12 June, 1992
Once again it feels it has been too long since I have written. I write this with a ballpoint pen in an ordinary book. I found a rather nice faux leather bound book, fairly thick, that I should try to use to keep my journal going. There are computers now, which I suppose I can use, but I have not figured them out too well yet. I can use both those and typewriters, but I am quite slow on them. I suppose that I have not quite caught up with the times. My original book has been treated several times over, and I keep it in careful storage given its age.
Well, where should I begin?
Technology has moved so quickly in the past hundred years that it has boggled my mind, and has even made me somewhat forget that I have no real purpose right now. I suppose recording what I've seen can be somewhat of one, for now.
From the time I arrived until now, I have seen people develop cars, develop airplanes, fly into space, and fly to the moon. Yes, man has now walked on the moon. There is very little up there but dust, but the fact that I can somewhat remember back during my time in Tuscany wishing to get to go into the stars, I never thought it would actually happen. I think a normal person would go insane. I may be insane, whatever that's worth. I am not sure anymore.
Medicine has taken huge strides. Looking back over my notes, as my memories sometimes grow fuzzy of my oldest days, my time spent checking plague victims was spent back when man thought miasma was responsible for illnesses. Now we can protect against so many of them, and cure many others. I know I write this like someone who has woken up in a new time, but I have no other way of reacting. Getting to see all of this, it is both overwhelming and amazing, and I feel recording it has kept me from going completely mad.
I live in a small apartment in one of the run-down sections of a fairly large city. It has such a wide variety of people, from higher class to lower. Why a bad section, you might ask. I have taken it upon myself to help where the authorities do not. They tend to stay away from the more rough organized crime families for some reason. I suspect they are paid off.
My last hundred years have been spent going various places in America, from New York to various places on the West Coast as well. I have visited the more natural areas, and have gone both north and south to explore. I have not really stayed the same place twice. I decided to come back to the east coast to settle down for awhile until I decide to make my next move.
I do not talk much with the people in my neighborhood, as they do find me eccentric, but they are kind. I wish to make sure despite being beaten down by everyday life, they are not harried by some of the people who try to force money out of them to keep their places safe. I guess I am a sort of vigilante. The authorities who bother to make it down have not caught me. Not that it would matter.
Just one week ago I rescued two teenagers that were the children of another member of another syndicate. I do hope those involved get out before someone gets hurt. I read in the newspaper that the authorities have no idea who causes the bloody deaths of the criminals, and have no idea what sort of weapons they use to render them into the shape that they are in.
In case whoever is reading this might wonder, yes, I am still driven by pain. As time goes on, my senses continue to dull, and I dread what they may be another four hundred years from now. I still can taste a few of my favorite foods, as coffee has gotten much stronger nowadays, and the tarts, well perhaps I should say pies, are so easy to find and incredibly sweet. My favorite kind come in these waxed paper packages and are covered with an intense, sugary glaze.
I listen to rather extreme music these days. I find that soothing sounds cannot do much for me, but loud guitars and rather driving sounds are what I enjoy. Many days are spent in the huge libraries. I do have a television, though I find most of what they play drivel. The music channel is fairly amusing.
My apartment is a small, dim place, with little décor, but it is mine. I keep the building safe from any issues, and the landlord lets me stay without any proper identification for a paltry sum. It is not a particularly high end place, far from it, in fact, but the water runs. So long as you do not mind it cold every so often, and it is a touch musty feeling. But I find a sort of comfort here. There is a small balcony which I can stand on, where my ravens come. Yes, I still have the birds following me. They try to eat my pies.
In any case, perhaps I shall return when I have something more interesting to write.
15 June, 1992.
One thing I forgot to mention the last time. I have discovered the world of body piercing. While it is a far cry to the pain I can feel in combat, it nonetheless acts as a bit of a deterrent for me. I found a place, likely a touch on the illicit side, that sold me a large box of the piercing needles. One of the gentlemen at the establishment referred to them as off the truck. At least I have learned over the years to understand sarcasm.
I have added several bits of jewelry to myself. Why my body does not reject them like it does bullets, I do not know. But I like them.
I will add bullets were a rather wonderful invention, though the pain they offer is short even if it is intense. Looking back over my old entries, I had forgotten to discuss them. I suppose when one's mind is this old you simply forget things from time to time. I have forgotten more than any one human will remember in their entire life.
After some time I have added piercings to my lip, eyebrows, ears, tongue, and a few other parts as well which were, I should say, quite delightful. A pity the pain ended so quickly.
I have, in my time here, made a sort of acquaintance. It is a man who works at a store on the corner of my block. It sells all manner of food and other small items, a sort of 'corner store' they call them. I have chased off some unsavory characters from there before, and we have became sort of talkative. I say he is an old man with a smile right now, because while he is probably in his sixties, I am about nine hundred, but I think the people who read this know what I speak of.
No, I did not horribly murder the people who I chased off. I only do that to the very dark individuals.
He makes an excellent pot of coffee and sells it to me still boiling, and for this I appreciate. He also has a large variety of those pies that I have grown accustomed to. Likewise he will add heavy spices to anything that I ask, which helps my dulled taste. The food is mostly 'crap' as they would say, but I am not a picky individual. I cannot cook for the life of me, so anything works.
I do not know why I never learned this, but I suppose since I can get by on very little, and have little in the way of taste, most of my food is either well over-spiced for others, or I don't particularly care about it. Then again, I have no one to really cook for, so I suppose I never had to learn. Cooking over an open fire was all I needed for centuries.
I apologize for that strange tangent.
Money, you may ask how I acquire it. Well, I sold a few of my old gold and silver pieces to a museum, though I kept some. Besides that, I simply take what the criminals have on them that I kill. They do not need it, after all.
I am on my way to the library to borrow a few books. Reading does still bring me some joy, since there are simply so many things to digest.
16 June, 1992.
I did not mention this apartment where I live is interesting in that I have not, in ages, actually lived in one area for more than a couple of years. So after some months, I decided to take a bit of time to attempt to decorate somewhat. In so much as I know how to decorate.
I have taken to sleeping in a hammock, as the holes in it make it easy for me to lay my head, which is difficult to do on other things. I added a sort of leather couch I got from a place that sells other types of things that I like, and a few other odds and ends. I added a rather nice stereo as well. I suppose I still do not sleep often, but I get the urge a few times a week.
I also acquired a percolator which makes boiling hot coffee which I can drink straight away from it, so I get it at home without even having to go to the store.
My acquaintance, who is named Stephen, has asked me why I have not acquired a vehicle. I am not sure, but I have never much thought about it. I have no limit to my energy, and thus never much run into problems needing a vehicle. Rain nor bad weather does not bother me, either, as I have traveled for days, even weeks in it in my lifetime, even back when I was human on a campaign. Perhaps one day I shall explore the possibilities of a vehicle, though I would not know how to go about learning how to operate it. I suppose books would work.
I feel strange, like I am always some decades behind everyone else. Perhaps I catch up slowly. I do own technology, as said I have a television in my apartment, as well as a phone, though I do not know who I will ever call. The only calls I get are from people trying to sell me various things I do not need. It grows annoying, and I am considering removing it, though I think part of me is trying to stay modern for once.
I find myself missing the sunsets we've had. The rain has been falling rather constantly lately, and I usually enjoyed crouching on the balcony outside of the apartment to watch it rise and set, along with the birds. I suppose perhaps I am more beast than man at times? I do not know. I will say that there is a sort of comfort to the sound of the rain. I find the hammock even more relaxing.
Perhaps I will try to write something of use next time. I find as I grow older my entries grow more disjointed and random, mostly discussing menial things. I wonder if that will even be interesting? What will people say another 900 years from now?
It is at least having a discussion with something, even if it is just a book.
20 June, 1992.
Well, that was an interesting stash of magazines I found hidden away in the library. I did put them back, as I did not want to take anyone's clearly secret stash of anything.
21 June, 1992.
Seems to be storm season, though the sounds are quite soothing to me. I leave the window open to enjoy it as I read some of the books I have taken from the library.
I have taken a few books on psychology, and almost had to stop reading them because I was afraid I would start looking into my own mind too much. A mind that has been alive for almost eight hundred years and has gotten adjusted to being stimulated by pain, I am not sure how this will end up if I delve too far. I suppose I have thought about it. Because I do not feel many sensations others do, my mind began to focus on a few things it could feel. While my memory is fuzzy about bits of time of my earliest past, I remember well waking up after feeling intense agony in the other world, and I wonder if something snapped. I have long questioned my sanity. I cannot feel love, but I hate when I see others unable to, and I dislike evil, though am willing to brutally slaughter anyone doing so, especially if they bring me over the edge.
Yes, I think I will move onto other books for awhile.
I have looked for books on the afterlife, but they all seem to be mindless drivel written by people with no idea what they are talking about. I think I have seen some of them on television late at night. If anything, they are a source of dry amusement.
I found some works of fiction rather engaging. I can see why people may want to escape, so to speak. I am no stranger to fiction, as I have enjoyed it during my time particularly in the 1800s, but I found there is much more of it nowadays. Some much better than others. Some of it I question how it got published.
Also I got collections of newspaper comics. These are rather delightful. I prefer the ones with more subtle humor, as I feel their writers are more intelligent.
I did decide, for perhaps lack of a better judgment on my part, to read a bit about the mindset of killers. I suppose both so I can better track my foes, reading the histories of various criminal syndicates and why they do what they do, but also myself. I simply cannot explain the burning near hatred I get toward people who have thrown their lives toward taking something, up to and including the lives, of people who have not wronged them. People who have abandoned love themselves and try to take it from others.
I suppose it is a form of almost jealousy, that I have lost the capacity to do certain things, and I see people take for granted their ability. Couple this with the driving insanity that pain brings me to, and I suppose it explains my murderous rages and why I take it out on those who I feel are wasting what they are given. Does it make me selfish? Perhaps, but maybe that is something that lets me hang on. Being selfish is human, and anything to let me feel somewhat human is something that I try to accept. And I suppose I tell myself that I am removing unnecessary people from the city's population before they remove people who are more worthy of what they are given.
This entry got rather dark, didn't it? I suppose I feel a bit better discussing it. Maybe I shall discuss the comics more in my next one.
23 June 1992.
Had a rather pleasant discussion with Stephen in the store. I have not had a proper conversation with someone in a very, very long time. Most of it has been simple discussion about varied menial topics, asking directions somewhere, or simply me making purchases. But given that I did not feel like getting wet at that particular moment and the storm that had been brewing picked up heavily, I decided to stand around the store with my coffee and rather greasy sandwich of sausage and egg, which, by the way, are rather tasty, because the sausage is very spicy.
He decided to speak to me. He has never been bothered by my appearance, I could feel. Exchanging the usual pleasantries, he decided to ask me where I came from. Not wanting to completely cause him distress, I told him simply Germany, which is the truth. I just did not tell him when I was born. Most people seem to guess me in my mid twenties to near thirty, which is what I was at the time of my first death.
I was able to discuss some of my time with him without lying, per se. I did tell him I decided to come over after becoming disillusioned with my current situation, which is also true.
He then told me how his grandson was killed in a seemingly random act of violence; he was seventeen. For the first time in centuries, I was taken with sadness. We talked about how he did not get to see him often despite living fairly close due to how busy everyone was, and he seems to have regret there. It is odd to think about such things since I have lost the ability to die. He had many regrets that he did not see him more, and hoped that he was at peace. I do, as well. I also have now wanted to try to find out who did this, so I can deliver my own brand of payment to them for what they did, but I have no way of knowing. It happened roughly a year ago, so it is unknown if the person who did this is still around, or even alive.
Stephen seemed to appreciate me listening, and I was happy to. I have nothing but time. He asked me what I liked to do, and I discussed my general attachment to books and photography, which I will go into soon in another entry. He was curious onto how I could handle coffee so hot, and I simply told him it did not bother me for reasons I did not know. He found it amusing, and I had not laughed for awhile myself, unless one counts the times I laugh during a fight.
He asked my name. I did not know what to tell him. I decided to tell him the name from my old tome that I had recorded, Falke. Was that my old name? I don't remember, but I must have written it for a reason, and it sounds better to say than Raven right now, which I think in these modern times may sound a bit bizarre. I told him I was born in March. I believe that was when I woke up into my new life, though. I do not remember the actual dates.
It feels strange being nameless, as I answer to almost anything right now. Perhaps I will settle on one someday.
I told him I did not have children when he asked, though I did not mention why. Truth be told, I do not think I am capable anymore, though I never gave it much thought, as I do not think I would enjoy watching a partner get left behind and my children die behind me. Seeing how this man grieved for his grandson made me think of the loss one could feel. I wonder what my own parents felt when they got the news of my demise? Did they even get it, I wonder?
It sounds grim, but it is more interesting to me. It was so long ago, and they have moved on to wherever they would. I feel happy for them, in a sense.
Wanting to find out a bit more about him, it turns out this shop has been in his family for two generations before his. It has gone through various renovations, but always remained in its spot. He has actually known some generations of his own, seeing some people grow up and move away. He had taken over the shop when his uncle became too old to do so about thirty-five years before. In a way, his shop is an antique, and I like this.
I was then flattered somewhat when he asked why I have not involved myself in a relationship. I simply cannot fathom it. I said I did not feel like it. Somehow I did not mind answering these more personal questions. It actually felt nice to discuss things with someone on a more personal level, and to actually find out more about someone else who seems genuinely interesting.
After buying what I did for the day, I left, feeling a little better about the future than I usually have been. I of course try not to think about people I will leave behind in my life, but have at least started to try to appreciate the time as it is here. I plan on conversing with him more often, since I go to the store almost every morning, given my hopelessness in the kitchen.
Yes, hopelessness. I managed to overcook packaged noodles the other day. Even the ravens wouldn't eat it. I will remember not to start to read or take photographs while cooking, as I tend to lose my time when doing that.
25 June 1992.
So photography. I mentioned this. Ever since I had seen the camera back in Transylvania, I had wanted to acquire one, and I eventually did, when they made more man-portable versions. I regret that I have lost that one in my moving around, and I hope one day I can get one from it's time back, as I of course have the affinity for old things. Now I simply use an instant camera, but I enjoy going about on the tops of buildings and taking pictures of things at different times of day. While the weather has still been poor, I have some rather nice ones, though I hope for an improvement soon as I wanted to capture a few more sunsets.
I should also mention that I have acquired a microwave oven. They have been around now for some time, and I always thought they were amazing devices, but now I am discovering that for one as incompetent in cooking as I, they make life so much easier. I often used the one at the store where I go, and after I realized it was hard for even me to make mistakes with this, I decided to get one.
My meals have gotten more tolerable. Yes, the textures tended to be bad enough that even I would be turned off. I have loaded up on some extremely hot spices and sauces as well.
Today after taking a few pictures about, I thought about something I discussed with Stephen the other day, and decided to head to the library to view some old newspaper articles. I was curious to know if his grandson's death had appeared anywhere in it, or if it had been one of many that had been simply forgotten due to the number of them that could appear when the syndicates ended up busier than usual. I do not know why I did this, but I had the urge to. I did not know his name, but I simply, at that time, looked for deaths of a seventeen year old that happened in that general area, since it was fairly close to where I live now.
It took awhile, but I eventually, thanks to the use of their systems, found an old article that discussed the shooting death of a youth. Apparently having seen something he shouldn't have, he was coldly gunned down. There was no picture of him, though it did give a few hints onto what group may have been responsible, though the investigation was apparently pending. Later papers never mentioned they had abandoned it, rendering it cold.
I think I am going to take several of these books of articles home and examine them tonight on my own time. I wonder now if they may point to the culprit. I'd like to know who it may have been.
Just out of pure curiosity.
30 June 1992.
I have spent the days and nights during this grim weather reading through many, many articles. They are rather fascinating; I like reading about past events, as one might know, so I ended up getting distracted by some other articles.
I discovered there was a fight of sorts going on between two criminal organizations in those days, and that there were two shootings that took place before the youth's demise. I suspect that he may have witnessed one of these. It could be unrelated, but the time frames add up. A pity the authorities did not look into this very much.
One of the organizations was known to be rather ruthless, which would also fit with the shooting of someone unrelated, though I would think any of them could panic.
I will look into more to see if they still operate, and if they still operate in the same general area.
4 July 1992.
More fireworks. My ravens get frightened. Fireworks have actually been around for ages, but they have gotten much more advanced. I still wonder what it would be like to be hit by some, as I never got a chance to use them in my life. I would try to find out if there weren't so many people watching.
5 July 1992.
I have found out more.
The hour is late writing this entry, but I decided to spend the evening in a very questionable bar around this neighborhood. It is some blocks away, but I was able to sit in the back somewhat unnoticed to listen into what people were planning. I notice that people are not particularly careful in some of those places, though I would think they should be. Perhaps it was the drink.
I only listened into the plans for a routine robbery of a rival group, which is of no importance to me, as it sounds like they are keeping it between themselves. However, they mentioned a certain drug that the rival was known to produce, or a derivative. They were the only organization known to produce it. This intrigued me, as I remember reading something from one of the articles about it.
I wish I could get access to some of the old case files. I may pay a visit to the local precinct which was the one that handled the case, if you could even call I that.
6 July 1992.
I have managed to acquire old case files, though they are thin and were quickly thrown aside, I am sad to say. Thanks to two of my silver pieces, which the secretary, who seemed fairly disgruntled and bored was all too happy to take on, I received copies of everything. They will likely fetch a handsome sum somewhere.
Yes, I am sure now this is the group that was responsible for everything, as the drug ties into them, and they are certainly ruthless enough.
I will take care of things shortly. I somehow have a bit of anger toward them. Maybe because Stephen is a man that I can almost consider a friend, even though it is very loose.
10 July 1992.
It is done.
I had found their hideout, and while I am not sure the man was there, or even alive anymore, made quick work of them again. They were a vicious organization, and dare I say that they will not be missed, even by other organizations who dealt with them, as I had an idea how they dealt with people who upset them.
They had a lot of guns. I was quite pleased at this.
I am not sure I killed all of them, but there were probably ten to twelve people there. I lost count and everything started to run together in the end. Quite literally, I might add. I have been told I have a black sense of humor at times.
Stephen I am sure knows from the newspapers, as it was recorded about the death of them, but I am not going to tell him I am responsible. He feels slightly relieved, as if them even being here was stressful to them. Given that I knew about how they would often threaten establishments, I wonder if they were actually threatening him. If so, then I am quite pleased with what I have done.
I do not want any attention on me, nor do I want him to be afraid, as the papers were slightly graphic with the details. He does not need to know I am a murderer, which I essentially am, despite deposing of vicious criminals.
But it still pleased me to be at the store today, buying my usual breakfast items to take up to the building to watch the sunrise on one of the rare clear mornings we had, seeing Stephen in relatively good spirits.
Even though I now feel my purpose has dried up, I can enjoy a few days before I get back into the drudgery of eternal life.
I sort of wonder what anyone will think of this journal collection. I suppose I sound like a madman in many of these entries, what with the fact people may think it's the ramblings of a man who thinks he is immortal and is also some sort of murderer. It would perhaps make for an excellent work of fiction? Or maybe at least a passable one, given the sometimes random nature of these entries.
25 July 1992.
Well, the heat wave is quite intense. Even I can feel it, and I have chosen to forgo the extra long coat I wear, simply so I don't look as crazy when I am milling about outdoors.
Most stores use air conditioning, and I notice they have more people about them, I suppose to get out of the stifling heat. I have left a bucket of water on my balcony for the ravens. They seem fairly grateful. I regret I cannot do more for them, though I suppose they have been through this before.
This part of the country can have very intense summers and winters, I notice, much like where I was spending most of my time in Europe, though it is much more humid. All things I suppose would have bothered me while alive, now I simply shrug. There is something comforting about the sound of a humming air conditioner though. It is almost enough to cause me to wish to sleep, which is rare.
At the store, they sell these drinks that seem to be made of frozen, slushy ice and have bright colors and flavors. They are sweet enough that I can get some taste, though not quite like I can with my pies. They also turn my mouth strange colors. Whoever thought of selling ice was rather brilliant. I would have laughed for awhile if you had told me they would be selling ice back in the older days of my existence.
Then again there are many, many things I would not have believed. I still boggle on how quickly things move.
I think this evening I will spend some more time up on the top of the building. While the sun is quite warm, I enjoy the breeze up at the top, and I don't much get to appreciate it unless I am feeling such extremes. I enjoy looking over the city, but there are times where I would like to go back to the old ways of life, too. I am not sure if it was the fact that the advancement was slower, but I felt like I had a little more purpose then, with my abilities and knowledge that I carried with me.
I meander with my words again.
30 July 1992.
Oddly enough, I spent this night at a concert of sorts. It was a small one, with various heavy metal bands playing. It was in a small, smoky club some blocks away. I have no idea why I decided to go, but I did. Getting in with my spike took a bit of sneaking, but I managed, and I did not even have to fight anyone. Security was rather lax, to be fair.
It was an interesting time. I enjoyed the music, though I did not speak to too many people. They seemed to be there with their own groups, and I felt like I had little in common with them, despite looking like many of them. They did not take my camera, so I was able to take several photographs of the performance and some of the people. I must have books filled with these.
The alcohol sold at the bar was weak and I suspect cut with water in an attempt to make it last longer for more money, but I said nothing. It is not like I can get drunk, but I attempted to somewhat fit in. The artists all sounded good. I was quite happy to have gone out, even if I did not engage much with anyone. Someone did ask me where I got my headpiece. I told them over in Europe. They looked disappointed. It was technically not a lie.
I stayed out all night, deciding to walk around the city. Most people head inside that late, due to various dangers, but naturally I do not care. It is an interesting place at night. Quiet, sometimes deathly so. Not even the sound of cars in this area. It was peaceful, in a sort of grim way. The smells were muted, as they usually are with me, but it is fairly strange to see a part of the city go into this much decay. I think only roughly half of the buildings get used. I have gone inside some of them to explore. I have found some interesting things lying around, some of which I had taken and added to my odd collections.
I suppose, in a way, I am much like the ravens that follow me. They are also attracted to objects like that to take home. For me, it is to keep them as memoirs of a time. I do have several things I have kept over the centuries, all kept in various places. It is strange what people leave behind in these buildings. It makes me wonder why they left in the first place. I regret not being able to take more with me from over the years, not from a lack of carrying ability, but just due to volume.
One place I visited was an old, decaying factory. I am not sure when it was built, but from the stories I have heard from Stephen, it closed in the 1970's due to various hard times. I suppose the people fell upon hard times with it.
Exploring it was quite fun I have to say. It was dark and decrepit, some of the machines still there, looking like almost malignant and vicious beasts of steel in the dark. Covered in rust and wear, I could almost picture how it was before its fall, even though I did not live here at the time. I collected some bits and pieces, including what seemed to be an old log book, which might be nice to read to see if I can catch a glimpse into the lives of the people who worked here. It was only closed about twenty or years before, but the decay set in very quickly. Twenty years is a drop of rain in the sky to me, but it is interesting to read about people for whom twenty years is already more than a quarter of their lives.
Well then. As I always say, perhaps I will return with more rambling thoughts. I have certainly filled in much. Maybe it is due to my boredom reaching its peak? I do not know.
I will go to watch the moon rise tonight from my favorite perch.
–
A/N: This one went on awhile more, but I thought that Modern Raven would actually have more time to write, not to mention an even easier time of it with modern conveniences(quills and big tomes and parchment are unwieldy.) Raven is a man looking for a purpose, and if spending a lot of time occupying himself with something like that, I could easily see it. Plus, he got to of course indulge in his darker side. I somehow started to like the idea of him getting involved in something that he could track down and see to the end, so I ran with it.
I can also easily see his boredom getting to him, and perhaps writing helps him stave it off, which would explain actually why they tend to get longer over time, the older he gets. I always pictured him as well, despite being quite wise and learned, as always just a little bit behind the times in terms of his terminology depending on what time period he is in.
It's been fun exploring his mind. Of course I think everyone has their own ideas on what happened to him over the time before he met That Man.