Rosehill, Hand and Hand

Meeting Casimir' associates was always a most dreadful ordeal. Each and every one of them seemed to look at her with hungry eyes, as though it might be reasonable to carve her up and eat her. It was hard to keep a stone face when every bit of her insides shook with terror. She fled, once. Casimir tore her open and exposed her organs to the air, asked if they still shook then.

We have a meeting with the Cat tonight. Bringing myself to meet with him is terrifying, to act the way I do in the face of someone so powerful. I know I'll want to press my face to the ground, be humble, to play submissive. The instinct to survive is so much stronger than the need to keep this cover. But keeping this cover is survival. Look at how they talk about Sari, Sorry however it is you spell his name. The tremere Anti. They shout names, curses,  and prejudices. What if they knew that really, he and I weren't much different?

Tonight we are going to go, as a pack. Even through the flames of hell, we walk hand and hand.

Literally.

No one listens to little Betty

"Child, shut your mouth."
"But, Isaac, you don't know what you're dealing with," she pleaded.
"I said QUIET," He grabbed her face, shouting the word into her eyes, straight into her mind, and not another sound escaped. Panic filled her entire being. She knew this was the last time she would see Isaac, and she would be blamed. It would be all her fault, because she should have spoken up, she should have explained. She couldn't save him.



No, no one listens to little Betty, not then not now. I read everything I could on everything they could need, every aspect of every part of it. I tried talking, speaking in low tones. I even tried speaking in proper English, dropping the curtain for a bit. Then I shouted, screamed. No one ever listened to little Betty, baby Betty, but I thought surely, surely they would listen to Kay Fury. I had their ears. I had their attention. It seemed certain they would get it. But it devolved into chaos, and I just couldn't hold the rage back. I left the conversation. I may have left them to die. What if they die before we speak again?

The Order of St. Blaise, or at least the representatives, will never be forgiven for stepping on my toes. No, trampling my feet entirely. I don't do vengeance. Exceptions can be made... We WILL be heard.

Did I just say we?

The Monster Inside... or Out?

The bravado keeps me at arm's length. I hide beneath this shell, this ignorant front, but I show myself in the small details. The pink shoelaces. A tiny detail, something out of place. Is it my way of crying for help? Am I really the one who put up this front? Trying to contain the monster inside me, I keep away from anyone, any emotion.

But am I really the one holding in the monster? Or is the monster holding me in? This shell, this mask, am I the one creating it, or have I been trapped inside, unable to break out? I ponder. Maybe, the monster is this mask, holding me inside, crushing me, reminding me what it was like to gasp for breath under the pressure.

The tiny details, the screaming for help, every night Kay Fury takes over more and more. Am I really sweet Beatrice, the ambitious young girl from Detroit, the girl who loved and lost? Or did Beatrice die the night I killed him, the night the beast took over? Was I doomed from that moment? Is that when Kay Fury was born, before I gave her a name, a face, an identity? I feel myself suffocating, even without the need for air.

I try to speak, and only profanity and crass comments come out. Kay speaks over me. I try to scream, but only the books can hear me. All these vampires around me, and none of them can hear my soul. None of them can hear me past this front. Was Kay Fury the worst mistake I've made?

What have I done to myself?

I may never escape.

Just another night.

A hard slap fell across her cheek, and her hands drooped to her sides as she could feel the heat inside of her. The break in her focus felt like being thrown through a pane of glass.

"Again. Concentrate."

"Maybe I could concentrate if you'd quite slapping me!" she hissed.

"Again." 

Tyrant.

Kay woke up, feeling cold, terror rippling across her body. If she still did sweat, she would be laying in mud, rather than the comforting soil of her home. She buried her face in it, inhaling the smell of oil and despair. The nights of old plagued her frequently, and she tried many nights to find a way to dampen it. She lived in a terrible cycle: Rage took over, someone was hurt, her nightmares tore her to shreds, her rage took over again. Again and again her Beast controlled her, and her humanity fought back. The turmoil tore her apart inside and, she feared one day, out. 

Meditation and careful practice was all she could do to control the Beast. She knew that the fights were bad for it, that one day she would lose control, but it just felt so good, fist making contract with flesh. Standing in the ring with a mortal, crowds cheering for her, people counting on her to win, made her feel so powerful. If nothing else, it was good money, considering she would never come to real harm.

It was way better than living with Casimir.