Journal Entries 1977, volume 1

Aside from the fact that I'm slowly losing my mind, things are finally starting to fall into place. The good news is that Peter and I are making progress with our investigation. At the very least, we’ve discovered where the dog has been seen. Tomorrow, I’m going there (on my own), hoping to find its owner and, with any luck, some answers. Until then, the paranoia is in full swing. On the other hand, if you stop trying to rationalize everything, you might actually begin to understand it. That’s what the little voice in my head, the one that’s been with me since the first night, keeps claiming almost every day.
I have a few theories.

1. Somehow, in some paranormal way, I’ve been trapped in a loop that started with my death. This would explain why the bullet wound in my back bleeds every time I wake up. Maybe if I find this murderer, if I make sure he pays for what he did, I’ll be able to break this cycle. Maybe then I’ll finally die for real. And although that’s terrifying, it might be better than living with this uncertainty.
2. My second thought, even though I was never particularly religious, is that maybe I’m not in the real world anymore. Perhaps what I’m experiencing is some kind of trial in purgatory. Maybe something or someone is trying to judge me, to decide whether I should be sent somewhere else or stay here forever. If that’s the case, I’m in serious trouble.
3. I suppose it’s possible that I’m not dead. Maybe what I remember is an attempted murder, and after that, I was locked away in a psychiatric hospital, broken from the trauma. Or maybe I’m in a coma, still lying in some hospital bed. Either way, all of this could just be happening inside my head. If that’s true, though, I’d like to congratulate myself on my imagination. I’m not bored for a single moment!
4. If I am what Peter and I suspect—then I’m starting to get frustrated. How did I become this bloodthirsty parasite? Why? Am I the only one of my kind? If so, what the hell am I supposed to do? If not, where are the others? Someone out there must know something.

Every night, it feels like I’m arguing with this other version of myself, as though I’m constantly stuck in a dialogue (or maybe an internal monologue), searching for answers to questions I never even knew I had.

---

Nightmare.
There’s no other word. It’s the only one that can describe what I found. The dog was indeed there, but it wasn’t a dog… He said he was like me… but he can’t be. I can’t be a monster like that... His name is Sam. He was a dog, and then he became a man-but not exactly. He said we share the same blood... or that he’s a vampire (Peter was right). It turns out I’m not the only one, but I’m not sure if that’s a good thing. My killer doesn’t seem as important as I thought. From what I gathered, Sam was the one telling him who to kill, because someone else wanted it that way- someone named Maxwell, another vampire. I have no idea why... He grabbed me by the neck like a puppy and dragged me into a house. And the questions… I couldn’t understand any of it. "Whose child are you?"
I asked if he meant my parents, and he laughed. A horrible laugh… full of teeth and insincerity. He wondered if he was the one who made me, but said he didn’t remember doing that. If someone had to turn me into this (and it wasn’t him), then who was it? And why? He said I was probably a pander (whatever that means) and that he belonged to a vampire organization called the Sabbat (again, no idea what that is). He claimed the Sabbat would take me in, as long as I proved myself worthy. For a moment, despite my fear, I felt a glimmer of hope. Maybe I could finally get some answers. Then he explained what the test would be. I don’t want to be part of this. I don’t want anything to do with creatures who think humans are nothing—barely more useful than animals. I am not that! I can’t be! He told me to kill a girl. Just like that, without blinking. The only thing I could think to do was warn her and then run. That’s exactly what I did. While I buried myself as deep into the shadows as I could, the girl ran toward the main street. Thankfully, she made it. My head was pounding… I wanted to scream, but I bit my lips to keep it inside. I saw him approaching, back in his dog form, but he didn’t see me. I’m starting to believe that if I want it enough, the shadows can hear me (just like the animals) and hide me. When I had the chance, I disappeared.
I’m more terrified than ever. He knows who I am, or he can find out if he needs to. I’m sure he’s angry that I escaped. I can’t count on him ignoring me... I have to find my family. I have to convince them to leave, or at least get them out of here. They can’t stay. If anything happens to them because of me... I may not be a monster, but if he hurts them, I can become one...

---

I thought I had dreamed it, but like the rest of the absurdity my life has become, it was all real. I don’t even know what time it was when I reached my family home—probably past three in the morning. The only light came from the garage. Foolishly, I knocked on the door. My brother is a Vietnam veteran. There was no way he would open the door just because someone knocked in the middle of the night. I went to the side, where my father had installed a row of windows two years ago, when Joe came back. The moment I saw him, I almost burst into tears. Thankfully, I managed to hold it in—these days, even my tears are blood. I doubt that would have made our reunion any easier. I had never seen him like this. Not when he found out he would never walk again. Not even when our parents, in their worry, made him feel more helpless every day.
He was a mess.
Unshaven and sleepless, his eyes bloodshot, lips dry and cracked. All around his bed lay dozens of empty bottles—mostly beer, but a couple of whiskey bottles too. I took a deep breath and knocked on the window. He reacted like he was seeing a ghost, but finally—lost in his drunkenness—he let me in. It wasn’t hard to convince him that I wasn’t an illusion, a ghost, or a nightmare. The hard part came afterward, when I started spinning lie after lie—to him and to my father, who stumbled into the garage a little later, confused. And what lies I told! I wove a whole conspiracy... The government was watching me... I had to disappear after an attempt on my life... But they found me again... We have to leave... Please... Let's go to France... You’re in danger too... because of me. That was the only truth I told them. Will I ever be able to be honest with them again?

---

I’ve never wished harm upon anyone. I’m not claiming to be a saint or that I see myself as a model of kindness- it’s just that I’ve never found satisfaction in holding grudges, nor any meaning in revenge. Even for my killer, though I wanted him caught and convicted, I would never have accepted the death penalty if it were up to me. But now, for the first time, I find myself thinking differently, and I’m starting to fear that I’m changing in a lever deeper than just physical. When I saw that damned dog watching my parents’ house, I froze. I feared what might happen if they delayed their departure to Marseille any longer. I begged them again to hurry, but I couldn’t explain why. What could I possibly say? “You see, Dad, it’s not the government chasing me. The truth is, I’m dead. I’ve become a monster that drinks blood to survive, and another monster like me is hunting me down and wouldn’t hesitate to take your heads off. Do you see that dog outside? That’s him!” Either he’d lock me up in a mental hospital, or I’d have to somehow prove it all to him, which would likely stop his heart. I had to think of something else. At first, I considered confronting Sam and going with him- after all, I was the one he wanted. Thankfully, that little voice in my head warned me how simplistic that idea was. Nothing guaranteed that doing so would make him leave them alone. More likely, that madman would have forced me to deal with them permanently. That couldn’t happen. This internal monologue is proving quite useful after all. I feel as if my mind has opened up, like this voice has somehow bridged my conscious and subconscious, giving me new ways to reason. So, I thought, the only way to stall that monster was to create problems for him. And that’s exactly what I did. I found my killer. I uncovered evidence of his guilt and made sure it reached the right hands. I also sent information linking the house Sam had taken me to that night when I first met him. In the end, all I could do was pray that my plan would work. I caught myself desperately hoping that Sam would indeed be in that house the morning the police stormed it. I wanted nothing more than to imagine his smug expression melting off his bones under the sunlight.
I’m horrified by myself, but here- on paper- I owe it to myself to be honest. That’s why I write all this, after all, as a form of self-therapy.

---

  Marseille is more beautiful than I remember. Perhaps it’s because the last time I was here, I was fourteen. On the other hand, maybe I like it so much because this time it comes with a sense of freedom. I’m staying in my mother’s village, but I didn’t risk staying in the same house as my family. Luckily, a cousin (whom I don’t even know) was so happy about his aunt’s return that he offered me a house he wasn’t using. It’s wonderful here. Almost humane... The sky is magical without the pollution of the city. The Mediterranean sea smells different. The air is so clean, and nature feels unfamiliar; almost as if it suits me more than I ever imagined. I feel like I’m discovering a new world here, in this new form of mine. Everything is more intense, or maybe it only seems that way because everything is so different- I don’t know… Nothing in New York feels even remotely like what exists here.
Maybe, in this place, I can finally calm the strange anger and hunger that have taken root inside me.