Path of the Vampire forum

((OOC: You are reading the IC journal entries of Angele. The information herein is not to be used in-game in any way unless revealed in active roleplay or in the game. Conversations noted have actually taken place in the game. If you do not wish to have your character (or conversation) mentioned, do not talk to Angele.

Angele’s primary language is French. This journal is translated for the convenience of the reader.))




It has been a month since I died. Well, I think I died; it is all rather unclear to me. I awoke in a pool of blood, mostly my own. I have no idea how long I was lying there. My first instinct was to look around, so sure was I that the emergency personnel had finally arrived at the store and had woken me. But no, as usual I was alone. I felt woozy and so very tired but managed to sit up. My polo shirt was ruined and I remember thinking I would never get out the stains. I tried to stand and hit my head on the open cash register. That was when I remembered the killer and the struggles over such a foolish amount of money.
I still did not think I was dead. Never mind that when I lost consciousness I felt like my spirit rose out of my body. I watched above the horrific scene below as if I were floating in air currents. I could feel no pain and no emotion as if the grisly actions were taking place in a movie. Dispassionate to my own demise I was simply a voyeur, impotent to affect the outcome.

There was no recounting of my life’s story and no accounting of my sins. My world did not pass before my eyes. What I saw before me were disembodied faces, all rushing towards me, speaking not so much in words but emotions. Fear, anger, and confusion emanated from their ghostly maws. I wanted to bat them away but they seemed to pass through me. Instead of the peace and harmony described by so many death experiences, I heard their frenetic voices. They were not angels singing to me about God and his glories. Theirs were confused whispers and moans as if a transit station full of people were all trying to get my attention. Only some could I understand their twisted tongues.

There was no light, no seeing Grandmère Marie. Instead I plunged into a void, darkness so deep it had no beginning and no end. I felt cold but I may have been imagining that as I had no other physical sensation. It was like being suspended in a pitch-black, bottomless pit. My eyes did not work but at least the faces no longer penetrated my physical boundaries. I kept expecting to meet God or even Satan but there was only a profound emptiness punctuated by the distracting din of the relentless voices. They gave me no information, succor or direction. I waited and waited for the tunnel of light, the path to salvation or even the gates of Hell to open but there was nothing transcendent in that eternal moment, no evolution in either a positive or negative direction.

I began to concentrate on the voices until I could convert them into a low vibration reverberating in my head. It mentally exhausted me but it was the only way to control the madness. Immersed in the timelessness, it was a shock when physical sensations again manifested in my body. I saw bright lights and thought for sure it was the path to heaven. It was only the overly-bright fluorescent luminaires of the convenience store.

Once I stood on my wobbly legs I looked over the counter at the mess created by the fight. Debbie and Ryan were going to be furious if I didn’t get this cleaned up before the next shift came in. Never mind the fact the store was robbed, the litter and blood mixed with ice and water was certainly not their standard of cleanliness. I went to the bathroom to clean myself up before calling the police. It was then that I screamed. I had no reflection when I looked in the mirror. I patted my face and waved my hands in front of the mirror. I even licked the mirror. I was gone.

I bought a scooter today. It’s so cute! Here is a picture of it:



I obviously no longer feel the need to walk for my health. Staying as I do now in my Grandmère Marie’s cabin outside town, I need the scooter to get around. Plus it is so fun – so freeing. For once I feel joy as I cruise down the street. I went everywhere today and used much more gasoline than I expected! I even rode out to the hidden caves but I could not find the entrance.

It was scaring me too much being on foot. There are too many police and I know so many of them. Since I decided to run from my former life I think I am a fugitive. There are reward signs in the window of the store where I worked asking for information as to my whereabouts. Everyone thinks I was kidnapped. With a scooter I can put on a helmet and be anonymous. I am careful to follow the traffic laws. I do not want to be stopped and questioned.

As stupid as my job was, at least it gave me income… and free cigarettes. My lungs are no longer necessary but I still love to fill them with rich smoke. Now I no longer have to worry about throat or lung cancer or breathing problems. I suppose that is a small consolation. Cigarettes are still easy to get though. So many people forget them on the park bench or leave them at their table in the cafes. They are not always my brand – Players Smooth Flavour – but I am less picky when the price is right.

With money comes a different kind of freedom. It is no fun to not be able to buy what you want. It is no fun to have to worry about utilities and rent and food. I am lucky that the cabin is completely mortgage-free. It is on well and septic so there are no utility bills. The cabin has a gasoline generator for electricity, which I try to minimize with the fireplace and candles. I take the garbage to the industrial part of town and use an open dumpster. Besides, I have very little garbage.

Well, food is no longer a financial problem. I tried to drink a cup of coffee before I left the store for the last time and ended up throwing up. I tried eating a Coffee Crisp and had the same reaction. This nausea has almost completely eliminated my grocery bill. I buy cleaning supplies and laundry detergent. It is not very exciting. But then, my life was never exciting. Why should I expect this existence to be any different?

I am so tired of rabbit blood. I think I’m going to turn into a bunny.

I saw this yahoo news article (http://news.yahoo.com/faking-own-death- ... 12429.html) about a man who faked his own death for the insurance. It said that if he had not wanted money, there was nothing illegal about it. The act even has a name – psuedocide. Of course, this was the United States where it happened but it did give me pause because that is exactly what I felt I had to do after my deadly attack. Unfortunately, unlike the man in the article, I had no time to plan my demise.

Anyway, when I realized I should not try to pretend to still be human, I gave up thinking of how to mop up all the blood on the floor and instead, stole all my favorite cigarettes from the store. It was petty but all the money, what little there was, was already gone. The least I could do was have a good smoke. I left the store, careful to take off my shoes so as to not track the blood on my shoes beyond the entry.

It shows you what kind of city Harper Rock is that no one paid attention to the barefoot, bloody girl jogging down the street. I went from desperately needing the police to save me from my attacker to avoiding them completely. I traveled back streets, alleyways, and crossed parks to keep from being seen. My first stop was my apartment where I grabbed what I could carry – money, jewelry, etc. I knew the police would search there so I made it look like the place had been ransacked. That way it would be hard to tell what all was missing. It was difficult to leave my pictures and family keepsakes, but in a way, those people could no longer be my family.

In the bathtub I changed out of my bloody clothes and bagged them to burn later. I put on an oversized hoodie and sweats, clothes that hid my hair, my figure and my wounds. In a way, I dressed like my attacker. Meticulously, I cleaned the bathtub so that there was no trace of blood. I left the apartment door slightly ajar as I headed for the bank.

My bank limits daily ATM withdrawals so I was not able to drain my account, but I took what I could. I was careful to turn away from the security cameras so all they could tell was that a hooded figure had withdrawn money. What I got would have to do.

Where to go was the next dilemma. I had no transportation. I couldn’t exactly call friends and ask for a ride nor could I take public transit and not expect to be noticed. So I hid in abandoned buildings and out in the dark places of the forest. I wanted to go to the family cabin, Grandmère Marie’s former home, but I knew I would have to lay low until it too has been searched by the police. It was three weeks before I ventured inside and decided to make it my home. It was better than staying in cafes or marketplaces.

At first I was paranoid about staying there, thinking the neighbors might report lights in the windows and smoke coming from the chimney, but all of the cabins are secluded by dense woods. Additionally, the neighbors have never been the sort to get in another’s business. I knew my mother would never return to the cabin. She was happy to leave it when Grandmère Marie passed on. She had no intention of coming back especially since her new husband was not the outdoors type. Had it not been placed in a family trust managed jointly by distant relatives I am sure she would have sold it.

Did I do a good job of faking my death and starting over? I guess I did better than the man in the article, for whatever that’s worth. I haven’t been caught yet!!

I am obsessed with my fangs. Only recently was I told I’m a vampire. I felt so foolish to not even know, to not pay attention to my fangs. But I cannot see them. My canines seemed longer but I never really correlated my teeth with my new status. I just thought I was a ghoul or wraith or maybe even a carnivorous ghost. Now I meticulously draw my tongue over my fangs, marveling at their length and the sharp tips. It is a wonder I do not cut myself on my own canines.

I’ve tried to view them, to catch a glimpse of them in reflective windows, to no avail. I’ve even tried to see them in the eyes of my victims but I’ve learned their pupils grow dull with death. I haven’t the patience to hold feral rabbits close enough while they desperately wiggle, their back legs pumping and clawing at my belly, to see my teeth.

I worry about dental health. Can I still get cavities? Will my fangs yellow with my smoking and my blood diet? Just in case, I pocketed from the pharmacy a new toothbrush, whitening toothpaste, dental floss and mouth rinse that not only freshens the breath but is supposed to whiten teeth as well. I do not ever wish to be accused of having “blood breath;” it might give away my true nature. I am now fastidious about using these products daily.

Myk finally succeeded in hitting me with a water balloon. It took him three tries. I was afraid what might be inside, but it turned out to just be water. Then he kissed me. Is this like école primaire when the boy that taunts you really likes you? He is one of the only people to pay attention to me but I am very confused about the attention. He casts spells on me then gives me things, like a bear trap, and tells me he will pay me if I catch a clown. A clown? I would rather catch a bear; at least I can sell the hide. He looks like a refugee from an 80’s hair band and he wears more make-up than me. Still, I see him everywhere. At first that creeped me out but now I find it soothing, a familiar presence. I just wish I knew his intentions.

All those stupid Twilight books and movies have it all wrong. I don’t sparkle in sunlight. I have not been in sunlight since my death. Judging from the wicked effects of the diffuse light emanating from clerestory windows in the abandoned places I have stayed, I have learned the feeling is not pleasant and to stay out of the sun. I guess my mother was right. Whether dead or alive, the sun is an enemy to your skin.

I am now the proud owner of a… dead rabbit? It was a gift from Myk for finding him a clown he liked. Well, a picture of a clown. "You found me a clown as creepy as me! Je t'adore!" I had to smile inside.

I offered to find him another and he enthusiastically endorsed the idea. It is easy for me to give him this small pleasure. The internet often swirls in my head. I close my eyes and catch a data stream. It’s like swimming in a binary current. I am never sure where it will lead me nor do I really care. Now I understand the term “surf the web” on an entirely different level. No water, just endless avenues and paths of information that branch into a multitude of new loci.

Sometimes I wander into corporate accounts. They are orderly, almost fortressed in their security walls. It’s like running a maze to find their secrets. It amuses me to download their files, only to show myself that I can. They sell for a little money but that’s not the point. It’s the sport of it that I like the best – conquering their complex systems with no more than a few thoughts and store-bought script. Even if I get booted out while I soldier through their rigid formats, it only makes me laugh and want to try harder to penetrate their defenses.

The best thing about these internet journeys is that it quiets the voices in my head. No longer are they dully whispering in my ears. Only occasionally does a face transpose itself into the data stream, transparent and ethereal. I can easily push it away and move beyond. I’m untouchable, impenetrable and utterly free when I ride the waves of cyberspace. And yes, Myk, I will find you clowns.

I might as well admit it. I’m a thief and a pretty good one at that. It is not like I could continue university and become a marriage counselor. Dead people don’t need marriage counselors. Besides, I have no income anymore and I had to leave behind most of my possessions. After I hocked my electronics and what little good jewelry I had, there weren’t a lot of options. Pickpockets make decent money and I’m amazed at how many buildings are minimally secured. Pawn shops are everywhere and the clerks never ask about how it is I am in every other day with a wristwatch or a ring. I try to vary where I sell, just in case I’m recognized. But the clerks appear apathetic to their clientele, unlike the cops, who have actually called for me to stop. I never do. I run like hell or just keep riding my scooter. I never even take a look to see if it is someone I knew.

The pawn shops will take almost anything from animal pelts to electronics and everything in between. I’ve managed to replace my wardrobe from pilfered goods and sell the things that don’t fit me or that I dislike. My toiletry box is fully stocked with all the major brands – Lancôme, Loreal, and Estée Lauder to name a few. I even managed to score a beautiful bottle of L'air Du Temps parfum, my favorite. I have bins of computer and hardware supplies and cartons of cigarettes. I keep my brand - Players Smooth Flavour - and distribute the ones I do not like to patrons in the cybercafés. Most of them silently accept my gifts without acknowledgement. Only once has someone accepted my offering enthusiastically and unfortunately, we were in the library at the time. I suggested we meet at a café the next night but he stood me up. Even in death men can be pigs. I suppose I can steal anything but a man’s heart.

I tried to kill myself today. It was pointless. I decided I’d had enough of living between two worlds, not dead and yet, not really alive. I’m never going to have children. I’m never going to marry. I’m never going to travel abroad. There are so many ‘I’m nevers’ that they overwhelmed me. The voices in my head seemed to enjoy the pity party and buzzed even more loudly, almost cackling in glee. So I took myself to church figuring the mere presence of something like me, an abomination, would disintegrate me. But as I opened the heavy wooden doors, Hell did not embrace me. Instead I was greeted by the lingering smell of heavy incense. The frankincense and myrrh had permeated the woodwork and rugs, an ever-present reminder of the eternal sacrifice. I doused myself with holy water from the entry fonts. I did not burn in any way; I simply got wet. I picked up a Bible and it did not singe me. Annoyed, I touched each and every station of the cross to no avail. In my hour of need, the Catholic Church had abandoned me.

The church was empty so I lay down on a pew and cried. The voices echoed loudly in my head their anger, pain and sorrow, booming their soulful chants, often in tongues I could not understand. They were in agony and only amplified my discouraged defeat. I did not need a chorus of spirits to witness my failure. Where was the Holy Ghost to sanctify my offering of myself? Here I was, ready to renounce my vampirism and seek solace again in my saviour’s arms, and I was rejected. There would be no peace in death. I lowered the padded kneeling bar and knelt, just as I would have had I been in service. I quickly whispered a prayer:

Ô mon Dieu, appuyé sur ta puissance infinie et sur tes promesses, j'espère avec une ferme confiance obtenir le pardon de mes péchés, l'assistance de ta grâce et la vie éternelle, par les mérites de Jésus Christ mon Sauveur.

I took one look back at the altar and the nave as I closed the heavy wooden doors. I still wanted to believe that God had plans for me but I knew deep inside me, that there was no going back to my faith. That which had sustained me for so many years was now a hollow and empty place in my heart. Thomas Wolfe wrote, "You can't go back home to your family, back home to your childhood ... back home to a young man's dreams of glory and of fame ... back home to places in the country, back home to the old forms and systems of things which once seemed everlasting but which are changing all the time – back home to the escapes of Time and Memory." He was right. I cannot go back to God.

Next time I will try sunbathing.