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Daylight Fadings - The Devil May Care
Apr. 7th, 2005 06:14 pmEpiphany. The dictionary defines the word as 'a usually sudden manifestation or perception of the essential nature or meaning of something or an illuminating discovery'. How interesting that despite all my years of searching out answers and information from books and scrolls and even the occasional stone tablet, that I'd instead discover my own epiphany in the bottom of my second-- or was it third-- bottle of chianti that night?
In vino veritas, indeed.
I'd gone to several of the local bars, particularly the ones frequented by young American tourists, not to mention a nightclub or two. And yes, there had been a number of quite attractive young women who might have vaguely fit the bill, and I was sure would not be terribly difficult to cajole into bringing me back to their hotel rooms. But none of them were right. None of them close enough to make me want to bother.
And so, I'd dragged myself to a hole in the wall I'd discovered some time ago, where locals and a grizzled British expatriate or two could find a quiet drink of real alcohol, away from the flashing lights and inane conversation. After the first bottle of chianti, I was chatting quite freely with Giuseppe, the proprietor, and after the second, we were sharing the wine and alternately laughing and bemoaning the work of fate on our relationships with women.
They always change, Giuseppe had pontificated, they never stay the same. Even if you give them what they tell you they want, he announced in his booming baritone voice, the next day, they change their minds and it's not enough anymore, if it ever was.
Giuseppe admonished me to learn from his example. He'd been married once for twenty years, and his wife left him decades ago. Since then, he'd been a dedicated lothario, never spending long enough with one woman for troubles to take root.
He was, I knew, a lonely old man for all his bluster. But he had a point. There was no reason to grieve anymore. A dead thing was a dead thing, and never would it, or even its like, be seen again.
Fred was dead. And now, the lie was dead.
Chuckling, I wondered if I was dead, as well, and were simply going through the motions of a life. But no, the loss of the lie had hurt too much for me to be dead.
And now, I questioned, was there anything left for me? Giuseppe had his wine, women and song, and I... I had had the lie.
It was as the last dregs were leaving the neck of the bottle, and I watched the burgundy liquid drop slowly into my glass that it had come to me. How like blood it looked, I'd mused, which considering my world, obviously led me to thinking of vampires. Of demons and all the other dark things that lay in the shadows. Legion were their number, and I...
I could still do one last thing that might actually make a difference to the world.
I'd set out into the night, gun in one hand, stake in the other.
I'd woken up on one of the chairs on the pensione's patio, covered in a thick layer of dust and grime, dried blood caked against my forehead. My back was sore and two of my knuckles were split. I'd either broken into a museum and destroyed the artwork with my hands, or I'd killed at least a half-dozen vampires before making my way back here.
And I didn't care about the blood or my forehead or my knuckles or the pain in my back. All I cared about was having a drink, then going back out again. Laughing to myself, I began to brush the dust off my clothes, whistling a bright, tuneless melody.
((Open to anyone who steps outside))
In vino veritas, indeed.
I'd gone to several of the local bars, particularly the ones frequented by young American tourists, not to mention a nightclub or two. And yes, there had been a number of quite attractive young women who might have vaguely fit the bill, and I was sure would not be terribly difficult to cajole into bringing me back to their hotel rooms. But none of them were right. None of them close enough to make me want to bother.
And so, I'd dragged myself to a hole in the wall I'd discovered some time ago, where locals and a grizzled British expatriate or two could find a quiet drink of real alcohol, away from the flashing lights and inane conversation. After the first bottle of chianti, I was chatting quite freely with Giuseppe, the proprietor, and after the second, we were sharing the wine and alternately laughing and bemoaning the work of fate on our relationships with women.
They always change, Giuseppe had pontificated, they never stay the same. Even if you give them what they tell you they want, he announced in his booming baritone voice, the next day, they change their minds and it's not enough anymore, if it ever was.
Giuseppe admonished me to learn from his example. He'd been married once for twenty years, and his wife left him decades ago. Since then, he'd been a dedicated lothario, never spending long enough with one woman for troubles to take root.
He was, I knew, a lonely old man for all his bluster. But he had a point. There was no reason to grieve anymore. A dead thing was a dead thing, and never would it, or even its like, be seen again.
Fred was dead. And now, the lie was dead.
Chuckling, I wondered if I was dead, as well, and were simply going through the motions of a life. But no, the loss of the lie had hurt too much for me to be dead.
And now, I questioned, was there anything left for me? Giuseppe had his wine, women and song, and I... I had had the lie.
It was as the last dregs were leaving the neck of the bottle, and I watched the burgundy liquid drop slowly into my glass that it had come to me. How like blood it looked, I'd mused, which considering my world, obviously led me to thinking of vampires. Of demons and all the other dark things that lay in the shadows. Legion were their number, and I...
I could still do one last thing that might actually make a difference to the world.
I'd set out into the night, gun in one hand, stake in the other.
I'd woken up on one of the chairs on the pensione's patio, covered in a thick layer of dust and grime, dried blood caked against my forehead. My back was sore and two of my knuckles were split. I'd either broken into a museum and destroyed the artwork with my hands, or I'd killed at least a half-dozen vampires before making my way back here.
And I didn't care about the blood or my forehead or my knuckles or the pain in my back. All I cared about was having a drink, then going back out again. Laughing to myself, I began to brush the dust off my clothes, whistling a bright, tuneless melody.
((Open to anyone who steps outside))
