Dancing After Death: Kol Mikaelson

PROLOGUE

000: PROLOGUE
i know nothing with any certainty/but the sight of the stars make me dream — ᴠɪɴᴄᴇɴᴛ ᴠᴀɴ ɢᴏɢʜ

*

The trek through the shrub and fallen trees and the cold, through the entirety of the Mystic Falls Forest and to Stephenson Quarry, and to my unfortunate death, was a journey that I undertook alone, at night, in a moment of a mixture of inexpressive pain and peace. My heart was aching, but I felt a sense of ease, as if I were walking upon the heavens, as I inched closer to the wolves, to the rushing water, to the stars.

My god, the stars. I remember the way they shone above, twinkling lights upon a dark canvas of artistic mastery and beauty, distant galaxies, suns millions of light-years away that provide light to what would otherwise be a dark, lonesome universe. I often wonder, if it were a cloudy night, would I have felt such comfort? If the stars were not there to envelop me, would I still have drifted off into what I thought was an eternal tranquil abyss, or would the terrifying darkness have consumed me alongside pain and thoughts of cruelty, and loneliness, and my brother, whom I was leaving behind in a world of monsters?

Would I have fought the inevitable call of death?

As much as I would like to believe I would have been fearless, I don't think I would have. I wasn't born with the strength I have now – that came along with the cascade of events that followed me after the attack. After all, I walked into the forest on a full moon after a night of drinking and exhaustion. I followed simply because of my intuition, intuition that lead me to my death. It was not the cleverest way that I lost my life, and it wouldn't be the last stupid thing I'd do that would lead to my body buried six feet in dirt. However, it certainly was my first memorable one.

It was cold, I remember that much. I remember the atmosphere feeling like glass shards against my skin, not digging deep enough to draw blood but slightly gliding over my body to the point where instant shivers of fear and coldness crawled up my spine. I remember the moon, the full moon – god damnit I should have been smarter – and I remember the disorientation – scraping my arms against tree trunks as I stumbled towards the creek. I remember having a glass bottle of vodka in my hands, which I'd emptied earlier at some point – but when I'd reached the quarry, it was gone. Thinking back, I'm sure I dropped it along the way.

The clearing wasn't known to many. It was a small bank, only accessible in the summer, the rocks offering dry seating. I'd almost tripped over them that night – I remember scraping the palms of my hand and points of my elbow on a few jagged stones – but without much pain I'd managed to make it to the edge. I took off my shoes and socks, and just stood in the cool water.

I'd breathed the night air in deeply, and closed my eyes, before tilting my head back softly. It was the forth month anniversary of Rue's death, and, from the insistence of Elena and Bonnie, I'd gone to a party in the woods. I got about two minutes in before I'd stolen that vodka bottle (it had around three-quarters left to spare, none when I was done with it fifteen or so minutes later) and walked off. The night had brought up a lot of memories, and after the disoriented episode that I often had as a result of my magic and alcohol mixing, I needed a moment to breathe.

So I breathed. In and out. In and out. In and –

And then I heard it. Just behind me, a little way from the bank of the quarry. The rustle of the leaf, the soft pat of a paw on the ground, the ferocious low growl as the wolf behind me bared its teeth. The next few seconds were a dream-I remember the pain. I remember the horrid air of rot and warmth from its breath. Most of all I remember the smell of the blood. My own blood. The metallic taste of it in my mouth. As it ran down my face – as it appeared on my entire body as I felt every moment of being ripped to shreds. As it covered my vision. As it splattered across the leaves and dirt. I remember the wolf, its golden eyes peering into my own. The amber flecks. I remember how it lunged for my throat first, for the kill, and I couldn't even whisper a single word, a single spell to save my life. I remember the sound of it eating my flesh, and the horror and helplessness I felt at my soundless  screams, and the instant realisation that no one was coming to save me. I remember thinking of Sammy. And then I passed out from the pain.

A loophole to death. Fate. Destiny. Luck. Curse. Since that night myself and my affliction have been labelled a great many things, however, what you choose to call it, well, that's your decision. All you need to know is that this is my truth. All the gory, painful, loving, cruel, and terrifying moments of it. I know it might be difficult to accept my story – what with the way it begins and the way it takes. I can't make you believe in the supernatural, in power, in magic. I could tell you , even though you won't believe me, that though I died, my lungs still work to this day. My eyes still see. My heart still beats, and still carries love enough for several lifetimes. I could tell you that something, somewhere, decided that that fateful night was not yet my time.

I can't convince you that something brought me back to life.

But I, for one, don't quite mind if you don't believe me. Truly. I'm not here to convince you of the sincerity of my story. I'm only here to tell it. So, here it goes. The memoir of me. Of my life, and of the journey I undertake for the sake of my own Always and Forever.

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(ch. word count; 1059)
(word count, total; 1059)
(TOTAL word doc count; 003)
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