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Either way I bear no malice indeed, I will love you forever.” Send me away and the pain of separation will kill me. I made a courtly bow and said: “Let me stay, and I thank you from my heart. But my eye flashed fire, and in a minute came a rattle of locks and squeak of hinges and out rushed Papa and Mama who both looked all puffed and haggard, as if they had slept in separate beds, unwilling to face each other. I had all the arrogance, all the wild humor, the enormous vitality and scornful cruelty of my race and the servants adored me for it. “Summon your master, you preposterous, miserable, quivering nincompoops!” I shouted. Then I washed in the pig trough, combed my tawny hair, and figured out what words to use.Īs I approached the house, a rock or two whizzed past my ear. I bowed my head and commended my soul to Saint Jude the patron saint of bloodsuckers (wherever did that idea come from? I can’t imagine) and with hands clasped, while stared at by several curious ravens, I prayed: “ Omnes gurgites tui et fluctus tui super me transierunt.” I gazed at the house, its walls rosy-tinted by the dawn, and its spires and turrets capped with fresh snow. The morning seemed most peaceful after that hideously tortured night. I figured out a little speech that might convince them, then cried myself to sleep between two warm, friendly cows. My parents and nanny were the cruel ones, not myself. Why should I be? My “crime” was a normal act. I was terribly unhappy about no longer being loved, but not a bit guilty. Then, absolutely determined that Papa and Mama must believe my side of the story, I hid in the barn.
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To keep myself from crying (because I had lost love, because I saw the handwriting on the wall, because my heart was broken) I stuck out my tongue and chanted, hair tossed back and fists on hips: It was well below freezing but Papa told the servants to nail every door shut and drop rocks and boiling water if I tried to climb the bastion, which I had done all through childhood for sport.ĭozens of peasants were up there clicking rosaries and whispering, or throwing aprons over their heads when I stared a little too boldly. Yet that eruption of evil, which seems like a week ago, actually happened when I was thirteen. I longed, absolutely yearned to go back and see my dear parents and make things come out right this time. Actually, 130 years later but still bowed with grief, I was in Munich wrestling with plans for a time portal. Nothing is left of our estate in the town of Sibiu, in Transylvania, except a ghetto that stands on the site today. Of course dying was the last thing your correspondent was planning to do.Īll this took place 700 years ago. It meant I was disowned, of the devil, and should go far away and die and let them forget the Gorgon monster they had spawned. He made an irritated gesture with his index and little finger outstretched. He wanted to believe me, but the crime was far too disgusting he couldn’t stomach it.
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I used every bit of the charm and persuasiveness God had given me (which even then was quite something) and spoke carefully, not wanting to betray myself with the wrong words.
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They had become like the peasants, certain I was going to perform a ghoulish miracle that would destroy them. They looked at me with such cold distaste that I could hardly believe it. Fear had burnt away every trace of love indeed, of everything familiar. The most shocking thing was what had happened to my parents’ faces. (Which, I am happy to say, he did not do.) She held up a crucifix and pleaded with Jesus to kill me on the spot. But now the crass old hypocrite had gone completely barmy. That nanny used to make dolls for me (“They come to life when you sleep, my little pet,” she often told me) and I was her loved one, her adored favorite. My old nanny Blescu screamed the Lord’s Prayer for hours, crossing herself and rolling her eyes. Something was tragically wrong with me something that terrified others, but was minor, natural, and even quite pleasant as far as I was concerned. We all knew in our bones that I, Sterling O’Blivion, had “it,” that unspeakable “it”-the defective gene that runs through our family. I’m sure they had been dreading this scene since the day of my birth. Snow had begun to fly, and torches blazed, but my parents were adamant about not letting me back into the house. “I lied! I tell lies everyone knows that.” I had made the childish mistake of confessing to the crime, then retracting the confession, and on and on until they shrieked: “You swore you sucked that priest’s blood!” You are a limb of Satan,” screamed my fat pretty little mama.