BELOVED
Set up the dominoes and watch the first one fall ...
I once dreamed of a girl who walked barefoot through the tall grass at dusk, a glass jar in her hand, plucking butterflies off roses. She'd take the jar into her workshop, ignoring the frantic fluttering of wings behind the fingerprint-stained glass. A piece of tulle would be set in place of a lid, secured by a ribbon. The tiny creatures were able to get air, but freedom was far away.
The girl dipped her fingers in the bowl of rainwater which rested on the windowsill, then carefully shake droplets over the tulle which fell onto the terrified little creatures. The butterflies' wings laid heavy and stuck to the bottom of the jar. The small creatures were no longer able to fly. Minuscule rivers of silvery, opalescent hues seeped from the tips of their wings and pooled at the butterflies' feet.
The girl removed the tulle. Each butterfly was plucked out of the jar and set in a black marble mortar. Carefully, the girl brought the pestle down, ground every bit of butterfly away.
My lover once told me everyone can hear the music a memory creates, some listen in joy, some in sorrow. All I hear is my requiem. Before I met him, I had another name, but I recall it no more. When I see the silver streaks across the canvas, I remember his eyes and the madness he bestowed upon me.
'Cara Mia ... beloved.' His voice echoes in my ear.
Those with still beating hearts say we are cursed, not because we are vampires but because we are Malkavans, kissed by the rough lips of Malkav. Tainted by splinters of madness that reside under our skin. Perhaps for some, there is beauty in the darkness they have found. A beauty created from the birth of a mortal to a monster. I find beauty in art, though I am cursed to tread on the road which was paved by my sire. Long ago I had a name. I had a family. I may have been someone wife, daughter, but I do not remember that woman anymore.
In my dreams, I feel the brush strokes glide across the canvas before moving towards my face. It is sad that we never see what we truly look like. We only see what our reflection shows us or what some portrait betrays. When we smile, others see it first. My skin prickles at the touch of the fibers as the brush moves over my skin. I know the streaks are silvery, shimmery.
Night comes calling when I wake like my lover once did ... sneaking in through the open window of my second story atelier. A gentle breeze blows and the white silk curtain billows like a weeping bride's veil. Tendrils of moonlight fall upon the cobblestone. I see the canals glisten gold. I feel the remaining traces of paint clinging onto my skin. On my easel, against the west wall, rests the latest piece of work I created but I do not look at it. I do not need to for every single detail of every tiny butterfly I painted last night is burned into my gray matter.
Fourteen plus one silver butterflies fill a backdrop of red, one for every sin I have ever committed and one for the last sin I will ever commit. The painting stands in its glory, yet this one has not been commissioned by a nouveau riche who thinks by owning one of my artworks they will be the talk of the town. No. This one I made for me; for the child my sire took out of the woman, for the human he took out of the monster.
I walk into my en-suite as night crawls over Venice. My reflection greets me in the cracked mirror hanging over the basin yet all I see is him, my sire, the prince everyone thought was untouchable, flawless. A raven brought me news of his demise. I read every ink-stained page of how he has fallen to torpor. In the fibers of the paper, I smell it ... poison ... death. If it is something I have been blessed with after I was turned, it is heightened sensations. I see, smell, hear ten times stronger. There are days I feel like an animal, tossing my nose to the sky to pick out the creatures upon which I am to feast. But humans, no, not humans. I cannot bear the guilt of killing another innocent again.
Fourteen. My hunger took life away from fourteen innocent people. Did I feel guilty with the first? No. Nor did the pangs of remorse come after the second, or even the twelfth. It was the thirteenth that I hovered over, my face buried in the crook of her neck, dry-heaving over the terrible guilt. But it was my last kill that made me see the true error in my ways. The thirteenth kill was unlucky, but fourteen is just as unlucky a number as thirteen it seems. Though vampire I may be and stripped of my mortality, a sliver of humanity remained. That is my madness.
I cannot bear to look at myself anymore.
I exit my en-suite and walk to the belly of my atelier. My artwork surrounds me like the family I might have had had I still working loins and a heart that beat. They are my children since I dare sire none. Upon a bookcase once holding folktales of the Brothers Grimm, now rest a dozen clay creations no bigger than my palm. I reach for a sleeping fairy and place it upon my open hand. I glide a finger over her head; feel the fine lines I have made into curls. I caress her cheek, move to fragile wings and falter. I feel my heart skip a beat though it no longer thuds behind breast and bone. Fifteen, my mind utters, not fourteen plus one. Fifteen for you have already decided to end another life. Hence, she is already dead.
'Not she,' I whisper as the ball of my finger slides over the fairy's back down to her dainty feet. I close my eyes tight; feel the details of every toe. 'Not she' I echo, 'but me.'
***
Calista's eyes burned. I held onto my wine glass. Around us, Chopin played. Elegantly dressed guests kissed each other in well-wishes for a happy new year. France's finest Merlot stained my glass red; drops of blood sweetened the wine. Calista raised her lips in a small smile. Diamonds swung from her earlobes like a pendulum.
She raised a hand and flicked her tongue over a small cut on her wrist, a cut only she and I could see. Human blood was delicious, yet vampire blood was euphoric. It had been years since I had fed of anything but stray animals that scuttled with their click-clackety nails down the cobblestones of Venice. Luckily, I had a few familiar faces who I still called friend.
Foe is more like it, my brain whispered. Have you forgotten what Calista did to you? How she makes you feel?
Surely a shade as red as roses would have crept upon my cheeks had my blood still circulated, but I turned away shyly anyway.
'Come, Cara. The bed is big enough for three.'
For one wicked moment, I wanted to join them. I remember my body screaming yes while what was left of my logic was screaming no. It was rare a woman made me feel that way, but Calista had that power.
I recall pivoting and rushing out of Lucio's castle. My feet hit the grass. I dropped the glass and allowed the blood-wine mixture to drench the green grass red.
As I rushed through the labyrinth of trees, I heard Calista's fading words in the wind, 'The bed is big enough for three.' Followed by the ones Lucio had once reserved for my ears only.
'Beloved.'
Lamplight shone from the castle's windows. The moon illuminated the path but all I wanted right then was darkness.
***
