Part 23

Noah's Journal
January 20XX

I cannot remember my mother.
I spent all my life living in someone else's home. Always we were related by blood but somehow that never mattered.  I was the one who did not belong anywhere.
I remember a park with a playground... the smell of  rain in autumn... the cold and damp of leaves in decay. This is my earliest memory. And although I realize I could not have gone there alone, I still cannot recall who was beside me.
Occasionally I dream of a woman; she is tall and fair, with black curls, but always I see her from behind. I do not know if she is my mother or not, but I often make the assumption that she is.
I recall my first home being in an elderly gentleman's manor -- perhaps the size of Saint Germain's home. It had vast libraries and parlors covered in thick layers of dust, gathered over what seemed to be centuries. The gentleman was my mother's uncle, and although he showed me great kindness in taking me in as his ward, his graciousness ended there.
He employed a governess who was tasked with my education and welfare. She was an older woman with no children of her own and she was quite resentful of the fact that she never married, so on occasion, when I was being particularly difficult (as small children often are) she would rap my hands and shins with a steel ruler. She would sometimes seem to feel badly for this and treat me to cakes or custard... however, the unbearable sting of metal against my flesh has never left my memory. I behaved as well as any young child could, despite the promise of possible sweet treats... the pain was just too much to bear for such a fleeting pleasure.
In time, I took to the libraries quite religiously. They were cavernous and tall and musty, but they were quiet and I could retreat from my uncle and his servants there. Quite often I would hide there to avoid my governess and her incessant scolding. Between the towering bookshelves I would sit and pour over classical literature and poetry to my heart's content.
I never attended grammar school. My governess taught me my letters, my mathematics (my ineptitude with which was partially to blame for my punishments), geography, history and science. She was from Great Britain and she spoke in an old-worldly way, as if raised at the turn of the century -- although I know for a fact that she was born in 1934.
On her good days, she would read aloud to me her favorite poetry while we sat beside the fire or out in the garden. She loved all poetry, but most especially the flowery, high-romance kind that speaks of undying devotion and love... I believe this is one reason for her lifelong bitterness of being unwed, for there is nothing more pitiful than a hopeless romantic with no romance in their life.
Eventually, when I was eleven, she passed away due to a sudden illness of the heart. My great uncle was quite getting on in age and died in his sleep that same year, right before Christmas. With nobody left at the manor to care for me, I was shipped off to a boarding school for boys which was located in Switzerland. My great uncle's daughter -- my aunt, I suppose -- was the only next of kin that was available to take me in. However, she and her husband already had three sons at home and had no real desire for another one.
In Switzerland, I found my passion for writing and reading was quite admired by my instructors; they encouraged me to work hard at becoming a real author, even though I was so young. I looked up to them... they were kind to me, and never beat me, although they were extremely strict -- one had to obey the school rules, else be sent home to the ire of their parents.
Since growing up with my governess put the fear of retribution in me permanently, this was hardly a problem.
I only had a couple of boyhood friends while I was there, but once we turned fourteen and graduated to various higher learning institutions, we parted ways and lost contact with one another. My aunt decided that since her youngest was finally out of the house, it was now acceptable to have me live there. She and her husband were quite devout, and so I was to be enrolled in a Catholic high school for boys, which had a high level of prestige. My grades in Switzerland impressed the principle enough to give me a free-ride scholarship... which, to be honest, was probably one of the major selling points for my aunt to allow me to live in her home. I daresay, I hate to label her as being somewhat... vain... but she brings it upon herself.
In my time at that school I was considered something of a black sheep... not only was I going for free (you may as well be destitute, even if you are really there on merit), I spent all my free time in the library on my own. To those boys, I may as well have been non-existent. I was close to one instructor, a nun, who would sometimes accompany me to the library to help me with my arithmetic -- the one subject I am sorry to say I never improved at. I would show her my poetry sometimes -- a very rare occurrence, I might add -- and she always encouraged me to keep at it.
I had made the mistake of sharing my poems with my aunt when I first arrived, but she thought that they were flowery and useless as a hobby... coming from a very opportunistic place like my Switzerland school, where my poetry was heralded as an achievement, to now being told it was a waste of time, was really a difficult (and hurtful) idea to grasp... I ended up not showing my writing to anyone else after that. Perhaps that makes me seem weak, or.. feeble in my convictions... and perhaps I am--or was. Maybe that will change if I ever meet someone who shows interest in my writing. For the right person... I would share all that is in my heart.
I moved away from my aunt as soon as I was able, and landed myself in San Myushino where I learned the true meaning of "starving artist". I gained a small amount of income writing for a local magazine on topics I really did not care for, but I digress... I also have only just recently quit my job at Riverside Pizza where I was, quite to my chagrin, employed for several years. But as luck would have it, a strange man came to me there, and knowing my name as well as my mother's, he offered me a place to call home. As it was, I was struggling to keep even my sorry excuse for an apartment in my name, so I cannot deny that I practically leapt at the invitation.
I suppose it may seem strange and also a bit foolhardy to go live with a man whom I had never met before, but there was something about him that seemed so... familiar to me... and although I cannot understand why, I feel strangely indebted to him. When he told me that, technically, I would be under his employ as something of a butler, and that all my expenses would be paid, I could not find any reason -- nor the desire -- to say no. Even when I discovered his true identity, as a member of the race of Vampyre, I still could not find cause to leave.
And so, here I am, not wanting for anything and yet... for the first time in my life, I am feeling discontent for a reason that has nothing to do with money or security...
Truth be told... it is because of a girl.