s tearing me apart. I’m watching him die. Slowly. Every day. I know what it’s like to be here because I’ve watched someone slowly die. I don’t want to do it again, Jersey. I feel like he’s killing me too.


I meant every word. I wanted to pull him into my arms and tell him that everything would be all right, but I also wanted to stab him in the heart. I wanted to finish him off. Seeing him like that brought out buried urges. He reminded me of the humans I torture. I wanted to cut him open and take out his insides. There was so much blood that I wanted to add more. Vampire blood is different. To me, it’s not as appealing. While I want to feast on human blood, I don’t want to taste vampire blood. I’ll cover myself in it though. I’ll collect it and adore it. That feeling mixed with the desire to leave him there and let him die. Alone. Is this even healthy? Is it normal? And then I realize, what is normal? The fact is that I didn’t leave and I didn’t hurt him.

Right now, I’ve made a bigger mess than the one Jesse began. Kaelyn texted me. She’s coming home. And I know that when she comes home, she’ll go to Vic, but she’ll also go to Jesse. She’ll see what state he’s in and she’ll panic. She’ll scold him. She’ll scold everyone. And he’ll never get a moment alone again. He really will be smothered. I don’t want her to see him like this. I don’t think he’ll want to be seen like this. The easy solution would be to tell her the truth, or some version of the truth. That Jesse is fine. That he just needs some time to feel better.

Instead of offering her some form of the truth, I lied. I just lied to her. I told her that Jesse and I are engaged. I can’t even write the words down. I can’t paraphrase enough.


[To: Kaelyn] Okay. Good! When you're back, can you give Jesse and I a few days. We're. We're engaged and we're celebrating.

[To: Kaelyn] Yep! It was supposed to be a surprise. We're just relaxing right now. Enjoying each other's company. Being in love... It feels amazing, Kae.


Whenever I panic, I tend to lie. Those lies are usually the worst lies. I didn’t think about the fact that she might announce the engagement. I didn’t think about the fact that she might ask about a ring, that she might ask to come and visit anyway. And what if she congratulates Jesse? Is that his phone? On top of the panic, I’ve added paranoia. Please don’t announce the engagement, Kae. Please don’t say anything to anyone else. I told her it was going to be a surprise, so I hope she goes along with that story. Please don’t let her announce this before I have the chance to tell Jesse that I panicked and lied.

Why didn’t I say I’d hurt myself? Is it too late to hurt myself? Did I clean up all the blood? I have to move Jesse. I have to hide him. Where am I going to hide him. Larch. My house. Jersey’s apartment. Outside. No. I can’t. My apartment is fine. It’s okay. I’ll just make sure to turn the cameras on. I’ll summon him elsewhere, if I think we’re in trouble. I’ll make sure everything’s covered. I don’t want anyone panicking over him. They can’t see him like this. I’m doing the right thing in hiding this, aren’t I? They can’t know how bad it truly is or they will go to extremes. Or they might give up in the way that I wanted to give up, in the way that some part of me begs to give up.

Everything else has fallen into the background. I’ve met some sort of neutral ground with Vic. Even though Kae told me that he was pretending I didn’t exist, I’m okay with that. I’m fine with him pretending I don’t exist. I’m fine with Kae being angry with me. Because I have more important things to deal with right now. I have to try and keep everything together. I have to cover up so many tracks that it feels more like a hunting party than an attempt at helping Jesse get well.

Worst of all? I still smell the blood. The scent of dried blood is lingering in my nostrils. I don’t think I’ll ever get rid of it. That’s how I feel. I’ll never forget what I’ve seen or what I’ve experienced. I can’t get clean enough. It’s still there. It’s sunk into my skin like an unsavory lotion. Blood. Vampire blood. Disgusting vampire blood. Whether or not it’s Jesse’s blood makes no difference. And yet, I would do it all over again. From my hesitation to stay to my desire to hurt him, I would do it all again. I was there. That mattered, right? It mattered? There’s the smell again. Fresh. New. Overpowering. I feel like peeling off my skin. I just can’t get rid of the smell. I just can’t move on from last night.

[Clover]

re·mem·ber

/ri-mem-bər/

to recall; to bring back to awareness

“for this entry, i chose to use this word twice; i’ll remember it”

---

I’m happy, so something bad must be on the way. I’ve found that whenever I’m at my highest point, or a high point at all, I’m experiencing the calm before the storm. I could trace the path of disaster from one moment to the next, and I’d have quite the line graph. If I don’t stop overthinking, I won’t be able to enjoy what I have. I know that. I’m aware of it. And yet my own paranoia tells me that it’s only a matter of time until I lose everything. My family. My possessions. Everything. Everyone.

A few nights ago, I asked Renee to check on Grey. I know how it sounds, but I’m not sure where she’s been, where she’s gone. If she’s alone. If she’s devastated. If she needs her family. If she needs anyone. I can empathize; I can sympathize. What if I were in her position? What if I were feeling isolated? I’ve been there. I’ve been the victim. I’ve been the offender. To be honest, I’m not sure how Jesse feels. We haven’t sat down and talked about Grey. He’s broken down before, but I know one major breakdown isn’t enough to clear the air. I still think about Zach sometimes. I reminisce about the life we had and the life we could have had. If Jesse is like me, he’ll always wonder. She’ll always be a part of him.

While I can empathize and sympathize, I think I’m more interested for Jesse’s sake. He still cares. I know it. I don’t care if he tells me or not. And if he cares, if he still wonders, then I care and I wonder. Well, Renee found Grey. Grey’s in the sewers. When I found out, I slipped away and started searching the sewers, but I couldn’t find Grey. I’ve been going back, following the twists and turns of the dark tunnels. She’ll never know that I’m looking for her, not if I can help it; I’d rather she didn’t know. I'd rather keep this between the three of us.

I’ve always disliked Grey. At one point, I wanted her to suffer. I wanted to cause her such physical pain that she begged for death. But now, I feel foolish for having had those thoughts. It’s different now. It’s like I finally understand. If I could start all over again, I might have tried harder. As it is, I can’t start over. And for the sake of my own selfishness, I wouldn’t change much of anything beyond being more polite and understanding.

I guess I need to write this down to bury the hatchet. I need to move past all of this and take the steps I need to piece everything back together. This entry isn’t much of an entry at all. I’m still caught within the calm. This, all of this writing, is a reminder.

[Clover]

an·gry

/aNGɡrē/

feeling, or showing, hostility or annoyance; enraged; outraged; heated; furious

“saying i’m angry is a quick summary of what i’m feeling”

---

Your anger is a part of you.

I still remember Jersey’s words. I don’t think I’ll ever forget them. She’s right. My anger is a part of me. It’s like a virus. I’ll never be able to get rid of it, so I have to learn to live with it. I have to find some way of coexisting with it. Each day, I think I’m getting sicker. I think I’m losing the battle. I’m not even sure if I have a way of winning, or if I even want to win. I guess I need to start at the beginning.

I was right. For a couple of days, I lived in the eye of the storm. I had successfully buried my issues underneath layers of happiness and promises of better days. I thought that I had more time. I thought that I had an opportunity to enhance my way of life and prolong my little piece of paradise, but, in that case, I was wrong. My real self existed outside of the eye of the storm. My life existed outside of the eye of the storm. It really shouldn’t be a surprise. I’d like to call it a complicated case of sheer disappointment.

Kaelyn had come home to be with Victor. Jesse and I wanted to surprise Kaelyn with a car. But the lie I told about marrying Jesse had flourished into one giant noose. Jesse had Kae believing that he and I were being married soon, and that made Kaelyn think she hadn’t been invited to the wedding. To her, we weren’t lying, and we weren’t joking. She carried that anger around with her until she found the two of us, and then she released it in well-timed jabs. I’d never seen such a sudden loss of happiness, let alone experiencing it firsthand, but I lived the moment when she irritated Jesse. I saw the way he looked. I think I actually saw the happiness drain from his face, replaced by--well, I can’t be certain how he felt following the loss.

I wanted to say a lot of things to Kaelyn. I wanted to tell her that I didn’t care how she felt. I wanted to tell her to go away. I said a few things. I said she was undeserving of the gift and I said I wanted to take my contribution out from under the hood. I had every intention of cutting every line and ripping the engine out of that car, but Jesse stopped me. He shouldn’t have had to stop me. I fucked up. If I would have kept my mouth shut, he might not have walked away. But he did walk away. I guess I always knew he would. Eventually.

So I was right. Again.

When he walked away, I didn’t go after him. I wanted to tell Kae to go after him, but I’m sure she did anyway. Good for them. I’m sure it was her goal all along. Instead of going after him, I went to Jersey’s apartment. I don’t think she really knows what’s going on. I really don’t want to tell her. I just don’t want to go back. What’s the point? I could chase the eye of the hurricane, but why fight against the storm? As long as someone is with him, he’ll be fine. And right now? I’m too exhausted to think about the possibilities associated with him being alone.

It’s ridiculous that my friends think I’m strong. I wonder who the hell they’re looking at when they look at me. I really wasn’t cut out for this life. I look around myself and I see so much more. I see heart. I see passion. I see strength. Real strength. And then I see a sorry excuse for a vampire. I see a woman hiding out in her sister’s apartment. I see a woman wishing she’d given up fighting before the fight even began. I see someone who created the very storm that ruined her. I see mistakes interwoven with regret and bound with thin threads of shame. I see seams where none should exist.

I don’t want to tell Jersey what happened. I trust that she won’t ask. I just want to lie here until I’m desperate enough to finally move. By that point, I’ll have reached some divine epiphany that will clear all the negativity from my mind. No, I don’t really think that will happen. I assume I’ll lie here until Jersey manages to roll me onto the floor and drag me out of the apartment. Or I could do the mature thing and just leave. I could always motivate myself to do something other than this, other than writing.

I didn’t think anything could rival the sadness, but I suppose my anger rivals any emotion. I’m angry with myself. I’m angry that he hasn’t come to find me. I’m angry that I didn’t think he would. I’m angry that I’m lying here instead of stabbing Kaelyn in the face. I’m angry that I’m such a...

You know, that's exactly what I am.

[Clover]

mal·treat

/malˈtrēt/

to mistreat; to treat with violence; to treat cruelly; to abuse

“does it count as maltreatment if we do it to ourselves?”

---

I won’t say it was an accident. I have no reason to lie to myself. Not now, at least. Jersey had tried cheering me up, but it didn’t work. By the end of the night, all I wanted to do was go home. I wanted to go home and curl up in my sheets. I wanted to lose myself in a cotton cocoon and hibernate until the seasons changed. And then he texted me. He reignited my anger all over again. It’s easier to blame him than it is to blame myself. It’s always easier to blame someone else than to take responsibility, isn’t it?

He asked where I went and I told him I’d gone “out.” And he didn’t ask me again. He claimed he was still pissed off. Most likely at me. Well, I was pissed off with him too. In fact, I still am. I guess that’s why it was easier to let him push me away. Anger does wonderful, terrible things. I sent him another text message, one that tried to draw him out of his shell and actually speak to me, but he didn’t reply. He’d told me that I wouldn’t find him if I came home.

Instead of panicking, I just gave up. I left Jersey’s apartment and I started walking. I thought about how walking seemed to help Victor. I thought about how walking felt the last time I’d been so ******* furious. I didn’t stop though. I started in Bullwood and I ended up in Cherrywood. I ended up in Newborough. I ended up at the hunting grounds. I walked until I didn’t feel like walking anymore, until I didn’t feel like moving anymore. And when I stopped, I just collapsed in the grass and I waited. I watched the seconds tick by, and then I watched the minutes tick by. When I started getting to hours, I felt the panic surge.

I asked myself if I really meant to hurt myself. I asked myself if I really meant to punish myself for everything I’d said and done. In the end, I watched the sun peek over the edge of the horizon, staining the sky with different shades of pink. I hadn’t seen a sunrise that beautiful in well over a year. When it made contact with my skin, I watched the way the light bit into my flesh. I was burning alive. I want to say that I enjoyed the burn, but it hurt. I couldn’t think of anything beyond the excruciating pain. I held out for as long as I could, but I had to retreat indoors. The fact was that I had no intention of dying. I had no intention of killing myself. My goal had been to cherish the pain. I deserved it. I deserved the suffering associated with my smouldering skin.

I retreated into one of the Coastside factories. I took refuge in one of the corners, but the sun had already made a lasting mark on my body. It’s silly to ask my journal, but I have to ask. Do you know what it’s like to watch your skin melting off your body? Do you know what it’s like to have your skin stick to a surface? I do. I had my bare arms and shoulders stick to the wall. And when I moved, I had my skin ripped away. It was an odd sight, the way my flesh looked, the way the blood looked. Unnatural. Indescribable. Absolutely inhuman.

My screams attracted the attention of guards, and I couldn’t move fast enough. I had to shoot them. I shot three of them before I finally summoned the strength to abandon my position. I knew I couldn’t stay there, but I felt the weight of the sun on me. I felt the overwhelming need to sleep. I had to find a safe place, and I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t want to tome away, to flee into the embrace of people that neither wanted nor needed me. So I ran.

I ran right back into the sunlight. I went through the ordeal all over again. I tried building after building, but I found no peace. I left shell casings in my wake. When the guards gave way to police officers, I ended up in shootouts. By that point, I could barely lift my arms. I didn’t have the option of going back into the sunlight. I didn’t have the option of running away. I had the option to summon everything I had and thrust myself into the shadow realm or swallow my pride and use the tome. It was then that I wanted to die. I wanted to die rather than swallow my own pride. A cop made the call for me. He shot a series of three bullets into my shooting arm and I made the decision to use the tome. No, it wasn’t a decision. I panicked and I ended up in Circle.

I don’t know if I actually want to stay here. The point of walking away was so that people wouldn’t find me. Riddled with holes, body made more of shadows than flesh and bone, I wonder if I could even go back to Jersey now. I didn’t expect a shootout. I didn’t expect for it to take so long to heal. And I’m not healing. The irony of it all? I don’t even have the strength to get back to my own bedroom. I can’t curl up in my sheets. I can’t take comfort in the feel of my mattress and the firmness of my pillows. At least the blood is gone.

Actually, I’m starting to feel better already.

[Clover]

de·pres·sion

/dəˈpreSH(ə)n/

a mental condition characterized by feelings of hopeless and sadness; feelings of despondency; despair; misery

“depression gradually descended, like the shadows that threaten to swallow me”

---

It's different now. To be the one abandoned. Even though I walked away first, I know I wasn't actually the one to walk away first. I wish I could say that I don’t regret my decision, but that would be yet another lie. Even though I’ve removed every tangible trace of him from my life, I haven’t mastered the ability to remove the memories. I think I’ll always have them. The memories will eat away at me until there’s nothing left. Until I’m nothing more than a husk of a woman and a pathetic waste of a vampire. Perhaps I’m already the latter.

Victor doesn’t want me texting him or calling him or visiting him. We’ve resolved nothing. And I decided not to fight him on the matter. I’m tired of fighting for everything. I’d tired of trying. I’m tired of clinging to the hope that things will change. I’m tired of clinging to the hope that things will magically revert to how they were all those months ago. I wish I could say that things began and ended with Victor strolling away from the frayed remains of this family, but there’s more. There’s always more.

I think Victor’s right. It’s hard to admit. I’ve toyed with the idea of walking away, of taking his example and distancing myself from everyone and everything. I know that’s what I need. As I’m writing this, I’m sitting in bed, relishing the peace and quiet. I’m savoring this moment of solitude. I never knew I needed this, or maybe I’ve known the entire time.

Earlier, I played cards with Athena and Jersey. The two of them seemed to enjoy our time together, but I hated it. I couldn’t really enjoy myself. I kept getting the same card, the card that came up during the Halloween party. I don’t like being reminded of the party, despite the fact that one of the best times of my life occurred afterward. Even though we were all having problems then, we’d managed to pull together for that party. Now, we’re just too broken. We’re just too selfish. We’re just too blind.

I’m depressed. I know I’m depressed. I’ll always recognize this feeling. After my parents died, I fell into a deep depression. It was hard pulling myself out of the hole. The only thing that brought me back was June. And even after my hardships with Zach, I managed to bounce back. This time, I’m lost. I’ve never been depressed for this long. I’ve never felt so hopeless. I’m angry. I’m heartbroken. Jersey isn’t enough. Athena isn’t enough. And Jesse can’t help me. Victor tossed me out on my ***. Kaelyn isn’t an option; I don’t have it in me to depend on her for anything, not when she thinks of me as just another liar. My relationships with each of them have decayed into unrecognizable remains, like unshapely lumps of clay.

This is my opportunity to rise against this darkness and I’m falling victim to adversity. I can’t shake this shadow. I can’t control this shadow. And if things improve, will I still be in this predicament? One doesn’t simply wake up one more and cease being depressed. I’ll have to work to recover. I admit that looking after Jesse is weighing on me. I can’t blame him for this, but he’s not helping me. He’s bad for me. And yet here I am. I’m waiting for him to come back, to come home.

A little voice tells me that this is what I get for wanting more than I deserve. At heart, I’m human. I can hide behind fangs. I can hide behind serpentine eyes. I can hide behind a twisted desire for torture and murder. The fact remains that I’m still Clover. I’ll never rid myself of my humanity. I can only bury it and hope that it’ll eventually die off, that it’ll eventually go the way of my memories.

OOC: For some time, Clover has had the curse Extreme Depression

[Clover]

frig·id

/frijid/

bitterly cold; unemotional; unapproachable; aloof

“there’s an appeal to being frigid”

---

She's right.

She’s right. I hear that over and over again. It’s become a metronome for my life. We each take little digs at one another until there’s nothing left. And right now, I have nothing left. I’ve reached a point where I can’t think of a single reason to step out of this elevator. Up or down, the direction doesn’t make a difference. The paths lead to the same unknown; no, the paths lead to the same morbid realization that I have nothing, and that I am nothing. Now, Clover, you have him. You have them. You have possibilities--you have endless possibilities. But the steady tick of the metronome reminds me that it’s not true. I can’t be there for him. I can’t be there for them.

I made a list of reasons why I should kill myself. I’ve had it for a while now, tucked between the last pages of this notebook. The page is folded into fours to conceal the purple ink within. I don’t really need the paper to remember all the reasons, but writing the words cemented them in my mind. I’ll write a few down now, just to explain them properly. I’ll pick my favorites.

One. I’m of no use to anyone. When we realize how useless we actually are, we’ve reached a higher level. Does that make sense? We’re always cogs in the system. The setting might change, but we’re still the same pawns we were at the beginning of the game. When I go, someone else will replace me. When he or she goes, someone else will replace him or her. There’s a line of people just dying to get to this higher level. I’m thrilled to have reached this point.

In addition to acknowledging the vast array of sheep sharing the pasture known as Harper Rock, I admitted more of my own limitations. I pointed out my smallest flaws. I pulled myself apart and refused to put myself back together again. I shouldn’t be my worst critic, but I am. She’s reminded me that I’m not stable enough. I’m just as inconsistent as her sire. I’m just as aggravating as her sire. I’m just a disappointment. I’m not built for the family life and I’ll never be good for anyone. I turn my back on people. And she’s right.

I feel like I’m made up of woven scar tissue. I’m too pale. My eyes aren’t bright at all. My lips are chapped. My clothes don’t fit properly. I’m not tall enough, or I’m too tall. I’m too fat or I’m too skinny. I don’t know which way is up and which way is down. I’m pulling at the seams to find every little thing wrong with me, so picking at the scab covering my physical insecurities seemed like a solid place to start. From there, I moved onto mental inadequacies. I never completed my schooling. I don’t know what I’m doing with my powers. My abilities with guns and knives are pathetic, at best. The weapons I create will never withstand heavy use; in fact, the weapons I create match perfectly well with my ability to use them. I’ve given up on crafting traps. I’ve given up on creating little gadgets. My creations are wastes of space.

It seems pointless to give these items individual numbers. I’ll be sure to cross off the numbers and tie everything together into one run-on sentence. There’s no point in trying to make something beautiful out of something so hideous. My shortcomings are hideous.

She’s right. I want to blame her, but I’m too tired to blame her. I don’t have the energy to deal with her. I don’t have the energy to deal with him. I don’t have the energy to deal with them. I should have killed them. I don’t know why I thought they’d be good additions to this mess. They’re mistakes. All of them are mistakes. Everything is a mistake. It doesn’t matter what I do or what I say. The result is the same. Telling Jesse about Okoro and Nona is a waste of time. He’s not in the state to care about anyone other than himself. He’s falling apart. She was kind enough to let me know.

She can take care of everyone. People are awake now. I’m no longer needed, not that I was ever really needed. I leave. It’s what I do, apparently. When things get difficult, I leave. When people aren’t perfect, I leave. I never stop to consider that I’m not the one leaving. I’m the one being left. But does it really matter? No, it doesn’t matter. Whether I’m walking away, or someone is walking away from me, I’m alone. This is how it should be.

Let him think that I went somewhere wonderful. Let her think I ignored her again (despite the fact that I never really ignored her before). Let them think whatever their hearts desire. And I’ll stay right here, right where I am. If I’m of no use to anyone, let me be of some use to this elevator. Let me stay here until I regain enough energy to move. Until the blood stops flowing. Until this wraith stops hovering. Until the metronome stops ticking.

There it goes.

[Clover]

bit·ter

/bidər/

angry because of unfair treatment; resentful; spiteful; sullen

“in these situations, it’s easier to be bitter”

---

I can still feel it. Whenever I'm alone. Whenever it's too dark or it's too quiet. I can feel the depression. I write about the illness as if it were an actual creature. I can imagine its sickening appearance, and I can hear its primal growls. My depression entered into hibernation, but it's never truly gone. I'll always feel it. Lurking. Stalking. Overwhelming. But I have so much more to mention than my lingering depression.

Jesse sired someone. His name is Logan, and he’s already a thorn in my side. I’m not sure what it is about childer. They irritate me. Their questions anger me. I had to figure out everything on my own, but they’re so reliant upon other people that it disgusts me. Logan has yet to fall into that category though. In fact, he has managed to create his own category, one reserved for self-serving assholes. From the beginning, I saw something in him, something that lured me to him, and I learned, rather quickly, that Logan had a special hobby. Logan likes to kill.

I think that we all bring out something special in Jesse. For example, Logan encourages Jesse’s playful banter. Sadly, I’ve found that some of the playful banter makes me want to kill both of them. When they start discussing female victims, I get angry. I get jealous. And I want to start talking about my own preference for male victims, just to see how uncomfortable I can make Jesse, just to see if I can enjoy the same banter. I could say how delicious I find them. We could discuss how they scream and beg and sob. I realize that this entry stopped addressing Logan and focused on my own insecurities.

After Jesse insisted on teasing me, I cursed his name. Rather than stab him, I used my powers. I was angry. I think he really meant to start trouble, to toy with me, so he’s lucky I didn’t snap at him. I aim to destroy, after all. I’ll never move on from the harsh words I’d had for Victor. I know how terrible my temper can be. In addition to cursing Jesse, I told him that he should only use the descriptor (“delicious”) for me. If he teases me again, I’m stabbing him.

All of this pales in comparison to the news I just received. A few nights ago, Jersey and I got together and watched a movie. Beforehand, we talked about different things. She’d been stabbed by a hunter, an injury worse than my own. I told myself not to panic. I told myself not to scold her. And she and I transitioned from doting on her wound to our normal routine. After that, I had a surprise delivered. I made a downpayment on one of the mansions in Elmworth. I thought we could have a small retreat. She and I could just withdraw from the city and relax. She could bring anyone. I think she’ll bring Peter. I told her I wanted to meet him. She also mentioned that he liked to focus on his businesses, so a retreat would force him to relinquish some of that control and share more of his attention. If I find myself becoming a third wheel, I’ll slip away.

At first, I felt Peter had lured Jersey away from me. I’ve mentioned that I have yet to meet him. But I’ve been in this same position before. When I met Cosimo, I greeted him with veiled hostility, and I blame myself for Athena’s reaction. Since then, I’ve tried to see Cosimo in a new light. I’ve accepted that Athena and Cosimo are together; I’ve accepted that Cosimo is more than Athena’s boyfriend. Just as Cosimo is a man, with his own wants and his own life, Peter is a man, with his own wants and his own life. Although I’m still unhappy with sharing Jersey’s attention and affection, I know Peter, for whatever reason, makes her incredibly happy. I know she loves him. And if I were in her position, I know I’d want her to support me. I’d want her to accept my relationship. So here I am. I’m doing my best to accept that Jersey and Peter are getting married. My sister is getting married. I knew I’d be saying that eventually, and even though I’m not saying it about June, I’m happy I’m saying it about Jersey.

Unfortunately, not everyone is as accepting. Where I’ve succeeded, they have failed. Last night, Jersey’s sire and sister really hurt her. I don’t know exactly what happened, but Jers was stabbed. Worse than that, she’s missing an arm. Her wounds will heal, but I want nothing more than to find out who did it. I really want to make them pay. But she didn’t tell me who. She doesn’t want me worrying. I know she’s right, or I would have led a manhunt. Jersey will deal with them in her own way. She’ll forgive them. They’ll draw her back in. I know this because I drew her back in. She forgave me. She puts up with me. And even though I benefit from her good heart, I wish she would lose it and stop giving monsters second chances. If I had a sire and a sibling do that to me, I would leave them. I would leave them and never look back.

Jersey told me not to worry about her because she’d be safe. She told me she’d be fine. If something happens to her, I don’t know what I’ll do. I have Fforde, but she’s my sister. I still don’t have a right to intervene. Jersey has Peter, and I’m sure he can handle this. He will do whatever is necessary to keep her safe and keep her alive. They’re supposed to be in love. Isn’t that what lovers do? Or maybe that’s archaic. Maybe he’ll abandon her. Maybe he’ll **** up and lose her. I don’t know him, but I hope he knows what he’s doing. For his sake. For Jersey’s sake.

I haven’t told anyone else. I haven’t mentioned it to Jesse. I keep telling myself that it’s not my place to intervene, but I want to step in. I want to summon her and hide her away. She lost her arm. Someone cut her arm off. It’s like seeing June all over again. And I can’t do that. Jersey’s death would be temporary, something I’d attribute to her determination. But I don’t want anything to happen. I keep seeing her in pieces. After I replied to her email, I couldn’t get back to sleep. I don’t think the pull of the sun could have given me the rest I needed. Why do the same things continue to haunt me? Am I ever going to be over my biological sister’s death? It was horrific. And I imagine it was horrific for Jersey to notice her arm was gone. I lost my hand twice and I can say it sent me into shock each time.

I think I want to sit here for a while. I don’t know what else to do. I’ll just sit and wait. I’ll summon her, when I think she’s better, when things have calmed down.

[Clover]

med·i·cine

/medəsən/

a healing substance; a treatment for an illness; cure; treatment

“modern medicine offers me this”

---

Tonight feels like a weight on my chest. In my last entry, I discussed my lingering depression, but I chose to be brief. I chose to limit my words on the subject so that I could focus on something else. Right now, I can’t ignore the problem. I can’t ignore the heavy feeling in my limbs. I can’t ignore the heaviness that reminds me so much of suffocation. I’m drowning again. I’m coherent enough to feel the water as it makes its way up my nose and down my throat. The cool water fills my lungs. With every breath, the air leaves, and the water enters. Slowly, gradually, I become a host for the dark waters. I become another example of what it means to struggle and what it means to let go.

I’m supposed to tell someone when I get this way. I told Jesse that I would go to him, if I ever fell to this point again. Or maybe I haven’t reached rock bottom. Maybe my body hasn’t begun the descent. Maybe I’m floating, whether on my stomach or on my back. All I know is that this is what it feels like to drown. I don’t have the ability to call for help, but I have these words. I have paper, and I have ink. This journal represents my cries for help. This journal represents all I have to offer myself and all I have to offer others.

Right now, Jesse is next to me, but I can’t tell. When you’re drowning, you can’t tell which way is up and which way is down. You’re struggling, and then you’re still. It’s no surprise that I can’t feel him next to me. Why can’t I shake these feelings? Why can’t I forget the way it felt to experience such turmoil and such loss? Maybe I’m not drowning at all. Maybe I’m on fire.

I feel the flames licking at my flesh. The temperature rises. With each passing second, I lose more and more of my skin. Ten percent. Twenty percent. I’m fully engulfed now. And I love it. I treasure it. And I’m gone. One-hundred percent. Who knew how flammable my heart and lungs were, even filled with so much air. I’m weightless and bloodless; I’m the charred remains of my former self, and the chill of sadness wraps its way around me, comforting me, coddling me. I can’t feel Jesse, but I can feel the depression.

Have you ever felt a cold hand on the back of your neck? Have you ever felt cold fingers tracing along your spine? That’s what it feels like to succumb to the weight of the world. I don’t have the strength to get out of bed, and I don’t want to tell anyone. I don’t want the looks. I don’t want the words. Clover, what’s wrong? Clover, what can I do? Clover, why didn’t you tell me? I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t know what anyone can do for me. And why don’t I tell someone? Why am I not telling someone?

Sometimes, I don’t have reasons; sometimes, I don’t have answers. Why am I not better now? I’m angry with myself for feeling this way when I’m unable to identify a reason for the weight on my chest, for the water in my lungs, for the burns on my body. If I could only attribute these feelings to stress. I want nothing more than to blame someone or something, and I can’t. I shouldn’t feel this way, but I do.

I know what it feels like to surrender and to run away. I’ve sought the shadows, and I’ve used them as a refuge. When I’m hiding from my problems, I’m hiding from so much more than my problems. I’m hiding from myself, and I’m hiding from everyone around me. I don’t want to confess these things. I don’t want to share these words. But I can’t allow myself to lie. I have to uphold what I’ve said. If Jersey were here, if Jersey weren’t suffering, I might have sought refuge with her. She might have encouraged me to follow through with what I’ve said. As it is, she’s suffering. She’s going through her own problems. I can say that I carry the weight of her suffering as well as the weight of my own. Depression collects the unhappiness and condenses it, burying the negativity deep in my chest cavity.

I think I need to remove this armlet. I need to feel the overwhelming need to feed. When I focus on the blood, everything feels better.

[Clover]

hur·ri·cane

/həriˌkān/

a violent storm in the western north Atlantic: a storm with winds exceeding 74mph

“it’s time to compare my life to a hurricane”

---

I feel as if we're in the eye of the storm. Again. Nothing can be this bad; nothing can be this good. I've told Marian that she should play for me, and it looks like I'll be going to her room to listen to her play the harp. I don't even think I like the harp, but I need some change. I need more than breaking and entering. My life is quickly becoming stale, and I can't let that happen. I'm fighting again, fighting against the bad, fighting against the overwhelming pessimism that litters these pages.

I rely too much on Jesse. Right now, I don't want to rely on Jersey at all. And Athena. I can't contact you now. We've both lapsed into silence and relinquished the hold on our friendship. At least, we loosened our hold while we handled our own problems. That leaves no one, and I think I need the solitary confinement. On nights like tonight, I miss the hospital. I miss the simplicity associated with strict schedules and set activities. I miss the feel of restraints and the press of the needle against my flesh. Sedatives. Medications. The shadows crawling along my walls. Even then, I missed the world beyond my window. I missed the sun on my face.

These are things I don't think anyone will ever understand. I don't think anyone will ever understand why I want to go back to the hospital. And perhaps they would say, “If you want it so much, go back.” Perhaps they would push me to leave, rather than encourage me to let go or reconsider my thoughts. To be honest, I think that Jesse would be the least likely to understand. I think he would laugh at me. He would feel as if I preferred that life to the one I'm sharing with him and with this family.

This is what it feels like when someone drags you away from everything before you've made your peace. Everything feels incomplete, like a story with half of a chapter, or a sentence doomed to die before its time. At first, I felt nothing but hostility. After a year of being a vampire, I can't help but feel some gratitude, some positive note buried beneath layers of mourning. If he'd let me go, I wouldn't be here right now. With him. If he'd killed me, I would have never experienced any of the good that's dotted throughout these past months.

Can I really thank him, even while I curse him? And to say that I love him. That filthy, disgusting word. Are these able to coexist? This is what it means to be me. This is what goes on in my mind as I'm staring into space and as I'm stalking my prey. I'm easy to decipher, and I'm pathetically complex. Without these conflicting thoughts and emotions, I think I might revert to the times when I hunted with such that desperation that nothing existed but lust and disgust. Even now, I feel that darker part of myself, that auto-pilot version of myself, clawing at the metaphorical barriers. I feel the overwhelming need to raise hell.

I need to sate the urges and quell the voices that call for blood, that crave the violence. And I want to hurt him again. God, I want to hurt him again. He enjoys it, and I've craved it. I feel as if I need to take everything. I want a pound of flesh for every doubt he's created, for every doubt I've allowed to exist. I want to take his heart. Because if he won't give it to me, then I'll take it. I'll take whatever I want. This, this utter selfishness, this ugliness, exists beyond my conscience. I cling to my humanity because it counteracts these desires. The kills fill the void, but I'll always want more. I'll always need more. You know, I don't think I'll ever reach the point where I'm finally satisfied.

He asks me to let go of the past, but I don't think he understands. I don't want to forget. I don't want to let go. I said I was afraid. I told him of my fears. I don't want to give in completely. I don't want to know the true meaning of monstrosities. I don't think he could handle me. Or maybe he could keep up. Who knows. Who ******* knows.

Welcome to the eye of the storm.

ooc: backdated to 7 January 2016

[Clover]

sur·vive

/sərˈvīv/

to continue to exist or live, especially in unfavorable conditions or circumstances; endure; persevere

“if this is what it means to ‘survive,’ then i don’t want to”

---

I don’t know what happened. One minute, we were together; the next, we were separated. No one could have expected the numbers. They were everywhere. I don’t know what happened. I don’t remember. I can’t remember. He was there, and now he’s gone, if he’s even gone. It’s my fault. I can’t...I can’t do this. I don’t know why I’m trying to document this, or if that’s even what I’m trying to do. What’s left of my blood is staining the pages, and then it’s disappearing. There. Gone. There. Gone. I’m so close to dying. I should have stayed. Why didn’t he let me stay? Why wouldn’t he let me die?

I heard it. Do you know what it’s like to listen to the people you care about as they’re fighting for their lives? I do. I know what it’s like to try to memorize their faces, because you know it’s going to be a little while before you see them again. Because you know, deep down, that they aren’t coming out of it alive. And you crawled away. You hoped that they would be right behind you, but they never came out those doors. You’re still waiting, even now. You’re hoping that someone else comes back, that he comes strolling in, that they all come crawling out, in the very same way. You don’t know if the fight’s over, if the slaughter’s complete, but you listen to the noise and you hope that it’s not a total loss.

I waited. I waited as long as I could, but that doesn’t make a difference, does it? I bled out until I had nothing left to give, nothing left but the remnants of regenerated blood I’d forced upon myself, and then I stumbled through the streets. I cried. I sobbed. And I’m still waiting. As the minutes tick by, as the hours tick by, I know the odds of them returning are slim to none. I wonder what I’m supposed to say to everyone else. That they went missing? That they never came out of the building? What am I supposed to say?

I couldn’t go back. I tried. There were gangsters everywhere, and they chased me out into the streets, where we had yet another shootout. Some would say I was lucky to survive, but I disagree. I didn’t want to survive. I wanted to stay and fight. I wanted to inhale the gunpowder; I wanted to exhale their blood. Why didn’t I fight harder? Why didn’t I stay? Why am I not stronger? I mentioned before that I felt as if we were all in the eye of the hurricane, and now look. I was ripped to shreds by the spawned tornadoes and I landed right where it all began.

Home. It’s empty. I can’t believe how empty it is without them. I can’t believe I’m still waiting for them to come home. But I have hope. I’ve tapped into the reserves and layered myself in the ****. I can’t give up. I just can’t. He wanted me to go, but...but I think I’d rather kill myself than stay here alone. I can’t. I can’t get the sounds of the fight out of my head. Tap. Tap. Tap. Swish. Bullets and blades. And the shouting. The sound of the footsteps as shoes pounded against the floors. We were ready. We were together. We had each other. And then we were trapped.

I can’t. I want to share what happened, but I just can’t. I don’t even know if my memories are accurate anymore. Because I’m waiting. I’m waiting and hoping that I imagined the whole thing. Even though I’m starving, even though I’m exhausted, I could have imagined it all. I don’t know how much longer I can wait. I don’t think I have a reason to wait. They aren’t coming back. They’re dead. I was the only one that made it out. I’m the only survivor. I thought they were behind me, and they weren’t. I thought...I thought we were going to be fine. Why aren’t we fine? Why aren’t they back yet? I just need to be patient. They’ll be back. They’ll be fine. They’re just late. They can shove me for leaving first, for being the first one to take a knee and try to stop the bleeding. And I was bleeding so much. I was bleeding too much.

This is my fault. I should have rested more. I should have been prepared. I should have trained harder, moved faster, or shielded them. I should have died. I should have fought to die. Instead, I’m waiting. I’m waiting for them, and they aren’t coming home. They aren’t coming home, Clover. They weren’t right behind you, Clover. You’ve let them die. You did this to them. You don’t deserve to kill yourself. You deserve to sit and wait, to suffer. You deserve to replay the night over and over again. Listen to the echoes of the sounds, Clover. Remember how they looked. Remember how it felt to hold that bloody blade in your hands. And suffer.

They’re gone. I’ve lost him again. I killed him again. I killed all of them. If I’d been more prepared--if I’d been more aware of my surroundings--this didn’t have to happen. Although death is temporary, I can say that this isn’t any easier. And even though I’ve come to the realization that they’re gone, I can’t stop waiting. Isn’t that insane? I’m still waiting. I’m still looking at the altar, just waiting for them to appear. I still have hope, and it’s killing me. That’s what will eventually take my life. If it isn’t the guilt, it’s hope.

I need to feed, but I can’t right now. I’m disgusted with myself. Whether or not I was asked to leave, whether or not I was forced to leave, I should have fought harder to stay. I should have gone back. I should have never believed they would actually admit defeat, even though it would have been more strategic to stop, to turn back, and approach the battle later. We fight first and ask questions later. We lead with rage. We hope that our next attack will be the last.

Perhaps we should have used stealth. Perhaps we should have done a lot of things. Most importantly, they should have followed me. I left them, and they left me. They’re dead. They aren’t coming back. It’s okay. It’ll be fine. I can do this. I can tell the truth. I can keep it together just long enough to find someone. I just need to find someone. I need to keep it together, so keep it together, Clover. This is temporary. This isn’t forever. They’ll be home. They’re coming home. They’re coming back.

I’m sorry for everything. I didn’t mean to let this happen. I’m so sorry. Each apology hurts worse than the last, but I can’t stop. I can’t stop apologizing, and my words play to the tune of gunshots. Bang. Bang bang. Swish. I feel like I’m being shot all over again. I feel the bullets biting into my gut and shattering my shoulder. But I would take twelve more hits, if it meant bringing them all home. Why weren’t they behind me? Why? WHY DIDN’T THEY RETREAT AND REGROUP?! I can’t do this. I can’t wait anymore. I can’t take this anymore. They’re dead. All of them are dead. And I had to be the only survivor.

It should have been you.