(no subject)
It comes again. I thought I had found a way to keep it all at bay. It was my models that kept me from ending this eternal nightmare of those years ago when I was alone, lost, and new to this life he had given me. Armand left me when he had grown tired of me. He left me, before I could leave him. If only he had more patience with me, he would have seen that I wasn’t pushing him away, I was only exploring this new world he had born me into. His fear was, that anyone he would make immortal would leave him and eventually hate him for the gift he gave. Sadly, a self-fulfilling prophecy. How wrong he was. I suppose it’s too late now.
When Marius found me and took me in, I sought to control my desire to put an end to my immortal life. Marius indulged me when I developed a passion for my small cities. Perhaps he knew how close to oblivion I was. If only Armand would have just seen it for what it was, instead of constantly berating me. But, that’s all gone now. Taken away in the blink of an eye, with a cruel twist of words. And now I’m forced to find another means to control, what may be inevitable.
How can I explain what is happening to me now, when I understand it so little myself. Just another one of my delusions perhaps. Freedom. I wanted it so badly. So badly, that my mind conjured up a fanciful tale of escape. A dream so vivid, that I’m still struggling with the fact that it wasn’t real. I’m not sure I want to recount those events right now, maybe another time when the pain of what I’ve done is not so fresh. And why further any perceptions to my unstable condition. It would only seal my fate, if it hasn’t already.
It’s hard enough to bear when Armand entered my room the next night upon which I wrote to him thinking I had escaped. When I woke, he was standing over me, right where I had fallen dead to the floor in my sleep of the day, to gloat over the fact that his foolish fledgling was in fact not gone at all. He reminded me this room is perfectly sealed, a room made to keep an immortal inside, to keep me inside. There was no way for me to escape.
In that moment, the horror of everything he was saying crashed in on me, as I realized that all that I thought I had done, all that I thought I had experienced, all that I recounted was only an illusion. A damn illusion!
He couldn’t see the inner turmoil that was brewing inside of me. Yet, Armand wasn’t finished. In his anger of my brash and outspoken words, he added that it would be a cold day in hell before I would see the light of freedom again, and that I could go hungry for a couple of nights just to prove his point. Turning away from me he left, making it a point to close the door very loudly and that I heard each and every lock finding its mark.
I flew at the door, and threw myself against it with every ounce of power I possessed. It was futile my attempts to force it open. Yet, in my rage at his smug and callous judgment, without one shred of understanding, I began to beat against the door. I beat and pounded, yelling to him to not punish me in this way. Did I feel the blood flowing from my hands and arms with my efforts? Who really feels pain when anguish has taken hold?
I continued pounding, until I grew too weak to go on. It wasn’t only the weakness of the blood I had lost, but the weakness I felt of the finality of the situation. No matter how much I screamed to be let out, I knew that it would never happen. I grew quiet, and in my darkened room, I sat on the floor, against the farthest wall from the door, curling my arms around my knees and began silently shedding crimson tears.
I sat for hours upon hours unmoving, wallowing in my own despair, when I heard the locks of the door begin to move. What, had Armand not had enough of his torture? Had he now his second wind and come back to unleash upon me more of his cruel punishments? I stood, bracing myself for the battle to come.
Between the darkness of the room and the sudden backlight from the hall, the dark figure that stood tall in the doorway was not discernable, even to my vampire eyes. The height of this figure told me right away that this was not Armand, but one with a great towering strength. I thought perhaps Marius had talked some sense into my maker and convinced him that this was not the way to handle this.
Before I could stop the words, the name Marius passed my lips in a grateful sigh. I staggered weak and unsteadily forward, ready to plead my case and explain what I had done, and what was happening to me. However, when I got close enough to this shadowy figure to see a face, I stopped in my tracks. This was not Marius at all. When the figure slowly stepped past the threshold, I choked on the name, though I knew it as I knew my own.
This had to be another delusion. It was not possible that he could be here, much less in my room. I went back to where I was sitting before on the floor, convinced that the man that stood in my room was not, Santino, but a phantom of my own growing madness. . . .
When Marius found me and took me in, I sought to control my desire to put an end to my immortal life. Marius indulged me when I developed a passion for my small cities. Perhaps he knew how close to oblivion I was. If only Armand would have just seen it for what it was, instead of constantly berating me. But, that’s all gone now. Taken away in the blink of an eye, with a cruel twist of words. And now I’m forced to find another means to control, what may be inevitable.
How can I explain what is happening to me now, when I understand it so little myself. Just another one of my delusions perhaps. Freedom. I wanted it so badly. So badly, that my mind conjured up a fanciful tale of escape. A dream so vivid, that I’m still struggling with the fact that it wasn’t real. I’m not sure I want to recount those events right now, maybe another time when the pain of what I’ve done is not so fresh. And why further any perceptions to my unstable condition. It would only seal my fate, if it hasn’t already.
It’s hard enough to bear when Armand entered my room the next night upon which I wrote to him thinking I had escaped. When I woke, he was standing over me, right where I had fallen dead to the floor in my sleep of the day, to gloat over the fact that his foolish fledgling was in fact not gone at all. He reminded me this room is perfectly sealed, a room made to keep an immortal inside, to keep me inside. There was no way for me to escape.
In that moment, the horror of everything he was saying crashed in on me, as I realized that all that I thought I had done, all that I thought I had experienced, all that I recounted was only an illusion. A damn illusion!
He couldn’t see the inner turmoil that was brewing inside of me. Yet, Armand wasn’t finished. In his anger of my brash and outspoken words, he added that it would be a cold day in hell before I would see the light of freedom again, and that I could go hungry for a couple of nights just to prove his point. Turning away from me he left, making it a point to close the door very loudly and that I heard each and every lock finding its mark.
I flew at the door, and threw myself against it with every ounce of power I possessed. It was futile my attempts to force it open. Yet, in my rage at his smug and callous judgment, without one shred of understanding, I began to beat against the door. I beat and pounded, yelling to him to not punish me in this way. Did I feel the blood flowing from my hands and arms with my efforts? Who really feels pain when anguish has taken hold?
I continued pounding, until I grew too weak to go on. It wasn’t only the weakness of the blood I had lost, but the weakness I felt of the finality of the situation. No matter how much I screamed to be let out, I knew that it would never happen. I grew quiet, and in my darkened room, I sat on the floor, against the farthest wall from the door, curling my arms around my knees and began silently shedding crimson tears.
I sat for hours upon hours unmoving, wallowing in my own despair, when I heard the locks of the door begin to move. What, had Armand not had enough of his torture? Had he now his second wind and come back to unleash upon me more of his cruel punishments? I stood, bracing myself for the battle to come.
Between the darkness of the room and the sudden backlight from the hall, the dark figure that stood tall in the doorway was not discernable, even to my vampire eyes. The height of this figure told me right away that this was not Armand, but one with a great towering strength. I thought perhaps Marius had talked some sense into my maker and convinced him that this was not the way to handle this.
Before I could stop the words, the name Marius passed my lips in a grateful sigh. I staggered weak and unsteadily forward, ready to plead my case and explain what I had done, and what was happening to me. However, when I got close enough to this shadowy figure to see a face, I stopped in my tracks. This was not Marius at all. When the figure slowly stepped past the threshold, I choked on the name, though I knew it as I knew my own.
This had to be another delusion. It was not possible that he could be here, much less in my room. I went back to where I was sitting before on the floor, convinced that the man that stood in my room was not, Santino, but a phantom of my own growing madness. . . .