Anticipated concert.

Maná is a Mexican band, part rock with a bit of salsa, a bit of mariachi at times. They are one of the Host's favorite bands. Although I do not speak Spanish (she does), I was still able to enjoy the music and the atmosphere.

One problem:

The Host's favorite song, "Eres mi Religión", was performed well. The words are poignant. However, there was a screen behind the band, playing images and video for different songs. During this particular song, it became stark white, and it began to "bleed". After speaking with the Host about it, she mentioned it had something to do with the sadness in the song, the feeling of abandonment. However, I had thought the whole purpose to the song was the joy of being found...the Host translated the words for me on several occasions, though I wonder if she had missed something, perhaps, or left something out that I would not approve of.

I wish I spoke Spanish, as I believe it would have made more sense to me. I did not at all like the video of dripping blood, even though it was gentle, and not violent. Something seemed amiss.
Aside from that, we took a good many photos, and the concert was excellent. I am certain the Host enjoyed it much more than I, as she was able to comprehend what was going on. Though I must say, of the five songs I truly enjoy of theirs, they played all five, and that left me content.
Perhaps this feeling will take me through tomorrow relatively unscathed.

Addendum.

I stepped out this morning, closer to noon actually, and was struck by an awesome and unsettling beauty:
The sky was a deep, musky pink tinged with a neon orange; a soft color that would almost be erotic were it not for the fluttering ash spiralling down from the burnt sky. The smell of smoke was strong, almost cloying, and it took me a moment to realize that the winds had brought a taste of the fires raging in California to Las Vegas.

It seems odd, really, that it should be carried so far. But then, I suppose that is a testament to the strength and brutality these fires are raging.

My thoughts to those caught up in this.

War, misunderstood.

Jude is one of the small ones Inside, approximately eight years of age. As of late, he seems to have taken a macabre interest in war. He tries to exalt it, and I tell him the stories, holding nothing back, so that he may know the truth. This has been going on for a few weeks now, perhaps as long as two months. I thought that perhaps it was a passing phase, or merely a child's curiousity.

However, the other day, I found something in his personal box (a toy-box, if you will). It was a set of dog-tags, which struck me as odd. After examining it thoroughly, I realized it was written in Cyrillic, and therefore, probably Russian, or perhaps Croatian.
I spent much time analyzing the piece, and then took my search to the Internet. I found it is indeed Russian, though not Soviet. I carefully matched the letters, and from what I can tell, it is either for Paratroopers or Special Forces.

I asked Jude why he had the dog-tags, and how he had come to own them. At first he denied he had anything to do with them, and then relented. He told me he had bought them at the Gun Show--which, I am finding, is much more trouble than it was worth. I told him that being interested in the military was fine, and even admirable, but I reiterated that the war aspect of military was not something to be glorified. Jude became very flippant, and told me that he was only trying to be like me, and that I seem to discuss it quite often. I sense Caleb had something to do with this.

Admittedly, I do. However, I never try to pass it off as something fun, as something I particularly enjoyed. It was something I felt compelled to do, something that was out of my control.

And yet, I wonder if he picked up on the way I felt during the Gun Show. Perhaps, somehow, he misinterpreted my thoughts. Truth me told, the wars were a very intense part of our existance; and almost a foundation for mine. It is nothing I am proud of, and there are so many times I beg for the memories to be taken from me. I find that it is still a sort of hideous obsession, nonetheless. And now, I have unwittingly introduced it to Jude, who is still so young. I do not want him to follow in Scott's footsteps...Scott, who became Jet, the mercenary. Another child-soldier, my God it is the last thing I would ever desire.

Much to relay.

So much has occured in the past few days.

We have been plagued with pneumonia since the beginning of May. We did not seek a doctor, as we were without medical insurance. It has been getting progressively worse, and it peaked two nights ago. Our breathing was so labored we lost consciousness briefly. At that moment, we decided that visiting a doctor was of paramount importance.

The doctor was most helpful, and courteous. We received three breathing treatments (nearly $200 apiece), for which he did not charge us, as he knew we did not have medical insurance. He also gave us several hundred dollars in samples: three months' worth of Clarinex and Singulair were among them, plus just as many months of a few other medications, as well. We were only charged for the office visit, and two prescriptions which gave us a grand total of $140.
It turns out that our pneumonia had led to possible mild-grade pleurisy, which led to chronic asthma. He saw the lung damage the pleurisy had given us, but it seems to be in remission. At least asthma is controllable; the inability to breathe is indeed frightening.

And a second issue:

Our mind, as of late, has been flooded with images of the past. Things some of us wish not to recall, and things some (shamefully) wish to recreate. That is very difficult for me to accept, as I do feel comfortable with being in control...and in this, I feel I am not. My thoughts regarding the Gun Show and with the memory I shared of the Rahkas Wars still haunt me; and then this. Of course, I understand that this is all unlikely to occur again. So: why does it overshadow me as it does?

Further:

Circus-Circus Casino has a small amusement park called Adventuredome. During the entire month of October, it is renamed "Frightdome" or "Screamdome", or something equally as silly to commemorate Hallowe'en. They put on a series of real-time shows that allows the audience participate. One of the shows they are performing opens with a newscaster "reporting live" from the scene of an old house, where screaming children have been heard from within. It escalates to eyewitness accounts of secret chambers, blood-letting, and hooded unknowns. Then the priest is introduced, and supposedly the demons break free to terrorize the public--or, the audience.

I have not seen this show, and I do not know the script. However, it shocked us: so many similarities. Part of me is angered that such a thing would be made into amusement, but then, I despair for humanity most times, as it is.

And I wonder: when I mention my experiences, is it something most dismiss as some type of Hallowe'en folk-tale?

I assure you, it most certainly was not. We suffered immensely, and still do. We were drugged, raped, cut, and burned; not to mention the rituals in which we were forced to participate, the allegiance we were forced to pledge, the fear and molten pain we endured nightly for years just to survive this long, somewhat broken even as I speak, just to see this gross mockery of our ordeal--and the ordeal shared by so many others--brought to life by a cast of ignorants in order to make cheap money from slack-jawed onllookers.

Fuck them. If only they knew.

And I look to God, trying to make sense of this, of the condition of this world. I see no reprieve. I have ultimate faith in God, and I try to find comfort in Him and His Word. And yet...

And yet, this pain.

Woven intrinsically within me.

We attended a gun show today. (This, after scoring a mere 92% on an exam dealing with vectors and trigonometric functions in regards to conduit fabrication.) I liked the array of firearms there, and there were a few interesting booths. For instance, Tannah purchased a Soviet flag, and a Russian M-44 rifle. The Host registered to vote and purchased a few things...I am not quite certain what. I was not paying attention.

At any rate, I wandered from booth to booth, looking upon the firearms and military-issue kabars, deciding that the wars have had more of a hold on me then I would like to admit. Part of me feels nude in not living my role as Battalion Commander any longer. And yet, I know that to be relieved of those duties is such a consolation.

I decided that perhaps I would, in the future, purchase a handgun. I like the look of a Sig Sauer, for instance. Will our background check allow it? I am not certain.

I feel as if a part of me has passed away. I do not quite know how to explain it; the part of me that was Battalion Commander has vanished. And, in a way, the part of me needed as Guardian Protector has vanished as well. She does not need me as she once did.
I do not know how to feel about that.

And still...

I am flooded with recollections; merely snippets of memory, but profound, nonetheless.

There is a specific moment, frozen in my mind. It is of a type of desperation. Looking back at the situation, I wonder why and how I was able to maintain my sanity.

There was a time, years ago, when I had infiltrated an enemy base. I was cocky then; I thought myself invincible. However, I could not allow my men to fall victim to my foolishness. I made ready their escape, and in the process, alerted the enemy to my presence. I felt fear only fleetingly. Even now, I realize that succumbing to fear does not behoove me.

I recall with clarity huddling in a serviceway, firearm at the ready. I was poised to attack, and even as the adrenaline pulsed through me I trembled. I wonder if I trembled due to anxiety, or due to a sick excitement in secretly wanting to be found. If I had been found, I would be given the opportunity to kill indiscriminately.

Not to say I am proud of this; I loathe what I was then.

However, I feel I was stronger then, as well. I have become soft. Then, despite what I endured, I was fierce and capable; I accepted every challenge and held steadfast to what courage I gleaned from my own rage.

I am not certain my point here. I suppose this falls back to feeling as if a part of me has, indeed, died. I feel shame in that...and in that, I feel weak. Such a cruel cycle.

Opposing views.

I spoke with Siroun regarding her ordeal. She admitted she did ask Niven for a peek into his nature. Although that brings me a sick type of relief, I told them both that it could no longer be tolerated. Siroun assured me it would not; she did not particularly enjoy the experience.

I know I should forgive Niven. At the same time, he defied me. His response to that is "You aren’t my keeper." True, that. However, I am Guardian Protector, and the small ones are mine, and mine alone.

He tells me that I need to relax, and be "real". That if I "kick back and down a beer", I will not have so much rage and angst building inside me all the time. Perhaps there is a truth in that. However, we all know that if I let myself go, I am not in charge. If I am not in charge, it opens the door to the Shadows. Some say that this line of thought is superstitious, but I will take no chances. Becoming inebriated in order to escape is foolish. Do I still partake in that from time to time? Of course, and I am ashamed of it. But I do not want it to become a habit, either.

Fuck Niven.

Niven has committed an atrocity; one that forces me to banish him. He has violated Siroun. I am finding it difficult to even think correctly; the words fail me, as my rage plumes like black smoke from a vicious explosion. My entire will is focused on keeping myself sane, and on keeping myself from killing him.

How dare he?

According to Niven, she came to him, curious of his nature. He insists he did not charm her into it, that she came willingly,. I try to understand; he is Dhampir, after all, and I know that the draw of blood is uncanny in its strength. But to take one of my small ones…unforgivable.

I walked in…Siroun was clutching at him…there was a look upon her face…I cringe to replay the scene in my mind. He took her blood. No more than an ounce, he assures me, as if that would change the situation at all.

He sees nothing wrong with what he did. Even knowing about the curfew, knowing how I felt about it.. I could kill him, I really could.

Driving need.

This is so formidable.

To want the rituals so deeply, so intensely that I tremble with the raw desire of it, and then hold the small ones close as I tell them that no one will ever force them to do those things again. And then they ask why my voice is shaking, they ask why I am sweating. They ask why I am pacing so often. I cannot tell them. Their eyes search me, knowing that I am holding something back. Wondering if they can trust me, or if I have gone mad yet again.

I wonder, even if it is even my own heart that wants this. To be honest I hated it, but I forced myself to accept it. Someone could be leaking; Zillah is prone to such things, especially after her moments with Malcolm. But that would be too easy to explain away.

This caustic voracity that cannot be sated, this lust that overcomes me…it is haunting, and no less than absolutely excruciating.

October.

The name of the month, or even the knowledge that it is upon us does not manifest dread. It is the temperature change, the slow turning of the leaves, the air as it becomes cooler and crisp. Even the smell of the air: somehow more fresh. The body senses that, though it feels sinister to us.

We have ben attempting to analyze our fear of this time of year. We know it stems from ritual abuse, that much is certain. Our dreams are filled with visions of chalices, athames and candles.

(On a side note: a friend of ours is Wiccan and says athames are never used to harm. However, we knew them for sacrificial use, to draw blood, and to evenly cut narcotics. Does anyone know if our perpetrators used the "harmless" athame to inflict pain just to pervert the idea of it? Or do some Pagans use an athame for harmful reasons, as well? [I suspect not, as the Witches' Rede forbids that type of thing, though I do not know if all Pagans subscribe to a similar rule.] Any light shed on this subject would be appreciated.)

Back to my original ideas:

Certain times of the year, such as the Lunar New Year, Christmas, Easter and the Solstices are very troubling for us. There is fear, dread, a general uneasiness. However, I also find that during these times, there is a desire we do not speak of. Somehow, the rituals, the functionality is comforting. Or so it would seem.
Although we are likely to tremble at the sight of a fully-stocked alter, or become afraid at the sound of monotonous chanting, some Inside cannot help the pull we feel. Why is it that this, which has caused us such harm, can still seem somewhat inviting? Were the mindgames that elaborate? A pastor suggested that the "brainwashing" (I despise that term) may have included a subliminal message to us in order that we should want to return, if we were ever to escape. How does one combat such a deeply-embedded thought? The mother suggested that the light and love of God may be able to replace this need that haunts us; I wish it were so.

I hesitate to go into further detail, as it may invoke unnecessary thought processes.

A tragic accident on the Strip.

Roy Horn and Siegfried Fischbacher have done more for the sixty-four white tigers and lions they keep at the Secret Garden Magical Habitat at the Mirage than any other human I can think of. They were close to extinct, from what I understand, and now their numbers have more than doubled. Before Roy lost consciousness Friday night (on his fifty-ninth birthday) he pleaded that the tiger not be harmed or killed. This, after not knowing if he would live, himself.

He is conscious, and able to communicate now, though the stroke he suffered has indelibly scarred him. The show has been cancelled. Steve Wynn (the "saint" that he is) offered the laid off employees first consideration for employment at his new casino, Le Rêve, when it opens in 2005.

Roy Horn is currently a patient at the University Medical Center in Las Vegas. As far as I know, they are accepting cards and words of condolence, so far as I have heard.

Roy Horn seems to be a compassionate man. He does much for the World Wildlife Foundation and for animals in general. He also donates incredible amounts to children's resources. A side-note: Roy is the only one the tigers allow to touch their cubs at birth. There is immense trust shown in that.

Moving forward.

Things are better now, for the most part. It was touch-and-go for the past few days. Learning to tend to our own emotions without Bastien's expertise was hard enough...Rane's death made at the more difficult. I am rather ashamed; my grief was unbearable, and I turned to rage instead. Rage: the comfort, the energy, the familiarity. Mjollnir had calmed down significantly, and was roaming free for much of that second day. I have decided that I no longer despise him, though I shall still keep one eye turned toward him.

However, Mjollnir and I spoke...as I have mentioned, he harbors resentment toward me, as he believes the Wars are brewing still, and another invasion is forthcoming. I do not know why i suddenly believed him. Desperation, or restlessness...I am not certain. Nonetheless, I took it upon myself to "gear up" for battle. I shaved my head, cleaned my firearm, readied the equipment. I wanted to kill. I wanted to hurt them as deeply as I was hurting. I had gone mad, reveling in the lunacy of myself.

The Host, during this time, was talking to a mutual friend online. The Host was unsure how to handle the situation, and therefore played relay to the friend, who was quite firm in what she said. It was true; all of it. I was so wrapped up in my own feelings, my own selfishness, that I had abandoned my small ones. However, the depth of what I was feeling could not be shut off; it was too raw. I had no choice but to become Away, until I was calm.

Oddly, as if on cue, everyone else decided to become Away, as well. I heard last evening that everyone had gone, and the Host was in quite the panic over it. My apologies to her, of course, but at the same time, the sanity of Nambiet was in shameful disrepair.

Now, having returned, we are still rather weak. Taking on such a massive responsibility so suddenly has been arduous. We are working toward the calm we knew before, however, and are also appreciating each other more. Something I cannot say we did for either Bastien or Rane.

In other news…

The Host spoke with the mother on Wednesday. Perhaps Thursday, but I believe it to be the former. (The mother is always kind to us, especially to Molly, although we do unnerve her a bit.) For some unknown reason, the Host told the mother about the rituals we endured. No details, really…a basic description. We were expecting to be told we were lying, or at least exaggerating. However, to our surprise, the mother not only validated it, but verified it as well. She told us that she knew he had once owned an Egyptian book of the Dead, and a book of black magic and sorcery. Furthermore, she seemed to have knowledge of some rituals, as he tried to coax her into participation when she was younger.

So many pieces are falling into place. It is almost frightening; it seems logical now. There is no longer the lingering doubt that we perhaps invented the rituals. There is no longer the shame in hiding it. There is a relief, now…relief and acceptance. As much as we wanted to believe, at times, that the rituals were fabricated, imagined…the rituals did, indeed, occur. The abuse occurred. That, in itself, does not please me. But the fact that I can look upon another and know we are believed…the reassurance is almost captivating.

And at the same time, there exists a melancholia, as well. We must now accept that these things were done to us, against our will in defiance and hatred and selfishness. We must admit we were hurt, and are still hurting. There is so much to process...not too much, however. We are renewed, strengthened. I can handle this.