The Cycles of Time
History is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake. -- Ulysses, James Joyce.
There is a cycle of sorts in my life. Like the cycle of season, endless wheels of mornings dying into the next day, months bleeding into the next and years, years creeping along toward a bleak future. Yes, I am the harbinger of happiness herself, but I have cause.
Who else, but the most damned of them all would be left to live when those she knew and loved are dying and leaving her behind.
Dear Lucy, lovely friend and nearly sister, Lucy, dead at the hands of a blood malady, risen again into the night only to be sliced apart by the good Doctor, Van Helsing.
Then Jonathan, my dearly departed husband. He entered my life, like the quiet dawn of a spring morning, becoming a part of my life day after day, letter upon letter, winsome word and dulcet dream after dream.
He could not imagine how I had fallen prey to the Count. Could not fathom how I had tasted of his poisoned blood and lived to tell the tale. Jonathan left me as sure that I had played the wanton to the Count’s bloodlust. That I had willingly had gone into his embrace.
Another who left me in my short time on this Earth. Is there no one that will stay with me beyond a few turns of the seasons? Is there no one willing to wake me from this endless nightmare?
Word Count 236