Distract my hunger
X. Williamson
Copyright © 2011 by X. Williamson.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2011920090
ISBN: Hardcover 978-1-6176-4467-2
Softcover 978-1-6176-4469-6
Ebook 978-1-6176-4468-9
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book was printed in the United States of America.
To order additional copies of this book, contact:
Palibrio
1-877-407-5847
www.Palibrio.com
[email protected]
328972
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
EPILOGUE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
To each and every person that loves me or ever loved me,
for love makes the world go round . . .
Art is just an abstract of our souls,
And love makes who we are . . .
PROLOGUE
Forgive me, for I’m well aware this may be my last letter,
I know I promised I’d be there forever, but I have failed you once again. Staying there implies imminent peril for her and I’m not willing to risk it. Times are changing in dangerous ways and though my selfish will is the one that rules my impulses, it may be wise enough to save us all.
The road we’ll travel will be hazardous, I know, but I cannot think of any other and my soul is urging me to take it. I will not tell you our exact whereabouts to make sure you don’t even have to lie to the other council members. They may read this letter, brand me as a traitor or even hunt me, I honestly just don’t care. My poor heart knew nothing in all its ancient wisdom until my eyes were finally set upon her.
I never knew true love until I met the lilac-kissed windows of her soul, ebony lashes fringed my soul’s perdition, and once I saw them I knew what I had known all along. She could see right through me, and though I knew my decision would change us all, I could not bring myself to take any other: I was not strong enough to put an end to the bearer of those eyes, and . . . she’s flesh of my flesh after all.
I had to keep her and guard her with my life. For her life now means more than my own. My dear friend, I don’t think you’ll ever understand me, but please believe me when I tell you I’m still me beneath it all. Wrecking my reputation and even my soul’s perdition is worth for saving her life.
The Council’s decision was unanimous, I know. I try but I cannot even remember what I was thinking when I voted in favour of getting rid of her. Her presence means peril for many they say; they even believe that she’s the bearer of our kind’s doom, but to be honest, I’m not so sure. How can we be certain that the others were mistaken? Do you honestly believe that my sweet child can bring our end? There’s much more to her than simply that, I’m quite certain . . .
Oh dear friend, I tried, believe me that I tried! I intended to make her the sheath of my unholy copper dagger but she looked at me. She looked at me with her uncanny amethyst eyes and I felt the world stopped turning. She did not cry, she did not shout, she just looked at me. She knew.
I could see ancient wisdom in her stare and more power than I ever imagined being stored in her tiny body. Her eyes looked more than right into me, she saw beyond me. Beyond her mother who intended to kill her, beyond the council’s wishes that were about to be fulfilled. Her gemstone-stare looked right into my soul and I felt she understood. She forgave me. Can you believe it? She seemed to read the wave of emotions floating around me and empathised right back. I felt as if invisible tentacles were poking around my emotions and reading my aura. She was too unique; I simply could not do it. I could not bring myself to fulfil my duty.
Her simple stare made me understand: we had been wrong all along. She was not the one who was dangerous for our kind, I believe it was us. I think it was our own ways that damned us all. This new soul could actually be our sole salvation! I know this letter must seem irrational but I’ve learnt to trust my intuition. I could try and explain things, but we both know what the end to that would be . . . so I must run. I must run away from The Council and even from you my friend.
Duncan did not blame me, he understood as soon as I made him really lay his eyes on her. Perhaps it’s because we are her parents, or perhaps it is because we are not so closed-minded. The three of us are going together, just like the family that we never intended to be.
Forgive us for leaving you behind, we would have told you if we thought you would surely understand. Perhaps it’s our overprotectiveness, but we couldn’t risk it. I’m sorry. The Council will have to do without us. Tell them I don’t and won’t regret this. When the time comes, we’ll meet again.
I hope I could do things differently, but destiny works sometimes in such mysterious ways . . . I know this was not what we had all decided, but it is what I have to do. Thank you for always being my most loyal friend, and please forgive my feeble motherly soul. I don’t expect you’ll understand me, but believe me, our fates are all being gambled with right now.
I hope the stars make our paths meet again,
With Love,
Juniper
CHAPTER 1
Welcome, let me introduce you
to myself . . .
For a while I’ve been trying to decide what to do about my story . . . if I should tell it or if I should remain in silence, if I should start it in this or that place, what is the beginning, what should be the end; when finally I discovered I knew the answer to my many dilemmas all along.
It was probably out of vanity I decided to share with you a brief insight to my experiences, but it was out of wisdom that I knew what to do with my tale; for true stories have no real beginning and in many cases they have also no ending. Should one be expected to follow events chronologically? I will wholeheartedly answer, no. What is more malleable than time these days? Can we really be expected to separate our experiences in different equal modules such as hours when some hours extend for ages and others just flap their wings over us like crazy hummingbirds? I guess that would just erase the traces of realism from my tale, and it is exactly realism what I wanted to portray in my short memoirs; the reality behind a myth.
By telling you all this you can already guess part of the ending, for I’m not dead if I’m giving you my story? Or am I? We could probably have a whole new philosophical debate on that account, but that would simply separate us from the story.
And about the story, I’m so sorry I was so rude, how can I tell you something about me when I didn’t introduce myself? Let me quickly straighten my mistake . . .
My “real” name is absolutely irrelevant for it tells you nothing about me whatsoever; I don’t use it and haven’t done so for a very long time. Nowadays people call me Iris. Just that, no other words attached for Iris itself portrays so many ideas: the flower, its perfume, the coloured part of the eye with all its turmoi
l of colour, and even a 90’s song I think has that name. The Ancient Greeks used that word to describe the rainbow with its magnificent colour radiations. I believe it’s from there that the flower gained its name even. So that’s me, complex as the flower or the colour radiations in an eye.
A name is still only that, just a name. My name, Iris, is important but that is not all there is to me. I’m also someone that carries that name, the person behind it is its essence and the outer-shell, my looks, is also part of who I am.
I’ve got raven-black, waist-length hair with just a few bangs on my forehead. Every lock is just mildly wavy, therefore bouncing slightly with every step I take. My skin has a pearl-like appearance, and around my ribs it’s even more translucent than a new-born’s. You would think it quite delicate, it seems to tear with just a touch, even the most velvety caress would seem too harsh for it but it’s tougher than most coarse fabrics.
I’m quite well built though you would never say I’m chubby (voluptuous, maybe . . . I’ve been called that, I must dare to confess) and you would never guess my strength . . . My legs are my leanest feature, they are long and muscular. They are predator’s legs. I can sprint and pounce with uncanny speed and just like a wolf on a hunting spree catch my prey unexpectedly.
My eyes are my most exotic feature. They are not huge but they “exude mystery” I’ve been told. Almond-like shapes fringed with long, heavy, jet-black lashes frame gem-like eyes. They shimmer and shine with the tiniest specs of light. Their colour seems impossible at plain sight, yet they couldn’t be any other way. Just like gems in any Tiffany’s ring, they sparkle, inviting careful watchers to lose themselves in their translucent ecstasy. Exotic, unique, special, such is this that sometimes, when my irises catch a beam of light they shimmer with the aura of twilight; my eyes are deep violet.
It was not the kind of description you where expecting I believe, but sometimes reality escapes our wildest imaginations or our drunkest and most eccentric dreams. I walk in daylight but live in twilight, roaming the nights in order to shush the hunger. Hunger that maddens many and satiates none, hunger for different things at different times but mainly I hunger for: blood.
If by now you are deciding that I’m not human, I will most enthusiastically encourage you to stop; for I am human, just a different type of human. I cling to my humanity with all my might. It is part of what I am and definitely what I once was.
In ancient times, those of my kind where called “witches” and “the kin of Lilith”. Ancient Sumerian lore called us “Edimmu” and they believed we were like evil spirits. Many myths exist with some kind of definition of us.
The Egyptian goddess “Sekhmet” is one of the oldest descriptions of someone of out kind, and just as you might guess, they didn’t get it quite right either. Humans never really understood certain ancient forces and this made them trust them even less. I’m not even mentioning here certain infamous historical characters that somehow ended up associated with an idea of us. By those characters I was thinking of examples such as Countess Erzbeth Bathory and Vlad Dracul. Those two together with others like Giles de Rais completed the whole misconception panorama. And the funniest thing is that they were just human.
Fear of the unknown seems to be a general human characteristic. Just think about it and I’m sure you’ll agree!
They damned us from the start; as you see, it was always a hopeless matter. To make things short: mistakes on our behalf, generalized superstitions and many misunderstandings lead us to be considered as something almost daemon like. As time passed in certain places they called us Vampyr or what you where probably thinking: vampires.
We probably always existed alongside humans like you; many believe that we might be humans’ only natural predator.
Still today many misconceptions surround the idea of a vampire: not-human, dead, un-dead, evil, monsters, night-walkers, and many more, none of those are true of course. Start thinking that all you know is a load of half-truths if not complete and awful mistakes.
About something I said before let me recap my words: “Those of my kind”, well, we are all around you and in general you will never know the difference between you and us. Differences at plain sight are unnoticeable. I could be your neighbour, your teacher, or even your best friend. We are everywhere. We were born to blend in.
We are like wolves that look like sheep; we live with our prey and dine on their feasts. Unless we want you to know you’ll never tell the difference between you and us, that is if you are going to live past the moment of discovery.
This last piece of information might be kind of scary but just as there are nicer and meaner people, vampires are just the same. Don’t be afraid! Not all of us mean danger to you: some of us are on your side . . .
If this introduction to my story arouses a great number of questions in you, I’m glad, but I won’t answer them just yet. Though I hope they will be answered by the time I decide to tell you no more.
CHAPTER 2
The Awakening
I was raised by a couple in southern Spain since my third year of age when my parents died in a car accident. I never knew the rest of my family (if any existed by the time I set my thoughts on it) and I never tried to find them either. When both my parents died I was entrusted by a judge to a couple of my father’s friends who were specified in his Will, they were diplomats such as my dad was and that is why we lived in Spain for some time. I was born somewhere in Asia (maybe in Japan, maybe in Hong Kong . . . I’m not really sure where) even though I know my parents were German; and that is almost all the knowledge I have of them. I took a glimpse of my birth certificate once, but I never really cared much about it. I do not even recall my birthmother’s name.
My foster parents were not the protective kind; they were actually the complete opposite. I could even say they were quite absent throughout most of my childhood and teens.
They had no other children, and I honestly believe that they never actually intended to have any: I guess I was a quite unexpected “gift” they had no real option but to accept.
My step mother, Greta, was a real futilitarian. She was always ready to go to any party she happened to be invited, and she was simply invited to tons of them. Her frivolous interests never went deep enough to actually care about my whereabouts: that is of course if I wasn’t doing something that could attract on her the wrong kind of attention. So as long as I had that in mind, my freedom was absolute.
She made sure I always looked pretty and polished. I was a cute kid I guess, and that is the only thing that took hold of her erratic interest in me. She loved receiving compliments about how “pretty” and “sweet” her daughter was.
Greta was a beautiful woman, and that helped her maintain the constant spotlight wherever she went. People roamed about her in parties like moths round a light bulb; and just like moths, many tended to get their wings burnt. She was never the charitable kind.
She was very attractive for her age, and made sure that all her attributes were accentuated with her outfits. Her looks could be described as ravishing, especially her lustrous dark auburn hair and huge honey-coloured eyes that sparkled gaily. Beautiful she was, as well as very hyper. She had a tense sort of beauty that seemed to be quite common in certain social circles. A simple reflection of this is how her perfectly contoured mouth was generally accompanied by her constant companion: a cigarette. I believe she was just too anxious to not smoke so she just flirted and carried her cigs around her all day. It was a not so strange spectacle for most of her friends behaved in the exact same way.
Thomas, my stepfather, was a very grave man who relentlessly tried to go even higher in the social ladder. Please don’t take me wrong here, but he was trying to climb already starting from the very top. Still, he had a very strong obsession for being more and more popular. He was well known, well bred and full of contacts but he wanted to be constantly looked up to and almost worshiped.
I was of no further interest to him than the appearances my me
re presence gave him. Everybody praised him for taking care of me, for fulfilling his dead friend’s wishes and treating me as his own daughter. They said he was “so charitable” and “such a kind-hearted man”, I even think he heard it so much that ended up believing it himself. So apparently I made him look like a great man, and he only loved me for it.
He was quite nice when he was not on trip actually, he did not speak much to me but didn’t shoo me like Greta sometimes did. His diplomatic attributes extended to his household manners luckily.
He was very bald since very young and to be brutally honest, he was not good-looking at all. His minuscule grey eyes hid behind thick glasses, and his skin was frequently a bit too oily. He was sort of heavy in the middle and was about two inches shorter than Greta. His clothes on the contrary to his looks were perfect. He was always dressed in trendy Armani suits and looked impeccable. He was a very well groomed beast.
Though he was not a handsome man, I must admit that his eyes were very kind, and that made him my favourite of the two. It wasn’t that he was a better person than Greta, but that hidden kindness made me think he must have some extra goodness underneath it all.
Our very dysfunctional family had always one unsaid rule: “as long as you don’t get into each other’s way, you’ll get along just fine.” As soon as I learnt it being still a preschooler I discovered it worked wonders.
By the time I got to my teens we moved to South America, most specifically to Buenos Aires, the capital of Argentina. I must admit that in the beginning I was not very fond of the idea, but as we settled there and I started growing up I discovered something: the amazing advantages of being a teenager of a certain social position in this part of the Latin-American culture.
If my parental boundaries were lax, the social boundaries imposed on teens in this part of the world were just as slack.
Distract my hunger Page 1
