Add wet spotter and vinegar as needed to keep the stain moist. Let stand for 30 minutes, blotting every 5 minutes with a clean absorbent pad.Try a light spray of hair spray to loosen the stain, then apply a wet spotter and a few drops of white vinegar.Sponge (the method of using light strokes with a dampened pad working outward from the center of the stain) the stain with water.You hide away trying not to be tempted back into the light. You question if this will kill you, you know the nicotine you smoke does nothing to you but yet you still continue to smoke with paint stained fingers. Your painting consumes you, the time between meals becomes longer as you seek to distance yourself from the world. You remain in the shadows to watch and wonder. That she was freed during the war and is now letting herself be known. You hear through word of your youngest who you allow near you that your Constance is free. You go on existing, playing no part in the war around you and it passes like all wars do with casualties and consequences. At times tempted to slumber, to accept the deep sleep that calls to you. You slink into the shadows and let the years pass. They don’t seem to love you like they used to now that you have torn their mother from them.
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For the children who are no longer full of youth but are hardened by time.ĭespite this you push them away. They take her away before she can harm anyone else. You loved them all for they were yours to share with Constance.Īnd if I get the choice to live in his name Your children knew to take care of the child that came to exist in their family like they would a natural sibling. Choosing to mourn the loss of your son’s life.Īfter a time you welcomed the no longer warm hand into yours, taking your son under your wing to teach him everything you knew.įour children followed your first, forming a family, an unnatural one but it was yours.
Despite everything, you had chosen not to think about the day that might come when he might be turned. The day you came home to find your son no longer alive shocked you. You painted to put life in a frame, to eternalise the world around you.
You made good money at it though that was never why you painted. Working still as a painter, your skilled work had been sold under different names depending on the style you worked under. To watch him age so closely fascinated you, knowing that it would take centuries for you to pass. The first child, a boy who grew to be a man. Watching the children makes you feel alive in a way you have not in a long time. You made a family for Constance and yourself. You take to bringing her infants, borrowed, bought, some stolen from families who could not afford to keep a child and some that did not deserve to have them. You made love to her, wanting her to experience the race of her heart one last time. Enjoying every second of every hour you spent delicately painting the features of her face, her hands, her fiery red hair. You had to paint her, to put her image onto canvas, to make her yours. You needed her and you knew what you had to do. You had never desired to turn someone until you heard her voice, her laugh. Forever is not for everyone.īefore the yearning song of flesh on flesh Or what would sometimes feel like forever. That did not mean you were ready to live forever. You were passed that, you were not ready to die though. In the 1700’s, the life expectancy was thirty five. An age that suited you but others it meant getting old and getting old meant dying. When you were turned you were nearly forty. You were a handsome young man, you still are, your youth immortalised.
If you closed your eyes now you could still remember the feeling of its warmth on your skin. You did not crave the blood that pumped in the veins of mortals. For as long as you can remember you had been staring at the stars knowing that there was more to life than the one you were living. Three years after your birth they managed to calculate the speed of light using stellar aberration. Your learned to mix paint, to bend canvas over frame, to stand still as a model. You did not know much else from the moment you could hold a brush in your chubby little hand. Your mother sculpted and your father dabbled in paints. Had to catch a ride with a man who's deranged
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