I haven’t written in my journal for days, because I am afraid to write about this. Days ago, maybe a week ago now, I woke up in my bed in the sithen, and I had to be sick. Puketastically, physically, spew-on-your-neighbour sick. Because somebody reached into my chest, it felt like, and pulled my heart out with their bare hands. I saw flashes of a struggle, a demon plunging a sword into her chest, while winds howled around them both. And then the winds were still, and I knew that was the moment of her death.
She told me I’d know instantly if she died. She didn’t tell me it would leave me in physical agony for hours. Or that I’d be able to think of nothing else. Or that it would make me cry to go through my sketch book and try to find a way to arrange these pictures so that somebody, maybe just me 50 years from now, will be able to have some sort of picture of who she was.
You know, I think Rachel taught me a lot. I see more similarities than differences in us, now. I hated her so much, after she influenced me to go and confront Major FuckBeak. I think he might have lost his job over that: I’ve not seen him since.
Undoubtedly, I hated her. I froze her out and refused to speak to her or look at her until the night I realised she’d learned my true name. And because I didn’t know her well enough to realise she had no idea that she could control me with this information, I feared her and sought revenge. Even though Rachel was a vengeance demon, it is my own response and need for vengeance that put us all in this terrible situation. The one where I went and bargained with Padishar for gods know what favour, as he hasn’t asked me for anything yet. The one where she ended up with a mistress who had no idea what to do with her. The one where a Seelie Sidhe had a demon bound to her. It was all so wrong, and I couldn’t see it. I could only see my own fear.
To the left is a sketch of the only time I ever saw her with her tentacles out. Bella swung on them like they were a ride at an amusement park. Aoibheann showed her how to care for her hooves. That was a good night, one of the only ones.
She said she spent her youth in a workhouse and longed to go to school once when we were talking, before the whole thing with FuckBeak. I think she really enjoyed her life as a vampire, as a Toreador. Nathaniel has told me a little bit about that clan, and it seems like it must have been a perfect fit for her. Now I’m remembering Rachel responding to Braeden’s talk of making a statue garden with glee and thinking it was an art project. And her response when I told her about the gay rights movement, because gay meant something different in the 19th century. Every little conversation we had, even and maybe especially the ones where she said she wished I would die (no offence) in my confrontation with the Huntsman, comes back to me now as I write this. It is late, late at night, and the always-bright sithen sleeps. I hope they will give Rachel a little rest in Hell, even if I’m sure she can’t ever come back. I thin she deserves that. And a pile of books. And a piano to play. And a record collection.
I can’t really think to write any more. There is a hole in my soul, a little piece that Rachel took, that I gave to her when I bound her. In a way, I think I will always be a little less because she’s not with me. But my road has changed dramatically since she’s gone. Studies seem to be easier, possibly because I’m using them as a focus for grief, I seem to be thinking clearer about so many things, again, probably because I’m forcing myself to be more rational in order for it not to be obvious how much I’m grieving.
Dear Rachel, you were a shitty demoness. That’s because you were too good. We would have found some way to introduce you to some of those demons who took in the refugees, fed them and healed their sick and delivered their babies. We would have found some way to get you comfortable in your skin. I don’t know how the experience would have changed us, but I know it would have. I wish you were here. I can’t say you were like my sister: Aoibheann would probably have a litter of puppies if I did that. Or maybe she wouldn’t. You were like my sister. The ways we hated each other and were amazed by each other and lied to each other and yet still remained so locked in similar orbits we could not look away from one another. My hundred year older sister, who despite all that still managed to go through the same shit I did, in the same ways.
I never told you I loved you. I don’t think I even realised I did.
If you’re listening, I love you.