Trust Is an Illusion
April 16th 2016The offer is good. Very good indeed. There‘s no question there, no hitch, no catch. I dreamt about this day for so long. Free again, free at last. I tried so many other ways, but this place, this life, it makes me so weak.
Considering I came here of my own volition, some 65 years ago, it seems kind of unfair that I even had to resort to manipulation and lies – had to, have to. Whatever. I wanted to rebuilt, to spread a better future, because this is also my country, my home. And after what had happened in 1945, after what I'd seen, I had to do something good, be good. At least for a while.
But the thought to bite into a neck again, after all these years – so tempting, so
delicious.It were just words, right? An idle conversation? What could I do, what couldn't I? - What would I do? We were drinking today. Alcohol, of course, not blood. Oh, how I miss it, delicious liquid of a long forgotten time. How I wish, how I wish it were forgotten. But the thought, always on the surface, the taste, never gone entirely.
I still remember the first time: confused, angry, hurting – fire in my veins and the teeth: growing, piercing my gums, grazing my tongue. And the light hurt in my eyes. How I wish the stories were true and I could retract them, show a normal face whenever I wanted. I can't.
But the blood. The taste. The feeling of warm liquid running down my throat. It makes all better, made me forget the pain, though not the craving, never the craving.
I'm losing track of my thoughts again. I really wish writing would help me to focus as I thought it would when I began this diary, but it doesn't. Not while writing, at least. It helps when I'm reading all this again.
But it's really no wonder I lost track, not when the temptation is so close, the offer so real. Was it real? Blood from a blood bank, making me strong again, making me
myself again. I'm so sick of cow blood – though I must admit that I quite like blood sausages. Oliver brought me some. I'd nearly forgotten. It was in his first week here, before someone told him that I don't like solid food. They were wrong. I was wrong. I learned something new that day, after such a long time.
Oliver tried to be my friend. Naive. Stupid. Dangerous. - He's a good friend. So why shouldn't his offer be real?
If When he brings me human blood... I'd betray the people here, but would that be so bad? After all, I'm just a prisoner, aren't I? A glorified pet in a cage – however gilded it might be. And trust, trust is an illusion anyway.
April 20th 2016I've seen blood bags a couple of times on TV but never held one before. They weren't invented yet when I was imprisoned here. And the animal blood comes in bottles. I'm fairly certain that's not how Peter buys it. Strange, I never thought about it before.
Oliver has left. He never liked watching me drinking blood. The one time he did...
Laughing makes writing into one's journal quite difficult, I must say. But it was too funny, and the memory is still rather vivid. After all, it's only three years. Such a short time, all things considered.
I couldn't help myself. I just had to get my old journal from that day and read it again.
For a moment, I even forgot the clear plastic bag with all the information on the blood I never needed to know. But now I wonder if different blood types taste different. I remember sweet blood and metallic blood, thick blood and sour blood. Maybe I should remember the classification on the bag, learn what kind I like and what not.
Who am I kidding? Whom am I trying to delude? It doesn't matter. It never has. And once I am free again, it will never matter again.
And it is so easy. I drink the blood and then the wall means nothing and the free will of the people around me won't be so free anymore. And all I have to do, all Oliver asks me to do is go with him for a while, persuade someone to open a door and then I can go, live however I want to live.
It's disgusting. I have a reason. This is not natural for me. I carve blood, I need it, need it to survive, need it to live. Necessity of life. It's as easy as this. Oliver? He wants money. Nothing else. Does it always come down to money? It did when I lost my human life, though I admit there were other reasons: liberty, equality, fraternity. Weak people, powerful ones and a fight that wasn't mine in 1848.
I made a promise when I came here. I promised to help eradicate those of my kind that pray on innocents. Oliver swore to serve and protect everyone, I think. It's strange how I never cared to learn what the policeman I work with actually promise the world. What I do know is that Oliver is about to break his oath, whatever exactly it is. Has already broken it, I think.
I'm dangerous. It's in my nature. But Oliver trusts me. He says my word means something. Maybe it does.
Idle thoughts. It doesn't matter. What matters is the bag still on the table next to me. There are small bubbles on the dark liquid, foam that build when I threw it from hand to hand just a few moments ago.
The blood is a promise. It promises me my strength, my powers, my freedom. It is also a promise from Oliver. He promises me more, more blood, more power, more freedom. All I have to do is agree. All I have to do is swear that I will help him steal. It's so easy.
Stupid Alexander. If it is so easy, then tell my why you haven't sunk your teeth into it yet?Great, now I'm talking to myself, in writing no less. It's as if the blood is already blurring my better judgement.
April 20th 2016 laterTechnically, it's the 21, I think.
I've made my decision. I bit into the plastic and I...
There's still blood there. Just a drip, a mere memory on the lips. It will never go away. I remember them all, always and forever. Other things I can forget, the blood always stays with me. This time, it tasted like iron and sugar. There was a bitter note to it. The fear was missing. The taste of sweat, salty and hot. It wasn't there. It wasn't the same as biting a living person. Not as fulfilling, not as exciting.
But it was better still than any other time. It had been too long.
April 21st 2016I've made my decision. And I guess I'm repeating myself but it is true, I did make it. I told Oliver. I agreed. And now I'm waiting. I'm waiting for the blood and for the opportunity. Soon. Soon.
April 21st 2016 laterI forgot how much I hate the taste of cow blood. I never liked it, but now I seem to hate it more than ever before. Peter brought me my daily bottle and I drank it without thinking about it. I spit it out, spit it all over the desk and the TV. Peter was worried. I've never seen him like that before. He asked if the blood was bad. If I was sick.
I don't think I can get sick. At least I've never been sick. But how certain can I really be? What do I actually know about my own kind? I learned more in the years here than in freedom before. And it is still not nearly enough.
The blood was bad. It was a good excuse, a good lie, an easy lie, easy to believe. Peter, at least, believed it. He apologized. He cleaned my room for me. Not with me, for me. Told me I should sit and relax. That it was his duty to bring me my food, that it was the contract we had.
It is, I guess.
April 26th 2016It felt so good to sink my teeth into a neck again after all this time. It was as easy as ever to open the skin, to pierce the flesh. So easy, so natural.
And there is no remorse. There never was, but somehow I expected it this time. The thought was so clear in his eyes, amidst the fear and the pain, the thought of betrayal and incomprehension. He didn't expect it. He didn't think I could do this. He didn't think I would break my word. Idiot.
He tasted sour. It's what I imagined
Peter to taste like. I always thought of a lemon when I saw him with his wrinkly face and the crow's feet around his eyes. With the corners of his mouth closer to his shoulders than his cheeks.
And Oliver? What did I think of his blood before? Nothing, as strange as it might seem. I never thought about eating him. Never. Until the day he brought me blood and the temptation became too strong for me. And I took his offer.
I followed him, out of my room, my
cell, out of the cellar, out of the castle that is exactly 100 years older than me and over the large fan-like castle square. I remember what it looked like here when I decided to fight against my own kind: destroyed and gone. There was nothing left, just a ruin. And I remember seeing the rebuilt castle when they moved our unit there in 1956.
Technically, I knew that there is a bank at the corner of the castle square and the pedestrian zone but I'd never thought much of it. It was not closed yet but the last costumers left. They smelled of hecticness, tired after a day of work, the stop at the bank the last thing they would do this day. They rushed past us, minding their own business and only the teller noticed us. He sighed. He did not want a costumer so late in the day.
I looked around. I smiled. People say my smile alone can open doors. The order in my voice really did. We followed him into the back, down a couple of stairs. Oliver smiled. His teeth were showing. It was strangely predatory, like my own smile, I guess.
The safe was opened. It was easy. It is always easy to deceive, to manipulate the thoughts and will of someone. At least when I'm well-fed, at least for a while. Oliver stuffed a couple of bags with money and the teller just stood there, a stupid smile on his lips, a vacant look in his eyes. Of course.
And then it happened. I'd expected it, of course. He would remember, and Oliver would loose the life he had built for himself. He couldn't let this happen now, could he? I expected it and I was disappointed nonetheless. Maybe if he had said nothing, if he had left...
He ordered me to kill the teller. My hand brushed along the man's neck, stroked his black hair, caught in the arms of his glasses, nearly tumbling them to the ground. My lips kissed his pale skin, sexual, demanding. It was what Oliver expected, what he wanted. He thought it disgusting when I drink animal blood, but he likes watching me violate this innocent man.
He is disgusting. His character, his actions, his thoughts – even though I do not know the details, only what I could read in his eyes. He had a choice, after all.
And in the end, I saw fear and pain in his eyes and the inability to understand what I had done.
He tasted of roses. Like the perfume my mother had used and which I accidentally drank as a child. He also tasted sour. I can't decide. It is both. It is neither. And while I still taste his blood on my lips, I can't describe it at all. What did I think Oliver would taste like? Not like that.
I wonder if Peter will notice tomorrow that I was gone for an hour or two. I locked the door with Oliver's key and threw it through the grate. It looks like someone lost it a few meters from my door.
Maybe they will figure it out. Maybe they'll think it was a random vampire. The teller will remember, but will he believe his own memories? Sometimes I envy the short lives and the coping mechanisms of the human brain.
But even if they figure it out, do I care? I killed before. I'll kill again. There is nothing more to it. There is no remorse, nothing. Can Peter trust me? Could Oliver? Trust? Trust is an illusion.
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Off-topic: Is anyone else missing the options for italicized, bold, ect when posting? I only have the smileys.
