Journal: The Calling Sea

The eve has been ever long, filled with the usual dregs of our pack's calling. Such a simple piece of work to stop a train, made all the more confounding as the compartments remained bare. And those Camarilla sent along side seemed to arrive in a more mundane fashion elsewhere. A traipsing of calls and the usual folk led us to learn...our fair city has uninvited guests.

Yet their targets so simple to the others, tickle at some thoughts in my head. I hear Sebastian's constant jawing of plans within plans. He never underestimated the Camarilla, teaching me what he could of their numbers and behaviors. They must seek something far different if Geraldo has come into play. If nothing else, perhaps my warnings will gain me admittance at later times.

For now, I have left the others far earlier than usual. I dined, bathed, and read what I could before boredom set in. Off to this bed then, where I hope to sleep.

I lie upon the sheets of cotton, washed and rubbed until worn over so many washboards, so many machine cycles. And yet they feel so very course. Sleep will come soon, forced so rudely upon my mind and body. That little death brought by the sun.

And yet, I recline and hope it will come ever so slowly, creep upon me as if I forgot what true rest was. So when I wake, the night seems but an eyeblink. I could never be so lucky. Seeking sleep, I hold fast my eyelids, spiral my mind over old stories, random images, even movies of Bogart watched with my mother a lifetime ago.

Thunder growls through the world. I missed the lightening as I waited for sleep. The dark night seems to have swallowed stars, threatening an icy rain. The clouds so far above feel closer. Without sensing my own movements, I stand at the sash, tossing it aside to rattle and pull the latches of windows blackened and locked. My fangs prick my lips from the exertion. My body pulls too strongly, making the metal hinges squeal. How I try to keep out the day, yet I miss my skies, limitless and freeing.

Poets speak of nights such as these. Old ships in the harbor. Dashing highwaymen come round. The damsel so deeply in distress. A simpler time I could only wish for, no longer dream of. Sebastian robbed me of such a child's fantasy. Birds will die this night, seeking a bevy of worms only to fly among the bolts that seek and sizzle their feathers. An explosion of their life as a child's breaking free the binding of a feather pillow in play.

I had a pet bird once. Singing sweetly. I should have another. But they fear, always crying and thrashing when I grow close. They break their tiny bodies, hearts thudding to an intense stop. Their mournful cries sought by the willow trees I imagine surrounding my home. But this is not the south. Nor is it Queens with its jungle of concert hymns.

In the dark waters beyond, fishermen wait out the storm. I should do the same.

Strangely, I fantasize of my sire in these moments. And Geraldo in his mansion. Why? Perhaps a part of me still lingers in the house of my birth. It is a dream I hope for as I shove closed the windows, dig nails and screws back into the woodwork and plaster. I miss the skies, but now, with the calling of mist and shade, I do not have to.

Closing my eyes, I fall back into the not so comfortable sheets, tendrils of night consuming my vision. Now if only I could sleep.