There were two voices calling. Two thoughts fighting inside. The first one was strong with intensity but much less focused. Powerful but emanating from a greater distance. It was a voice that old me not to go into the hospital. It was tinged with anger and fear but without clarity. The other voice was very near in prioximty so near in fact to call it a voice is not enough, the compulsion towards survival doesn’t have a language doesn’t have a voice it has something deeper more primal and it made me take 2 steps forward for every one step backwards that the angry fearful voice motivated.
Eventually I staggered to the entrence when I was there I felt as if I was going to have to fight to be treated. There was an obstacle to my survival even here at this haven this site of mercy. It was as if the bowels of the building were growling at me, something beneath the floor boards themselves. As if this building was a haunted house that was possessed with a soul that wanted some sort of price from me. Again without conscious rational I feel my blood rise as well. Instinctively I could feel my fangs moisten. I was itching to dig them into some piece of flesh not out of hunger but out of the sheer unfettered yearning toward vengeance, It was the colors, the colors of the flag I saw from one of the old broken window frames. It was like a red cape to a bull, I felt as if I was going to charge. I knew that such an act would end my life. I felt that it would be a pointless exercise and that I was meant for something more something better and again there was a femiinie lilt to it. Was that you mother, I feel an arm wrapping around my waist I feel an embrace that is meant to protect me. Who is that? Is it real, is it happening now or just remembered. Not having your memories annondated in your head fucks even with your concept of now. I thought it was mother, I thought she step out of the hospital doorway to shield me to cure me to figure out what is wrong some other day, she granted me recess, so desperately needed. But as soon as her face came into focus It was a new face, it was the face of my nightingale. It was a face so beautiful so brown, so dark and lovely, almost as dark as…as dark as her face. Her being mother. But this is not mother mother is not so young, so smooth to touch, mother doesn’t make your hair stand on end like that, mother does tighten your loins like that. Mother does something else. This was nightingale.