| The bittersweet taste of memories |
[02 Jun 2003|05:15pm] |
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mood |
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 nervous |
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Liv looks down at the paper in her hand, black ink looping across the neat square. She rereads the address and matches it to the numbers on the dilapidated building in front of her. .In a way, it didn't seem right that a Toreador would live in such squalor. The neighborhood was built on harsh lines and haggard looks. The people here were worn, their tired faces and slouched shoulders pulling at the air around them, drawing the atmosphere down.
But there was something here. There had to be. Sabine, attaché to the Toreador Primogen, had assured Liv that the location was correct, that this was where Orlando spent many of his ( days. )
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| Late hours, nocturnal candles and making a decision |
[15 May 2003|11:46pm] |
Liv sits on the hardwood boards of her rooftop terrace, countless tea lights arranged around her, a sea of tiny candles. It’s a balmy spring night, the air is still warm, almost sultry. There are no stars tonight, only low hanging clouds. The atmosphere is charged with electricity. Sooner or later there will be thunder and lightning. And rain will extinguish the candles. It’s the quiet before the storm.
Liv tries to straighten out the crumpled paper that lies before her. When opening the letter for a split second Liv hoped that Cate had sent it. Foolish hopes, foolish dreams. Crushed as soon as she had seen the letters at the back, clearly not Cate’s handwriting. “Adsum, in memoriam”, slowly Liv repeats the three words, trying to figure out their meaning.
Suddenly, singsong rhymes and sunny afternoons come back to her, little girls with pigtails and faultlessly pressed white blouses. And Mlle. Béart’s clear stern voice sounding from afar: “Like Descartes once said: Cogito ergo sum” – I think, therefore I am”. Liv looks up. Of course, how could she have forgotten? “
“I am … I am …here … in memory.” Liv swallows and her heart sinks low. There is only one person who could have sent the letter.
Catherine’s other childe. The one she had loved.
Orlando.
Liv shakes her head, even if she now understands the words, they still don’t make sense to her. Why should Orlando send her a letter all of a sudden? Why?
In memoriam …Could that mean something … happened to Cate? What could Orlando know that Liv doesn’t? Liv pulls up her legs and lays her head on her knees, feeling defeated, broken-hearted. It’s hard to say what is worse: knowing that Cate is gone forever or that Cate refuses to see Liv ever again. While she’s still in contact … in love with Orlando.
And equally hard it is to say whether uncertainty is a curse or a blessing. No, Liv can’t leave it at that. She must know. And despite everything … Liv touches the wrinkled paper lovingly. The memory of Cate is like a precious stone. It shines mysteriously in the dark and shimmers even through layers of mud and dirt. To catch only a fraction of that splendour again every risk is worth taking.
Having made up her mind at last, Liv gets up quickly and hurries inside. Blesses Craig for having given her the card of the Toreador Primogen of Paris “in case you need help again. For remember, you are not alone.”
Yes, they will be able to help her to find Orlando. Liv snorts sarcastically. Orlando, her long lost … brother.
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| Kisses and blood |
[01 Apr 2003|04:17pm] |
Sprawled on her settee, wrapped up in her flower kimono and a soft quilt Liv watches Jean-Paul Belmondo kiss Jean Seberg. Watches him run a thumb across his lower lip before he dies. The screen goes dark.
Liv licks her own lips, tasting the tingling after-taste of the girl’s sweet blood. Wild mane of springy golden curls and lip-gloss tasting of strawberries. Yeah, strawberry girl, who so perfectly draped her gentle curves around Liv’s cold limbs, when they were dancing till the wee hours. Liv still fills dizzy from her kisses. Drunk from the crowd’s mad energy and all that blood.
There was a flash of regret on the girl’s face when Liv told her that she couldn’t take her home. Liv would have loved to, but how to explain that she had to be alone after sunrise, could not share a bed with a mortal just like that.
But actually it’s not a mortal’s embrace she desires. All that tenderness and frailty, those brittle bones. Almost sickening, all that sweet mellow blood, like syrupy lemonade when in reality she wants wine.
Slowly, Liv’s hand sneaks down into her kimono and parts her own flesh. Teasing herself, like the girl had teased her in a dark corner under the boys’ greedy eyes. Like Miranda had been teasing her while Liv had slowly drained her. How she had always loved Miranda’s small shrill cries ….
Miranda, who’s gone and dead now. Nothing but ashes. Golden hair rotting in the damp earth. Killed by Sean, that callous, cold-hearted bastard. Sean, who has two different faces and a cruel smile. Sean, who kisses by far too good.
Liv bites her own tongue, tastes hot blood while her hand speeds up its movements. And hates herself that when she comes it’s with Sean’s name on her lips.
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| Revelations III |
[31 Mar 2003|04:18pm] |
Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And when you look into an abyss, the abyss also looks into you."
Friedrich Nietzsche
( Conclusion of Sean's visit )
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| Revelations I |
[12 Mar 2003|09:12pm] |
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mood |
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nervous |
] |
When one has made a decision to attack a person, even if it will be very difficult to succeed by advancing straight ahead, it will not do to think about doing it in a long, roundabout way. One's heart may slacken, he may miss his chance, and by and large there will be no success. The Way of the Samurai is one of immediacy, and it is best to dash in headlong.
- Tsunetomo Yamamoto, Hagakure
( Sean comes for a visit )
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| Chance encounter |
[06 Mar 2003|12:50pm] |
Jewels being lost are found again, this never.
T’is lost but once, and once lost, lost forever.
Christopher Marlowe, Hero and Leander
Sean sits in the reading room at the ( Bibliothèque Nationale )
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| Memento mori |
[19 Feb 2003|12:07am] |
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mood |
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scared |
] |
(warning: the scene of a crime never looks nice; implied torture)
There is no sense of foreboding, no inner voice that warns Liv of what she will find in Miranda's apartment. The house is silent when she rushes up the stairs, taking two at a time as is her custom. Only muffled sounds of traffic from the street below can be heard. And no one answers when she knocks on the door.
In that instant she realizes that something is wrong. Terribly wrong. For there is this smell, a faint but distinct odour. Of fire. Ashes. Burnt flesh.
"Miranda!"
Feverishly, Liv tries to open the door that is locked from the inside, flying fingers, her pulse quickening with each second: "Now go open, you damned thing". Finally, she manages to unlock the door, rushes into the apartment and … freezes in her tracks.
( Read more... )
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| Beautiful is the night. And terrible. |
[18 Feb 2003|12:26am] |
The square in front of Sacre Coeur – 7.20 p.m.
Once more I’m standing on the terraces looking down on the vast sea of lights that is Paris. Countless lights, whites and yellows and silvers, some reds here and there, sparkling, shining in the darkness. The brightly illuminated boulevards in the distance, the sporadic lights of Montmartre nearby.
"The night sky is beautiful, too,” Miranda once said to me. And she was right. It was me who could not see that beauty.
I press down the button of my new digital camera and try to capture the sights that unfold before me. When I move the view finder up to the whites cupolas of Sacre Coeur I pause for a moment. Almost expecting to see the face again I once spotted there, a sudden revelation under the street lights of that square, unexpected and unwelcome at the time. A face white like mine, gone just as quickly as it had suddenly appeared.
While my eyes wander over to the houses near Sacre Coeur I have to think of Miranda again, about the last time we met in that little park. How forlorn she had appeared in the pale moonlight.
Now that I look back on that encounter I begin to doubt the way I treated her that night. I let her slip through my fingers like water. Being so caught up in my own desperation and grief I had paid attention to nothing else.
Why couldn’t she understand that I couldn’t go home with her as if nothing had ever happened? Why couldn’t she see what I had gone through?
But wait, I hadn’t even told her about my last meeting with Cate. Had not been able to. That was then … Now, however …
It’s not that the pain would have disappeared all of a sudden. It is still there and I still don’t know how I can go on with the knowledge that in the end I meant nothing to Cate. Well, maybe not exactly nothing, but not nearly half as much as she meant, and still means, to me. It feels like there is a huge black hole in my chest, absorbing all energy and all emotions.
But maybe I’m able to talk about it now. At least I’ll try.
We must talk again …
And with that idea on my mind I quickly hurry along the narrow alleyways leading up to Miranda’s house.
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| Fire and ashes |
[08 Feb 2003|12:19am] |
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mood |
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 shocked |
] |
Fire. White-hot flames dancing in the darkness, licking and lapping at the crumpled paper, slowly devouring it, turning the parchment into ashes. Liv stares down at the gradual disintegration, entranced, unblinkingly. And freezes all of a sudden.
"You must learn to blink". It's almost as if she could hear Cate's voice, a low melodious whisper, soft velvet barely covering the sharp edges beneath.
Silliness to burn that letter, and to no avail as well. As if fire could burn away those words that will be forever engraved into her heart. Together with the dreadful realization that she has meant nothing to her Sire. That Cate made her just out of a whim. Maybe because Cate had pitied her, maybe because she had wanted to indulge in motherly feelings. Whatever it had been, it had passed quickly. And now there is nothing left for her Childe. Only ashes.
But Liv feels no heart-ache, no pain. Or maybe she no longer feels it because it hurts all the time. There is only emptiness now and numbness.
Nothing matters any more.
As it does not matter when two young clochards approach her, one placing a hand on her shoulder possessively, the other stepping between her and the fire burning away in an empty dustbin, a sly grin on his face "I wonder what a woman like you is searching out here. You don't look like you do drugs."
Liv looks at him calmly, can almost physically feel the hardly concealed hunger. "No, I'm searching for something else," she answers in a soft voice. So sweetly and quietly, just like the perfect victim, almost asking to be pushed up against a wall and be fucked again and again.
And that's what they do and Liv does not even move, a lifeless doll, eyes opened wide. Lets them do with her as they please.
She feels nothing.
No sadness. No pain.
Knowing full well that it's only the blood that will her give her some momentary peace. Together with the short small sounds when bones are suddenly broken, quickly and unexpectedly, or a frail human neck
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| En attendant Catherine |
[17 Jan 2003|10:32am] |
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mood |
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 hopeful |
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music |
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Wynton Marsalis/Judith Lynn Stillmann - On the 20th century |
] |
Liv's apartment - evening
The fires are lit and so are the candles. There is soft music, trumpet and piano, and there are rose petals, white like her skin.
And there is Liv, lying on her bed, dreaming. Barefoot, but no runaway hippie child tonight, no leather jeans, no trendy designer shirts. She is dressed in soft velvet instead, midnight-blue, a long simple dress. No jewellery, no necklaces.
Instead of pearls or precious stones she wears a smile.
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| Snow and a gift after midnight |
[16 Jan 2003|11:18pm] |
| [ |
mood |
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 indescribable |
] |
Liv's apartment - well after midnight
It's after midnight when the doorbell rings. Sitting at one of the long windows leading out onto the rooftop terrace I watch the snow fall. Thick flakes twirling through the air, an animated kaleidoscope of whites and greys.
It's the quiet of the wee hours. The clocks are ticking away the time on the mantelpiece, the fire cracks now and then and I sit there, staring out into the night.
Trying not to think. Not of Miranda. Not of Cate.
I'd rather lie down and sleep. Sleep forever. No dreams. No thirst. No hopes.
I wonder if Miranda will come over tonight. I've left a message on her answering machine earlier the evening, but she hasn't called back yet. I cannot blame her. She knows what's going on. Useless to hide something from Miranda, she's too clever to not see through my cheap excuses and half-hearted promises.
I know that I hurt her. Know that with each kiss and each embrace I hurt her even more. And I regret doing so, but at the same time it's beyond my control.
Too bad, that Miranda off all people will never be able to understand what Cate means to me, Miranda, who never gave me details about her own Sire, just some vague allusions, murmured in a low, flat voice. But from what she told me I gathered that it wasn't done in love when she was it embraced.
With Cate it had been different though. It was Cate who saved me when my life had narrowed down to one steadily escalating progression of shadows that would, in the next phase, only logically end up in eternal darkness. Or so it seemed to me then.
Cate's love saved me. In her arms my former existence began to fade. And in her kisses I could even forget the grief I had felt for Stéphane and my lost child. Cate healed me with her blood.
The mere idea of having another Sire but her appals me. No one could replace her.
The buzz of the doorbell rouses me from my musings. Miranda?
But it's not Miranda - it's a young man from a special delivery service with a parcel. A neat little parcel for me! He has not yet turned his back, happy about the more than generous tip I have given him, when I start to rip open the wrappings.
When some dried rose petals fall from the box I sink down to the floor, my knees suddenly growing weak, and huddle up on the thick rug in front of the fireplace.
With flying fingers I tear open the envelope. It's her handwriting! She has written a letter to me!
My head spins, the elegant letters swimming before my eyes. It takes a while before I actually understand the meaning of the sentences.
Cate has been there. All the time. Watching over me. She … she has even watched me with Miranda. I feel the blood rushing to my face. This knowledge feels strange to me. Strangely exciting, too.
My pulse quickens, quickens even more, when I read the last line.
I will see her tomorrow night!
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| A crucial letter |
[02 Jan 2003|11:30pm] |
| [ |
mood |
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nervous |
] |
Liv's apartment - 5.10 pm
Liv rose shortly after sun set. Unlike it was her normal custom- but the conversation she had had with Craig the night before was still weighing heavily on her mind. There were things to do that night. Things she'd rather keep to herself. She slipped into a pale blue silk kimono and lit a fire in the ancient fireplace as quickly and quietly as possible to not disturb Miranda. Then, she walked to her study, sat down at her antique bureau and began to write:
Cate,
I'm sending you this heart. Burn it and send me the ashes when you're done with me.
Or keep it. When you want to come back to me.
It's not because of indifference that I have not yet tried to contact you before. I know when you think the right moment has come you will do what you want to do.
The reason why I'm writing to you is that a certain person - and you may well know to whom I am referring - has warned me that he will see to it I should be fostered by another Sire. In case you would not be willing to complete my education that is. What a devious fool he is. As if you hadn't educated me well enough.
I know now it was a big mistake choosing to ignore your efforts to introduce me to the ways and traditions of our kindred. It was naïve of me to believe I could disregard all this as if it was some ancient lore holding no relevance for me. Time and again have you told me to give up my fascination with the mortal world and get acquainted with our world instead. It seems I have worn out your patience in doing so - and that's the worst of all. Mistakes, so many mistakes! I have to come to regret them dearly and I have to pay a high price now.
Cate, I don't want any other sire. Least of all the person who has brought all this upon me. He has no love for me, certainly not the love you once had for me. Oh, I have grown so weary of all these lonely nights. Therefore - see, I do not hide anything from you, even if it may turn out to my disadvantage - I have taken a lover. A beautiful gentle creature named Miranda who took care of me when I most needed it. It is also for her sake, for she has been nothing but kind to me, that I must know how you stand to me now.
But know also this: I will send her away, instantly, should this be your wish.
Into your hands I lay my heart now.
Don't send me ashes.
Yours forever,
~ Liv
Hurriedly, Liv wrote Cate's address on an envelope and put the letter inside. Then, she flipped out her cell phone to inform Monsieur Francois, her maitre fleuriste, that she would leave a letter with him later that evening and gave him instructions to make up a heart from white rosebuds.
After that she walked into the bedroom again. Miranda was still asleep, her face buried in the pillows. In the light of the flames her long tresses shimmered like pale red gold. Liv's heart tightened when she saw the mark on Miranda's left shoulder blade, visible evidence of the all the times Miranda had been wounded and hurt in the past. Liv sighed. Crawling across the bed, she opened her kimono wide and then began to kiss Miranda awake. Kissed her like there was no tomorrow.
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| A glimpse of light |
[27 Dec 2002|12:55pm] |
Liv's apartment - around 9 p.m.
Liv paces around her apartment, from time to time she glances at the huge canvas that's still standing in the hall, still unpacked. Of course, the men from the gallery had offered to hang it for her. But she hadn't wanted it. So it stays there. A silent reminder of another failure. Liv sighs, flips out her cell phone and dials a ( number. )
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| A plan |
[21 Dec 2002|06:53pm] |
Liv's apartment - 11.14 p.m.
Liv had spent the evening watching old Godard movies in black and white. Everything seemed black and white these days. And the nights were so long. Almost too long.
The videos she had taped the last days showed nothing but grey skies with low-hanging clouds. But she was hungry for the sun. Always hungry. Sometimes the hunger for sun and light was even worse than the hunger for blood.
And the bright Christmas lights on the streets were no substitute. On the contrary. She'd rather ignore the upcoming holidays. She didn't want to picture herself on those streets, carrying bags and parcels, a little girl at her side pointing excitedly to a shop-window: "Look! Look at the angels over there, they have real wings!"
Another life. A life that had never existed.
Suddenly, she remembered the Dumonteil skyscape she had instantly fallen for at the vernissage. Those incredible blues. Maybe she could afford the painting. Yeah, probably, she could.
Money had never been an issue. There had been money enough, old money, on Stéphane's side - even if they had preferred to lead a rather bohemien lifestyle. Cate, too, had always been generous with her.
More than generous with kisses and sweet smiles. Liv touched her lips.
That was another life, too.
Liv looked at her watch. Past 11 already. Of course, the gallery was closed now. But maybe she could leave a message for Mr. Mortensen. Or was this going to be another faux-pas?
Without hesitating she flipped out her cell phone and dialled the gallery's number she had found on the internet. As expected, an answering machine started off.
Liv drew a deep breath: "Bon soir M.Mortensen. This is Liv, Liv Tyler. The run-away girl from your vernissage. I wanted to say how very sorry I'm about that sort of … turbulence I created. It is not my usual style to run off like a lunatic."
She paused for a moment thinking hopefully, not.
"Anyhow, I'd like to see you again regarding the Dumonteil skyscape. The exact title escapes me. But you'll surely remember, the summer sky. I'm still interested in that painting. Very interested. Could you please contact my agent M. Dussolier in case it's still available. His telephone number is …."
She switched off the phone. Still unsure whether this was a good idea or not. But she had to practice, had to become better at pretending to be someone she was not. A mortal Liv that had ceased to exist long ago.
(To be continued over here )
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| Liv's story |
[15 Dec 2002|01:24pm] |
|
Père Lachaise - Sunday, December 15, 1.23 a.m.
Isn't it amazing how little it sometimes takes to change your life in a matter of nothing? Having to wait for a few precious seconds too long at a red light. Taking a different road home. Not the one you took countless times before. When nothing ever happened.
Contrary to that night, the night of December 15th, exactly six years ago. It had been a Sunday and Stéphane and I were driving home after a dinner party with friends. Stéphane had been my husband. Maybe husband's the wrong for we had not been married in the traditional sense. But what means a ring, after all, a ceremony? It's only your heart that matters. I had never cared about conventions like that. Nor had Stéphane. Maybe we would have married later on. Maybe not. It wouldn't have made any difference.
We were on our way home, talking about our friends, about Christmas presents and the upcoming holidays. Suddenly from the opposite lane, there were car lights, approaching us too fast. On the icy streets, it was matter of seconds. "Hey, why doesn't that guy try to stop?" Stéphane cried out and tried to make a sharp turn to the right, but it was already too late.
The sounds of breaking glass and creaking metal mixed with the dull thud pounding in my ears. The windshield came down on us, pulverized into countless tiny fragments by the enormous impact, and we were pressed into our seats. My memory ends in a surrounding darkness.
***
Whether Stéphane died at the scene of the accident or on the way to the hospital, I do not know. They never told me.
And if you think it couldn't get any worse. It did. For at that time I had been pregnant. Our child should have been born in mid-January.
I hardly remember how they took me to the hospital. It was all a blur. Fleeting lights, the sound of the ambulance horn, a nurse holding my hand and speaking to me in a soft soothing voice.
What I did notice, however, in my half-conscious state was that they seemed to be worried about the baby. They feared it might be hurt, too. "We will do a C-section, Mlle.Tyler," one of the doctors informed me. "Don't worry. The tests show that the baby is developped enough that we can get her. We'll start as soon as the epidural sets in."
***
When I saw my daughter for the first time I believed everything would turn out alright. At that moment I didn't know about Stéphane. I only saw this tiny, little bundle they gave me to hold. A tender frown crinkling her forehead. Such delicate little fingers and toes. She was the most perfect creature I've ever seen. Gasping and making faint mewling, coughing sounds. But her lips were blue, apparently she had trouble breathing.
They didn't let me hold her for long. The faces of the doctors and the nurses were serious when they took her away. They did not meet my eyes. Up to that moment things had happened so quickly that I hadn't had the time to be afraid, but now I was. Mortally afraid. It was as if the ground was sliding out from under me.
***
The next time I saw her she was dead.
All night long I held her tiny body. I refused to let them give me any painkillers that would have made me sleepy. I would not even have needed them, I did not feel any physical pain. And I didn't want to be drowsy. I wanted to experience every moment I could with her. Hold her as long as I could, her little hands in my hands. Kiss her smooth little head.
She looked so beautiful, so peaceful.
Eliane, my daughter, who died on the day she was born, December 15, six years ago.
And I still have not tears enough to cry for her and Stephane. I wish I could have died with them on that icy road. Instead of standing here at their grave at Pere Lachaise. Stone angels looking down on me. Chilly winds coming from the North. I feel frozen from head to toe. The long black coat with the fur collar doesn't warm me.
All the blood in the world is not enough to soothe that pain.
I lie down a bouquet of white Christmas roses and I cry.
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| An uninvited guest |
[09 Dec 2002|11:17pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 curious |
] |
In front of Viggo's gallery - Saturday, December 7, around 8 p.m.
Invitations only, that should be no problem, I thought while waiting in an alleyway just across the gallery for a suitable candidate to show up. Right then an elderly gentleman turned around the corner. Hastily walking up to the gallery. Black moustache. Friendly eyes. Impeccably dressed.
So go for it! I told myself.
"Excusez-moi, Monsieur. I know … it's a bit strange. Normally, I do not address strangers like this. But do you happen to be invited to the vernissage in the gallery over there?"
The answer was a surprised smile, the man looking me up and down, interestedly, but not interested in a bad way. Yeah, I could be his grand-daughter. Couldn't I?
"Monsieur …. ," I start again. "I'd love to see the paintings over there. But it's invitations only. And I thought …." - yeah Liv, use your most charming smile -"Wouldn't you want to show up there with a new acquaintance of yours?
It never hurts to top a smile with some mental suggestions we vampires tend to use more often than our fangs. "That is with me?"
And, as always, a little mind trick worked wonders, or was it the appeal to Monsieur's vanity?
Slowly, he smiled back. "Why not? After all. I'm a good customer. I'm sure Mr. Mortensen will not mind if I show up in company.
"I only wish I knew my "new acquaintance's" name".
"It's Liv, simply Liv".
"That doesn't sound French, Mademoiselle."
"No, it's not. My father was American. Monsieur ….?
"Oh, pardon. Where did I leave my manners? Louis Le Corvec. May I offer you my arm, mademoiselle?"
And so, after no time at all, I entered the crowded gallery, arm in arm with the charming Monsieur Le Corvec
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