Into the Past

by Aidan Boyle
1298559948|%e %b %Y, %H:%M %Z|agohover (updated 1298560920|%e %b %Y, %H:%M %Z|agohover) | 0 comment(s)

Partial Journal Entry of A. Boyle
Dated 17 May 1724

… Though I am greatly loathe to admit it, I fear that my brother may be correct in his assessment of the particulars of this situation. Birgitte is not like any others. She has taken on an import to me the likes of which I find myself failing at every turn to describe with the proper words. While I certainly do not consider myself a wordsmith of any caliber, I cannot help but be discomfited with the manner of which words allude my grasp regarding all things related to Birgitte.

She is human, it is true and with that I do not argue; perhaps so because it is the one matter that cannot be argued. Birgitte is human with all of those dreadful human flaws: sentimentality, emotional morality; she is flawed, she is fragile, breakable and mortal. I could extinguish her frail human life without so much as foresight of planning. I could cast away her soul by simply wrapping my hands around that lovely throat of hers and twisting until the bones snap and shatter within her body. I could drain her, gorging myself of the sweet nectar of the life blood that flows through her veins until I feel her heart slow and finally cease it’s mortal quickening. (Let not it be thought that I have not been tempted to drink from her veins until they run dry and she has nothing left to sate me. I do not deny my nature and Birgitte offers up a palette of endless temptation when she lies entangled in my arms and gazes at me with such trust in her eyes as such not be given when she is all too well aware that I am not the man that I must pretend to be.)

I should consider her no different from any other human woman that I have ever had the pleasure to take in arms and lie with and feed from, and yet I dare confess that it grows increasingly harder to shuffle her off into that group of useless, faceless chattel which do not even have more than a few moments of blurred pleasure and blood lust in my memories. Mayhap it is because Birgitte does not share the commonality of innocence and naivete that have made for such easy prey over the years. Her mind is closed to me (as is mine to her and for that I am eternally grateful), and that being such still she comes to me knowing well that when my teeth break her skin there shall be no easy way of it, and she accepts the pain as a counterpart of pleasure, a facet of nature that surely her good Protestant parents would take most assuredly as a sign of debasement. Though at this juncture it seems almost laughable to consider it, when I’m certain that the simple act of taking me into her bed most certainly has already damned her soul according to the religious edicts that her family pays homage to every Sunday…

… My brother’s interest in this matter, and more importantly, in Birgitte gives me cause for more concern than I would ever dare admit. She is mine and I have marked and claimed her, but I know that Seamus cares not for such things as boundaries and rights of possession…


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