In Death's Arms, I Wait For You

Quiet This Internal Storm

Weeks had passed and the city's resonance had reached a fever pitch.

The sounds of the streets no longer rose from below but seemed to reverberate directly in the canals of Cheryl's ears. The once alluring energy of Manhattan had become utterly draining. The pressure forming against her temples subsided briefly during her feedings only to return with a powerful vengeance in the moments following the afterglow.

Oh, how she longed for silence.

She sunk further into the lone piece of furniture in the spacious loft, a French Louis Accent chair upholstered in crushed velvet, the same color as champagne. She adored how it reminded her of the furnishings her mother had once filled their old home with, well crafted, custom made and extravagantly priced.

Wealth, affluence, it was all but a part of the Blossom heritage. Steeped in their pedigree. She had never wanted for anything. Any object of her youth's desire had been a, "mother, I simply must have it" away.

Absently she ran her long pale fingers along the velvet that lined the arms of the chair, relishing in the soft velvet feeling in the forward motion of her hands which transitioned into a satisfying friction in the reverse, backward caress. Her eyes fell on the canvas before her. It remained unfinished. Since she had started the creation many nights ago, the desire to continue had not returned. Much to her dismay, she had not drawn since.

The deafening noise around her not only plagued her to near physical pain, but it also took her inspiration to touch pencil to paper.

She wondered what stripped her ability to silence the sounds of her surroundings. It had never been an issue before. Had she already grown tired of the city that rivaled her own reverence for the arts? She had been certain that NYC, out of all the North American cities, would hold her attention for an extended period of time. But the clarity provided by her recent feeding made it abundantly clear that her time in the populous city was nearing its end.

Her mind and body yearned for tranquility. She took another look at the canvas, gazing at the half formed sketch of Thornhill Manor with an ache in her chest. As if pieces of the puzzle fell into place, she finally understood what her subconscious was desperately trying to tell her.

Could it be that simple?

More than a century had passed since she had visited Riverdale. The era had been marked with horse drawn carriages, tightly laced corsets, and civil war. The latter was dismissed easily enough from her mind as death had lost any real meaning long ago.

After being turned, she had been taught the secrets of the new world by her maker, Marius. She had left Riverdale behind to travel endlessly, exploring and discovering the beauty of humanity with only her maker by her side for decades. When she had been mortal, she always held an affinity for the arts and her vampyrism only heightened her proclivity for aesthetic thinking.

Her life's purpose became the pursuit of beauty and pleasure.

She found beauty in the exotic. The vibrant cultures of foreign countries opened her mind and newfound inspiration flowed within her. In the early 1900s the traveling pair found themselves in India, already under the rule of the British Empire. Everyday she was swathed in a new sari made from the finest Indian silks and Marius in equally handsome kurtas. But nothing had touched her soul as deeply as the night her and Marius decided to take a fortuitous midnight stroll only to come across a band of street musicians.

The composition of sounds, especially the haunting strings of the violin and drums, which Marius graciously informed her were called "tablas", had moved Cheryl in an explicable way. After the musicians finished their performance, she handed over her entire purse filled with rupees and raced home. Her hand had flown across canvas for days, only stopping to feed at Marius's urgent behest.

While she found beauty in culture, she found pleasure in the beds of beautiful women, both in the taste of their intimacy and in their blood. Immortality rid the need to hide her sexual deviance, something unheard of in the 19th century. She quickly became learned in pleasures of the flesh, her sexual prowess growing with each woman she visited in the night. Her ever curious mind read and reread the translated texts of the Kamasutra, learning the philosophy of love and triggers of desire. As a lover she was equal parts giving, controlling and adventurous. Satisfaction was guaranteed for those she took to bed.

Cheryl smiled at the memories before grimacing at the insistent throb at her temple. She had only returned to North America nearly eighteen years ago, choosing to live and travel abroad for the majority of her vampyric life. Even after the passing of her maker, her inclination for artistic knowledge and discovery kept her flitting from untravelled country to country.

Numerous decades had passed without a single thought of returning home.

Where had the sudden nostalgia come from? And why now?

It frustrated her not knowing what was pulling her back home. A small part of her wanted to be stubborn and remain in Manhattan. Undoubtedly she would miss the abundance of museums, she was sure the general offering for art consumption in a small town such as Riverdale would be severely lacking for her taste. However, since the idea of a homecoming teased itself into her conscious mind, Cheryl could not deny the internal whisperings that beckoned her home.

The more she dwelled on the thought, the more the pull intensified. As she slowly succumbed to the idea of traveling home, the throb at her temple lessened, the streets quieted and her fingers itched for the forgotten graphite pencil that lay on the canvas tray.

In a quick flurry of movement, not wanting to waste the momentary peace, she stood before the canvas with the pencil poised and ready between her fingertips. Instantly, her hand became a blur of ivory as she drew with renewed fervor. Line after line, the architecture of Thornhill Manor was filled in and brought to life. She drew the countless windows, shaded in the small bridge that provided passage over a small pond that she used to be fascinated with as a child, and finally slanted her hand to perfect the texture of brick and stone that made up the exterior walls of her old home.

Within mere seconds the drawing was complete. She stood admiring the finished work, impressed with her own photographic memory. It was as if she had not been away for nearly a century and a half. The details were all there, drawn onto the canvas as if she had never left. With the consummation of the drawing, her mind finally felt at ease and the decision had been made.

She would leave for Riverdale immediately.

Cheryl Blossom, after ages away, would return home to seek her fate.