Waking Up
By Chris
My next story. Not much else to say than that.
Waking up.
It's something so small to so many people.
Naturally assumed, and always counted on to bring us from our twilight to our day. Bring us from our dreams to the ever constant reality that we call "real-life". It's taken for granted every day that when we go to sleep, we are guarunteed to wake up the next morning, unharmed. Instead of being forever suspended in a dream world, where anything could happen. Conciousness is the one thing in the human world that we think is stable.
You never think before going to sleep that you might never wake up again. That all that you have ever lived for would be for nothing…that you'd wind up dead. Is it dead? That's a good question, but I raise another…how do you define dead?
Death is not a real word. Death, in reality, has no definition. For how can you define something that you cannot begin to understand?
I have a story about my encounter with Death…and what it…or shall I say HE…really is…
My name, you ask? Is that really what it all boils down to? Was it not fair Juliet once said, "What's in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other word would smell as sweet." ? I think we all have something to learn from our dear friend Mr. Shakespeare. But I digress.
I suppose my name is important for this particular story. So I will grant you this one charity; but as I said, only this time.
My name is Vincent Valentine. Not Vince, not Whitey, Vamp, The Count, or even Vinny. If you use one of those, I'll make sure personally that you're dead before Noon.
But as I said, my name really doesn't matter, because this isn't really about me, or my name, or what I am in this world. I've seen things from a different perspective now.
I can't really live life like I used to. Walking the same streets, seeing the same sights, it's all so…different now.
I live in constant fear. I'm always hearing noises or imagining seeing…him. I can't get him out of my head, and many times, I sit alone, awake for weeks. I've found that I don't need sleep like I used to.
There came a point when I thought it might be best to write this…journal, I suppose you'd call it. I figured that someone would eventually pick it up, and my story would be retold, centuries after I was dead…if I could die anymore.
Well, I guess that is enough about myself, for I find it hard to write about myself anymore. I don't think there is much left of me to share. The last bits of my conciousness are found in this story. It all began on a cold raining morning….