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Death of the Vampire
June 1st, 1954
I find this whole thing rather silly. I already have a journal that I write in all the time, but my therapist wants me to start another one. She said that I make my writing to flowery in my other journals, I write in them as if I want them to be read, as if they are a piece of my literary masterpiece. She wants me to get down to the dirty awful things that go on in my mind. She said to take my rage out on these sheets of paper. She promised me no one will ever read them. She thinks that this is going to help me “release the anger and resentment”. I have been writing my whole life. I am pretty sure if it was going to work some sort of Gypsy magic on me, it already would have. I kind of feel ridiculous “writing with a purpose”, Like Oh my Dearest diary how I have missed you. How I want to rip all your pages out. I can’t decide whether I love it or hate it.
Where should I begin? Mother thinks I am a sociopath, I think she is a Vampire. I am pretty sure she is afraid for her life. She should be. She killed my father. They say it wasn’t her fault, but why would she marry such an old man to bare children for? So now I am left all alone with my neurotic mother, and no male role model, to show me affection. It is okay I get plenty of attention from men, and I know something she doesn’t know. I have killed her. It was so easy, and I don’t think anyone will ever know. I have actually killed her twice. I saw my mother lurking in the eyes of both women. It was so easy to hide the bodies. Even if they are found, how could they ever be connected to me? I win! AND I will keep winning! I must go now, I have a date. Maybe he will be the one. Maybe I will find my father, at last. I guess this is somewhat therapeutic. I will write again tomorrow, and tell you about my date.
Well he was definitely tall, dark, and handsome. Oh, I had high hopes for this one. He stood straight as a pole and had stern Nazi eyes. He could have been my father, with his no-nonsense attitude, and angry scowl. Unfortunately, the evening was so drab. He took me to the Colonial Inn. He ordered for me, which I sort of liked, but then he started talking, and talking, and talking. Yet he said nothing of great importance. He seemed to have no capacity to think. What he was looking for was a maid and a child bearer. That is not what I have in mind for my life. I am going to be something. My name will be known around the world. He would just hold me back…
I just drank my wine and smiled politely. It was red, and reminded me of blood. I imagined that it was salty as it ran, soothingly, down my throat. It calmed me. He was perturbed that I ate very little. I felt that I needed the wine more than the sustenance,and I certainly earned it. He asked me if I wanted to go on a walk, but I could not imagine listening to him carry on anymore. I faked a migraine. If only he would have let me talk. If only he would have kept his mouth shut, for even a short period of time, I would not have had to go to bed alone last night. I imagined him lying naked in my bed. Stern brown eyes looking over my body, taking in my curves, would it have been worth it? Next I imagine reaching for him hungrily, begging him to come closer, and then suddenly, he remembers some useless fact that he must blurt out immediately.The moment would be ruined, it would have been torture. What a shame.We could have had quite a bit of fun..... I wonder what his mother is like?
Is this a story worth developing further?
© 2017 Lisa Williams