I hope someday you wake up from the terrible dream of watching one of your kindred fall. It takes a lot of dust and grind, to leave the world you love behind.

The rain is coming down hard enough to bend the leaves and branches. I sit on the porch steps, my feet hanging off just far enough to be spattered with drops. Inhaling through my nose, I smell nothing but wet soil, the woods are devoid of life. Well, except the life sitting here on these splintering wood stairs. Pulling my legs to my chest and wrapping my arms around them, I lay my head on my knees, squeezing my eyes shut.
I'm alive. Real, or not real?
Lifting my head slightly, I peer through the pink fringe of bangs at the white Jetta moldering in the driveway. The door still hangs open on rusty hinges.
I died there, didn't I? Did I? 
I remember stepping out of the car, oblivious to the danger until it was too late. Two, three, four Sabbat attacking me. I don't remember. I don't remember. I remember dirt and darkness. I remember the gray, lifeless landscape of the Shadowlands. That guy, the smart ass that told me where I was. I remember being in the dark. I remember burying myself.

I pull my feet up and out of the rain. According to my new buddy Alex, it's less than a week before the city's Elysium. Chewing my nails, I try to remember Alex's face. He was real, right? My brow creases with the attempt to discern the difference between delusion and reality. I stop chewing my nails when I notice the trickles of blood coming from the masticated flesh of my fingertips. There. I'm bleeding again. That's certainly real. I stare at the seeping red fluid. "But, Tommy said..." No. No. There's my mistake again. Tommy is just as fucking crazy as I am. I chew my lip. Isn't he?

Sighing, I wipe my bloody hand on my hoodie and pull a tattered notebook from under my seat on the steps. The paper is full of my own scrawled handwriting. I turn to a page with Tommy's name on it. The notes are as scattered at my thoughts.

Tommy will bring me back from the dead Not real.                    He cares. Real, or not real?
Killed Pyotr. Real.                                He ate Pyotr. Not real.
He wants to hurt me. Real, or not real?                      Made me hurt Mongrel. Real, or not real?
Crazy. Real.               The God thing. Not real.             Lover? Consensual, or not consensual.
The barbed wire. Not real.                      Stronger than Franco. Real, or not real.

I close the notebook, and my eyes, This was supposed to help, but it doesn't. I place my hand in my pocket, wrapping my fingers around the outdated iPod that I cling to like a godamned life preserver. What the fuck am I going to do in Baltimore. What the fuck CAN I do, except get myself killed. Actually killed. Staring out into the rain, I've no desire to move from this spot. The house at my back holds nothing for me, anymore. The few things that meant something have inexplicably disappeared, if they ever existed at all. My news clippings, my skates. The blank scraps of paper torn from a sketchbook that still hold that haunting cinnamon/clove smell. The sound of the rain doesn't quite mask the quietly pained whimper that escapes my lips. Resting my head on my knees once more, I link my hands together behind my neck and force my thoughts out until my senses tell me the sun will rise soon. Even though there's more than enough time to dawdle, I pick up my notebook and zip into the house in a blur of motion. None of the lights are on, but I know where I'm going. My footfalls echo in the mostly empty room, as I close the door behind me. Climbing into the cold, porcelain bathtub, I pull my hood over my head. Double and triple checking my pocket for the iPod, I pull my K-bar from my boot. Curling into a ball with my notebook under one arm, and my knife clenched in hand, I close my eyes and wait for the days sleep to pull me under.

https://youtu.be/CwJpa1J3nRs?list=PLK8WUhlDQgCYbLNLbABOu2gj7Aapy4O7y