Path of the Vampire forum

Posted: **12 Apr 2013, 03:50**

Kaleidoscopes of dreams - vivid and wild, alive with color and reality. Her mother's face picturesque in porcelain lingered there for a moment - the same face that she'd seen in the photograph her father had given her as a child. Her pale pink lips and jet black hair faded into nothing...the way that ash seems to dissipate against the air. "Je m'appelle, Josephine," she said aloud facing forward in the second desk of the third row in Madame LeBlanc's French class. "Je voudrais un stylo, s'il vous plait." Enunciation was key. The way Madame LeBlanc's lips pursed into a tight oval when she spoke - mesmerizing. Vendetta's father spoke fluently when upset or when conducting business. Cajun French was somewhat different than standard French, however, which left her miles behind in a cloud of dust most of the time. "...s'il vous plait..." The words echoed through the silence. Blood. Everywhere. Who knew it had a voice? It said ".. spurt.. gurgle.. spurt... gush..." as it sprayed the wall and the floor and the clothes and the skin... So much blood. She stood outside looking in at herself holding a ballpoint pen like a dagger. His blood smeared her forehead. Her eyes were wide, and the look of horror on her face was riddled with uncertainty. In that moment of clarity, she had to ask herself... "Well, did you enjoy it?"

::12:33am::

Why is it that I never get to see the end of that dream? It's like watching a movie that abruptly ends with "To be continued..." There's nothing more frustrating. I've asked myself this question a thousand times over, but I think I'm too afraid to answer. Perhaps I'm not ready for the truth. Perhaps I already know... Perhaps. If this city is crawling with creeps, then I'm home. I miss his hands around my throat accompanied by the urge to scream and the desire to die. Now I just feel... empty. I'm outside the gates of the Quarantined Zone teasing the living dead. One might say I'm asking for trouble... that is, if one thought about me. He thought about me. Sweet abandon in the torment of his breath against my skin. I miss his coarseness. I miss the savage. Too bad he had to die.

Posted: **13 Apr 2013, 02:07**

:: 8:41 PM ::

Dear Savage -
You raped and plundered and burned me down. You destroyed me and rebuilt me. You used me up and filled me with garbage. I'm a wasteland.

With Love
- V

I feel slightly resentful that no one has hunted me down, but then why would they look for me at all? They likely chocked the likes of it up to self defense and swept the details under the rug. They all knew - the orderlies, the nurses, the shrinks. Hell, even maintenance and the janitorial crew had at least an idea of the goings on. He was my captor, my tormentor, and my only friend. 'Good night, sleep tight' says the praying mantis that is me. An itch down deep inside that needed to be scratched. Yes, that's what it was. I know the itch that he created and sated on a nearly nightly basis - when the ticking clock was all you could hear in the halls and the rubber soled shoes were idle. However... this time it was different. Something flipped like a switch, and thus the beginning of his end. Or the end of his beginning, whichever. Did you enjoy it, Vendetta? Survey says... I think I might have, but to be sure, I might need to do it again........

Posted: **17 Apr 2013, 15:22**

Dear Savage -
Without you my womb is cold, barren, and untouched. I miss your brutality.

With love,
- V

:: 10:00 AM ::

Things aren't adding up. Harper Rock has more secrets than even I do, I fear. I wasn't where I'd left myself again when I woke up. This time I was in a part of town that I'd never consciously been to. How had I gotten there? Am I sleepwalking again? At night? In the city? How is that even possible?? I physically cannot cover that much ground in a few hours awake - let alone in a deep sleep. Another thing - my head hurts when I wake up, and it's all swimmy like I've been dosed. The only basis for comparison that I have would be to the pills that the blond nurse used to give me. She told me they would make it all go away. Whatever "it" was never went away, however. It simply melted and swam - like the liquid in a lava lamp. (The only time she had ever actually seen a lava lamp was through a shop window on Decatur... or was it St. Charles?)

I catch myself fantasizing about maiming people. I'll see someone on the train and wonder what it would feel like to tug on his heart strings... literally. Looking back now... it wasn't only amazement. It was rapture. The thick crude deep crimson that flowed from his throat like a river of honesty. It was his essence, and I held it in my hands. I felt... powerful. It was sticky and smelled bitter and metallic. Something I could never forget.

Formaldehyde is one of those smells that you never forget. The last time it hit me like a ton of bricks while eating toast. Explain that. I know that the smell was first introduced to me when I was a girl - years ago. We were dissecting frogs in Biology, and it reeked. God, how it reeked. That sour stench that made my stomach turn and ruined the dissection for most, including myself. Now I have a hard enough time eating toast...because it reminds me of formaldehyde.

My own thoughts have been derailed like a train.

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.:Memories:How I repress thee:.

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