Being an artist is therapeutic.
Talking to the dead is stressful.
Dreaming of a thousand year old vampire is a new occurrence.
When the supernatural suddenly starts to invade Mystic Falls, Eleanora "Nora" Forefield is in for the ride of a lifetime...
All art pieces are taken off Pinterest and belong to the original artist unless stated otherwise.
••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
Later that night while painting a new piece for my canvas collection, I notice a distinct lack of Baby Mikaelson. Usually, he's talking my ear off about his latest ghost adventure or asking me to read one of his favorite books. So, setting my paintbrush in my water mug, I head towards my bedroom door and make my way downstairs to look for him.
The moment I step off the landing, I can hear voices coming from the living room. Before I can investigate any further, my phone starts ringing from upstairs. I go back up with no progress in my previous search.
As I make it back into my room and towards my bedside table where my phone is, I see the caller ID.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Braxlee. One of two of my only friends. They're the only two who decided to give me a chance when everyone else thought of me as mental. Not that everyone doesn't still. Mom and I are known as the town crazies. After years of watching my Mom talk to the dead, I've learned to not care what other people think of us. I've also learned not to feel guilty when I can't see someone's loved one. Sometimes people hate us for that and hold it against us. I'm not sorry because your loved ones decided to move on and you can't accept it. I'm also not sorry for being honest about it.
Picking up my phone, I answer.
"Hey, Ax." I greet.
"Nora. Hi. Listen, Can Ever and I come over tomorrow? We got some freaky shit going on that we thought maybe your family could help us with." She replies.
"Yeah, sure. Stop by whenever."
"Thanks, girl. We'll come by around mid-afternoon." She sounds relieved.
"Alright, see you then."
After hanging up, I spend another hour on my painting, putting the finishing touches on. Once I'm done with that and cleaning up my mess, I grab a book that I've started called 'The Thirteenth Tale', from my bookshelf, get myself nice and comfy, and read 'til I fall asleep.
••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
'" Why recall the picture now, you must be wondering. The reason I remember it so well is that it seems to be an image of the way I have lived my own life. I have closed my study door on the world and shut myself away with people of my imagination. For nearly sixty years I have eavesdropped with impunity on the lives of people who do not exist. I have peeped shamelessly into hearts and bathroom closets. I have leaned over shoulders to follow the movements of quills as they write love letters, wills, and confessions. I have watched as lovers love, murderers murder, and children play their make-believe. Prisons and brothels have opened their doors to me; galleons and camel trains have transported me across sea and sand; centuries and continents have fallen away at my bidding. I have spied up the misdeeds of the mighty and witnessed the nobility of the meek. I have been so low over sleepers in their beds that they might have felt my breath on their faces. I have seen their dreams."'
