Page 45 of Kept
My hands begin shaking as I read.
New Entry
What a strange few months it has been, strange and yet, exciting.
Still, all good things must end.
Little Josephine; the faint smell of French blood, the delicious aroma of fine food and wine in her veins. It has been a long time since I’ve had a little Gallic tipple and a long time since I’ve waited this long to sip.
I watched as she picked up my journal, I was foolish to have carried it with me, but I’m nervous now about leaving my private thoughts where people might find them, and somehow it had slipped from my grasp as I chased the headmistress.
When I went back to retrieve it, my thirst satiated, my search for information frustratingly not so, I saw Josephine pick it up.
I would have caught her then, but a group of college students happened by at that moment, and I momentarily lost her.
I caught sight of her again, just as she entered the bus.
I followed her home, naturally planning to knock on the door and kill her quietly, eagerly, my mouth watering at the thought of sinking my fangs into her neck and retrieving my journal – something she had no right to touch.
Then I saw her laugh.
She was laughing at what I had written.
What kind of a woman laughs at a monster’s thoughts?
I was intrigued.
I stalled. What was the rush? Let her live a little longer.
It amused me to watch her for some time.
I followed her to a culinary school one night, saw her come out crying, her grief was so strong. I admit, for a second I felt for her. Only a second though.
I planned to release her from that grief that night and send her to her everlasting rest, but she was rescued just in time. Still, I retraced her steps, read her interview letter. Rejected it seems, and none too gently if her sobs were anything to go by.
It was no effort on my part to kill the one who had signed the letter, no effort at all. She gave me some valuable information – my net is closing on the Hunter Lucy contacted, her ally here in Boston. Every little bit of information gets me one step closer. Strangely, I feel as though Josephine is connected somehow, and yet, I have watched her long enough to know she is not.
But what to do about her?
I did try to catch her in the ally one night, but she was a little too quick, or perhaps I hadn’t tried hard enough, if I am honest.
Such an interesting little meal – a tad grey on the moral scale, which is amusing – I watched her eat at fine restaurants several times and not pay. She made me laugh, even Gerald, I think, would have been amused by her antics, he has always enjoyed the ridiculous.
But I also saw her feed a homeless cat, give treats from her pockets to homeless people, stand on the bus to allow others to sit – a conundrum; she is not like anyone I have ever known.
And so, I have come back each night for months to watch her read. Her emotions are so etched onto her countenance; she is an open book. I watched her poise her pen over my journal, as though she wished she could add things – how dare she? What would she write?
But lately, I see her delight has turned to fear – perhaps she realises now that what she reads is not fiction, perhaps she finally understands.
And she has begun to sleep with a policeman.
The old woman who scowls at me has reported my presence here – I have stayed too long. But it makes me laugh to think the girl breaks the law while sharing her bed with it. And yet, perhaps she does so for some other reason besides pleasure, I haven’t heard any screams from her bedroom on the nights he stays over.
I could make her scream.
But then, I don’t’ think she would like my methods.
I’d like to leave her alive a little longer, find out more about her, she is attractive to me in some undefinable way. But I cannot take the chance. She knows too much of me, of my world, and this cannot be permitted.
