wish-you-may

[wish-you-may]

[wish-you-may]

[wish-you-may]

[wish-you-may]

Trin's head quirked, a fraction, at the words that met her ears, as immediately her thoughts spun to try and connect the accent to its origin.  It was something that could provide a surprising amount of information about a person, including whether or not it was faked, or merely muted after years of living elsewhere.  A trained ear, for example, would be able to discern even in Triintel's words the occasional blur or slip of a Russian lilt to the relaxed, lackadaisical even, American-English she spoke.  "It is good."  Trin offered, glancing briefly up to the sky as she watched the low drifts of steam escape from her breath -- even the air barely warmed by her vampiric flesh was warmer than the frigidness of tonight's weather.  "Cold, and crisp," she added.  

"A touch of home," she mused, with another faint smile.  She turned, then, to rest her weight lightly against the railing now behind her, so as to face the other vampire more directly.  "Though for you, I think, it is missing a great amount of rain, is it not?"  She questioned, even as her fingers laced together lightly around her glass, resting languidly against one hip.  "It seems we are both a long way from home," she conjectured.  She could not place the woman's face, even still, which meant it likely that they had never met before.  Perhaps, they would not again, but in a place like this and in a society as occasionally cloistered as theirs, that was a very slim possibility. It would do her well to learn all that she could now, and make whatever observations she could.

contradictions abound || trin / luna

Luna watched as she turned around to her fully and was keeping her eyes on her.She could see that the woman was very prim and proper looking while Luna herself looked like a teenager disobeying her mother by going to a bar.Tilting her head to the side,she wondered what she could be. After a few moments she had figured out that she was just like her,a vampire.A month here and she had only met two other vampires,even working for one of them and had worried that they were the only ones around or brave enough to be walking through the streets of New Orleans, and it looks like she was wrong. 

She rose her glass of whiskey up just as the other vampire rose her glass of wine. She looked at her with a little bit of confusion in her eyes,the other vampire had taken a sip of her wine.She knew from experience that food or drink,even alcohol didn’t sit with their kind and would soon make her ill. Not to be rude to the woman who had now greeted her,a small but warm smile appeared on her pale face. “Hello there”.She spoke softly,her voice was laced with an English accent,London to be exact,it still lingered with her even after all the years she had spent in different countries it never left her.

"Yes,it is a very beautiful evening".She held her glass in both hands as she walked over to the brunette vampire. Every time she had visited the bar and took her spot up on the second floor she never even thought of looking out to the scenery. It did look very beautiful as she looked up at the sky and then down towards the rest of the bars and people that were below them. 

[wish-you-may]

It was a small place, though much like the city that surrounded it, it was rarely empty.  Then again, with the city as enraptured with jazz as New Orleans, that was little surprise.  Very little ever changed, in the cafe, in all the years that she had been coming here.  The same slightly chipped paint, the same decor ... the music, in at least, retained the same qualities.  Still, as all too often was the case, the faces were rarely the same.  It was a fact that suited her well enough, as hers was never changing, but now and then she wished for someone that she could freely discuss the days gone by with... 

Devin, of course, fell into an entirely different category.  Her lips touched with a smile, however slight, at the memories that even just the thought of him evoked, though her attention shifted quickly to the man that had spoken.  Almost a boy, she mused, though not quite, and it was likely he would have taken offense to it had she spoken it aloud.  Her smile remained, though still, faintly.  "Yes," she agreed, amicably enough, though without the warmth of one familiar to him.  Appropriate enough, as they had just met.  "You must see a great many faces, a sea of them, working here," she added, raising her nearly untouched wine glass to her lips to take the smallest of sips. 

Are you new? || Jace and Trin

Jace wiped down the bar, listening as the music slowed down, eventually fading into an eruption of applause from the audience. The band had just finished its set, and they’d be playing jukebox requests until the next one was ready in half an hour. Soon people would be wandering over to refill their drinks that they’d neglected during the show, but for now he had a spare few minutes. 

Jace glanced sideways down the bar, to see a woman, apparently sitting and watching the crowd, something he often did himself. He walked over and leaned against the wood for a moment.  ”Interesting, isn’t it?” he asked quietly, trying not to startle her. “The mix of regulars and tourists.”

[wish-you-may]

No matter how often it was that she came to this particular city, there were the inevitable things that never changed.  The palisades, the scent and sights of Bourbon Street, the undertones of death and dark, dank soil that permeated the air to those that had the senses to catch it.  And yet, inevitably, there were those things that changed that were the things that she did not wish to.  Such as, when she had learned that the mechanic that she had used previously had closed down some four or five years prior.

Her car was one of those few physical objects that she possessed that she was in any way attached to. Nearly everything else that she owned could be replaced... and if she was willing to put a great deal more effort and money into it, it was likely that the Stingray could be as well, but she really would prefer not to have to.  And finding someone in whom she could place the sleek, black beauty into their capable hands was a task that she never enjoyed.  

Still, with some careful questioning and selective use of her ability to glamour the truth from those she questioned, she came to learn of a woman by the name of Xochi that had a reputation for speed demons, and the exquisite care that they required.  Trin had observed the shop for a night or two, before finally giving in and tonight she pulled into the wait area for the vehicles that needed to be serviced.  She let the car purr to a stop, killing the engine and stepping out of the Corvette, pulling herself up to her full height, turning her attention to the mechanic as she drew closer.  

With the door still hanging open, half leaning on the top of it and the top of the car, she let her gaze sweep over the woman before finally bringing her gaze to settle steadily on the other's.  "You are Xochitl, I presume," she stated, her head tilting back just a little as she spoke.

Grease & Sweat || Xochi & Trin

Xochi wiped the sweat from her forehead, grabbing her handy-dandy rag from her back pocket. She sighed as she leaned back against the car, cooling a bit from the Louisiana heat. The witch went over to the water jug and grabbed a cup of decent, tasting water and went back to finish the last step of the oil change. It was a simple job, and wished she had something more challenging to work with, sadly that usually wasn’t the case at the shop. Once she finished, if there weren’t anymore customers, she’d go bug Jaime and see if she could learn a thing or two about motorcycles. Being around cars half her life, she’d never thought about motorcycles, but now that she had the chance, she was eager to learn about the two-wheeled machines. 

She finished up maintenance  on the vehicle and went to finish off the paper work, hoping and wishing that no new customer would show up on the lot. It seemed that everyone was against her when she heard the familiar rumble driving up the lot. The witch cursed, throwing the clipboard on the front desk as she made her way outside, forcing a smile on her face as she watched the customer get out of their vehicle.

"Welcome to Precision, how can I help you today?"

[wish-you-may]

Even in the chaos and ruckus of the crowd, Trin's heightened senses allowed for far too much clarity -- each voice in its own right rang out in her head, even through the pounding, surging music that thrummed like a heartbeat in her veins.  It was an ability that came in use, when she was hunting, or when she was in pursuit of a particular prey, but on nights like this, it all too often just ended up in forcing her to retreat before her own obsessiveness caused her to lose control.  And while she possessed the abilities necessary and the money that it would take to clean up such a mess, that wasn't to say that she was particularly inclined to.  Especially after so recently arriving in the city.  Devon's city.  

A heavy sigh escaped the brunette as she leaned against the bar, her gaze snapping briefly towards the blue-(barely)clad figure that attempted more than once to make her arrival public... to little avail.  Shaking her head, she turned her attention back to the bartender, prepared to settle her tab and make an exit, when she felt it.  The little prickle in the back of her neck, and in those few seconds that she straightened, pulling herself just out of the small river of alcohol that splashed from drinks that spilled from -- apparently -- nowhere.  Her gaze turned, again, to settle on the blonde, a brow quirking up just so.  "I'll have another, as well," she announced to the bartender, quickly downing the vodka that she'd mostly just been swirling around for looks for the earlier part of the night.  "And whatever it is the lady is having," she added, almost as an afterthought, her head tilting towards the blonde bombshell.

This Will Do || Madison and Trin

Madison cringed in disappointment as she approached Maison night club. Of course the place seemed like a perfect party spot to anyone that was from new Orleans, but since the the girl was from Los Angles she had seen much bigger and much better. “This will do…I guess.” The blonde took a deep breath before she waltzed through the door. “Too bad there won’t be any Johnny Depp or Miley Cyrus.” She shrugged and decided to make the most of it because at least she was out of that stupid school.

"I’m here, bitches!" Madison called out as she stood in the door way, hiking up her blue dress a little. Much to her astonishment no one rushed over to her and offered her drinks or anything like that. Her next cry of attention was to clear her throat really loudly encase the people couldn’t hear her over the music….still nothing. The girl groaned and stomped across the dance floor and over to the bar. "I need a drink." She told the bartender, flipping her long blonde hair and crossing her legs. She scowled at everyone in the place since no one recognized her and manged to knock over a few people’s drinks with her mind in the process.

[wish-you-may]

She was a hunter by nature, and a hunter by trade.  Finding someone, even in a city as populated as this, was not a difficult thing to do, most especially when the girl was a creature of habit.  Trin could have waited until the girl had begun her shift at the club, but she did not want to meet the 'mask' of the girl, but rather, what existed behind it.  The lean brunette settled herself languidly over the barstool beside the dark haired girl, long fingers gesturing the bartender over.  "Vodka.  Two."  She indicated, nodding to the world-weary creature beside her.

prey of a different kind || trin / liz

Lizzie cleared her throat awkwardly, trying to get her voice out clear after her fifth cigarette and third beer. She had a couple hours left before the night’s shift, and she needed to get her head into it. She’d been a mess for days, too sober, too dry, too groggy to make more than a couple hundred bucks on stage. She needed to get things flowing again if she was going to survive. 

[wish-you-may]

She could not credit it to instinct alone.  The sound had caught her attention; the slight clunk as the bottle had fallen from the hands of the owner above and impacted the railing; the faint chugging sound of the water and air that struggled against each other in the bottle; the low, but shrill (to her ears, at least) whistle of the object racing through the air all brought her attention upwards.  A swift glance to find the object, a loosening of muscles that had tensed to evade a potential attack, and a barely hurried step were enough to sidestep the missile itself.  Another glance upwards saw the shocked expression of the woman above which disappeared rapidly.  Footsteps followed, the woman, she would guess, racing down the steps to the lower floor to see what damage, or not.

Triintel's hypothesis was confirmed, mere moments after the plastic accordianed and flattened slightly against the concrete beside her as the woman from the floor above burst out of the door only a few steps away from Trin herself.  "No," Trin assured the woman, a tone of vague amusement, lilting her words, a low smile tugging on one edge of her lips.  "I have been in downpours far worse than that, I guarantee," she said, with a low chuckle.  "You make impressive time," she jested, lightly, nodding upwards towards the balcony and then turning her attention back to her potential 'assailant'. 

Warning Signs || Roxy & Trin

Repeatedly twisting the cap of her water bottle on and off, Roxy was unbearably bored. Though she’d sworn to herself that she was going to take her night off easy, the wolf was just itching to do something.

Strolling out to the balcony, she leaned on the railing and took a deep breath. The air was fresh and crisp, just how Roxy preferred it. What she really wanted to do was order a pizza and spend the night in, maybe convince Julian to watch movies with her. Until then, she figured there was nothing wrong with ordering the pizza herself. As she reached into her back pocket for her phone, Roxy lost her grasp on the water bottle and it was sent to its impending doom from the second story.

“Shit.” She cursed under her breath and cautiously peeked over the railing to see what kind of damage it had done. Thankfully, it had narrowly missed whoever was walking up to the building, but still she felt obligated to go and retrieve it.

Practically sprinting down the stairs so she could catch the person and apologize, Roxy burst through the front doors of Inn on St. Peters out of breath. The person was a woman, kind looking from Roxy’s perspective. “I am so sorry.” She apologized profusely. “I really hope that didn’t hit you, or splash you, or anything. I’m really stupid sometimes.” She rambled, sheepishly walking over to where the bottle was situated, picking it up and tossing it into a nearby recycling bin.

[wish-you-may]

1963 Chevrolet Corvette Stingray Split Windows

[wish-you-may]

Can't trust a cold blooded woman Boy, don't you lie in her bed You can't trust a cold blooded woman She'll love you and leave you for dead There's one thing you must understand You can't trust a cold blooded woman

[wish-you-may]

Triintel Mesika [OC] - 26/88 years old - Vampire - FC: Angelina Jolie - Taken

Mercenary

» Personality Traits «

+ Diligent, Observant, Generous

- Secretive, Restless, Envious

» Personality «

While it is true that Triintel was somewhat reserved, perhaps even slightly detached from her emotions as a human, that particular divide has only been amplified in the years since the attack on her family and the transformation from human to vampire.  Reserved, calculating, demanding — these are all terms that could be used to describe her, and yet even while these colder aspects of her personality have been amplified with trauma, and with lifestyle changes over the decades, there still remains some semblance of the mischievous, curious little girl who had a habit of sneaking off where she wasn’t allowed, just because she could.  Yet, as with all things, Triintel believes in small measures.  Control, of her environment and herself, rates highly in her mindset, and the more of the prior she has, the less of the latter she must maintain, meaning if she is in her ‘home court’, so to speak, she tends to be more relaxed and more jovial, more interactive.  The more of the external world that she is in that is not within her control, however, the more withdrawn she becomes, taking on more of the role of observer, than participant. 

Yet even still there are those times when even she finds herself giving in to her more primal instincts, or her more base emotions, and if there should be a circumstance where lust, blood-lust, anger or jealousy do stir in her, it is suddenly and almost inevitably without regard for the consequences.  Because of this, she strives all the more for control, which only serves to create more pressure on herself, which in turn creates the greater need to release said pressure in the outbursts which she tries so hard to forgo.  It is a cycle which she can recognize, but still has not been able to supersede — most likely because it would require giving way of some of the control over herself that she feels she needs, all to compensate for not having been able to control the circumstances of her human life, and the events leading to her transition.  All of these things combined make it very difficult for her to allow anyone into her circle of trust, though she has learned over the decades how to play the parts that she must in order to maintain a civil role and position in the vampiric hierarchy.  When she must socialize, and play the part of hostess, or seductress, or even to play the loyal subject or trusted ally, she finds herself bitterly amused that the lessons of etiquette and socializing taught to her by her mother for mingling with nobility should come into such usefulness in a society that is anything but noble.

She finds herself often at odds with herself, and with the concepts of the world around her.  Watching the worlds around her, with their power struggles, and their petty wars, and the power that is flung about so carelessly without disregard for whomever might be caught in the crossfire somewhat boggles her, at times, leaving her with the desire to retreat from society altogether.  Yet, she, in possession of a great power of her own, finds herself abusing it in her own right, to glamor those that she needs to, to get things in order, taking life to sustain her own and in the course of her work as a mercenary / assassin, taking life because she can, and because it gives her a sense of satisfaction to play judge, jury and executioner against those that she accepts jobs to take out. Knowing that she has become, even in part, that which she despises, is a fact that she has come to accept, believing that she can maintain the fine line between ‘justice’ and ‘revenge’, not realizing that she has already begun to fall down that very slippery slope.

» Biography «

Her life was not that unusual, for the day and age.  A young Russian woman, with the influence of a Russian father and a British mother; her life was one of mild prestige and wealth.  Her father owned a well populated mine that produced some of the finest opals of the era, and she was engaged, by the age of 24, to a young Russian man — the son of a merchant with political and mercantile connections across the globe that would serve their family business well.  Yet the world’s stage would not give them purview to play those parts just yet, as the second world war began to rage around them.  Triintel’s fiancee enlisted… with the Germans, a fact that left her somewhat puzzled, as it seemed incongruous with the beliefs of her father and her fiancee, but she would not learn until two years later the truth behind Mateus’ motivations.

The first sign that there was anything wrong had been the screaming.  She awoke to it, the sound of shouts and gunfire.  The metallic scent of the blood, the sound of tromping boots and splintered doors, they were sounds, and scents, and sights that she would never forget.  For nearly a week her family was kept, interrogated and tortured by the Furer’s SS. It was then that she came to learn that her fiancee and father had conspired to betray the Germans, Mateus’ learning having granted him an officer’s position in the ranks of the Nazi army and her father’s business giving him the nearly perfect cover to send information to the Allied forces.  But at what cost?  She watched, almost but not quite numbly, as her servants, and life long friends were butchered.  She suffered, and not quietly, at the hands of the soldiers that demanded answers from her father.  She watched, helplessly, as her mother was killed, her father and herself left for dead.  

Only she was not.  Not quite.  

Perhaps it was the scent of blood that had drawn him.  She did not know, and had never asked.  He had offered her life, for a price.  For the price of the touch of the sun, for the price of unending hunger… He offered her power.  A chance to gain her strength, to reclaim control, to take the lives of those that had taken hers.  It was not a difficult decision to make.

Nearly seven decades have passed since the night she spent in the ground with her sire.  Together, they searched for the information that would lead them to those that had tormented her.  Together, they destroyed them, picking apart their lives and finding ways to make them suffer until at last she could wait no longer and she took their lives.  Four decades have passed since the last of them fell.  Still, there is that sense of dissatisfaction.  Of a bitterness, and anger that no amount of blood could seem to sate.  Her life has been one of patterns, since she and her sire parted ways, those four decades past.  Ways, in which she could gain control over herself.  Ways in which she could vent her frustration and her anger into something… methodical.  Practiced.  Useful.  She has carried the name of Nyx, as a pseudonym in the world of mercenaries and assassins for the past several decades — a ‘title’ that is passed on each generation to a ‘new’ successor.  Few in the world know her face, or her name, or know anything of her barring what kills and jobs have been attributed to the name of Nyx … rumored or otherwise.  

Dictators, coyotes, tyrants, men of cruel and voracious appetites have fallen to her swords, or her bullets… or when she cannot resist the temptation, to her thirst.  Still, she finds there is something lacking in this life.  This sense of discontent has caused her to leave her comfortable and spacious home — not all that far from her old family home, and the mines that she once again controls — to the world itself, in search of the elusive piece that has remained out of her grasp thus far.  Her latest travels have brought her to the bustling town of New Orleans, a garish and deafening city overfilled with the living and the things that crept in the shadows beneath and around them.  She does not know yet, what it is about the city that has kept her here, but she trusts that in time she will discover the source of its particular… allure.

Relationships:

Devlin Vatra - As fellow hunters Triintel and Devlin cross paths quite frequently. Due to having similar mindsets and personalities the two enjoy conversing whenever they run into each other. Triintel considers him a bit more than just a casual acquaintance but doesn’t know him well enough to consider him a friend just yet.

Tristan Walker - They two often wind up drinking at the same bars. The male werewolf enjoys shamelessly flirting with Triintel and, while she lets him have his fun, she is quick to shoot him right back down if he gets too out of hand.

Eleanor Clarke - Triintel enjoys spending time with Eleanor and is often trying to get the other vampire to stop being so fearful and wary of the world around her. She doesn’t know the girl is secretly a spy for Fiona Goode.

Fiona Goode - If there is one person that Triintel thinks the world could do better off without it’s the Coven of New Orleans current Supreme Witch. If Fiona were an easier target and wouldn’t be missed she would probably rid the world of the woman herself.

Marie Laveau - Triintel has mixed feeling about the Voodoo Queen and while she doesn’t feel she is a good person, she doesn’t see her as completely bad either. She admires how Marie takes care of her people and is good to them. For this she regards her slightly higher than she does Fiona.

[wish-you-may]

( Schedules; )

I am aware that this probably just reinforced the mildly obsessive traits that we’ve already discussed, but it’s a simple matter of fact in my opinion – life is easier if you have a plan, and to effectively initiate and carry through any plan, one must have a schedule. I am not quite so inflexible that I must have every meal at the exact same time, or be asleep at a precise time, or awake at an exact minute every morning, but I do like some semblance of routine in my life. It helps keep me on track.

( Pushing; )

Mostly, this particular like is in regard to me; I like to push myself. I like to test my limits. I think this might come back to the fact that even in the day that women were often nothing more than wives, and perhaps could strive to be a secretary, my father tried to enforce in me that I could do anything that I wanted to, if I worked hard enough. That, added to the supernatural strength and stamina, etc. that I possess, it makes burning out my frustration and inner rage harder to do than for the average mortal, so you will often find me at the gym, or working out, or rock climbing, or sailing, surfing – something that forces me to exert myself. This does include the martial arts, though I find that these are not always as relaxing as they are actually studious, as I must always be careful not to react too quickly, or punch too hard.

( Retribution; )

There is, to me, an important distinction that must be made here – there is a difference between retribution and revenge, and in more than just the classical textbook definition. Revenge is something that is, or can be most often, driven by a sense of personal grievance, and the desire to make someone who has wronged you pay – and while I do not deny that I hold a grudge and intend to seek my own form of justice against those responsible for making me what I am, what I find on a day to day basis of my life is not revenge. It is retribution. Justice, a punishment meted out in exact reflection of the crime or sin committed. When I am on a bounty, I will see to it that they are delivered in a state fitting with their crime, if I have been able to prove that they are in fact, guilty, and in the circumstances where I am acting of my own volition, I live firmly by the guideline of an eye for an eye. I will not kill unless they themselves have killed, unless it is because I must out of danger to myself or an innocent. [ooc note: this applies to her professional, and not always so much her personal life]

( Detailed Sensory Input; )

I often experience mild sensory overload. It is rare that it is enough to actually overpower me, except in extremes, as with a human, but there are times when I take particular pleasure in indulging myself be it in a particularly exquisite meal, or savory wine, or the softest of silks or the most fragrant of perfumes or bath oils, surrounded by a musical masterpiece, be it Tchaikovsky, Gershwin, or something far more modern.

( Shopping; )

Perhaps one of the easiest to guess at the reasons for, but I enjoy the process of shopping, and all that it entails, from the window displays to the multitude of things to choose from, be it clothing or music, or even weaponry or armor, the modern age and all of its technology and the birthright that go with the new age of miniaturization and factory machinery is something that will never grow tiring to me. Though, I enjoy searching through row after row of an antique store, junk store or second hand shop just as much, finding some small trinket of the times bygone that I can rescue and nestle away in my home.

[wish-you-may]

The steps that had interrupted Trin's contemplation of the city had not been exactly quiet or subtle; if anything they had seemed to indicate something of a bounce.  She wasn't exactly sure what it was that she'd been expecting when she turned her gaze towards the, well, not exactly intruder, but what she saw didn't meet any of the preconceived notions that might have sprung to mind if she'd had more time to think on it.  The petite figure might have been mistaken as a youth by anyone less experienced, or anyone that was not accustomed to picking out the things not human about people around her, but it took all of about three seconds for Triintel to pinpoint the species: vampire.  Age, unfortunately, was something that only time could tell -- an irony in and of itself, she noted.  The mental assessment brought a slight smile to her lips, though it did not linger long, nor did it meet her eyes.  

She raised her glass of wine towards the blonde vampire, bringing the glass up to her lips to take the absolute smallest of sips.  The vintage was magnificent, but then it had to be.  She didn't imbibe anything that wasn't worth the gut wrenching pain that would inevitably follow, and thankfully with the possession of her family's mine and the money she had made over the decades from her own... ah, hobby, she had little to worry about in the way of finances.  She could have glamoured her way through any difficulties she'd met, but it wasn't something she preferred to do if she could help it.  The truth was so much preferable to a lie, when possible.  "Hello," she spoke, finally, though in all honesty it had been only a few seconds since her tip of the glass towards the other vampire.  Time was such a fallible mistress.

Her words were simply spoken, softly uttered.  Little, if any at all of her Russian accent remained.  She had worked hard to shed it.  To become an apex predator, adept at blending in to wherever she had to, to become anyone or anything that she had to be to achieve her ultimate goal.  "Lovely evening, isn't it?"  She offered, then.  She was not generally a sociable creature, but she had had only limited contact with the vampiric aspects of this city.  She could not take the risk, until she knew more, of angering the wrong person.  Best to play nice.  For now.

contradictions abound || trin / luna

Luna tied the lace of her right platform trainer as she got ready for a night out.Going out by herself was her thing,she hadn’t been living here for long and barely had any friends or connections to go out with anyway.After fixing her black lipstick and pink eye shadow,she picked up her electric blue bag with her essentials in it and walked out the door of her home.

Walking down the streets,she noticed people going into the many bars and restaurants that surrounded her. None of them interested her that much,she had a place she liked to go and it was the best bar around in her eyes. Making her way up to the door she noticed people staring at her once again,maybe it was because of her clothing or because she looked too young to be drinking,either way she just smirked to herself and walked right on in.

The young vampire made her way up to the bar and ordered her usual,a whiskey. She smiled and thanked the barman before she took the glass from the bar. Even though she couldn’t enjoy the beautiful taste of alcohol any more,she had to make people think she was drinking it. She walked through the crowd of people and made her way up the stairs to the second floor,she preferred it because there was less noise.

As she walked up the stairs she noticed a woman standing on the veranda and looking out into the night sky. Paying no attention to her,she made her way over to a small table close to the veranda. Suddenly she looked up and noticed the woman staring at her as if she had just disturbed her thoughts.

[wish-you-may]

Journal: Entry #1 (aka, history: birth - early adult)

I feel compelled to state that I have never been one of those that takes a moment at the end of every day to write their thoughts of the events of the day. The closest, perhaps, that I come is the lists that I keep of things that must be done the next day, or crossing off those from yesterday’s list that were completed today. Still, to not do so now seems as if it would be an insult, not only to the one that gifted me this exquisite journal, but to the memories that I hold of her. Now that she has passed, there is no one else to tell her story, what small pieces of it that I know, that most likely no one else has, or, also likely, ever will, given as I have no intention of sharing the words written on these pages with anyone.

To write my story, even if it is out of some sentimental urge, is foolhardy, I must admit, given what I am and what it is that I do, but clearly she felt as if it was what was best for me – and I have never found her advice to have led me astray. I cannot think that this, her final gift, left to me in her will and testimony, should be any different. The journal itself is simple, and yet beautiful; the leather is the color of crimson and so very well tanned and wrapped that even my sensitive touch cannot find a blemish. The pages within are just as soft, and smooth enough that the formation of my words make hardly a whisper of a sound to my ears; the fibers so well woven that they might as well be silk, and yet thick enough to survive the most brutal of impacts or absorb the heaviest of inks. The thin ink that lines the pages within is barely visible, to the average eye perhaps imperceptible and of such a soft hue of gold one might think it merely a shimmer against the subtle ivory of the pages, an effect given to accent the dusting of copper and gold against the outer edges of the page perhaps.

It is new, most likely opened only the once, for her hand to pen the inscription upon the front cover, the pages themselves never turned, the spine yet to be cracked. Yet, it is old. I can smell the years of spices, and herbs, of bitter anise and the sweet sting of cinnamon, even the faintest prickling of the monkshood and wolfsbane if I sift through the stronger scents. It must have sat, I think, in one of the nooks in her kitchen, or perhaps in the shed that served as greenhouse and apothecary, though in an afterthought, I am almost certain it was the latter, though for how long exactly… I cannot begin to guess. It saddens me, now, to think of how many years passed between our last visit, and the moment of her death, and it weighs even heavier that it took me so long to come to see her and to tend to her effects. It weighs even more so, given the circumstances surrounding my return – but I digress.

(Click the read more for the rest of what has been written!  At least 3 more entries to come, eventually.)

Or rather, I suppose, I get ahead of myself. In order to understand, truly, we must start at the beginning. I must retrace my steps, to understand how I have come… in some way, full circle. The name that was given to me at the moment of my birth was Triintel Isadora Mesika, and while I may have any aliases, many other names and identities, this name is the only one that holds any true meaning for me. I was born to Andrei and Ecaterina Mesika in a conclave of Romania on the morn of September 14th in the year of 1926, which as of the day and year that these words are written, makes me to be ninety-six years of age. I feel I must pause here, to make a very important clarification, even if the explanation for it is not to come for many pages – I feel it must be stressed that these words are not written by the aching, arthritic fingers of an old woman, nor are they viewed through the myopic, watery blue eyes of the same, but are inscribed by the frame of a young woman, a woman who by most accounts would be assumed to be no more than in her early or mid twenties, perhaps encroaching on thirty, if one was feeling particularly unkind or jaded. This may not seem relevant, or may seem merely a distraction from what is to come, but believe me when I tell you that it is extremely important, for as far as I have been able to discern, I will never be more than what I am now, I shall never age in body, only in soul, and perhaps mind.

My face will never bear the wrinkles of wisdom, or of laughter, of tears; my bones will never creak and pop with a century of movement and work. It is only my eyes that betray my age, to those with the insight to see it. This is not a state that I was born into, but one that would come at a greater cost than one should ever be expected to pay, and yet in these introspective moments I recall that it is not only the debt of what has passed that burdens me, but the fear of what is still to come. With each passing year, I lose more of what I was, and who I am…. How long before I see no semblance of humanity in those eyes, when I chance upon my own reflection? Ah. I see now, one aspect of the purpose of this gift for what more perfect reflection of myself, than my own story, in my own words? Proof to me that wisdom is not something that is earned through age alone, I think. And yet again, I wander.

My family was something of an affluent one, given the day and age; we were not what would be considered overwhelmingly wealthy by anyone’s standards, but we had more than many in our homeland which had suffered greatly in terms of economics during the first great war, and was barely creeping towards recovery when I was born. Our lands may have remained mostly un-ravaged, and our men may have bled and died in a fraction of the number of the rest of the world, but we had never been opulent or commercially broad. Romania relied heavily on our few select products to trade to the outside world for what else we needed to survive from day to day and with so many trade tariffs and bans in place and with the fluctuating trade values of currency and the uncertainty of any form of transportation the First World War plunged our country into something of a dark age; more appropriately, perhaps, a medieval age.

Our people returned to the motherland for food and shelter, trapping and hunting, farming and falling back to a barter system more than trusting into any paper currency; coins were valuable for their metal content, more so than the stamp upon them, and ores and gems were of higher value than almost ever before. I was not the first child, nor the last, but I was the first and last to survive past the first few years of life. It was through no fault of parenting that my siblings passed, nor for any lack of care – my uncle on my mother’s side was a physician, and I believe that he spent more time on our homestead caring for my mother and her offspring than he did caring for his own wife and children, but it was very difficult for my mother to carry a child to full term. She had half a dozen children in the first eight years of her marriage, after which (I learned much later), my father refused to lay with her, as he was fretful at the toll that these stillborn or miscarried births were having on her health, and even more concerned at the effect that the loss of these children had on her spirit. He was no less affectionate to her, afterwards, if anything I believe he was more so, and there was no mistaking that he cared for and loved her deeply, but there are very few memories of my younger years that hold a smile adorned on her features.

She was beautiful, nonetheless, an austere and stern beauty, whom I can never recall looking less than perfection, no matter what task she was tending to. My father was a very handsome man, with a strong and square jaw, olive skin, and stark black hair which I envied most of my youth, and his eyes were a soft steel color that were by far the most expressive feature of his face. I could always tell his mood, by whether they were crinkled at the edges, or if there was a furrow between them, or how widely or narrowly they were set, and when he was amused, or in the midst of a prank, they glittered. He was strong, or at least I remember him as such, as he always swept me up off of the ground in a hug from when he would return from his business day at the mines, no matter how often my mother would chide him for covering me in the dust of the day’s efforts. I remember the smell of it fondly; the smell of dark and crumbling earth, the faint metallic touch of the explosives, and I was always entranced by the faint sparkles of gemstone dust that was, to a young girl, as exotic and enchanting as if it was piskie dust itself.

The amount of effort that my father invested into the mines was perhaps the only point of contention that I can clearly remember ever having existed between them. My father believed that it was his responsibility to be present at least some of every day that the facilities were open, and despite the additional expenditure, enforced very strict safety regulations and precautions to protect those that worked in the mines, and did not believe that he could justify not having a hands on approach, often quoting the old adage of ‘if you want something done right, do it yourself’. My mother could not refute this, outright, but she felt it somewhat… perhaps beneath him, but reflecting back upon it, I believe it was simply that she missed him, and did not like that he risked himself by involving himself so thoroughly into the day to day machinations of the business. I could not have grasped, then, the dangers that such a venture presented, especially in those days, with the temperamental demolitions, and the makeshift girders and supports, so I did not understand why she worried.

It was hard to tell that she did, most times, though, as she tended to the house, oversaw the caretaking of the grounds and the guest house, of the cleaning and shopping, of the design and making of the shams, the curtains, the pillows, our clothing, the groceries and the disbursement of pay to our staff. I never saw her sleeping, and I am not certain I ever really saw her off her feet unless it was time to teach me my lessons, or at mealtimes. She was well educated, more so than many of the women of the time and place, and she and my father agreed full heartedly that I should be so as well. I was taught arithmetic, language and grammar, history, social sciences, world sciences and anatomy, as well as the etiquette my mother insisted upon including, and the fencing that my father taught me in the late hour of the evening between evening, and dusk. My father taught me to understand the political influences of the world in a way that will forever relate it to the parrying and blocking of the foil; politics as a battle and a dance combined, and he insisted that one must understand every step in order to see the overall picture presented. In retrospect, I can see that as the only child, or more specifically, the only surviving child, I was everything to both of them; the only thing in this world that they could shape, and influence, that they could pass their wisdom and knowledge to, and much like a dry sponge, I soaked up every drop of knowledge they had to offer and awaited more greedily.

My father imported books from all around the world at regular intervals, and at the conclusion of each week if I had completed my lessons with acceptable marks, then he would allow me to pick from the newest arrivals a treasure of my own, and it was in this manner that he temporarily sated my thirst for knowledge, while in the end only sparking the desire for more. By my adolescence, I spoke several languages fluently, and read several more; among the first were Romanian, of course, German, Russian, Latin, and Spanish – I did have such a fondness for the Romantic tongues, and still do, in fact; Greek and Hebrew were among the latter, as these were the languages of many of the older texts that touched on the philosophical arts and the birthing process of the political precepts that had shaped the world as we knew it. Though there may be no need to say it, I will say that I wanted for nothing as far as I can remember through my childhood and adolescence. I like to think that I was not spoiled, for being classified as spoiled bears a connotation in my mind that I took these things for granted, or that I did not appreciate them, and I think – I hope, that this was not the case. I loved the dresses, the riding suits, the overcoats for our travel into town, the ribbons for my hair, even as I dreaded the hours of sitting still the night before to let my mother pin up each wayward and unruly curl in the defeatist hopes of controlling the chaotic mass, I loved the hours of conversation that we could pass on those nights as she told me of her life in England before she met my father, of the sights of the cities there, and all those things that seemed so glamorous to me then.

I could not truly imagine a building that broke the skyline, much less with a time piece upon its crown larger than two men standing one atop the other – this was a feat reserved for the mountains that surrounded us, or perhaps the oldest of the trees that sprang from our earth. I loved curling up on the divan against the side wall of her studio in the early mornings when the light was brightest, and watching her paint those images that she felt that words could not truly describe. I loved watching the dreamy expression that would settle over her features as she let herself go. She tried many times to teach me the same, to apply brush to canvas to create an image – but it was soon clear that that was never going to be my strong suit, and that is one trait (or lack thereof) that has stayed the same despite all the time that has passed between. The only truly artistic talent that passed from her to me was that of music, and she would often ask me to play the violin for her while she painted, Chopin or Beethoven, or another of the Classical masters.

I think it may be easy, now, to understand that despite all of the conflict that surrounded us, and the precarious hold that the world had on solidarity – despite the news we read each weekend in the newspapers that were delivered from town every Saturday, and the hours long conversations with my father, or the men in town that found it amusing that I could spar with their words and arguments so adeptly, the actuality of the war, and the suffering that went with it, was something that did not… actually touch me. It was not that I was uncaring, or unsympathetic, merely that – I had no true basis of comparison. I was loved, and I loved. My days were filled with studies, and lessons, and art and music, and politics, and horseback riding, and sneaking off through the woods to spy (supposedly unseen) on the Roma camps that drifted across our lands like raindrops – plentiful, and never in the same place twice. I did not know, then, what it was to hurt, or suffer. I had no concept of death, or loss. I was fourteen years of age when my mother proposed that my father should begin the search for appropriate suitors; it may seem young by Western society, and in the modern age, but it must be understood that the customs, the rituals, the process that went into finding a betrothed for the equivalent of a noble, in Romania then, and to some extent now, was an extraordinarily involved process.

There were many factors that had to be taken into consideration; even excluding the obvious things such as station, wealth, political standing, and lineage, marriages were often as much a business transaction to solidify alliances, be they business or political, as they were unification between two persons, in a romantic sense. I suppose I was fortunate, to some extent, that my father was of the mind that I should have some say in it, though taking into consideration that I was still a child (even if I did not believe so at the time), I am certain that whatever opinions I had to share of my possible betrothed was taken with a grain of salt, as it should have been. My mother had added several of those from her homeland onto the list, but I earnestly begged my father to not send me away – as much as I might have loved the stories of her home country, I dreaded the idea of being alone in such a place, and so far away from all that I had ever known, and that was not to include my distress at being separated by so much distance from my family, and friends. In the end, it turned out that everyone would get a little bit of what they wanted; a surprise to each of us, I think.

In the next province over, only a day or so travel by mountain pathways, two at a leisurely pace or in intermittent weather, there was a young man by the name of Mateus, three years my elder whose father was a merchant specializing in the ‘finer things in life’, and who more importantly at the time perhaps, had a number of contacts overseas that would prove valuable assets to my father’s exports. My mother approved because the young man had spent the last four years in England, studying at a preparatory school and university, appeasing her desire for some taste of her home in my future, and making it more likely that he would wish to take me to travel in Europe at some point during our marriage. I approved because he was, admittedly, dashing in his looks, and had a smile that reminded me more of what I might expect to see on the face of one of the Roma travelers than on a supposedly noble-trained man. He had a sense of mischief and mirth that matched my own hidden streak of amusement at life and over the course of the next year as our parent’s concreted the terms of our betrothal, I found myself growing fonder of him than I had expected. I had never quite understood the concept of love, outside of a familial bond, and while I still cannot say for certain that what I felt in the burgeoning blossom of feelings for him all those years ago was love, true love, the love that poets wax poetic over, that young women sigh longingly over…. I do know that he made me smile, and that he made my cheeks darken in those few occasions that he and I managed to be alone for a moment or two long enough for him to steal a kiss from me, and that the thought of another stolen kiss made my heart skip a beat. I remember some things of him in greater clarity than others.

I recall that he had the tiniest dimple in his left cheek that showed only when he cast a devilish smile, and that his fingers were incredibly long, almost feminine in design, but I never saw them shake or tremble as my own did. I remember that one eye was a slightly darker hue than the other, and that he always smelled of peppermint – though I never knew why. My lessons with my mother continued, though somewhere along the way they had shifted to more of how to tend to a house, and all of the details of wife, mother, hostess, that went on behind the calm demeanor and composure, that I had gathered glimpses of, but never seen in entirety. My discussions with my father branched from politics, to business, to business management – he believed firmly that once Mateus and I were settled that it was only a matter of time before the families businesses merged as well, and wanted to be sure that I would be able to protect the interest of our mines long after he had passed on the role of executor of the property.

To circumvent any protests that my mother might have had to offer about the excursions to the mines to see how things worked, and the extent of the properties, my father took my fiancé and myself, calling the visits and lessons a ‘properly chaperoned date’, but I could tell from the gleam in his eye and the way that he always talked more to me, than Mateus, that he was thrilled more at having the opportunity to share his passion and his way of providing for his family with me, than with Mateus – I think that my mother was the only one fooled, but Mateus took it in stride and in good humor. With the wedding ‘only’ two years away, my mother’s time became even more valuable, and her life even more hectic, as her careful and meticulous planning began to shape up what I imagine would have been a wedding exquisite and charming enough to have put any of those I have seen in my long lifetime to shame. Gardens were planted, of white roses and hyacinth, imported and with trellises designed, and not long after, with greenhouses surrounding them, out of fear that the climates would not agree with the fresh buds and splints. The guest house was converted temporarily into a craft ‘room’, to allow my mother enough freedom to lay out all of the fabrics, swaths of cloth, embroidery pieces and beaded pieces in appropriate sequence so that she could see the progress for each part of the wedding – be it my dress, the Mayfair pole swatches, the decorative ribbons that must each be appropriately decorated, the tablecloths or my honeymoon and travelling attire – at a glance.

Trunks were set aside, in the main house, and in the carriage house, to hold dishes, and pots, sheets, tablecloths, curtains … all of the things that I would need to turn any house into a home. She called them hope chests. I find it ironic, in a bitter sort of way. Hope chests. As if anything in those wooden boxes could have given hope, for the future, with the events that were unfolding yet unseen and unfelt around us. Such, I suppose, is the benefit of hindsight. How many times in my life have I thought ‘If I knew then, what I know now’? More than I care to admit, even to myself. I was almost two weeks shy of my twenty-fourth birthday when my fiancé came to me with a confession; one that he should have made to my parents before me, if he had held to tradition, but it had been one of the things I liked about him – one of the things that made me believe that I could share a life with him, because he was not a traditionalist, he did not look at things in black and white, and a woman was more to him than something to placate and bed.

He told me that he had, against his father’s wishes, enlisted in the military, and would be leaving at the end of the week to complete officer’s training in the Feurher’s army. I was flabbergasted, and devastated. I had not thought him a man of war, or of violence and bloodshed, nor had I imagined that he would have been the type to give in to the fascism and blatant oppression that any fool could see heavy handed in the regime and propaganda that the German army spread, igniting contention and fury and prejudice everywhere that it touched. We argued, for the first time, as I begged him to reconsider, and he resolutely refused. He had already made an agreement, had already signed a contract. I came to learn, later, that in exchange for his service, the German politzia at the border would look the other way when his father’s shipments passed through the checkpoint, but he did not admit to this at the time, and despite poring over record after record, I still have found any way of confirming whether or not it was his proposition, his father’s, or that of the military.

They were in need of those with wit, and charm, even those, in the extremes, that did not fit the Aryan pedigree they so proudly clung to, it seemed. Pretending that I did not know anything of his intentions until he told my parents was nowhere as difficult as feigning pride in him at his decision, as I was expected to. It was the first time in my life that I had ever been disappointed in my father, as he patted Mateus on the shoulder, and shook his hand, offering his congratulations when I knew that he felt the same of the precepts of that regime as I did – then again, perhaps he was just as disappointed in me. My mother kept her opinion, whatever it might have been, to herself, and merely set about confirming that the wedding would be continuing on schedule, to which Mateus agreed heartily. It seemed that no one thought to ask my opinion on the matter. Then again, I said nothing, so in retrospect it should not be with such bitterness that I hold the memories of those days, and the weeks and months of sullen depression on my part as I stewed over my fate. I had agreed to marry a merchant’s son. I had not agreed to marry a German sympathizer, much less a German officer, but there seemed nothing I could do about it.

I waited silently for news, hopes that he had not passed his training, or that he had changed his mind, waiting for a letter that said he would be home soon, a letter saying he was sorry for making such a mistake, but the only messages I received were short, and to the point, letting us know where he was in his training and how much he missed home, and that he loved me and was eagerly awaiting our union. It became clear to me, as the terse, formal letters continued that he had no idea at all of whom I was and what it was that I truly wanted. I did not understand how this could be, given our whispered stolen conversations, our lengthy discourses over dinner and later on in the nights, after dessert and with the single glass of wine that I was allowed. I had thought that I had found someone that I could stand with forever… and I could not stand him at all. How could everything have turned up on itself so very quickly? I was devastated, and I think it was then that I came to the realization that I must love him – or this betrayal could not have hurt so very much.

I begged my father to try and reason with Mateus, to try and save him before it was too late, but for the first time in my life that I could recall my father was sharp with me, telling me that it was not my place to question what it was that Mateus wanted, and that it was my duty to stand by, and trust in my would be husband. I wish that I had known the truth of it – I wish they had even an inkling of the true evils that lined the ranks of the Fuehrer’s army for I believe that they would never have dreamed at attempting such a bold move. I do not know who came up with the idea in its original form, but in looking back on it I could see both of their handiwork in it. It was far from unexpected or unusual for the son of a aspiring merchant within a neutral country to pledge allegiance to one side, or another, in hopes of securing a greater interest for their family, especially with their own wedding not far off on the horizon. It would only be expected for that same officer to send regular letters to his fiancé and her family – in this, I see Mateus’ thoughts, his… purity, in some ways, despite his impish smile. The encryption key for those letters… that would have had to be my father’s touch though – he was always the one that loved the anagrams and cryptograms, they were his pastime and hobby.

To keep it from me, to protect me… that, I think, was a joint effort. And, of course, passing the information along to the Russian forces was simple enough for my father, with his contact and shipments that regularly passed through the borders, one more package, one more receipt or one more envelope would never raise an eyebrow. Or so they had thought. It had struck me as odd when one of our servants came running, almost breathless, to the dining room table where we had just sat down to have our dinner. It lacked decorum, the entrance, and thus it was given the appropriately disapproving glance by my mother before she returned her attention to the bowl of soup in front of her. The servant’s words took my breath away, however, when she spoke hurriedly, almost stumbling over her words, announcing the arrival of a number of German officers at the door. I must admit, my stomach leapt, slightly, as the thought sprang to mind that it had to have been Mateus – what other German officer would come to our doorstep? But there was something else, in that room, in that moment – more specifically, on my father’s face, something that I could not ever have remembered seeing before. Fear.

It lasted only a moment. Not even a moment. But it changed everything. It was the first moment of everything that would be the end of my world. By the time I remembered my manners enough to set down my soup spoon, and stop staring half agape at the servant, my father was himself, and I doubted myself for thinking I had seen anything other than his usual resolute features. He rose to his feet easily, quietly ordering my mother and me to our rooms, leaving me no room for argument, though I certainly tried to offer plenty, protesting all the way to my rooms, resorting to pleading, even as he nudged me gently into my room – and a moment later, I heard the lock of my bedroom suite snap quietly into place, the lock that I don’t believe had ever been used in my entire life … I had assumed long ago that the key had been lost. Clearly, I had been wrong. Anger and panic fought for top billing, as I flung myself towards the window, fighting with curtains and shutters to fling them apart, just in time to see a group of men being ushered from the porch and into the foyer; each clad in crisp gray-green uniforms that showed no sign at all of travel, much less as far as they must have come. The iron eagle, the iron cross, the silver metallic threading of the patches and the insignia on the lapels, the glistening silver buttons with the swastika pressed into them, the glittering black leather boots that came to a somehow all too abrupt end just shy of their knees… there was no mistaking them for anything but what they were. And there was not a familiar face among them. Only one set of eyes turned upwards as I stared at them, crisp and steel blue even in the shadow cast by the leather bill of the officer’s hat. Even though the glance he cast my way lasted only a moment I could feel the trickle of ice slide down my spine. It was only after he turned away that I found myself suddenly able to move again, to breathe again.

As I took a sharp breath in to make up for those precious seconds without, I could see that they were not alone; I could see almost a dozen uniformed soldiers in the front drive lined up like little tin soldiers, and even my untrained eye could find almost as many again setting themselves up like… sentries… around our home. How had they gotten here? How had we not noticed their arrival – what did they want? Why did my home feel suddenly more like a prison, than a safe haven? Yet another instance, of if I had known then… Minutes stretched on endlessly, and an hour crept into two impossibly slow. Impatience ate at me as a hundred possibilities of what could be going on in the rooms below filled my mind; a dozen possible derived conversations and as the evening passed into night impatience turned to anxiety -- sour and stinging in the pit of my stomach and the back of my throat.

I must have tried the door to my rooms a hundred times in the hopes that the lock had miraculously been undone without me noticing, but the handle never clicked open underneath my hands, no matter how many times I shook it. I couldn’t hear well enough then, to tell what was going on, only the occasional creak of a booted footstep on the stairs that would raise my hopes for a moment, only to be dashed when no one came. I heard a voice, the same one a few times, though not clearly enough to make out the words – just the tone; crisp and emotionless while guttural in a way that seemed to clash and I had heard my parents giving orders often enough to the staff to recognize the particular inflection to his voice.

[wish-you-may]

contradictions abound || trin / open

The city confused her.  She had long since pinpointed the reason for it, the contradictory nature of it and what she had become accustomed to in her youth and what had passed for her adulthood, but even knowing the cause of it did not seem to make New Orleans any less perplexing to the vampire.  It was contrary, or so she thought, that there should be a city that was so very over full, when it was so very open.  Buildings did not stretch, for most of them, more than a few stories into the air, and there was still a great capacity for expansion on all sides of the city and yet people simply... didn't.  

They chose to live, packed so tightly into winding streets and buildings, most of which were so flimsily constructed that it seemed to her as if a gust of wind alone would be enough to demolish entire neighborhoods.  And yet, they still stood.  And the people lived.  Happily?  She could not bring herself to be a judge of that.  She was not entirely certain she knew what it meant anymore... or if she ever had.  A low breath of a sigh slipped from her full lips, and she shook her head slightly as she let her gaze wander over the bustling streets beneath her, expanding out like strands of a web in every direction.

The veranda on which she stood was one of a dozen in the building, and one of at least half a dozen that belonged to the bar that she had opted to spend her evening at, or at least the first part of it.  The glass of wine in her hand was barely touched, brought to her lips now and again just enough to grant the illusion of interest.  It was not what had her attention tonight, however.  Tonight, it seemed, it would be the city itself that continued to gnaw away at her.  She believed knew that if she could understand it, then surely understanding of why it was that she felt compelled to be here would make itself clear.  Wouldn't it?

The lean figure of the woman straightened, after a moment, drawn up from the railing that she had rested on, and tossing her head to send her heavy, loose curls behind a shoulder, she turned her gaze behind her, searching for the face that accompanied the sound of footsteps that drew closer.

[wish-you-may]

You make me wanna die I'll never be good enough You make me wanna die And everything you love will burn up in the light Every time I look inside your eyes (burning in the light) You make me wanna die I would die for you my love, my love I would lie for you my love, my love (make me wanna die) I would steal for you, my love, my love (make me wanna die)