What am I supposed to do?
She had asked Damien in frantic desperation that evening of her return to Awelfor Manor. After her eighteen-month slumber, her violent reawakening, the fugue state and it's aftermath.
Nadia left. There wasn't anything else that mattered.
Missing ten years in her memory and shell-shocked with the separation--the loss of her only fledge, Sonya hadn't left her house since Damien brought her back. The first thing she had done after returning was remove all of the ancient and old dresses from their hangers, sending them away to be sold. She didn't see the point in keeping them. There would be no more parties.
One sleepless week had passed and her time had been spent painting. There were at least three portraits of Nadia set up in easels throughout the grand room. They were imperfect things to Sonya's meticulous eye. She couldn't manage to capture the precise glint in her daughter's eye. Something that paint would never reproduce. She had to finish one of them. Before she forgot the details and could no longer conjure the image of her fledge in stark clarity. There was a great sense of urgency behind the task and it consumed much of her time. Often while working on them, frustration would overtake her and necessitate a different outlet. The ten-foot canvas on the far end of the room served that purpose, but it had been taking too long to dry between sessions. Black and blue acrylic dips and slashes. Like abstract waves crashing against a cliffside in the black of a moonless night.
Damien had visited her one such evening, entering the manor as she was crouched beside one of the portraits, tiny brush in hand.
"How long have you been working on these?"
She scarcely heard him, and after another inquiry, she finally answered him. He was concerned, of course, but didn't press the issue.
The second time the following week, Damien returned to find her in a similar position over a different portrait. There were four of Nadia now. The black canvas had taken on more thick layers of acrylic.
"Have you fed?" He already knew the answer. There was more concern now but she had done her best to reassure him. Before he left she had promised that she would feed. That was a promise she did keep--she had found Marco's number after all. That night she came perilously close to killing the boy. Coldly, she wished that she had.
The third and final time Damien had visited to find her surrounded by eight portraits of Nadia was the final straw, so it seemed. He had learned of a psychiatrist specialized in treating immortals. That old anger flared up at his request like fire in her gut. It wasn't a suggestion--she (supposedly) needed immediate intervention. Not that Sonya could refuse.
She couldn't lose Damien too.
So for the first time in three weeks since her return, Odessa left the quiet solitude of Awelfor Manor at Damien's request to visit this Dr. James Barrow. She said very little to her driver, feeling nerves coil in the base of her throat as she sat in the backseat of the Escalade, window half rolled to allow the breeze in. Sonya had chosen a pair of dark-wash grey jeans, a white shirt tastefully unbuttoned, and a red leather jacket, not feeling like "dressing up" much beyond that. She held a black clutch in her lap, long fingers pinching the end of a clove cigarette that scarcely touched her lips but steadily accumulated ash as it burned. By the time the car pulled up to its destination, the cigarette had all but gone out. She tossed the butt out the window before her driver rounded the car to open the door for her.
Black heels touched the pavement as the vampire exited the car. She instructed the driver to wait somewhere nearby and walked quickly into the building as if she didn't want to be seen.
Not that anyone important would be watching her. But the embarrassment lingered and fluttered in her gut regardless. For once in a very long time, Sonya was completely out of her element. She hadn't the slightest idea what to expect.
Her body felt electric with something like fear, and anxiously she set to task placing heavy walls around her mind. After giving her name to the charmed mortal, Sonya stood as she waited to be let into the office.
Nothing about her surroundings set the ancient at ease. Her body was filled with tension and she itched with the urge to simply leave. To go home and resume her painting, regardless of the consequences. As she entered the office, she eyed this Barrow uneasily. She thought it strange for a vampire to bother wearing lenses. It wasn't as if their vision needed correcting. And he was so young. Sonya let a quiet, apprehensive exhale through her nose.
"Dr. Barrow." She nodded toward him, feeling rather awkward and hastily pushing the feeling behind another mental wall.
