This is my journal. There are certain things you just can't put in a journal, not with every other vampire being able to turn themselves invisible or walk through walls, or peel one's unfortunate mind open like a sour grape in the hands of a sharp-toothed fox. There are things about me and there are things about my family. A dozen Hans Demaras, from that poor soul born in 1805 to that poor soul born in 1961. How confusing must a tradition of patronyms be, for one searching for the true identity of someone who doesn't age, and lived somewhere where photographs are viewed with suspicion.
Am I the Hans Demara who died of cholera before the first telegraph cable was strung? His grave is empty, I saw it with my own eyes. The one whose house was burned, with him inside, by retreating Confederates after Gettysburg? His body was never pulled from the ashes. The one who vanished into thin air at the Battle of the Bulge, amid screaming and fire and death? So many missing in a war, so easy to fall into a place where there is no escape but the Kiss. Am I that poor soul swallowed by New York, pulled down by drugs and ambition into a place where the police never find your drug-addled body?
How many Hans Demaras can there be?
Current Mood: poncy
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hansdemara's journal