Forsaking God to kiss someone you hate might not be a smart decision, but damn does it hurt good.
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Judith was never supposed to fall in love- but she was never supposed to become a vampire either. It's her duty as a nu...
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When I woke up I didn't know where I was. The first thing I realized was that I was warm. The second, I was in bed.
I tried to sit up, but I immediately regretted it when pain shot through me. I pulled the covers to the side, and saw that my leg was in a splint.
It seemed that I might not be going anywhere for some time. I groaned and laid back down, and tried to take in my surroundings.
I was in a small room. There was a fire burning in the fireplace to the right of me. Beside the bed there was a bowl of what looked like water that was tinged pink with blood. A bloody rag was resting on the rim of it.
I assumed the blood was mine.
My journal was beside the bowl, though it looked like the leather was now stained with drops of blood. I picked it up and untied the twine, flipping through the uneven, yellowed pages.
I stopped on a sketch of Patrice I had done last year, the side profile of her face as she looked out the stone window in our room. It was hard to even look at her like this— the upturn of her nose, her golden hair she had just let down that her hands were unbraiding.
It was a good day. We had gone into the city to deliver food and a bright spring day. It used to be a good memory in my mind too, but now it just made me feel pain.
A pang of sadness made my chest clench. I don't know why I felt like I needed to hurt myself like this, but I couldn't get her off my mind.
I wanted to purge myself of every thought, every feeling of her. But I didn't know how to rid myself of this… this dark, black feeling inside of myself.
There was a knock at the door, and I quickly placed the journal back on the table.
"May I come in?" It was a voice I hadn't heard before. Still, I didn't answer, instead choosing to lay back and keep my eyes focused on the wooden slats of the ceiling.
The door opened despite my silence, and I cut my eyes quickly over to see who it was.
It was a woman I hadn't seen before. She was very tall— possibly the tallest person I had ever seen. Her figure was imposing, though her face was kind, pretty even.
Her brown hair was shaved close to her head at the sides, with the rest braided back. She wore warm woolen clothing, old in style, but appropriate for the cold weather. The style reminded me of the clothing I had seen on visitors from The Far North.
"How are you feeling?" She asked.
Again I chose not to answer, and kept my eyes away from her.
She seemed unbothered, and closed the door behind herself and continued over to me. In her hands she held a decorative metal tray that held a bowl of stew and a couple of small glass vials. She sat it gently down on my lap.
"This is for you." She said, "And I am Ayla, by the way."
"I am not hungry." I lied. I was very hungry, but I didn't want anything they wanted to give me. I wanted to be left alone.
