WitchBite

Breathe

 I'd never known the circumstances of my mothers death. Of course I had asked many times, which eventually faded in to never asking again. But I was always told she died in child birth. The fact that was seemingly untrue should have shocked me, and yet I feel like I've always known that wasn't the case. The confirmation of long dormant suspicion bristled at the edge of my mind, as uncertainty of how to react warred on. Do I feel happy, victorious that I was right? Do I feel resentful that nobody had told me? Or am I angry?

Despite a day or two passing since I had interacted with the spirit, it didn't feel like enough time had gone by for me to have process it. As a Vampire now, one could say I have nothing but time. It wasn't like I was going to die of old age any time soon.

But today was the day of Victoria's funeral, and I couldn't help but feel the poisonous spike of guilt at the subtle hope I have that enough drink would loosen the lips of those I would be able to gain information from about it all. Damn, I was selfish.

Family, friends. Layered in veils of black and white, grasping at flowers that burst with the vibrancy of their colours, stood attentive in the expansive garden of Tithe Manor. The death shroud lay upon the form of Victoria, like fabled royalty of yore, and she was placed upon a pyre of dried, white, wood. A kindling castle built in her honour. A gentle breeze tugged lightly at the various garments people wore, causing them to drift like a congregation of ghostly spirits in mourning.

Death was something that everyone experienced. For us there was a strange dichotomy about it all. We mourn the loss heavily. Like a freshly ripped wound starting to fester. It never feels like it would heal. And yet we celebrate their return to the earth. Giving back the life that was borrowed so that more and new life can spring from the absence. We celebrate who they were, their impression that they left, and with our memories we forge bandages and stitching to close the wound their death had opened. For us, nobody really dies. Nobody is really gone. They've just transitioned into something new. A new path to walk.

Words were said. They were pretty, and comforting, I know that much. The crack of each voice apparent in their grief as they spoke. Yet I was numb. Awash with a sadness that muted my surroundings until all I could focus on was the pyre. On her. Like one would pull off a scab, a grip of sorrow caused me to lurch forward, my hand reaching for my mouth the stifle the whimper that sought to escape, as with a gentle breath, Auntie Janet blew into life a swath of gentle flames.

Higher, and higher they shimmered their oranges and yellows like the swimming scales of tropical fish in an aquarium of people and a backdrop of verdant green. They climbed up the wood with crackling snaps that were louder than the melodic sobbing from a few individuals of the crowd that had gathered. I couldn't help but swallowing hard at the lump that had formed in my throat as I struggled to choke back at the tears that threatened to spill as the flames eventually enveloped her body in a warmth that felt like treachery, but looked like peace.

The cries of those that mourned Victoria, once more breaking my heart as in the grip of the fire that carried her, I knew the death of love.

*********************************

 Father was not at the funeral. I couldn't see him at all at the after party, despite my searching as I ducked away from grieving family, and people offering their condolences. There was a few looks shot my way that seethed with calculated judgement, offering answers I did not care to know. Did they hate me for killing Victoria? Or were they judging me as a Vampire now instead of one of their own? They could take their judgement and shove it for all I cared, although it did sting somewhat when I stepped outside for a cigarette, approaching a group of familiar faces with the hope of companionship, only for them to miraculously all finish their smoke at the same time and head back inside.