The Bride of Lord Motte

During the nonsensical happenings of my childhood, I often imagined a figure that I could not see. An impenetrable being, living in the grandest house I had ever seen, surrounded by a tree line of blackened trees. A front lawn burnt from the remnants of fire laid out for acres. Within it, a large pond lay, surrounded by wilting cherry trees. In its center, an angel statue sat, covered in unkept vines. Then, at its entrance, an impenetrable black gate waited. Occasionally it would open of its own volition, judging each visitor of their worthiness before it came to its decision.

It was all meaningless, aside from its only undead occupant, sourced from a power not associated with anything Holy, or God-like. Rather, the figure lived there, untouched by the regular world, merely to spite everything else.

This was an insufferable nightmare of mine. Night after night, I dreamt of him, faceless, speaking to me, waiting for me…telling me to hurry and come to him before time runs out. That I will receive punishment for not complying, or rewarded for my compliance.

My mother brushed it off as an overactive imagination. A figure I enjoyed terrifying myself with. Nothing more than an imagined creature in my closet. No different than any other child seeking the attention and comfort of their parent. I should not consider myself special for my manifestation of this man.

She once caught me watching a horror movie depicting something of a similar nature. I recall no specific time this happened, but she insists on it. The movie served as a scapegoat and that was all that mattered to her. No specifics were necessary.

Her dismissal never made it any easier, however, nor did I ever grow out of the figment. Nightmare after nightmare. They carried on, growing in intensity over the years. The more I grew to understand the world and everything nasty that sourced from it, the more violent the nights became. The images grew more intense, of being sliced open, of my neck being fed off by needle-sharp teeth, of being murdered within that house at the hands of the monster that waited for me there.

He never failed to terrify me, but somehow I grew to believe I would someday be strong enough to face him. That he could be persuaded. I didn’t have anything to fear as long as I had my wits, and my wits were the one trait I took pride in as I grew older. Anyone can have beauty. Even intelligence can be considered ordinarily boring. You can have physical strength on your side to get you out of certain situations, but wits are not something to be taken for granted. They win battles of their own.

Not many were fans of my internal dialogue. Or how judgmental I became. Not that it was intentional. It was a development against my will, per say. That I could not stop the progression into my own world of introversion and an elevated egotistical view of society. I began to wish I was not a part of it, as if my only true wish was meant to have a remote mansion of my own, apart from everyone else.

It wasn’t my fault. I tried my hardest to maintain my mind otherwise. To reel myself back to normal standards…but truth is, I have always known that I lack empathy. That I have detachment from others and prefer solitude without the bother or the consideration of others. As I grew older, I grew farther away from my friends and family. They didn’t have much in common with me, nor I with them. They made me feel blatantly foreign.

Being an only child didn’t help matters much either. My origin was no secret kept from me. An accidental pregnancy while my mother was in high school. She couldn’t bear to put me up for adoption at the time. I am almost certain she wishes she did. She never knew what to do, and neglected to make the hard decision. I am like an alien to her; something of a different species.

Motherhood never fully grew on her. Still, she grew attached to me, and raised me on her own without the need for help from my grandparents.

My father, on the other hand, did not stick around to help. He is nearly faceless to me.

It isn’t something that hurts me anymore. We simply don’t belong together as a family. For a while I was inherently disappointed I could not relate to my mother, the one that stuck around. I must be more like my father, the man whom I have never met.

While she was in my life, her last attempt with me was a nonstop cycle of therapy. Not to fix our relationship, but to fully understand this obsession I had developed about this man I claimed to be a vampire. A figure I was obsessed with just as much as he claims to be obsessed with me.

Many theories came about. Most felt painfully uncreative; that I have idolized this mysterious figure to replace the father-figure I lacked. Or, the classic, stop letting her watch horror movies. Or, even better, she’ll grow out of it, it’s merely deliria from puberty. I had no idea that could even be claimed anymore.

We came to a silent consensus eventually that I am merely obsessed with the subject. That I use it to avoid reality.

When I finally moved out on my own, I studied the subject on my own. Eventually I came across something quite jarring, however, it appeared to be fictional.

‘Lord Motte is an immortal. He is said to live alone, brideless and loveless. Some say he was too picky to ever settle when he was human, others say he lost the love of his life long ago. Those that dare to come to his castle can either prove themselves worthy to be his bride to be, or they can be his next meal. They say he has killed every visitor that has dared to approach his mansion. Instead of succeeding in their seduction, he slices them all in half with a needle sword so thin, they could barely feel it sliding through their body before already being severed in two.’

They say that the last memory you’ll ever have is the sensation of him sucking you dry.

For a while that gave me an answer. I somehow must have heard the story and have carried it with me. I will eventually leave it behind. In fact, I assumed it would be guaranteed once I have the chance to start my life on my own terms.

When I graduated high school, I left home on a split decision. My mother got a proper goodbye, but a quick one, with an unsaid promise she likely wouldn’t see me again for years - if at all.

She didn’t mind, and neither did I.

After two years of college, I took up a career in freelance photography. I made enough to get by, but never enough to spread my roots. Regardless, I don’t have the need for a permanent home. I rent an apartment under the table now and again, but never for long. Motels and airbnb’s are my true calling when the open road isn’t satisfactory.

I find it blissful. To be so free, unrestricted. Unseen. Untraceable.

With one exception. No matter where I go, where I sleep, what I consume my time with, the dream always follows. Nothing satisfies it.

It’s as if it is luring me. Nothing else will quench it.