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OCTOBER 16, 2002: Washing the blood from my
hands
There are days when I reflect on this little online experiment and
I think, honestly, I wish I did have readers. It's the small bit of
ego I have, fostered by a group of devoted admirers of my fiction. It
makes me want an audience.
But for some things...for some things, I'm very glad I'm alone in this
dark space.
This is one of those things.
This is one of those blood things.
I've talked with a lot of people, some who identify themselves as 'sanguinarians',
some who identify themselves as 'vampyres', and some who identify, as
I do, with the plain-old, plain-old, standard Hollywood term, 'vampire'.
I don't think it matters, personally, what we call it. I think it matters
tremendously whom we tell; and when that time came in my life to tell
certain of my friends, I was in the lucky minority: for the most part,
they handled it well, with a few questions, no fear, some unease, and
then we went on with our lives.
My online friends have been a different story, and that's part of why
this post makes me nervous. The worst case so far has been the girl
that said she had some 'odd questions' after reading my page (in which
I took courage in hand, and linked the page together as a unit: stupid,
yes, unthinking, probably, but I'm a fairly unreasoning creature at
times), and then a week later said she'd converted to Christianity and
she wasn't reading a lot of things on the net anymore and she hoped
I understood.
I don't say the two were connected. I just don't think it helped.
I can't remember a time in my life when I didn't crave blood. I've
always been fascinated by vampires, but not necessarily to be a 'bloodsucking
creature of the night'. It's always been more to understand parts of
my own psyche, the same reasoning behind why I'm fascinated with multiple
personality disorder and serial killers.
(Yes...)
Blood hunger. Blood. I used to come home from school as a child and
routinely unwrap a pound of frozen hamburger, break off a section and
eat it like a popsicle. I literally did this every single day, not even
thinking about why.
I had plenty of time to think about why later, because unfortunately,
I grew up in the 1970's, when this country wasn't as strict with meat
processing guidelines. Sure, read "Fast Food Nation", it's
still bad now. But back then, it was worse:
California imported a lot of beef from Argentina,
and--long after the Argentine Beef Scare, for which I was one of the
cases responsible--everyone was later told to cook their meat completely,
to render any harmful bacterium safe to consume. Kind of like the
E Coli. thing now, and for all I know, it was one of the first strains
of that deadly bug to hit the country's meat supply. To this day I
don't know exactly what bacteria it was that brought me down; I only
know it was from eating hamburger meat raw.
I got sick. I got very sick. I got so sick,
I went into the hospital for 18 months. Thankfully, a) my mother was
making fantastic money at that point, and b), I don't remember much
of that period of my life. Between the ages of five and seven, the
life gets kind of...blurry. I know I had my tonsils out, one of the
brief periods I was at home when I got sick with tonsillitis on top
of everything else. I know I celebrated my seventh birthday in the
hospital, and there's at least one memory of losing a tooth and finding
money under the hospital pillow for it. I remember getting chicken
pox and having to go home again, because the kid who'd given it to
me had just been checked out and they didn't want more cases in the
childrens' ward.
I remember, when I was in the hospital, having
blood drawn three times a day, and not being able to get up because
I was so weak, and hearing my mother think over and over that her
only daughter was going to die.
Blood. Blood that kills. It's not a new concept.
18 months of this, until by sheer accident,
a fellow returning home to California from a trip through Argentina
with the Peace Corps happened to visit a friend in the Auburn, CA
hospital. And he was the doctor working on my case. And this guy talked
about it with him, and then said, my God, that's all over Argentina
right now, are the symptoms this?
He saved me. He saved me, and I slowly got
better, and I only had lifelong fears of underdone hamburger and needles
to contend with.
I was never as active after the illness as
before it. I became very sedentary, because moving hurt for a long
time. I put on a lot of weight. I never really lost it. Developing
PCO didn't help.
I remember repressing a lot of the hunger after that, convincing myself
that's how I had nearly died, and it was a bad thing, and...oh, a lot
of complexes. Some of which I still have. So it wasn't until I was 22
that I actually had a strong enough attack of blood hunger to break
through that wall of repression.
Blood hunger. Such simple words. Nothing like the reality of the situation.
Nothing like suddenly realizing, I don't care if I go to jail, I don't
care if I'm caught, I have to knock someone down right now and slit
their throat if I have to and drink...and drink...and drink...
Gods. I still remember that feeling. It terrified me. I was sitting
on a small, raised knoll under a pine tree in the center of the UC Sacramento
campus, waiting for a friend to get back from the bookstore, and I...just...ran.
I couldn't stay there, I had to leave, and halfway to safety (I thought)
he intercepted me.
Big guy. Strong guy. Stronger than he ever knew, or used. Had his own
set of problems and a god behind his eyes that would turn his black
eyes silver on occasion. That's why I first slept with him, that, and
loneliness, because the boy I thought I loved, the one I'd been raped
by, had gone away and I was the stupid fool who thought I had to be
faithful to him.
This boy. Pale skin. Dyed black hair with a streak of pure, bleached,
platinum white dividing it down the center. He actually liked it when
people called him "Skunk". He caught my arm and asked me where
I was going and I stammered something about it not being safe, about
him not being safe around me.
"I want--I need--" I remember stammering.
"What?" he asked. Standing there, sun beating down in the
way only California sun does, people all around us and yet feeling completely
isolated, just him and I, just him and I in a big world full of whispers
and dust.
I pulled at my arm. He didn't let go. His throat--
"Blood," I said, my voice locking up after I said it, and
I pulled away and ran, ran from what he represented, ran from everyone
else who were, as far as I was concerned in that moment of need, were
just walking bags of blood. How does Spike put it on the Buffy show?
"Happy Meals on legs." Gods, he's not wrong.
I ran to my car, fumbled the keys out, sat down, breathing hard. I
pushed the keys into the ignition and couldn't. Start. The car. Gods.
Gods. I couldn't move. I felt punched, I felt bruised, but I couldn't
fucking move.
He circled up on his bike. He looked angrier than I'd ever seen him.
"Let me in," he said.
"No."
He looked at me. I still remember that look.
"You're just going to sit there? Hunger for it? When I could be
in there?"
Fuck, who was this idiot? How much of a consummate fool was he to even
consider this? How much of a consummate fool was I to think it over?
More than I thought, apparently, because I let him in. And he tried
to get me to explain. And I can't even remember the scrambled hash of
words that poured out. I don't even think all of them were in English.
I know most of them said Go away, stay away, don't come back. I'm dangerous.
Don't be here.
He pulled up the sleeve of his shirt and held out his bare arm.
"Go on, then."
Clarity: Sitting in a black 1978 Chevy Chevette, black interior, windows
rolled up on a summer's day. Shadows scudding overhead from clouds crossing
between the earth and the sun. And wanting, wanting like I've rarely
felt before or since, wanting, and fearing the want, and hating myself
for wanting and fearing.
Blood hunger. It's not a big enough phrase for it.
He had to knock me down mentally, several times. The controls were
too strong, the walls were too high. I wanted but I feared and I didn't
want to hurt him and there was no blade and I knew, I knew, if I gave
in, I wouldn't care.
But he was a master at subtle direction, and when that couldn't get
me far enough, he just pulled my head down.
My lips touched his skin, and I drew in a long, shuddering breath,
and licked my lips. And that did me in, I think. Licking his skin in
that little gesture, and suddenly, my hands rose to grab his arm, seizing
him and leaving bruises (I discovered later). And I bit into his arm.
For the rest of his life, there's a man on the planet who will have
a half-dollar-sized scar on the inside of his left arm, just where the
elbow bends. For at least one person, I'm forever. He'll never lose
that mark without surgery.
Because past that point, I did not care. I bit him, and I wounded,
and I worried at the wound. I sucked blood from him, warm and iron-rich
and coppery and thick. I bit the wound over and over, biting out small
pieces of his arm and swallowing them, trying to get to more, trying
to drink more, trying to feed the hunger.
He was saying something, over and over. I couldn't understand it at
first. It took a while to sink in.
"Enough," I finally heard him say. "Enough."
I pulled back, and looked down for the first time, and if there had
been a bridge in front of me, I would have pushed him out of the car
and driven off. I loathed myself. I wanted myself down. How could I...how
could anyone do such a thing? Be such a thing?
The scar on his arm was raw, and livid, and there were little chunks
missing, and I'd done that. And while I had done that, I hadn't cared.
I thought that was the worst of it, and then I looked up, seeing his
face. He was white. His lips--normally, they were an almost artificial
red tone, and they were barely pink. He was pale, and panting, and staring
at me with wide eyes.
I'd hurt him. I'd taken a lot of blood from him. I wanted to die.
He asked me to drive him back to his house, and I did, in a daze, on
autopilot, and that was the first time the hunger got away from me.
It wasn't the last.
OCTOBER 17, 2002: Strange brew
So. More on the loss of control. And need. And the blood thing.
I think it's relevant currently that I'm losing a good half-pint or
more of blood a day just now, and I'm obsessed with it, dreaming of
it, hungering for it. Unfortunately, I'm much the same when I'm not
hemorrhaging, so...
The second time I lost control. The second time I lost control, it
was a week past the time I scarred the boy. I was trying to settle back
into some illusion of normal life--which for me at that time was planning
for the next SCA event, going to Rocky Horror Picture Show at Birdcage,
and hanging out with friends. Only...something went wrong. Halfway through
the movie--I believe Eddie had just emerged from the ice--I suddenly
stood up and walked out, swallowing hard. It had hit again, whatever
it was, and even after draining someone white, I was still thinking
this was a phase or something. Some of my friends twigged, and followed
me out, and...gods alone know what I looked like. It took me fifteen
terribly painful minutes to convince them that I was fine, I just needed
to suddenly leave for no reason, and oh, yes, when we started this conversation
and I said it would be dangerous for me to stay, why, that was just
me not thinking, and I meant nothing by it, now GO AWAY, please please
please go away...
I did my best not to whimper. They seemed unconvinced. But they let
me go and I drove very far from any sign of people and sat in my car,
digging my nails into my palms so hard that the nails cut half-circles
into my flesh. And when they bled, I sucked the blood from them. Shuddering.
Blood. Mine wasn't enough. No one else's was available. I thought I
was seriously losing my mind.
The next time was about two weeks later, I think. There was another
fellow I was interested in, I think mostly because he was afraid of
me (he was a large and lovely boy, but he'd only dated stick insects,
and I clocked in at that point around 250 pounds), but the codicil was
that he was very attractive. In more than one way--he was smart, devastatingly
funny, blond, rather angelic in appearance, and was perfectly fine partying
with me in the SCA.
(Some months after this--miraculously, this event left us with
the ability to still be friends--he walked up to me clad only in a
pale mawashi and a nervous smile, and asked me to apply sunscreen
to him for an upcoming sumo match. Ah. Yes, I thought, I could do
this. I could apply a liberal coating to a mostly-naked Connor McVague
and he's asking me to touch him. All over. Because he wants me to.
Definitely a good day.)
The next attack happened when a friend of the idiot who'd raped me--who
didn't know, at that point, about the rape as I hadn't told anyone--came
over when I was shuddering through another episode of blood hunger.
She asked me what was wrong. She was 12 and already had three dozen
dead roses pinned to her wall, one for every man she'd broken up with.
For some reason, I thought she could handle it, and I had to tell someone
or just go barking mad. So I told her.
I fully expected her to run screaming from the house but she...she
didn't. She tilted her head to one side, considering, and then nodded.
"That explains some things," she said, but never told me
what things. I was mostly just relieved that someone else understood
and didn't think I was a sociopath.
Then a friend of hers, and this blond fearful boy, came over, and...did
I mention this girl had a terribly inventive mind? It was a long, slow
process, but it started on one side with the two girls tickling Connor,
and ended up an hour later with the two girls bracing Connor on the
ground, halfway between the kitchen and the entryway, while I sliced
narrow, easily healed stripes into his chest and sucked the blood from
the wounds.
(There was a moment in the middle where I nearly ran away from
the house, alive with tension and my own fear, because what she was
privately suggesting to me was so completely nonconsensual, and...well.
I didn't rape dear lovely Connor. But I did violate his will to say
no and have it upheld. He suffered no great loss from it, but...it
wasn't...right. Or what I needed to know about my capacity for acquisition.)
He said no. He said no several times. I...didn't care. That's the worst
of it. The hunger hits and it gets worse every time and if there's any
way I can talk my mind into it, I'll take what I want. I generally hide
a lot from the world because of this. Because I can't take the possibility
that I might seriously hurt someone some day.
Gods, it was good, though. His fear like electricity in the air, and
his arousal that he didn't want to admit, and watching the girls lick
their lips when I went down, folding like a reed, and licked blood from
all that rounded pale flesh...and then the taste of his blood, copper
wire and citrus, cloves and iron. Lovely.
He left with the girls. He probably slept with the girls. I never asked.
It seemed a just payment, of a sort, for what I'd done.
It took a month for him to talk to me again.
OCTOBER 18, 2002: Somebody save me
Friend of mine--let's call him [G]--wrote me a long time ago suggesting
something that might help with the hunger. This is what he said:
"Chlorophyll is the main effective "ingredient" in supergreens
(kale, spinach, etc.). It is truly the blood of the plant, and is used
successfully by some people who would otherwise suffer from anemia,
which is interesting because the main component of chlorophyll is not
iron, but magnesium. Also very interesting is the [relationship] that
chlorophyll shares with the sun...
"I've kept a bottle on hand for immediate consumption and absorption
when necessary.
"Since iron is part of the package for most sanguines, it is best
to use chlorophyll in combination with beets or beet juice. Ideally,
one could juice at home so as to take more liberties in tinkering with
flavors -- beet juice does not appeal to everyone. However, I did find
I began to crave it specifically, which led me to understand that I
was on the right track. And [Tabasco] helped.
"These websites are very small vignettes of the whole picture
of these simple foods. I find that the public library is the best resource
for nutrition, and I like the lack of advertising there."
The two sites he sent were sites on chlorophyll and juicing your own
red beets.
To date, I haven't had the money to invest in a home juicing system,
and I've been too distracted to explore this path of systemic support.
I do know that I feel better when I drink algae-based drinks, like Nantucket
Nectar's Green Angel and Odwalla's Superfood, or even the powdered "Ultimate
Green Drink". I don't know whether, as [G] proposed, it's the level
of magnesium in the mix, or if it's the level of vitamins in general.
All I know is that I craved it like nothing else when I was in Kirkland,
being massaged daily and moving more. And now, when my joints ache so
that I move very little, and I'm not getting daily massage, I only know
that the algae drinks help.
Will they stave off hunger completely? Is it just a stopgap measure?
Is it all self-delusion? I don't know yet. But pranic energy, life energy,
seems to be carried in algae and live bacterium, and I feel better when
I drink algae drinks and consume live yogurt. And the hunger seems partially
lessened.
But my cycle, or whatever it is, is speeding up. I used to have four-year
breaks between six to eight month patches of extreme, blind, driving,
blood need. Now, it seems like every twelve to eighteen months, I suffer
a terrible attack of blood hunger for about two months. And the rest
of the time, in both instances, I'm hungry, but not...homicidal.
I can tell when the hunger awakens and gets strong again. In fact,
that's why I'm bringing this up now. I can feel it coming. I can feel
it getting stronger, day by day. All I want is to feed until I'm no
longer hungry and I know no one, no one, not even my love in life, who
is willing to let me feed that long.
I think that's why the early memories are coming back--this time bids
fair to be the worst in more than ten years. Gods. I don't know what
I'm going to do.
OCTOBER 19, 2002: Exegesis
Exegesis: \Ex`e*ge"sis\,
n.; pl. Exegeses. [NL., fr.Gr., to explain, interpret; out + to guide,
lead, akin, to lead. See Agent.] 1. Exposition; explanation; especially,
a critical explanation of a text or portion of Scripture.
There's a lot of ground between 22 and 35. I know I've built up more
in the way of personal defenses than one body should have. I know I
have more scar tissue, internally, externally, and emotionally than
is normally healthy. And I know a psychologist would probably schedule
me for a year's worth of appointments, or more, just reading through
the last few entries.
But over the past 13 years, I've learned a few things. I've made the
decision that vampires are real, at least to the extent that there are
individuals who, for whatever reason, do not adequately produce the
life energy that drives other people, and they need to acquire it by
other means. I've made the decision that I fit the general category
of one of these people. I've made the decision that I can't live my
life completely undercover; I have to tell some people, some things,
and hope they understand.
Not everyone knows everything. As honest as I intend to be, there are
things about me that will never be spoken or written aloud. I'll go
to my grave holding those secrets. The heart needs some secrets; those
are mine.
The rest is...something I part out in sections. Certain friends get
surface, then, the longer the association lasts, the less of the surface
they see. Eventually, they're on the inside, or at least, as inside
as anyone who's not me can be.
(Though this is still a flawed process--something one of my friends
said still rings through me on occasion. It's deeply disturbing. She
said that she's just had to learn to cope with the fact that I'm not
always there. Not in the sense that I'm that vacant, or that I don't
see her that often, but that on occasion [and not rare occasion], all
she sees is surface gloss. On those days, she told me, I'm impenetrable,
and she felts helpless and alone, wondering what she can do. No amount
of trying to draw me out ever works on these days, she says. She might
as well be spending time with an articulate rock for all the companionship
my friendship can offer at these times.)
I'm learning about the hunger, about the need, about the pain it can
cause. I'm learning about the side effects. I may never understand why
I feel it, what physiological or psychological component I'm missing
that makes me feel it, but I don't deny anymore that I feel it. Denial
leads to injuring friends and I have too few friends as it is. Also,
I don't have that general, loose and friendly crowd around me anymore--my
friends are generally individuals with their own unique complexes who
are not, at this point, sexually attracted to me, and that's fine with
me. Save that I can't just fall on the nearest body and cut a little
line with my knife. It won't work.
My lady-love feeds me on occasion, not as often as I'd like. She also
feels the hunger, but for the most part she's channelled it very effectively
into energy draining, and mostly non-human objects. Me, I can drain
energy at times--usually when I don't want to, usually unintentionally--but
for the most part, I'm stuck on the blood. Stuck wanting it. Stuck needing
it. Licking it off my hands if I do happen to injure myself. Licking
it off my lady if she happens to get a scrape or a scratch.
And, over the past 13 years, I've watched the cycle of hungry-in-general
spike to hungry-ALL-THE-TIME, and back down again, and mostly managed
to discern when it was going to be bad, and stay inside for those few
days when I could, potentially, be dangerous.
Yes, it bothers me. I had a fic fragment going through my head of Mercy,
my vampire character, making yet another brave sacrifice for the world
at large, and when she comes back from that, she's discussing it with
another character.
"I have no limits," she says. "I've come to realize
this. I won't stop unless I want to stop. I'll throw myself into grave
danger, or kill 35 people in a night, or run a sword through the woman
I love...and if I feel it's necessary, no matter how I know I'll feel
afterwards...I'll do it. And I won't look back. I won't stop. There's
nothing to stop me. There's no one that can."
I wrote that out and suddenly felt that ringing chime, deep inside.
It's true, I've never killed anyone. I don't know how my personality
would alter if I did. I have injured people, both as a defensive move
and for fun. I used to give knife massages to people, and on rare occasion,
carve designs into them. I used to whip people for fun. Once, one of
my slaves irritated me, and I cropped her ass 200 times. She had bleeding
welts the next day, and had trouble sitting down for a week.
No limits. No limits unless I impose them. No restrictions unless I
put them in place.
I frequently dream about individuals dripping blood from wounds. Sometimes
it's me; sometimes it's other people. There's no shying away from the
pain, but there's also no shying away from my desire to see that, in
real life, preferably with my hand on the knife.
How can I have these thoughts and be sane? Bram Stoker's Dracula, the
film with Winona Ryder and Gary Oldman, is on my 'porn shelf'. The first
ten minutes of Blade is about the single most erotic thing I've ever
seen in my life, and I made the mistake of telling one of my friends
that. She was horrified. It suddenly occurred to me that not everyone
thinks this way.
Oh, I'm not a complete idiot--I know I'm a a minority of the minority,
but--I suppose what I wanted was something more along the lines of,
"Ah, that's not my thing but I might understand what you mean by
it", instead of, "Oh, gross, that is sick!"
Blood. Blood hunger. Images of blood. Desire for blood.
I've learned, over the past 13 years. I've learned that I can't tell
everyone everything and have them understand. I've learned that I have
to be as open as I can or I stop talking to people. I've learned that
it's not the death of the victim I desire, because if they die, there's
no more of the lovely red to run out of them. I've learned that some
of my desires don't deserve to see the light of day, and probably never
will.
I've learned I am dangerous. I think that's one reason why I'm afraid
to get thin, why I don't exercise, why I don't work out. I have a disease
that causes muscle bulking and I could have the ability to lift a Buick
again, as I did when I was 22, if I really wanted it. Even with the
weak wrists, even with the joint pain--if I wanted that strength, I
could have it.
I'm afraid to have it. What would I do with it?
And the other thing is, there are people out there I could cut if I
wanted to. They exist--I've spoken with some of them. But their desires
are as dangerous as mine, and shouldn't be exposed either. Some day,
one of their patrons is going to take them too far, and they're going
to end up in the hospital, or the morgue.
(But...oh...the thought of it. Gods.)
I've learned. I've learned in 13 years. I've learned to back off, I've
learned to hide, I've learned to pull the hunger back, pull the desire
back, pull the need back, until all I'm left with is a shell to show
the world. There are days I think I'm shouting my emotions to the world,
and later, my friends and family tell me they thought I was calm, collected,
maybe a little amused. The maelstrom of pain and anger swirled within,
unseen, unremarked, unnoticed.
I've done that. My strength of will. I might be...just might be...too
strong for my own good.
OCTOBER 20, 2002: Dangerous tonight
It all happened in slow unfolding stages that year, the first year,
the first year I put it all together. After the incident with Connor,
I felt more or less okay, for a while. Seemed to be injuring friends
left and right, was slowly going crazy thinking I was losing my mind,
was afraid to go near large groups of people, but I was actually convincing
myself that it was just a stage and things were coming back to normal.
The boy we'll call Skunk had accepted a date from a pretty young black
girl that had been co-currently dating (along with many others, I later
discovered) the rapist twit I'd been pining for, he being far away from
me in northern California. I was a friend of hers, and she had come
to me, asking if it was okay if she went out with Skunk. Huh, I thought.
She felt guilty over dating someone else. I didn't mind polyamorous
behavior as long as I knew about it, and told her so, and we parted
friends and happy.
What I had neglected to ask was when the date had been scheduled.
That night, it hit again. Burning hunger. Burning pain. Desire for
blood unending. The craving sent me out driving, I couldn't stay still,
I couldn't stay home. I had to go, I had to be gone, I had to find a
safe haven...
Understand: for me, it was never a matter of finding some bar and convincing
some loser to let me slash his wrist. I was in fucking Sacramento, California
at the time. I could have had that easily. But I knew that kind of thing
would terrify me. Let alone get me a reputation in the area for strange
behavior, but I also felt that there had to be some level of trust between
me, and the people who fed me. My father died of AIDS; I was afraid
of bad blood.
So. Can't go to the bar. Can't pick up some random stranger. Had to
go with someone I knew. And I'd only told two people, one of whom, in
my mind, qualified as a child, and also, wasn't interested in me in
any way, and therefore, was out.
That left Skunk. I drove to his house. Not there. I drove to his friend's
house. Not there. I drove to a 7-11 and called him.
Once again, I don't remember what I said. My voice shook, I remembered
that. I was trembling, I was shaking, I think I was begging him to come
meet me by the park. And I waited there in the little black car, hands
wrapped around myself tight enough for my fingers to bruise my arms--I
had several patches of little round circles, fingertip-marks, on my
upper arms the next day.
Finally, he arrived, and he looked good, and he looked less pale, and
he looked...worried. Why was he worried?
Turns out I'd called him about an hour from when he was supposed to
pick up the girl. He'd borrowed his dad's van, and they were supposed
to go to a movie, and...damn.
I locked it down. I locked it all down. It was a deadening act of will
to lock it all away. Not kill the desire, I couldn't do that, but for
a while, lock away its ability to escape and harm anyone around me.
I turned, shaking, nodding my head.
"Okay," I said. "Okay. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'll go."
He sounded worried, touching my arm.
"I can cancel," he said then. "If you need me--"
I should have won the Oscar for this one. I inhaled, breathing out
slowly, and turned. When I turned, I was relaxed, calm, my hands at
my sides. I smiled slightly.
"No, it's okay. I'll be fine. It was--just a moment."
He still looked worried. "If you're sure--"
"I'm sure," I said, waving a hand. "Really. Go on."
And I walked back to my car. I started the ignition, pulled out smoothly,
waved to him, and drove off. I ended up somewhere up in the foothills,
around Auburn, and turned off on an inlet road. I'd bought a pack of
cloves on the way and I smoked half a pack there, stubbed one of them
out against my left arm--there's a tattoo there now, of the eye of Horus,
the left eye of Ra, the iris nearly in the center of the round silver
scar--and fell asleep. The next morning, I drove back to my home, and
curled up in a small ball, wishing I wasn't who I apparently was, wishing
I knew what the hell was going on.
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