Alien Romance: Interview with an Alien (Football Paranormal Invasion Abduction Alpha Sci-fi Romance) (Fantasy First New Adult Contact Science Fiction Mystery Sports Alien Short Stories) (49 page)

Bonus Story 15 of 24

I walked the streets of Paris alone. Finally, I had left the glory of the wealthy streets behind me, and I now wandered wherever my feet would carry me. It had been so long, so painfully long since I had laid eyes upon my home; over a century ago. My heart shattered. I was lost in my misery when I suddenly found myself walking a dimly lit street that harbored houses of the old nineteenth-century fashion. My senses picked up a scent that I had not witnessed in many years; the smell of old pine needles and lavender.

As I drew closer, I could not believe my eyes. Somehow, after all, this time, my feet had brought me back to the old estate where I had resided as a child, along with my father and my brother, when I was mortal. The Rue Chavern. I stopped sharply and looked up at the abandoned building. Most of the estates on the street were also boarded up and lonely. I remembered the days when this old street had been thriving. So many memories in this place.

I knew that I shouldn’t enter the one place that had caused me so much turmoil in my mortal years, but a strength in me told me that I had to face that which harmed me. I may be immortal, eternal, but we too can feel anguish just as mortals feel it.

Using my senses, I found the back entrance to the Rue Chavern, boarded and untouched. The place had been abandoned for years. The wood that covered the windows was old and weathered, falling apart from age. I tore off the long board that held the back entrance shut and threw it into the jungle garden. It fell into the grass with a hiss. I entered the big house, my heart racing, my fear prominent.

What was I expecting, revisiting this place? Coming back here couldn’t turn back time could it? Why was I still grieving for a life that was lost to me over two hundred years ago? But I didn’t know if I was grieving; I didn’t know what it was that I felt.

As soon as I entered, I felt the old dusty room reach out its arms to embrace me in a welcoming gesture. It was strange that I felt so comforted stepping inside a place of death, but rather fitting. Everything remained as it had been on the last night that I had been mortal.

The downstairs was completely overrun with cobwebs that disguised the small square dining room table that had graced the kitchen once.  In the distance, I could hear the faint noises of rats. It smelled old, the Rue Chavern, so very old. It smelled of musk and dust. A pleasant smell, I thought. To me, it smelled of home.

Looming in the far corner stood the shadow of the old winding staircase that led up to the bedroom. Ever so slowly I approached it, all the while my eyes fixed on the stairs as if I could not look away. I knew what I was doing to myself by even being in the vicinity, but there was no turning back for me now. Carefully, I ascended the staircase, its old, withered fragility creaking beneath my heavy boots. I reached out to caress the hand rail that was laden with thick dust and cobwebs. They clung to my hair and my face as I went higher and higher, my heart threatening to burst from out of my chest.

Then I saw the bed as I reached the top. A silent rage suddenly consumed me as I stood motionless, staring at the bed where he and I had lain together so many times. I wanted to tear it apart, wanted to destroy and then burn it before burning the rest of the place to the ground. But I knew that I didn’t have the strength to part with such a memory. I loved this place as if I was still mortal. I would always love it. Always.

I approached the bed carefully. It was beautiful, made from dark oak wood of the finest nineteenth-century fashion. It was what would be called an antique if mortals managed to get their hands on it. I wouldn’t allow that, though. This bed was too precious a gift from my mortal lover than the cursed dark gift that he had bestowed upon me a year later. Everything was still intact. The lace curtains hung at the bedside, partly drawn in a bow-like fashion just the way he liked it. The bed itself was a mess; the blankets disturbed.

It all flooded back to me then, the night of my creation. He had made me in that bed. A shiver shot through me, cold and painful. With a shaking hand, I reached out to touch the lace, my fingers gently caressing the soft fabric. Then I turned mournfully to the bedside table. My heart sank.

I couldn’t believe it. Was it even possible for it to still be here after so many centuries had passed? But there it lay on the dusty table, next to a wax candle that had burnt to its hilt. My old journal. My mortal journal. Oh, how had I forgotten such a precious gift in my mortal years? But there it lay in all its splendor, closed and beckoning me to read the contents that I had long ago forgotten.

For a long time, I stood staring down at the little book, debating on what I should do. I was of two minds: one to walk away and leave it in the old abandoned house waiting to be discovered by mortal historians who loved nothing more than to collect artifacts, or to take it with me to London and read it in my new home. My curiosity was too strong to wait that long, I had six more hours before dawn, I had left Kyle to his own devices, and now I was finally alone.

I did what I had to do, and sat down upon my old dusty dresser chair and opened the journal that lay before me.

Paris: 1891.

We have finally made it to Paris, Everard and I. with Madam Latrine's blessing we have finally been released from the Plantation and set free. We are no longer trapped in a place of cold and constant darkness, but now living in a place that is beautiful and thriving, full of life. Never could I be happier than I am now; and to be here with him only makes my dream of freedom ever more a reality; one that I have not quite grasped yet.

Everard Is quiet, yet I can see in his eyes that he is happy to be finally free. He is standing on the balcony of our quaint little apartment, gazing out at the lights of Paris below us, arms outstretched upon the railings, his hair blowing in the warm, gentle night air. God knows how long he has dreamed of this moment, and now he is living out that dream. I am happy for him, so happy. I am in love with him deeply. My friend, my lover, my soul mate. He deserves to be happy; he deserves to be free.

As my eyes read over the words of my first entry upon our arrival in Paris, I could see our apartment come to life as if I were back in those times.  A dreadful sadness had consumed me then, and I found myself mourning for the past, mourning for the life that I had lost here.  As I read the words, I could see now how in love I had been with Everard. I was obsessed with him; he possessed me like a spirit possesses a young child. He was the be-all and end-all of me.

Silently, I rose to my feet carefully picking up my journal as lightly as I could. I walked out to the old balcony where Everard had once stood. I leaned my arms over the railings and continued to read.

Paris, 1891.

Everard has gotten a job at a local art gallery in central Paris. Everard has always loved the arts. He is working now on a new painting as I write. He brushes his hand so gracefully across the canvas; he truly is fascinating to watch. Below me, the streets of Paris have come alive. I can see men and women walking to the local theatres, dressed in all their finery to see the finest production of the evening. Everard insisted that I should go see a production tonight but I refused,  it would not seem right to witness a play without him beside me.

Now that I am with child, I am finding it difficult to enjoy the things that I once so loved. Instead, I find myself merely sitting here at my dresser writing down my thoughts whilst I sit with my free hand perched upon the round swell of my belly, counting down the days until our child is born.

I am very near now, the midwife says. I have another two months before Everard and I get to see our beautiful son or daughter. We truly will be a happy family then. All the hardships that he has endured! I hope our child I will give him back the happiness that he lost so long ago.

He was overjoyed by the news of my being with child. When I had revealed the news to him, he looked at me with his blue eyes, face emotionless, before sweeping me up in his arms and kissing me so tenderly that his love almost burned my skin.

He will be the perfect father,  of that I have no doubt. We are truly blessed.

My pale, slender fingers flicked through my old tattered journal until I finally reached the entry which I had almost inscribed upon my mind. Hands shaking, I hesitated to look down at the tragic words that were displayed upon the brown-stained parchment pages. I suddenly became a child all over again; one who was afraid to face up to her past. I had to read it one last time, perhaps after all the years of ignoring its existence, I might just find an answer to what I was looking for. But what was I looking for?

Paris, 1891.

Why have you left us like this? Have I displeased you? Insulted you? Tested your patience? Why have you left me to a lonely fate here in our Rue Chavern? Are you punishing me for some unforeseen crime?

You have been away from me for so many nights that I am beginning to fear for the worst. Do you know what torment I am going through, knowing that you are out there somewhere? Alone.

Are you dead? Are you alive? I feel numb, broken, and now our child is moving inside of me, making its presence known.

I cannot live like this knowing that I have wronged you. We were supposed to be a family, the three of us, remember? Yet you have left us to a fate that has cast us out of your life completely. Why? Have you suddenly had a change of heart? Do you no longer want us in your life? Have you left because I am with child?

All I did for you, my love, I did out of love. You are my beloved, my one true love and no matter how much hurt and pain you lavish upon me now with your disappearance I will still pray that you will return to me, to us, when you see fit. I will wait for you day and night. My eyes will search Paris for you and will only be contented until they see you again.

I love you, Everard, I always will, yet I hate you so for this!

Beneath was the final entry of my mortal years. What it contained frightened me.

Paris, 1891.

Something is moving in the corner of the room. I can sense it. I can feel it watching. I no longer know if I am merely overtired or if I really see it! I can no longer distinguish fantasy from reality. I fear I am losing my mind. I have not slept for many a night, and now all I see is darkness and hear an evil voice whispering my name over and over from the shadows.

I can hear it now. It's beckoning me to it! The strange thing is I am not afraid! Why should I fear death if it has come for me? I am ready. Let it come.

Oh, beloved, I will be with you soon! Death is calling me. Calling us.

Droplets of blood stained the parchment a horrid brown color. I felt sick by just looking at it. I knew all too well what that blood had come from. Not long after I had written my final journal and had clambered into bed was I taken. The memory was so vivid, so intense that in my preternatural mind it replayed itself over and over again.

I walked back into the room in darkness. Mournfully I stood in the center of the room, unsure of what do with myself. The words of my final entry consumed my mind.
“Why should I fear death if it has come for me? I am ready. Let it come.”

Had I really lost my mind? Was that what drew him to take me? Or was it simply out of love that he brought me over? Either way, I was longing for death, I wanted it, craved it, needed it. Such a tragic truth to behold when at the time there had been life growing inside of me.

Oh, how eternity had hardened this cold heart, yet at the first memory of my mortal life, that heart melted out of me into a pool of red at my feet. Suddenly I felt the urge to flee this place, but resisted it. I had one more thing to do.

*****

Placing the journal back onto the old dresser, I left it open on the last page that I had read. No one would find it, of that I was certain, Leaving my past behind me, I walked swiftly down the winding staircase and out to the back garden without a second glance. My heart was racing now as I let my feet carry me to the one place that I had not been strong enough to visit until now. I followed the overgrown path as if it was only yesterday that I had been here and in my mind, it still looked and felt as if I was safely home.

Slipping silently through the overhanging ivy and fern trees that brushed against my face, I continued walking down the old stone path that was now completely submerged with wet leaves the colour of autumn. When I broke through the clearing of trees, it was as if I had walked back into my past. Everything remained unchanged. There, in the far corner stood the little tomb that had been built especially for our child who had never lived, encased with overhanging ivy and lavender flowers blooming all over the great stone tomb of my child.

Before I could get control over my emotions, the tears spilled from my eyes, staining my marble-white cheeks crimson. I sobbed. Long, drawn-out cries of anguish and despair as I stood beside my child’s grave, staring at the nameless one whose body did not even reside inside of the cold tomb. There was no body. The child had emptied out of me in a red flush the moment Everard gave me the vampire’s kiss.

Oh, my child.
My mind whispered painfully;
you cannot know how it pains me to stand here beside your empty grave. You had a chance to live, and I stole that chance from you. I let myself be defiled by your father, but you see he was not himself, he was not human; what human feeds off the blood of their loved ones?