Lay Me To Sleep

Chapter Twenty Three - You've Lived For Centuries, In Pain

I had decided to practice the piano when I woke up this morning. I had been getting better every day, or so Lestat informed me.

I had not seen either of the two men all morning, and I had been playing into the late afternoon or early evening. So much so, that my hands had begun to cramp up. I took small breaks in between songs I had been studying and learned a few new pieces. I wasn't anywhere near as wonderful a player as Lestat, but I was vastly improving.

I finally grew worried. Where could they be? I stopped playing and made my way into the dining room, checking to see if they had left a note of their absence. Nothing. I searched the adjoining rooms, coming up with no explanation for their sudden disappearance. I had looked everywhere, feeling slightly worn out, I decided to go in the study and find something to read. I needed to find a distraction, to keep me from wondering.

I walked into the library and picked up a novel, it was a collection of poems. Most of which, by Edgar Allen Poe. I had never heard of the author but I had decided to try something new.

"The Raven." I found myself silently reading it aloud. I liked the darkness in his writing, it was very intriguing. The way he had made his own fears come to life through a small black bird, a raven that would signal the man's own death. The bird could've also symbolized a former lover, maybe this Raven was a good omen. Maybe in death, the two lovers could find themselves again. Maybe death wasn't the end after all, love could triumph if given the chance. His works had me completely enthralled.

"Annabelle Lee". This one, I found to be a favorite of mine. His lover had been taken from him in death, at a young age. The Angels could not help him nor his loss. So he lay with his beloved in her casket, her sullen tomb, awaiting his own demise. It was quite a tragic and beautiful tale. I found myself enjoying all Poe's works, they were each so honest. It would seem that when the man wrote, he had no reservations, he spoke with eloquence, told of life through his eyes, that life was not always a happy place. I found solace in that. There was a truth in his words, happy or not. A rarity in this world.

Satisfied with my reading, I decided I'd look around the complex some more for Lestat and Louis. All that reading still couldn't keep them off my mind.

I gently placed the book back on the shelf. As I did so, I came across another very interesting looking book, it appeared to be hand bound. I opened it. On its handwritten pages, I read in awe.

"October 9th, 1678 - London

        I knew I was losing her. I knew that God would take her from me soon, I knew that when she would descend into heaven, that our daughter would accompany her. I wasn't scared anymore, neither was she.

As I looked into her eyes that final time, I saw pain, but I also saw relief. She was happy. Not because she would be leaving this world or wanted for death, no. She was relieved to of not suffered the pain of it anymore. Relieved that our daughter would leave this world in peace, with her.

We had already said our quiet "goodbyes", and "I love you's". I held her hand as she died. As she left this world, her face said something else.

In that quiet room, lit only by the moon, her eyes told me to go with her. Something she'd never outwardly express. But oh, how I wanted to. Now I am alone in this world.

I gamble, lie, cheat and steal. Hoping that one day, it'll all catch up to me, that on that day, I'll see my beautiful wife, my unborn daughter again. I'll go in peace, to heaven, home..."

That was only the first page. Knowing that, there must've been countless others. Countless other hand bound books. Journals of centuries past, centuries lived in pain.

I knew then that what I had just read, I most likely was not meant to. This was more than some novel, more than some made up story. This was someone's whole life, written down in the quiet of the world, to escape some large part of it. I couldn't help but get emotional at the sight of such pain. I also knew that I shouldn't be reading further into its pages, I felt like I was in violation of someone's privacy. Though by checking the date, this person had died centuries ago. I still felt awful for reading it, but I needed to know more. Something told me to continue reading their story.

As I read on, some of the pages had dates, some did not. Some of the pages were with consistent days, others skipped for months at a time. There really was no tell tale sign of where the person was in their lifetime.

I read the last page of this journal, but before I closed it, a name was inscribed at the bottom. It was smudged and worn, like the rest of the writings, but this I could make out...

"Forever Yours My Beloved,
                                                    Louis."