LAMIAE

CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT: VICTORIA ORANTE'S DIARY

I imagined life differently. It was supposed to be mine, but I feel like I'm standing somewhere on the sidelines and watching it being taken away from me.

As if someone else was experiencing my experiences, making decisions I should have made.

As if he was living my life.

My friend and I met at school. At first I found him strange: he laughed at everything, talked to everyone, was drawn to girls like a moth to the sun... He was irritating, arrogant and brash, and yet he intrigued me. It was amazing that someone you had an aversion to intrigues you.

Even then, I felt his eyes somewhere on me, he first glanced shyly at me before staring ostentatiously. In the second month after this silent fight with himself, he couldn't stand it anymore and approached me. To be honest, I couldn't figure out what exactly he meant, our first conversation was more of a jumble of various topics, ranging from favorite bands to the weather. Only now am I able to write that he was nervous and that I know the reason for it. He simply hadn't decided yet. He didn't know how this story would end, maybe he was even inclined to think that he would do this, kill me and that would be it. His dilemmas would come to an end.

I'm not aware at what point his other side of personality won. The one that is so tender and sensitive, which I was given to know much later.

He told me everything, and of course I didn't believe him. He told me about a group that is thousands of years old, whose history begins so long ago that no one remembers it anymore. About twelve members, none of whom have the following qualities: hateful, cunning, jealous, selfish, mischievous... no, all this is not enough.

Everyone is different, everyone thinks they are better than others. And my friend would become one of them? So he refused, making us both hateful. But I'm not angry at him. When Genevieve found out what he did and what he said, she became furious.

I burst into tears.

Apparently, he didn't politely refuse, he said that he would rather die than become such a beast as each of them is. That the girl they require to die is a better person than all of them rolled into one. That he was fascinated by her life, so he couldn't take it away from her. That if anyone in this world doesn't deserve to live, it's them, not me.

I couldn't get anything out. I just cried with happiness mixed with misfortune. Happy because I had no idea he appreciated me so much, unhappiness because I knew the consequences of his offense. Everyone in my world knew it.

Only now did Dagmara realize that she had hardly breathed at all while reading. She didn't seem to learn anything new thanks to this piece of text, but she did learn some new information. For example, there is a huge similarity between Alan and Casper. If she didn't know that the text clearly talked about Casper, she wouldn't even suspect that it could be about him. Irritating, arrogant, brash - it perfectly reflected Alan's character. Casper may not have been his opposite, but he was at least a mild version of these traits.

The girl stretched out in her chair. She pushed her hair back and rubbed her eyes, which were a little red from fatigue.

He didn't know how this story would end, maybe he was even inclined to think that he would do this, kill me and that would be it, she returned to the text once again, the girl they require to die, she read aloud with horror, discovering that there was something more hidden in Victoria's death than simple revenge for Casper's disobedience. Before he met her, he already had orders from the Council to kill her. The only question is why?

She was lost in thought, thinking about Casper's crime. The fact that he decided to spare the girl and what he told the group was incredibly heroic and brave, but also incredibly stupid. She strongly believed that if he had held off on the answer, playing for time on whether he wanted to be a member of the Council, history would have turned out differently. His stubborn decision only made the members angry. Wanting to take revenge for the insult at all costs, they set a date for the girl's death. Or maybe it was already scheduled for New Year's Eve? Just on her birthday.

She had already noticed that the girl was exactly eighteen years old when she died. Even the first note in the diary testified to this. It must have symbolized something for the Council members, perhaps leaving childhood and entering adulthood?

With compelling questions swirling in her head, she climbed into bed, determined to fall asleep. However, these questions tormented her for some time, so she fell asleep only an hour later, getting up in the morning later than usual.

It was Sunday. Of course, grandma didn't show up at home, so Dagmara spent the whole day only enjoying Casper's company. The boy even helped her make dinner, rejoicing like a child at being able to help. Sometimes he seemed to be unsure what a pestle or a vegetable peeler was for, and then he would watch carefully as she did something, only to then insist that he would do it.

After dinner and the orange dessert they had prepared, they started talking in Dagmara's room. Tie, of course, accompanied them; he found a comfortable pillow and sat down on it, purring from time to time as Casper petted him. The girl was sitting at the desk, showing interesting photos from her pen-drive from her life during junior high and high school. She had some in the paper version as well, but she avoided those since Alan messed with them.

The photos were all different. She was blowing out the candles from her thirteenth birthday cake, sitting on a pony, with her mother in the park, with her friends in the swimming pool...

"And you?" Dagmara asked after some time, realizing that she was still only showing him fragments of her memories. "Do you have your photos somewhere?"

Casper shrugged and said casually:

"I've got something."

She insisted so much that he brought her the album. Yes, an album, not a small pen drive as she expected. Only when he opened the first page did she immediately understand Casper's reluctance to show off his photos. On each of them there was a red-haired, very pretty, although of extraordinary beauty, Victoria.

"Oh my," she gasped in horror, correcting her mistake. "I don't have to watch this..."

"Now that you've started," he muttered in a sterile voice, devoid of any emotion. "You can continue if you want, of course."

She wanted to do it, but she wasn't sure about Casper's behavior. After all, he was very sensitive about the deceased. So she decided not to ask him anything, just scroll through the pages in silence. Unfortunately, already in the third photo, she involuntarily blurted out:

"Is it in this room?" she asked, recognizing the dressing table behind her. Victoria was sitting next to her, applying red lipstick that even went beyond her lips, as if the girl deliberately wanted to smear not only her lips, but also the rest of her body that does not require lipstick.

"Yes," he replied.

The next photo was even stranger than the last: some wrinkled women were waving as they posed for a photo, but no matter how Dagmara looked, none of the women were Victoria.

"It's not important," Casper mumbled as she looked at him with a silent question on her face. "Look here," he put a photo under her nose in which he and Victoria hugged each other tightly for the purpose of the shot. "I kissed her on the cheek at the last moment," he said, pointing to the slightly surprised girl's face.

"It's obvious that she liked you," said the brown-haired girl, still looking at Victoria. She was very pretty, although she was different from the girls walking on the street. Her hair color certainly helped her, but so did her green eyes, which were very dark. In some photos she defined them as malachite, sometimes they were olive. However, despite so many dilemmas and doubts about the future that awaited her, Victoria had something in her attitude that made Dagmara think that she was reconciled with her fate. She enjoyed every moment, like a person who finds out that he is incurably ill and that there is nothing she can do except live what is left of her life as best as she can. She looked just like her mother did when she was finally diagnosed with a relapse.