To Anita
Echoes of Sanity.
Crazy. They called her like that. How could they see beyond her if all they could see was her insanity. The vampire would laugh over and over on those who called her a lunatic. A woman driven crazy by the blood that had turned her into a vampire.
The vampire looked at all of them and snorted angrily. Crazy? Her? Fine. If that was what they wanted to believe, then it was all fine. She walked through them. Her bedraggled appearance making them fear her. A daughter of Malkav, they called her. ‘Forget about her!’ ‘Run away!’ they would scream. So much they feared her.
The Vampire started to walk on the dark streets of old Prague. The buildings were still the same. The old houses had never changed. Nor had she. She climbed on one of them. Her nails piercing the stone and the rocks, while pulling her body to the top of the place.
Blessed the moon that lit her path.
Same moon that granted her her insanity.
She sat there, waiting for the sun to shine bright. A daughter of Malkav. Old as many might never been. Strong and powerful as very few were.
She wanted to howl, but that was for wolves, and she was a Vampire.
She wanted to fly, but that was for bats. She was a woman. A Vampire.
She laughed. Her hair loose, the wind moving it. The cold night, the moonlight covering her, embracing her.
The vampire waited. A crazy person they would call her yet again. She did not mind, though. She was not insane. She was no lunatic.
She would not let the sun kill her, for it could not kill her.
A daughter of Malkav they called her. Yes, she was so. For in her veins, Malkav’s blood ran. For his genius was hers. For his sanity was hers.
Ariadne, December 25, 2005