It occurred to me an hour ago that I must have a taste for blonde women…
Consider my list of known associates:
The Lady
Alexandrea
Noelle
Dawn
Skylar
Corin
Corentine (Cori for short)
Dhara (sort of)
Solene (we met once, but I remember her and that counts)
They’re all blonde!
Granted, there are a few important ladies who are not on the blonde list, but there’s only three or so that come to mind. Actually, I will count them as well.
Jezebel
Temperance
Simone (I suppose… though we don’t talk anymore)
By that same logic, I guess I could say I have a taste for dark-haired men too…
Fable
Sean
Ripper (though I’m annoyed at him still)
Vasik (though it was red, actually)
Cosimo
Shamus
Robert…
I actually rather miss Robert.
I notice too that I have rather a high number of people to remember in general. This is surprising.
I do think I need more male friends though…
[indiscernible voice]
Yes, I do mean friends. I haven’t even screwed half the people on those lists and don’t intend to either.
[indiscernible voice]
**** you. And shut up. You’re making me look crazy, talking to myself. You’re like the only one I talk to on a regular basis too and how messed up is that? I talk to dead people more than I talk to… well… undead people.
[indiscernible voice]
I’m not discriminating against anyone. You’re… just as alive as most people, I guess. But…
[indiscernible voice]
I don’t know. You’re just… different. Look, I don’t want to talk about it, ok?
****, what was I saying again? I can’t remember what the hell my point was…
So, Bella’s existence in my life has me wondering about children and parentage and relationships all that other stuff. I met the white-haired vixen on a visit to see my mother and wound up becoming a daddy myself. It’s weird how these things work out, but what’s weirder, I suppose, is thinking that I might ever be relied upon.
It’s unsettling, actually. It’s too much.
Honestly? I’m hoping Bella is capable enough to look after herself because she really is better off in doing so. I don’t even think the girl likes me, so, I am happy that she can make friends with the other family members and people in Harper Rock.
She’s a strong girl, has the will and fortitude to hold her own, which is maybe why I decided to get her out of that dead-end city and bring her to an undead city. I can’t really put my finger on why I did what I did, only that it seemed like a good thing to do at the time.
I didn’t think it through, perhaps. I’m indifferent like that. Selfish.
Maybe because she reminds me of myself and, in some strange way, coming here was the best thing to happen to me. I’ve given her the same gift that Temperance gave to me, most likely with the same intention, though I cannot recall the event of my own change.
My memory is failing me. There are blank spots on the wall where pictures should hang. I can make out the outline of their shape where the sun has bleached the wall around them, only a shadow makes itself the feature there instead.
The city is both loud and quiet. The voices are ever-present, but they’re not the sounds I’d like to hear. I miss my friends. I miss that energy they bring. I miss the excitement and the thrill of not knowing what is going to come next because their presence makes anything possible. I should pay them all a visit in turn. I should do it alphabetically.
I should talk to them, or some of them anyway, about these worms in my gut.
I heard a voice today. It was so much louder than the others. It was a dull rumble of a sound, a distant clap of thunder over rooftops, a hollow breeze through the crack of a window – and yet I discerned it from the background fuzz of whispers as the voice of a man. I recognised the rise and drop of tone curling around letters, curling around reason, making no attempt to latch onto an identifiable accent or a familiar lilt. But I discerned a message all the same. He told me: Kill yourself.
Now, I have several theories concerning the voices I hear.
The first theory questions my sanity – obviously – because it’s not like I have never heard voices before and seen strange things. The kind of oddities that can’t be explained, the kind of knowledge that I shouldn’t know just flitter past my perceptions on occasion. And all of this began, though not nearly as strong or insistent as they are now, but they began before my turning. Naturally, my heritage forces me to question my grasp of sanity, but what my father – and those like him – do not take into consideration when they concoct their studies and diagnoses, is that the supernatural exists.
Another theory then springs to light. That it is merely a trait of my condition; the Vampire-Telepath condition, should I say, that I have yet to control. There are signals everywhere and by tapping into those radio waves, I can infiltrate a whole host of communication devices: laptops, mobile phones, car radios… basically anything that has a Wi-Fi facility. I’m a walking transmitter, and perhaps my brain configures all this information, all those megabytes, into sound – something it can deal with. Or, just perhaps, I am reading their minds involuntarily and… well, I have just yet to figure out how to stop those sounds from reaching me.
There was a time, not long ago, when this man blocked my abilities and it became deathly silent in my head. The voices just disappeared – not even a whisper of a hushed breath echoed in my head for an hour straight. I felt more unnerved than I ever had and I made Mr Ripper play me songs so that I could just not feel so… empty. I should consider this in my calculations, as it does hold a lot of weight. I notice too that the further I am from people, the fewer voices I hear. Sometimes, walking into a crowed space is like wading in treacle.
Or, there’s the other theory… a suggestion that I am somewhat clairvoyant. It’s not the most likely theory, but neither is it one I can wholeheartedly dismiss when there are indeed spirits around us. I can’t see them all the time, which Rutherford takes full advantage of, but I do hear him at least. He lets me hear him, I think, because there are some who cannot perceive him at all. Mortals mostly. So, I guess it must be possible that I am hearing others like him, or maybe not like him at all… even when I was mortal.
Or maybe I am just doing this to myself. Maybe there is nothing to be calculated at all and I truly am imagining things. The voice that told me, kill yourself, it could have been a reflection of my insecurities. Whatever it was, I’m not about to listen. I just remember the last time, when he pulled me out of the cold bath water too soon and they had to stitch me back together. He didn’t talk to me for weeks after that and I hated him for months. I think I might still hate him a tiny bit. I think he might hate me too.
And Noelle wants me to open up to her, suggests she won’t find me disgusting or repellent in the slightest. She has a part of me convinced, that stupid part of me that is blinded by the want to see everyone in a perfect beam of light. That eternally optimistic side of me that provides far more heartache than I deserve because it just thinks the next person won’t be like the others. But really, it’s not Noelle’s fault. It probably wasn’t any of their faults. There’s more than the voices to question after all. While I can’t just say nothing and neither can I lie to her, I just do not know what to do. If I reject her, I will squash her heart. If I tell her the truth… she might never want to look at me again.
Finally, I got the chance to speak with Mr Ripper following the attacks on Noelle.
I wasn’t surprised by his answer. Just surprised that he finally admitted it.
I forget that talking to him can be like siphoning blood from a ******* stone until we actually chat. Still, I’m glad it’s done. It confirmed what I thought and it’s always good to be right, but I think this will start to make thing better now.
I know he loves her. I know they love each other. They have a… unique understanding between them where he can throw her around like a ragdoll and she’ll let him because it’s him. I can’t say that I don’t understand it either and I hope that I helped him to realise, remember, that Noelle loves him and him alone.
What is love?
Why, it’s an agreement between people. You find that person, or persons, that makes you feel like you can’t live without and you latch hold. You’ll want to spend all your time with them because nothing makes you happier than seeing them, being with them, and knowing they are there.
And maybe people will look down their noses at you, tell you that you’re doing it wrong and it’s unhealthy, but at the end of the day, it’s none of their business. They don’t know what it feels like, even if you tell them, describe it to them with every word in the dictionary.
I’m happy for them and I hope now, things only get better.
Good luck Noelle and Ripper. May your love pursue your long, long lives.
It is truly fascinating how easily love transforms into hate.
I remember a girl sitting alone on the train. There was a phone in her hands, in her lap, instead of a prayer book and yet she looked no less pious. There was this look in her eyes, a kind of determined anger. I felt her hold onto it as desperately as a lifeline, almost as though she would sink into the bottomless oceans of sadness if she couldn’t cling onto her rage.
Tears pricked her eyes all the same. She defiantly wiped them away with the back of her hand, only to glare just as indignantly when the droplets stained her sleeve.
Perhaps I should have been less interested in her attire than her situation, but I couldn’t help but think that it had something to do with it all. I don’t mean her grey sweater was the cause of whatever tragedy she was facing, but simply that it was probably a symbol of her nature.
It’s nearly September. The average temperature is somewhere between 18 and 24 degrees in the day and a balmy 10 degrees or so at night. Not that most people give a **** about temperature when it comes to picking out an outfit. We vain creatures will dress to suit our desires. This girl, however, she was different.
Chic, but plain are the words I would use to describe her. Her wardrobe reminds me of Catholicism. There’s that dusty grey, cashmere-like character to her sweater. It pulls right down to the knuckles, right up to the neck, and floats around the hips. I feel like she bought it two sizes too big to obscure her femininity. She’s also wearing a pair of straight-leg trousers, fit for working in an office. The way they fit her thin legs makes me think of catwalk models because she really is a blank canvas.
The only interesting quirk about her appearance is the rage in those blue eyes, and how she went to the effort of applying just enough make-up to flatter her pretty face. I’ve worn more mascara, eye-shadow, and lipstick on a Sunday.
She’s had her mousy brown hair cut into a sweeping fringe too. Half her head, from what I can make out, has been shaven to the ski, revealing a pink ear and a dazzling chandelier of silver scales which hangs from it. The only other jewellery she wears is a pair of silver rings, one for each ring finger. They look like parted wedding rings because one is most definitely a band and the other, a solitaire diamond.
I suspect from the intermittent checking of her phone that she’s expecting a call. We both doubt that when the call comes it will make things better, however. This is more than a bad day at the office and while I’m never sure if it’s just my imagination or some sort of empathy, I feel like she’s worn out. She’s been strong for so long, but maybe the fight is over.
She probably doesn’t actually believe that, though. Not really. She knows she’s too stubborn to let the world break her down forever. She’s done this before. She’s felt the weight of it all press her into the dirt and she’s gotten back up, brushed the soil from herself, and jumped back into the scrap. She knows she’s a fighter, she’s just forgotten for a moment.
I don’t remember saying anything to her. I don’t remember even catching her eye. But when my stop came and I got up to leave the train, I saw her smile. It was the first time I’ve seen the sun break through the gloom since I was turned. And the best part? She was facing her own reflection.
As easily as love can transform into hate, at least it can come back.
