Stochastic Confession

Another birthday. It only serves as a milestone to mark how little has changed. But it’s impossible to deny that there’s some comfort in familiarity. A satisfaction in knowing all of the dance steps.

The extravagance and excess you insist upon makes me dizzy. Isn’t it enough to know that we can still exist under the same roof in some measure of tranquility?

I don't know what annoys me more, that I let myself get carried away in the flow of a superficial exchange that makes me look like a fool or that Armand's response is to treat me like a child. Because if I can't do a good enough job making an ass of myself, I can always trust Armand to come along and drive the point home.

Since I can't be trusted near a keyboard, I'm going out.

I’ve been thinking about San Francisco a lot. It’s been a long time since I’ve been there and I find myself missing it in the nostalgic way one misses their childhood home. If I have a home now, it’s Night Island, although this island villa feels like home too and I suspect the location is less responsible than the company. But San Francisco is where oh so many things began.

I want to go back, to walk the familiar streets, to see if I can find anyone I used to know, though odds are stacked against it happening by chance. But I could look them up. I could find them.

I fantasize about it sometimes. I wonder if they’d recognize me. Or would they chalk it up to some staggering coincidence, a man who merely looks an awful lot like some guy they used to know? After all, it was a mortal decade after I saw any of them that I was turned. Perhaps I’m just different enough… But let’s be honest here: the fun part would be the cold horror of recognition. And then what?

I guess I’d have to keep my distance and yet the more I think about it, the more convinced I am that I must do it. The years are passing quickly. The chance to see anyone from my old life ever again is fading fast. I wonder what morbid curiosity drives me to want to search their haggard faces for signs of the young people I knew once upon a time. To look upon the lined and wrinkled visages that should mirror my own but don’t and never will.

Maybe it isn’t them I want to see at all. Maybe I just need to stare mortality in the face one last time, to prove to myself as well as Louis that he’s wrong when he says I should regret that he robbed me of those gray hairs and wrinkles.

I got a new motorcycle. I bought her used from the rental place in Oia, so she's a few years old and little scratched up, but it was love at first sight. She's midnight blue and roars like a lion.

Almost got a helmet and bought sunglasses instead. What can I say? They look good on me. I need to find a leather jacket.

I awoke in an empty bed. Music was playing and the shower was running. His scent lingered on the sheets, the pillow. I buried my face in it and closed my eyes again.

The bed compressed behind me. Fingers stroked my shoulder. His breath whispered into my ear: "Wake up, beloved." So rare for him to be so gentle. Usually he hollers until I'm standing. I mumbled a refusal, squeezing my eyes tighter. I wanted him to crawl back into bed with me but he moved away. From across the room the familiar tone of irritation called, and I got up.

Freshly pressed trousers and a blue Armani dress shirt were hanging on the back of a chair. I frowned at their formal stiffness but began putting them on without comment.

"What's the damn rush?" I asked.

"We have a party to attend."

Of course. People are drawn to Armand like moths to flame. They flock around him, adoring, captivated. Sometimes I get a little jealous. I can admit that. Charming me! I could spend a week engaging the same crowds and never be offered so much as a bar peanut, but they can't get enough of Armand. Does he have plans next Friday? He simply must attend their cocktail party. Does he like theater? There's a show he must see. Would he like a drink? A ride in their car? A night in their bed?

My lover, walking seduction. On rare occasions my jealousy shifts in other direction. I put my arm around him, kiss him deliberately in the middle of the crowd. Mark my territory. Mine. Not that it ever stops them. Who is your friend? they ask. You simply must bring him along.

"What party?" I demanded like it mattered, annoyed he hadn't told me earlier. Armand came up to me and tugged at the sides of my shirt, a hint of amusement on his face. He leaned in and sank his fangs into my throat. Holding me close to him, he moved his lips softly over the wound. His mouth still tinged with my blood, he kissed me and buttoned my shirt as though it were all part of the same motion. He smoothed the fabric and stepped back, giving me an approving look.

"Get your shoes on, Daniel. We're already late."

He left the room. Obligingly, I slipped on the uncomfortable oxford shoes. Maybe I'm no better than the admiring masses. Does love make everyone so pathetically, helplessly compliant, or am I a fool?

I've forgotten my password again. God only knows what it was. I write these things down sometimes, but I only manage to lose the papers where they're written.

So I created a new journal, and now the inspiration that had driven me back to the journal in the first place has evaporated.

Thwarted by a password of my own creation. Figures. I've always been my worst enemy.