She didn't have to be what she was. She chose to remain mortal. And she was thankful enough that they had left her alone afterwards. There was this aura about her, one of innocence. Not pure mind you. Anyone in their right mind knew that there was no such thing.
"It would be such a shame to corrupt this being, to pass on our blood, to give her life beyond death. Never would she look the same again if such was to happen. She reminds me a little of myself before the kiss. How I miss those days. Better to watch, to live my old life through her. Watch her grow, watch her suffer, watch her in her last breath. I want to hear it. I want to hear the soft exhale of life. And I want to cry."
Such one had said after the inquire of her sire, if she thought Bart to make a good cannidate for their House. The next day, the couple packed up and left. A little note was left atop the black laquered countertop of the bar, along with a long stemed rose - white - the color of friendship. "You are love," it read, the three words written in black, the parchment a crisp white and tattered around the edges.
She saved the petals, locking them up in a mason jar. To this very day they remained, snugged behind the bar and kept hidden to the eyes of her customers. The note was in her room, inside a shoebox that perched atop the highest shelf of her closet. It was mixed with many other tidbits of her life. Letters from her old college lovers, keychains from amusement parks that she found odd in her own way, bumper stickers that screamed "Honk if you're Horny!" and "Bite me!" She never dreamed of actually putting those on her automobile, they only signified the friends she had happened upon at one point or another. Her memory 'chest'. Permanent markers of many colors decorated the box, as well as small stick-on gems that really had no value at all. Wrappers of her favorite candies, article clippings that she thought were good enough to remember. That sort of thing.
Her room was out in the slave quarters, with the rifraff that scuttled their way in and out at all hours of the night. She tried so many things to keep the noises out, from stuffing cotton balls into her ears to blaring her radio. Finally, one morning, when enough was enough, she calmly let herself out. She took her time, letting her arms stretch out to either side while she twirled in small circles up the pathway to the barn. She laughed, she waved to the squirrels and birds that loomed in the moss-laiden trees above her.
When she came back, she had a sledge hammer and one of those little white masks that covered just your mouth and nose. The hammer leaving scratches on the hardwood floor as she dragged it into her room. Weeks went by, her room in total chaos as she smashed large chunks of white-wall. Little pieces of the chalky substance falling upon the white sheets she had draped over her furniture(which consisted of a cot and dresser drawers). And it took her months after that, to pad the insides - to purchase more white-wall. But finally, it was coming to be -her- room. Her hideway, her sound proof room.
She purchased little voodoo dolls that she had she had seen in a store on Bourbon Street, porcelian mardi gras masks that captured the many emotions of humanity, little knick-knacks from the French Market. Oh, how she loved the French Quarter. Always buzzing with life. She would smile, watching the people run from corner to corner - bar to bar. From the HardRock Cafe to Margaritaville. Older versions of life wearing strange parrot hats and too many beads. Sometimes she would stop in front of Tropical Isle, an open bar, the one with the balcony that jutted out over the street, and watch the young people guzzle the all famous Hand Gernades. Lime mixed with the heaviest of alcohols. One sip and you could get a buzz.
She also loved taking the trolley, from St. Charles to the Quarter. Watching the excitement in the visitors faces as they anticipated their arrival. How they fought with the driver when they didn't bring the exact $1.25 needed to ride. She kept to the back and always gave up her seat when the trolley would fill. So used to the sudden stops of the car, she never used the handles anymore.
This is who she was, a giver. . .
( to be continued when the mun can think ;) )