Vampyre | Book I of Bloodlines

LOST TO FOG

Viola

Most of the time, I can't even determine which memories of my mother are real or which might be residue from my dreams—I tend to daydream and fantasize a lot, which doesn't help. I see my mother's face in photographs and the painting that hangs in my father's bureau, and I imagine all the things we could have experienced together as mother and daughter, and all those images become a tangled web of dreams, fantasies, and memories.

My earliest memory of her is remarkably simple—her hand moves nettles from my path as I follow her into her garden. I've replayed the image in my mind over and over, questioning its authenticity. It must be real—it has to be. The love she must have felt for me to risk burning her skin on the nettle—that small gesture touched me at that moment, and I captured that feeling of love along with a simple image, storing it in my memory bank.

As I stir awake in my soft, cozy bed, I struggle to recall the dream I just had—it feels familiar as if I've dreamt it before, but every morning, no matter how hard I try, recovering a glimpse of that dream is like walking through fog and grasping at something that may or may not even be there. It's always just out of reach.

Each morning, I emerge from sleep feeling empty and isolated, as if the dream world I just inhabited was the genuine one, and upon waking, I find myself in a false existence, devoid of...someone who was dear to me.

It's maddening—I sense it is lingering just beyond reach, yet every attempt to remember feels futile, as if the dream never occurred.

I recall his voice most vividly—a deep resonance that reaches out to me. His words may evade my memory, but his desperation, need, and desire seem to pierce like hooks into my very being and pull my soul toward a desired destination. I yearn to respond, yet I'm tethered to this reality that isn't...real.

I let out a long, frustrated breath. It's no good, I'll never be able to remember it. Perhaps tomorrow. Or perhaps this is the beginning of my descent into insanity, and I'll be locked away in some asylum any day now.

"Another one of those dreams?" Sophie inquires, bustling into my room and flinging open the windows.

Sunlight streams in as she draws back the thick curtains, prompting me to bury my head beneath the covers.

"Please, Sophie, go away. It's too early," I say as I try to bury myself further into my warm bed.

No luck. Sophie pulls my sheets off with one swift motion. How is she so strong at her age? The woman is nearing her sixties and as strong as an Ox.

"Viola," she says sternly.

I dare to glimpse at her from behind my hands, and she gives me the stink eye. "It's past midday. Il est temps de se préparer."

Oh no, I've forgotten something. What was it that I've forgotten? I don't remember.

"Get ready? For...something..." I say meekly.

Sophie's eyes slowly widen expectantly. Mine seem to copy hers as we somehow expect to channel information to one another without speaking.

"You have a party to prepare for?" Sophie reminds me.

I blow a raspberry at her and shoo her away before snatching my sheets back. "Party, shmarty. What a waste of time. The last thing I need is to be cooped up in a house with a bunch of stuffy, overly-groomed pansies who are too uptight for their own good."

Sophie grips the sheets tighter out of my reach. "Miss Pollyanna will be there."

I can't help but roll my eyes. "Yes, but so will Laura Cidery."