The phone call I received earlier in the night was an obvious predecessor to the events. It was 'Dipity, sounding more manic than usual. He was avoiding Elysium, and in his place, naming me temporary Primogen. Is he out of his mind? Oh, wait...dumb question. That puts a whole new spin on the blind leading the blind. Turns out leading a clan is easy as pie. That may have something to do with the fact that by the end of the gathering, I was the lone Malkavian. Serendipity had been carted off, Camden dead, again. I don't even...anyway. The biggest shock came when Trevor was swiftly executed for Sabbatt involvement. A pity. I liked him. Or, at least I didn't fantasize about setting him on fire. But, I digress. As newly named Primogen and currently the only one standing from my clan, the target I feel centered on my back surely can't be ALL paranoia.
All of this, plus the quotidian burdens I already face has been taking it's toll on my consciousness. My restful days abolished, now I'm periodically losing track of my nighttime waking hours.
The other night.
It really was a quaint little cottage. Glancing at the shining wood floors, the worn yet methodically cared for doilies that the elderly always seem to gather in their homes. Like the wrinkly magpies that they are. I pick up a framed photo with bloodstained hands. How cute. Granny and all the heathen grand kids. With a smirk, I set the picture back face down. As I lick the excess blood from my fingers, my attention diverts to what's left of Kathy Hamlin: widow of Neil, mother of Lucy, Andrea and Jack, grandmother to a mouthwatering amount of grandchildren. How I'd love to see the faces of those children when they take in what's become of their beloved Granny. How I'd love to consume said faces one by one. Most of Gran's body slumps in her favorite rocking chair, the tattered pieces of skin and intestines dangling like the ropes that bind her. Gran's head rests in the entertainment console, devoid of all but the most recognizable features. Her mouth still in a rictus of fear, dead eyes seeming to be studying the decapitated figure in front of her. Pleased with my little display, I give the misplaced old skull a pat and make my way out the back door. I'm out of the yard and into the deserted street that connects the few houses in this neighborhood. I'm quietly humming to myself when a jolt of pain in my side pulls me out of my reverie. I'm reaching around to feel the shaft of the arrow lodged in my flesh when another jolt in my calf knocks me to the pavement. I spit out a few curses from between my gritted teeth as I turn to identify my assaulter. Assaulter..s. Fuck. At least a dozen Kindred stare me down. All familiar faces, led by Pyotr and Tybalt. Tybalt's crossbow leveled at my chest, no less threatening with the missing two bolts currently spearing me. "Your time has come, little one." Pyotr thick Russian accent, normally warm and friendly towards me, is cold enough to make even a monster like me shudder.
The harpy Lucita turns her nose up, "Your time has passed. We've bestowed too much mercy on you."
I hear Franco Salvatore's cruel laughter, anticipating my slaughter. Despite the crippling odds, I muster up my courage and rise to my feet. I refuse to die groveling. Aware of the arrows point following my movements, I match eyes with the formidable Brujah. "Certainly, Sheriff...you must know I won't go down without a fight. However futile." I bray laughter, catching the mob of Kindred off guard. Perfect. Attention diverted for the merest of seconds, I spin on my heel and take off, sprinting full force in the opposite direction. My frenetic footfalls drowned out by the angered cry and consecutive sounds of pursuit. I don't even feel fear when I see my retreat is thwarted by a dead end. The only end this could come to is a dead one. I whip around, facing the oncoming attackers and garner all my rage and frenzy in a bone chilling shriek. A murder of crows takes off at the sound, their dry feathers falling like rain around me. The thunder of their wings...thunder...
Thunder.
A deafening crash of thunder drags me back to reality. My eyes wide, I survey my surroundings. A local park? The rain comes down in sheets. My clothes are sopping, hair plastered to my face. How long have I been out here? The scent of blood and gore soaking into the ground to my left. On top of one of the picnic tables is the collective parts of a small child and a young woman with strawberry blond hair. No, just blond. A gaping head wound draws rivulets of blood into the blond tresses. The child is little more than decimated flesh in OshKosh B'Gosh overalls. I take slight refuge from the downpour under a tree, staring at the bodies. The faint smell of washed away blood on my clothes matches the scent of the corpses. Ok. I did this. But...when? A brief mewl of concern escapes my lips. Reflexively, I pull my cell phone out, thumb hovering over Mongrel's speed dial. I pause, chewing the inside of my cheek as I think. If I call him, I'll have to explain the fugue...blackout...whatever that was. He doesn't need to worry about me any more than he already does. He's subsequently being driving insane by association..."No." I say aloud, stowing my phone back in my pocket. I step out of the trees protection, gathering up the pieces of my kill. Cleaning up my own mess, I try to ignore the sense of foreboding gnawing in the back of my consciousness.
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