by Kizzie Hayes
The downstairs was completely overrun with cobwebs that disguised the small square dining room table that had once graced the kitchen. In the distance, she could hear the faint noises of rats. It smelled old, the Rue Chavern, and it felt so very old. It smelled of musk and dust. A pleasant smell, she thought. To her, it smelled of home.
Looming in the far corner stood the shadow of the old winding staircase that led up to the bedroom. Ever so slowly August approached it. Her eyes were fixed on the stairs as if she could not look away. She knew what she was doing to herself by even being in the vicinity, but there was no turning back for her now. Carefully, August ascended the staircase, its old, withered fragility creaking beneath her heavy boots. She reached out to caress the hand rail that was laden with thick dust and cobwebs. The dust and cobwebs clung to her hair and face as she went higher and higher, her heart threatening to burst from out of her chest.
Then August saw the bed as she reached the top. A silent rage suddenly consumed her as she stood motionless, staring at the bed where he and August had lain together so many times. She wanted to tear it apart, wanted to destroy and then burn it before burning the rest of the place to the ground. But she knew that she didn’t have the strength to part with such a memory. She loved this house as if she was still mortal. She would always love it. Always.
August approached the bed carefully. It was beautiful, made from dark oak wood of the finest nineteenth-century fashion. It was what would be called an antique if mortals managed to get their hands on it. She wouldn’t allow that, though. This bed was too precious a gift from her mortal lover than the cursed dark gift that he had bestowed upon me a year later. Everything was still intact. The lace curtains hung at the bedside, partly drawn in a bow-like fashion just the way he liked it. The bed itself was a mess; the blankets disturbed.
It all flooded back to August then, the night of her creation. He had made her in that bed. A shiver shot through August, cold and painful. With a shaking hand, she reached out to touch the lace, her fingers gently caressing the soft fabric. Then she turned mournfully to the bedside table and her heart sank.
August just couldn’t believe it. She wondered if it was even possible for it to still be here after so many centuries had passed? But there it lay on the dusty table, next to a wax candle that had burned to its hilt. Her old journal. Her mortal journal. She wasn’t sure how she had forgotten such a precious gift in her mortal years. But there it lay in all its splendor, closed and beckoning her to read the contents that she had long ago forgotten.
For a long time, August stood staring down at the little book, debating on what she should do. She was of two minds: one to walk away and leave it in the old abandoned house waiting to be discovered by mortal historians who loved nothing more than to collect artifacts, or to take it with her to London and read it in her new home. August’s curiosity was too strong to wait that long. She had six more hours before dawn. She had left Kyle to his own devices, and now she was finally alone.
She did what she had to do, and sat down upon her old dusty dresser chair and opened the journal that lay before her.
Paris, 1891: We have finally made it to Paris, Everard and I. With Madam Latrine's blessing, we have finally been released from the Plantation and set free. We are no longer trapped in a place of cold and constant darkness, but now living in a place that is beautiful and thriving, full of life. Never could I be happier than I am now; and to be here with him only makes my dream of freedom ever more a reality; one that I have not quite grasped yet.
Everard is quiet, yet I can see in his eyes that he is happy to be finally free. He is standing on the balcony of our quaint little apartment, gazing out at the lights of Paris below us, arms outstretched upon the railings, his hair blowing in the warm, gentle night air. God knows how long he has dreamed of this moment, and now he is living out that dream. I am happy for him, so happy. I am in love with him deeply. My friend, my lover, my soul mate. He deserves to be happy; he deserves to be free.
As August’s eyes read over the words of her first entry upon her and Everard’s arrival in Paris, she could see their apartment come to life as if she was back in those times. A dreadful sadness had consumed her then, and she found myself mourning for the past, mourning for the life that she had lost here. As she read the words, she could see now how in love she had been with Everard. August was obsessed with him; he possessed her like a spirit possessed a young child. He was the be-all and end-all for her.
Silently, August rose to her feet carefully picking up her journal as lightly as she could. She walked out to the old balcony where Everard had once stood. She leaned her arms over the railings and continued to read.
Paris, 1891: Everard has gotten a job at a local art gallery in central Paris. Everard has always loved the arts. He is now working on a new painting as I write. He brushes his hand so gracefully across the canvas; he truly is fascinating to watch. Below me, the streets of Paris have come alive. I can see men and women walking to the local theatres, dressed in all their finery to see the finest production of the evening. Everard insisted that I should go see a production tonight, but I refused. It would not seem right to witness a play without him beside me.
Now that I am with child, I am finding it difficult to enjoy the things that I once so loved. Instead, I find myself merely sitting here at my dresser writing down my thoughts while I sit with my free hand perched upon the round swell of my belly, counting down the days until our child is born.
I am very near now, the midwife says. I have another two months before Everard and I get to see our beautiful son or daughter. We truly will be a happy family then. All the hardships that he has endured! I hope our child will give him back the happiness that he lost so long ago.
He was overjoyed by the news of my being with child. When I had revealed the news to him, he looked at me with his blue eyes, face emotionless, before sweeping me up in his arms and kissing me so tenderly that his love almost burned my skin.
He will be the perfect father; of that I have no doubt. We are truly blessed.
August’s pale, slender fingers flicked through her old tattered journal until she finally reached the entry which she had almost inscribed upon her mind. With her hands shaking, she hesitated to look down at the tragic words that were displayed upon the brown-stained parchment pages. August suddenly became a child all over again; one who was afraid to face up to her past. August had to read it one last time, perhaps after all the years of ignoring its existence, she might just find an answer to what she was looking for. But then, she wasn’t quite sure what she was looking for.
Paris, 1891: Why have you left us like this? Have I displeased you? Insulted you? Tested your patience? Why have you left me to a lonely fate here in our Rue Chavern? Are you punishing me for some unforeseen crime?
You have been away from me for so many nights that I am beginning to fear for the worst. Do you know what torment I am going through, knowing that you are out there somewhere? Alone.
Are you dead? Are you alive? I feel numb, broken, and now our child is moving inside of me, making its presence known.
I cannot live like this knowing that I have wronged you. We were supposed to be a family, the three of us, remember? Yet you have left us to a fate that has cast us out of your life completely. Why? Have you suddenly had a change of heart? Do you no longer want us in your life? Have you left because I am with child?
All I did for you, my love, I did out of love. You are my beloved, my one true love and no matter how much hurt and pain you lavish upon me now with your disappearance, I will still pray that you will return to me, to us, when you see fit. I will wait for you, day and night. My eyes will search Paris for you and will only be contented until they see you again.
I love you, Everard, I always will, yet I hate you so for this!
Beneath was the final entry of my mortal years. What it contained frightened me.
Paris, 1891: Something is moving in the corner of the room. I can sense it.
I can feel it watching. I no longer know if I am merely overtired or if I truly see it! I can no longer distinguish fantasy from reality. I fear I am losing my mind. I have not slept for many a night, and now all I see is darkness and hear an evil voice whispering my name over and over from the shadows.
I can hear it now. It's beckoning me to it! The strange thing is I am not afraid! Why should I fear death if it has come for me? I am ready. Let it come.
Oh, beloved, I will be with you soon! Death is calling me. Calling us.
Droplets of blood stained the parchment a horrid brown color. August felt sick by just looking at it. She knew all too well where that blood had come from. Not long after she had written her final journal and had clambered into bed, she was taken. The memory was so vivid, so intense that in her preternatural mind it replayed itself repeatedly.
August walked back into the room in darkness. Mournfully she stood in the center of the room, unsure of what do with herself. The words of her final entry consumed her mind. Why should I fear death if it has come for me? I am ready. Let it come.
August wondered and thought. Had she truly lost her mind? Was that what drew him to take her? Or was it simply out of love that he brought her over? Either way, she was longing for death. She wanted it, craved it, needed it. Such a tragic truth to behold when at that time, there had been life growing inside of her.
Eternity had hardened August’s cold heart, yet at the first memory of her mortal life, that heart melted out of her into a pool of red at her feet. Suddenly she felt the urge to flee this place, but resisted it. She had one more thing to do.
*****
Placing the journal back onto the old dresser, August left it open on the last page that she had read. No one would find it; of that she was certain. Leaving her past behind, she walked swiftly down the winding staircase and out to the back garden without a second glance. Her heart was racing now as she let her feet carry her to the one place that she had not been strong enough to visit until that moment. August followed the overgrown path as if it was only yesterday that she had been there. In her mind, it still looked and felt as if she was safely home.
Slipping silently through the overhanging ivy and fern trees that brushed against her face, August continued walking down the old stone path that was now completely submerged with wet leaves the color of autumn. When she broke through the clearing of trees, it was as if she had walked back into my past. Everything remained unchanged. In the far corner stood the little tomb that had been built especially for the child who had never lived, encased with overhanging ivy and lavender flowers blooming all over the great stone tomb of her child.
Before August could get control over her emotions, the tears spilled from her eyes, staining her marble-white cheeks crimson. She sobbed. Long, drawn-out cries of anguish and despair as she stood beside her child’s grave, staring at the nameless one whose body did not even reside inside of the cold tomb. There was no body. The child had emptied out of her in a red flush the moment Everard gave August the vampire’s kiss.
Oh, my child. August’s mind whispered painfully. Her pain greatly expanded as she took next to her child’s empty grave. You had a chance to live, and I stole that chance from you. I let myself be defiled by your father, but you see he was not himself, he was not human. What human feeds off the blood of their loved ones?
August found myself searching desperately for an excuse for why she let her baby die. She blamed him, but she knew deep down that it was not Everard’s fault. He was confused, new to the blood. He didn’t understand what he was doing. All he knew was the excruciating thirst that consumes all of them when first born to darkness. August had been enthralled, yet frightened. Upon seeing Everard return to her, all August felt was happiness until she saw his face. She let him take her. August wanted to die and she felt who better than to take her life than her beloved? She was selfish, so selfish! Not once did she consider the pain that their child would endure. She often wondered if their child suffered as it died. She often wondered if it knew how sorry she was for not being strong enough to save it.
With cold fingers, August reached out to brush against the old withered stone. She was weakening, she could sense it. August was in dire of need of blood, so thirsty yet too submerged in her sorrow to do anything about it. She would not leave here like this! She vowed not leave that empty grave until she had truly mourned a life that had not lived. After all, it was the least she could do as she stood in immortal mockery at her child's grave. Her child who never got to see the light of day?
Suddenly August was furious at Everard. A fire burned so intensely inside of her that she was afraid that she would lose control. She felt sick with crazed curiosity if he had even visited their child’s grave. As she stood beside the grave, August wondered if he had ever bothered to make an effort to grieve for the one thing in his mortality that he truly lost. Or if his selfness nature barred him in fear that the mud there at the cemetery would be too unbearable for him to endure on his new shiny boots?
Two hundred years in the blood had not only hardened a once gentle heart, but also corrupted it into a selfish, arrogant being who was insufferable and quite detestable. August understood completely why others of their kind hated him. The immortals hated to love him, and they loved to hate him. Who could resist the rebellious one? The raven haired one, the arrogant one? After all, Everard only acted out what they kept as their secret fantasies. Everard wanted to tell the world that he was immortal and that they would love him just because they could. It was hard to resist him no matter how much of a cruel fiend he had become over the centuries.
But could her Everard be so cold? So many questions flooded her mind at that moment that August suddenly had an urge to go back to the chateau in central Paris and confront him about it, but thought better of it. What was done was done, and she had to accept it no matter how bitter a taste it left in her mouth.
Mournfully, August turned her head to the side of the tomb to look at the inscription upon it. Nothing. An unmarked grave, an open invitation to all kinds of evil without the Lord’s blessing.
Pain. Anger. Thirst. In a cold fury, August tore her hand away from the tomb and descended into the night air once more. She had to leave that place. She couldn’t take it no more. The sky was already turning pale with the promise of sunrise. Shades of pale pink and peachy orange painted the sky. There would be no time to hunt now.
In her rage, August knew that she had two options of where she could find rest and sleep off the day. She could either choose to return to the one being that she had loved who she had not seen in over two centuries, or she could face her demons and sleep in the empty tomb of the nameless child. In her heart of hearts, she knew that she had made my decision. August turned on her heel and once again, like a figure of a lost soul, quietly made her way toward the tomb.
August forced open the stone lid before piling herself inside. She was drained, so very drained. She pulled the lid shut and lay there for a moment in the dank, dark silence wishing that the body of her child was in her arms and that she was singing to it. But it was just a fantasy, and no matter how hard August tried to remember that she was no longer mortal, the pain would consume her. Never again could she bear a child; never again would she feel the warmth of a newborn babe upon her breast. August was doomed to be this creature. Taker of life, cold and unfeeling. The walking death.
Embracing her nature with bitter resentment, she let herself fall victim to the age of sleep.
*****
August’s burning and raw thirst woke her up. Her throat had become dry, and she could feel how tightly she clenched her jaw as she resisted the urge to bite down into her own lip and draw blood. She needed to hunt. August had gone too long without blood which was foolish of her to do. She knew she should have hunted before her descent to Paris, but August was so desperately curious as to why she had been summoned by her old lover that the idea of draining a human slipped her mind.
Silently August cursed hersel
f for being so careless. She was always so careful.
The twinkling lights of Paris engulfed her as she stood beneath the grand Eiffel Tower, drinking in the beauty around her.
August watched the young sweet couples who huddled together in loving embraces beneath the illuminated tower of romance. August was hungry, insanely hungry. The scent of the blood of the mortals intoxicated her and almost made her drunk on the smell alone. She had to close her eyes to stop from revealing her true nature.
All the issues from the previous night left August’s mind as her main priority became feeding. But she had a problem, there was no evil that lingered within the grand central. They were all good people, innocent and in love. The only evil here was her.
However, August needed to feed and nourish her aching body. Somewhere in the back of her mind she could hear Everard’s mocking laughter as she fought with the urge to hunt an innocent. As wicked as he was, the one thing Everard taught August was to only hunt defenseless humans, the ones that littered the streets in sleeping bags and begged for mercy. They were not evil people, and when she fed upon them, she did it out of kindness. August released them from their pain, but Everard was not so kind. He would kill all of them and not bat an eyelid as long as his thirst was sated.
August was certain that she could go and find one of the undesirables so that she could quench her burning thirst. She was positive there was one lurking in alley somewhere waiting to rob or to rape a young woman. If her strength had been up to it, she would follow them like a hunter, but she was weakening by the minute and could not last another hour without sustenance.
So, August did what she had to do.
She found her target. He was a young man of about twenty. Dressed alternatively as August, as was the fashion. His hair was black as the night itself and fell down his back in a long waterfall. He could have almost passed for one of the undead himself, but for the fact she could smell his life-force on him.
