Story of a vampire (based on the Vampiric Camarilla style, forget about Twilight), her memories, her past.
Originally in French and composed on a forum, this is its translation.
PS: be indulgent, this is a translation, and Alain's English is (still) not improved. So he's giving it a try, but.
The Park was silent: it made me feel better. The distant rumour of the city - yet it was just a few feet across the trees that were dropping their leaves- allowed me to be alone, at once, with my billion thoughts.
Words were walzing in my head and were getting me dizzy, nauseous. The mental sound waves' hammering had, good thing for me, stopped assailing my head who, even if it was long-time dead, couldn't help itself to forget what pain feels like.
It was a conflicting feeling. Like, if from one side, I had this only envy to sit in a corner, any corner I wouldn't mind (the middle of the street or the top of a mountain would be fine), so I could look, observe, anything and everything. Without a move, motionless. Just like this heart that has stopped pounding into my chest. On the other side, I was dying to hurl so loud that everyone could hear me -and I say everyone because I mean everyone, wherever they are in the Universe-; to hurl so long that the world would go deaf; to hurl everything that I couldn't say because I was myself, I was Jayla, ero io, ero Jayla, simply. I was dying to pounce and to rip the head off the first one I saw, to knock everything I could touch, so I could reach, at once, and hurt, wound, kill, make blood and tear run free because of me.
The Voice didn't help.
Don't speak, Jayla. Don't say anything else; listen. Listen to me, listen to the others, feel the wind blowing on your face. Look around; learn from passivity.
Strike them, Jayla. Strike them now, pounce. Pounce, come on, snap and scratch, strike them, tear them up, clamp them, tighter and tighter, wring everything you'll touch.
In the end it would scare others. The monster was tighly closed into my head and my body, this heap of dead flesh that I was carrying every night. I could feel it fuss inside, maybe I wasn't a Malkavian for nothing.
I meditated a long time under the branches of a large tree, then I stood up. I would miss the air of Italy, but I had to go. That was easy to know: you could just listen to the anonymous cry of departure calling me elsewhere. It was screaming so loud that I was almost missing those muffled city's rumours. I closed my eyes, walking on the park's path -when you listen to the wind blowing between the pebbles, eyes closed, you can easily see the road that is looming before you. I was breathing deeply: that was unnessecary, but I liked the habit for its soothing effect. Unfortunately, I could still feel it, this tumor of anguish and fear and rage and despair that swelled chronically. Sticking my feet to the ground, and bringing my hand to my throat (I felt those to scars of my wrist on the frail flesh of my neck, they were cold) so I could modify its sound, I shouted as loud as I could.
In the distance, they heard a wolf howling to the moon. A long time. Its howling was coming from the bottom of its heart, its guts. It hustled the womb, making its way to the heart.
A coronarian howl.
They meeted in a hurry: a wolf, that was impossible, no way, they got to make it leave, kill it murder it make it disappear-
It was decided that the hunt would begin the following day.
The intruder would not threaten the city very long, word of Honor.