Blue - November 8th, 2002

I was sired in the usual way, a loveless embrace or utilitarian origin. You see, my sire was more than a little miffed at the way I had spread my late husband's influence into areas that were Propero's domain. And after that, I was in a whole new world, but blessed with the same tools that served me so well in that other, more mundane world. I was a quick learner, though I hated every moment of it. First there was anger, then came the adoration, which I only learned later that it was a trick of the blood. But there was a time, when I so wanted to please.

There was the endless drilling. We would stand at attention for hours, punished at the slightest hint of weariness or change in demeanor. Hours we would stand there, myself and two others of the brood. And after hours of standing, exhausted, we'd be drilled. Names and dates, decisions made. First it was just rote things, the history, the traditions, the protocols. Then the drills became more difficult..standing on hours, reciting the soliquay of Hamlet, and then espousing on the viability of marketable assets. And on and on it went.

I passed all the tests, and then some. Adoration turned into desperation, desperation into degradation, degradation into manipulation. Like a good little whore, eventually I discovered what it was Prospero really wanted, used that to twist the playing field around, and eventually gained ground. And then there was one. The others failed, and I continued those hours of tests, and brutality, and education. We are taught to maintain sensibilities at all times, a sort of auto-pilot. I didn't understand then, what the purpose of that education was, but I understand now. It doesn't ever matter what is thrown at me, what pain, what emotional crisis, what fears, I can always flip that switch. Auto pilot. I wonder if all Ventrue are like that, is it a product of the training, that in the end, its not the blood, it is just the endless drills associated with our training that makes us more likely to survive the politics of kindred life.

And all the while, as I stood there, now alone, reciting endless machiavellian principles, the other part of my consciousness turned to different thoughts, at some point I realized that this twisted adoration was a trap, and I stopped wanting to please. The inevitable fall out almost lead to my death, but as I said, I was always a good little whore. I managed to survive, albeit I had to leave, for some time, where I examined the workings of other politics, other cities, other life choices, only to find that nothing was really different.

This is not saying that I forgive my sire, I don't. But I do understand, and I can't help but wonder if I'm doing Bukowski and Jaxon a disservice by not training them in the traditional way. Then on the other hand, I wonder what the final cost is to this entire practice of denial of self.

Self confessed criminal.
Noncommitted, returned oblivous, residual resistance. The body comatose, inside there's no reply. The offer was pure, then denied. Freeze time, shadows climb, distractions override, and all I see is blue.