by Amy Cross
When we finally reach the hunting ground, I immediately sense that something is nearby. It takes only a couple of minutes to locate a small deer, grazing on the slopes. I lead Gwendoline over to the animal.
"Oh, it's wonderful!" she says excitedly, her face filled with wonder.
My heart sinks. That was not the reaction for which I was hoping. I need to see some evidence of her killer instinct. To her, the deer should be not a thing of beauty, but something to be hunted for sport and killed for its blood.
"Can I go and touch it?" she asks, looking up at me.
I let go of her hand, and she hurries over to the animal. It glances at her, but it doesn't seem to recognize her as a threat. After a moment, it looks directly at me, and now I see the fear in its eyes. I take a step back, which seems to reassure the animal; it returns to its grazing, ignoring Abigail as she gets closer. Finally, she places a hand on the deer's side and begins to stroke its fur.
"Look, Daddy!" she calls out to me. "It's so beautiful!"
An overwhelming sense of nausea fills my body. She should have killed the beast by now, or at least tried, yet her urge seems to be to simply admire its form. It's as if there's no blood-lust in her soul at all, in which case she's useless; less than useless, even. I have no interest in a child who can't follow me, and who shows this kind of weakness. For so long, I've worried about Gwendoline and suspected that she might disappoint me; now, as I watch her pet the animal, I realize that it's true: she's just a worthless, spiritless girl and she'll never, ever be able to meet my expectations. Humans don't change much. They are what they are.
"Don't you want to come and look, Daddy?" she shouts. Laughing, she kneels down and pulls some grass up, feeding it to the deer by hand. "Look at his eyes, Daddy," she continues. "He looks so intelligent."
I take a step forward, and the deer immediately takes two steps away. Gwendoline follows the animal, having apparently not realized why it moved. Smiling, I take another step, and yet again the skittish animal moves away from me. I'm still ten feet from it, but it can't hide its fear. It clearly senses my intent, but Gwendoline seems somewhat confused.
"What's wrong with it?" she asks, looking back at me. "It's almost as if it doesn't want you to get too close." She frowns for a moment. "Is it scared of you, Daddy?"
I nod. The girl needs to learn the truth. She has been sheltered for far too long.
"Why is it so scared?" she asks, sounding a little nervous. "Does it think you want to hurt it?"
I take another step forward. The deer moves away a little further, and this time Gwendoline doesn't follow. She stares at me, and I can see from the look on her face that she's starting to understand.
"You aren't going to kill it, are you?" she asks. "Daddy, it's so beautiful. Why would you want to do something like that?" She's showing her weakness now, with tears welling up in her eyes. I take another step forward, and this time Gwendoline moves in front of me, putting her arms out to stop me. "Daddy, please don't hurt it. It's just out here eating grass in the sunshine. You don't need to kill it. Please!"
Gently pushing her aside, I take another step toward the animal. This time, it stands its ground and turns to face me. It must know that it can't possibly survive a direct confrontation, yet it likely also knows that running would be futile. As I move closer and closer, I see the fear in its eyes. The animal knows it's about to die, yet it retains a degree of nobility and strength. This, perhaps, will be a good lesson for Gwendoline. She will see that even a beast can have a sense of honor in the face of death.
It takes me less than a minute to kill the animal. It barely has time to let out a cry of pain before I snap its neck. Had it tried to run, I would have made it suffer for longer, but I respect its bravery and therefore I end its life quickly. Lowering the animal's dead body to the ground, I turn to look at Gwendoline and I see that she has started to sob. Tears are rolling down her face and her lower lip is trembling. This is the first time she has ever seen me kill; she should be filled with excitement, and keen to take part, but instead she's overcome by childish emotion. I look back down at the deer and, after a moment, I sink my fangs into its neck and begin to drink its blood. Feeding from such a creature is a rare pleasure, even if the blood does not match the richness or the quality of the sustenance to be gained from the neck of a human. Finally, having satisfied my thirst, I stand up and turn to find that Gwendoline is nowhere to be seen.
It takes me a moment to locate her. She's running away, as fast as she can, heading back to Gothos. I hurry after her, but there seems little point intervening now. She has shown her true colors, and there's nothing I - or anyone - can do to make her stronger. I stop and stand on the side of the hill, watching as she continues to run. Eventually she trips and stumbles; for a moment, I wonder if it might be better if she dies out here. Unfortunately, she gets up and continues running, and I'm confident now that none of the creatures out here will attack her; they all know that I'm watching, and they undoubtedly believe I would step in to rescue my daughter. The truth, though, is that I would not. I might not be ready to kill her myself, but I would be happy to let some other creature finish her off.
As I watch her getting further and further away, I finally accept that Gwendoline is a failure. I must abandon all hope of raising her to take my place. I will have to find another daughter, a stronger daughter, one who more fully carries an element of my own personality. Not an impossible task, but one that will take time. The child will still need a human mother, but I must find the right human. I cannot afford another mistake like Gwendoline.
Abigail
Today.
The room is pitch black. It's almost as if I'm standing in a void, yet I can feel the floor beneath my feet and... something, nearby. Although there's nothing to see, and nothing to hear, I can tell that I'm not alone in here. Gwendoline told me that there would be a ghost, and now I can sense a presence. It's strong and palpable, and it's close, and it seems to be circling me, perhaps getting a better look at me before it makes its move. My first instinct is to turn and run, but I have to stand my ground. I have to wait and see if this ghost is who I think it is. I've waited so long to meet my mother; I can afford to be patient.
"Hello?" I say eventually, trying not to sound scared.
There's no response, but I can feel the presence getting closer and stronger. It's almost as if I'm being examined. Staring straight ahead, all I see is darkness, but I know that there's a pair of eyes looking right back at me.
"It's me," I continue. "Abigail Hart. Abby. Is..." I pause. My heart is pounding. If Gwendoline was telling the truth, then there's only one person who could possibly be here with me right now. After all, there's only one significant person in my life who has ever died. "Are you there?" I ask. "Do you -" Suddenly I turn around as I feel something brush against my shoulder. It's gone now, but I definitely felt it, and it must have been a deliberate move to get my attention. Why won't she speak, though? Why is she playing this game with me?
"I know you're here," I say. "I just want to talk to you." I sniff back tears, determined not to get too emotional. I've waited all my life to finally meet my mother, and I can't help feeling that I'm finally going to get my chance. "I don't know if you can see me," I continue, "but I'm... I'm wearing your dress. The one you wore when you came here? That's what I was told, anyway."
I wait for her to do or say something, but there's nothing. Just silence. It's almost as if I've scared her away.
"Is it you?" I ask. "Say something. Anything, just to let me know that you're here. Please..."
Still nothing. I don't know what I'm doing wrong, but somehow I'm not managing to establish proper communication. Gwendoline told me not to spend too long in this room, so I'm wasting valuable time. Why would my mother not want to speak to me? Is she angry? Does she sense Patrick's influence in my soul? I can understand why she might not want to be reminded of him, but I'm her daughter. Why wouldn't she -
"I never wore that stinking dres
s," says a voice suddenly.
I take a deep breath. For a moment, I struggle to understand what I just heard. That voice wasn't what I was expecting at all. It was younger, and rougher, like a girl my age. It was also strangely familiar, and finally the crushing realization dawns.
"Donna," I whisper.
"Were you expecting someone else?" she asks.
I was so, so sure it would be my mother who met me in here. I spent so long trying to work out what to say to her, running over possible conversations in my head, that I never even thought that I might be wrong. Gwendoline said the ghost would be someone significant from my life, and I naturally assumed that meant it could only be Sophie. Now, however, I find myself in the presence of an altogether different ghost; it's only been a few days since Donna died in the forest, and she sounds angry.
"Let me guess," she says. "You were expecting Mommy to be here. Sorry. It's me. Awkward, huh?"
"I'm sorry," I say, my mind racing. I just want to get out of here, but I feel like I owe Donna some kind of apology for what happened.
"Relax," she replies. "I know what happened. I was there, remember? I fell out of that tree all by myself. Of course, I wouldn't have been up there if you hadn't broken my arm and scared me to death, but I'm not irrational. I know the score and even if I didn't, there's not much I can do about it, is there?"
"I'm really, really sorry," I tell her. Since Patrick and I arrived at Gothos, I've barely had time to think about what's been happening recently, even though Donna's death has been on my mind. "I never meant for you to suffer," I continue, "it's just that..." I sigh, realizing there's no way I can ever explain my actions properly. I was overcome by a desire to kill, to taste human blood, and at the time Donna seemed like the best target. After all, she'd bullied me pretty much constantly for a few years at school, and I wanted to teach her a lesson. I under-estimated how hard it would be to actually kill her, but I would have worked up the courage eventually. I wouldn't have backed down.
"It didn't hurt that much," she says. "I mean, sure, it hurt, but the weirdest thing is that breaking my arm hurt way more than breaking my neck." She pauses. "The actual dying part didn't hurt at all. It kinda hurt less. It just felt like I was fading away."
"I'm still -" I start to say, before feeling something directly behind me. I turn around, and finally I can see her. She looks exactly how she looked back in the forest, except that she's paler and she's staring at me with a frightening intensity. "I'm so sorry," I say, backing away from her. "I'm so sorry, Donna. I didn't mean for -"
"Stop saying that," she snaps back, sounding a little annoyed. "For the first time, I actually have some fucking respect for you, but I'll lose it all if you keep apologizing like that, okay?"
I stare at her for a moment. I can't stop thinking of the moment she fell, and the moment I heard her neck crack as she slammed into the ground; before that, there was the moment I grabbed her arm and felt the bones snap. Sure, she bullied me when I was 'just' a normal human, and sure she made my life miserable for a while; but what I did to her was a thousand times worse. I killed her. I took her life and I ended it. She must hate me with absolute passion. "I'm going to go," I say, turning and fumbling along the wall, hoping to find the door. It's so dark in here, and I've kind of lost my sense of direction. Eventually I grab hold of the handle and turn it, but the door won't open.
"You're locked in," Donna says. "Whoever let you inside, they locked the door. Probably threw away the key as well. Maybe they didn't like you very much. Can't imagine why. Anyway -" Suddenly she's right behind me; I turn to find her staring straight into my eyes. "Listen, Abigail. Here's the thing. Even if that door wasn't locked, you'd be stuck here. The only person who can let you out is me, and I really don't see that happening, do you? Why should I let you live when you did so many awful things to me? Maybe we should just live in here together, forever?"
Starting to panic, I bang on the door, hoping that someone might hear me. "Help!" I shout. "I'm stuck in here! Help me!"
"What are you scared of?" Donna asks, leaning closer to me. "I'm just a ghost. I can't even touch you, and this is just an empty room. Frankly, if you ask me, the scariest thing in here is you, Abigail. You're a monster."
"Help!" I scream, banging as hard as I can on the door. I know Gothos is a big place, but someone has to hear me eventually.
"Are you sure you want to get out of here?" Donna asks. "After all, you killed me, so who knows what else you might do? You have a primal urge for blood. No-one's going to be safe around you. For the good of the whole world, wouldn't it be better if you stayed in this room forever, with me?"
I take a deep breath, feeling tears welling up in my eyes. Maybe Donna's right. I'm dangerous. I hurt people. The world doesn't need a creature like me. Patrick ended up killing my mother, killing the one person he was supposed to love, and I'm probably going to turn out just like my father. At least in here, I can't hurt anyone.
"You and me," she says, smiling. "Together forever, in here. Wouldn't that be fun? We could talk and talk and talk. What is there out there for you, anyway? An insane father who wants to turn you into a killing machine? A bunch of pseudo-soldiers who want to capture you and perform experiments on your body? What was it Benjamin said about Patrick, back at the facility in Dedston? He said Patrick is totally without love. Worse, he's without the ability to love." She pauses. "How do you want to live your life, Abigail? Free in the world, but unable to love? Or trapped in here with me, but with a heart that loves? You have to choose. If you choose to go back out there, I'll even open the door for you."
I close my eyes, trying to work out what to say. She's right. I don't want to become like Patrick. At least if I stay in this room, I'll still be me.
"Good," Donna says. "I'm glad you're staying. Now, why don't you come over to the middle of the room and sit down, and we can catch up on old times?"
Patrick
As I walk through the darkness, I feel the bones of the dead crunching under my feet. It has been many, many years since these poor bastards died, and the flesh has slowly rotted away from their corpses; their bones, on the other hand, remain where they fell. Whole rib-cages glisten in the moonlight, and the occasional skull stares up at me. After all this time, they shatter into dust as I walk across them. It is not disrespect that leads me to tread a path straight through these remains, though; rather, it is the fact that there are far too many bodies left scattered about. I simply can't find a path to the mountains that doesn't involve climbing over the dead. Perhaps another man would carefully move the bones aside, taking care to show respect and to honor those who have fallen. As for me, I see these bones for what they are: the physical remains of long-dead fools who fell and died in combat; the ruins of men and women who fought long ago. They deserve no pity. At some point they were all, every single one of them, my enemy.
Ahead of me, the small light burns brighter still against the night sky.
Pausing for a moment, I turn to look back at Gothos. The house is illuminated in the distance, but I see no reason for nostalgia. The place should have been destroyed long ago. It's just a ruin, and it has no more life than these skulls under my feet. Now that the vampires are all gone, there is simply no reason why their great palace should still be standing and it's a travesty that it remains. Nevertheless, Diana wishes to keep Gothos running and I do not feel that I am in a position to criticize or question her. She has always seemed wiser than the rest of us, and I feel that perhaps she knows what she's doing. Of all the people I have met in my life, it is Diana I trust the most. She has no ulterior motives, no hidden designs; she simply wishes to maintain the legacy of the vampires for as long as possible. I don't necessarily agree with her in every respect, but I can at least understand why she does what she does. If only all people were as easy to read.
When I was stronger, this journey would have been easy. Now that I'm dying, I find myself struggling with every step. If only one of my daughters could have come with me, bu
t they are both unsuitable for the task: Gwendoline has a strong mind but a weak body, whereas Abigail has a strong body and a weak mind. Gwendoline is lost to me, and Abigail is locked in a room from which no-one has ever escaped. My children have failed. The vampire race will die with me. My death walk has begun, and I will not stop walking until I fall dead to the ground.
Abigail
"I can't explain it," Donna says, as we sit on the floor, surrounded by darkness. "It's like... every time I saw you, I felt this inner rage. It was primal, and primitive. I just wanted to kill you; I wanted to rip you apart and strip the flesh from your bones. The thought of you existing was too much for me to handle. I've never felt like that about anyone or anything before, but with you... I was blinded by hatred."
"It wasn't your fault," I reply, glancing around the room. Now that my eyes are adjusting to the darkness, I can just about make out some dark shapes in the gloom. The room seems bare, apart from a bed over by the far wall and a wardrobe next to the window. In a strange way, the place seems quite banal and ordinary. "There's something about me," I continue. "When I turned sixteen, something changed inside my body. You sensed it, and you reacted against it. I guess all humans felt the same way, but for some reason it was stronger with you. It's a natural reaction to finding something alien in your environment. There's a word for it. I was a quisling."
"Maybe," she says, "but I still shouldn't have been so mean to you. I should have controlled myself."
I smile. "I promised not to keep apologizing for killing you, so you have to promise not to apologize for bugging me for years, okay?"
She nods. "I wanted to be a photographer," she says suddenly. "I wanted to go to college and study photography, and then be, like, a photojournalist or something in New York."
