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I have slept more soundly in these past
few weeks than I have in decades, perhaps centuries. My sleep is that
of love reassured, of the mutual forgiveness found when we have both
wronged each other profoundly, and prevailed in the hope for a future
that only immortality can bring.
Yet my sleep has been disturbed, not by
dreams of moonlit romance but by nightmares of my own creating.
Perhaps my mind is too cynical to basque in the newfound placid
peacefulness of my waking hours. It would seem that something deep
within myself sees what conscious mind cannot. I am not the sort to
give much credence to twisted images formed in a fitful dreamscape.
Yet some things cannot be ignored. Perhaps by recording this
nightmare, it will become clear what it is my mind is attempting to
tell me.
I find myself in the wings of the
Théâtre
des vampires, hand resting on the heavy velvet curtains that have
been drawn back for the opening of the play that has already begun.
Nicolas is center stage, as low bitter sweet notes sound, ringing out
over a silent audience that is as enthralled by his violin as he is
himself. Stepping to my place in the upstage corner, I wait for the
light to raise. Wires laced about my arms, exaggerated circles of
rouge painted on delicately- an illusion created by yet another
illusion. I know this play well.
Step by step, ever so slowly, the
pleading cries of his violin crescendo as he turns his back to the
audience. From the darkness, light blazes- not from its expected
place, but from behind his exposed figure. Whether is is the sun, or
a foot light gone awry, I can not determine. All I can be sure of is
that he is prone, he is in danger, and he does not see it.
Higher and faster, his notes rise to
a fever pitch. He does not notice me, nor the light blazing towards
him. Decorum forgotten, I move to rush towards him. The audience is
gone, and there are only the two of us surrounded by flames which
reminds me all too much of the funeral pyre in the would-be future of
this nightmare.
With a start, the wires hold fast. I
cannot move, and Nicolas is oblivious, lost in melodic melancholy.
The moment I attempt to move towards him, I am whisked up and away,
toes only touching down momentarily to perform a series of crazed
pirouettes. Try as I might to cease the motions, my body is not mine
to control.
I am a vampire, pretending to be
human, pretending to be a marionette. Only an unseen force is holding
the strings, keeping me from doing what I must, as the fire creeps
closer and closer to us with each passing second. The play I had
thought to be so unique, so charming is now a grotesque parody of
itself.
For one startling moment he stands
unmoving, holding his beloved violin by the neck with one hand, and
his bow limply with the other. I can feel my heart pounding in my
chest as I meet his eyes. The expression is not his, but a reflection
of the maddened blaze that surrounds us.
Dreams have a way
of taking everything we know and distorting it, creating a faux
reality which plays on our deepest fears. Yet at their core, they
contain an element of truth. I do not need a premonition to tell me
that something will come between Nicolas and I. His vehemence towards
life burns as brightly as his brilliance. I only pray I will be able
to contain it before it all turns to ashes.
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