Entry Four: Date December 13th 1898
I managed to hire a black smith to gain the tools I needed for the dissection, or would it be a vivisection? For the creature is certainly not alive, but nor is he full dead either. Alas, I get ahead of myself, the tools I ordered arrived just this morning and I am excited to try them out on the creature, see what exactly makes it tick.
The flesh reacts oddly when cut with silver, burning and slicing at the same time, though holy water is needed in order to keep the flesh from coming back together, though it is thankfully far slower than when I was simply using steel. Still, it does have the unfortunate side effect of my laboratory smelling of burning flesh which lingers horribly. I will have to find a way to correct that, or at the very least to make certain that I take numerous showers before returning to the upper levels for it offends my Amelia's delicate senses quite fervently.
I do not mind it much, for it is but a small price to pay in order to discover Dracula's secrets such as the fact he does indeed have a beating heart, which surprises me greatly. I thought vampires would have had a still unbeating heart, yet it seems that I have been mistaken, for Dracula's is still very much beating, albeit I'm not sure if it has blood to pump or if it is merely doing it because that's what it did in life. Whatever the case may be this is a fascinating discovery and opens so many avenues for scientific theory. Does the heart beat because being undead is still a state of living? Can Dracula and subsequently other vampires be considered technically alive if this is the case?
Vampires are not warm like living beings are, and that fact cannot be more well represented than the feeling of cold blood running across my hands as I try and study the organs within. It is a strange feeling and if I closed my eyes, I would have thought it to be merely water going across my hands. The blood is colder than that of corpse, and perhaps this is the true source of the vampire's icy exterior. I have the feeling that Dracula will prove to be a very interesting study, and I may die without knowing everything. Which saddens me, but that means I still have much to learn, which likewise excites me beyond measure.
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Točno To: "Bojan Cvjetićanin (Joker Out) was going through a real "nightmare" during the concert"
Usually Točno To (slovenian clickbaity tabloid website) just recaps situations, but this time they also added a nice personal commentary which I thought was sweet:
Točno To: Anyone who has ever experienced a panic attack knows that it is a real "nightmare" that has no end. Bojan showed strength in spite of everything and tried to handle the situation in a very professional manner. We are grateful to him for speaking out and giving additional strength and motivation to all those who deal with panic attacks on a daily basis.
source: x
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it's your conclusions that make mine delusions– tma
Jon's feet dangled underneath him, hanging limp. Papers fluttered to the floor, forgotten in the mad scramble between the two men. Jon's hands rested loosely around Tim's wrists, just above where his fists were twisted into Jon's collar. With his back against the wall, Jon was trapped completely under his co-worker's wrath. Tim stepped closer, crushing a lazily written report under his shoe.
"Is there a problem, Mr. Stoker?" Jon asked lightly. Tim's nose scrunched with disgust as Jon's smirk widened enough to bare teeth.
"Stop smiling," Tim snarled, "Stop fucking- what is wrong with you? Why are you here?" Although his grip on Tim's wrists remained deciptively gentle– hands poised so that fingertips just brushed skin– Jon's expression grew hungry. Entertainment flickered behind dark irises; Tim got the sense Jon was relishing in his desperation.
"I work here." Jon answered simply, unbothered despite the way Tim's knuckles dug into his throat. Tim barked out a mirthless laugh.
"Not the same way the rest of us do. Prove it- prove you're trapped by- by whatever is wrong with this place. Go ahead, Sims. Say it." He goaded, hoping Jon would rise to the bait. Jonathan Sims was perpetually level-headed, but Tim was at his wits end.
He wanted this puppeteer wearing a human face out of his life– out of all of their lives.
"Personally, I don't have any desire to leave. I'm quite happy with this job." Tim growled, rearing back and slamming Jon into the wall. The back of his head hit the damp drywall with a satisfying crack. Jon blinked rapidly, dazed.
Tim's blood pounded in his ears; he wanted to hurt this thing under his hands and he couldn't bring himself to care anymore. It was destroying his friends, creeping like a crawling rot into every nook and cranny of their minds. Slowly, it invaded– a sweet croon here, a sharp discouragement there; watchful eyes and cutting words hidden behind an open kindness that came from the confidence of security. It felt safe picking them apart sinew by bloody sinew.
Sasha was ruining herself and wouldn't listen to reason. She ran headfirst into any situation she thought would give her leads, not even bothering to tell anyone when she was in danger. She was working longer hours, talking to people in her office in secret, stashing tapes and statements in odd places he and Martin wouldn't look. Every new statement plucked from the mess Gertrude left behind sent her on a spiral, clawing for any connection to latch onto– and she latched onto Jon's words like a woman drowing. When Sasha ducked away from conversation with Tim and Martin, Jon was at her elbow, whispering in her ear. When she eyed Tim with distrust, he could feel Jon's gaze burning into the back of head. When she continued to pull away from anyone who could anchor her to reality, Jon was right there, pulling her along.
Jon's breathing was becoming laboured. Tim pressed more weight against his chest, egged on by the slight give of Jon's ribcage under his forearms.
"Kill me," Jon choked out. Tim lurched back a step, allowing Jon to take a deep breath that left him with a dry cough. His grin split his pockmarked cheeks, "Kill me, right now. Get it over with. That is what you want, isn't it?"
"You're sick," Tim spat. He pushed against Jon until he wheezed, "You're a sick little creep and I- I want you gone. Leave the Institute. Run into traffic. Anything, just- just get out." Jon's beaming smile wavered, eyes fluttering as consiousness was squeezed out of him, "If I ever see your face again-"
"Tim!"
Tim startled, dropping Jon's collar and letting him crumple to the floor. The anger drained out of him instantly, leaving a hollow in its wake.
He stared down at the man at his feet; Jon's narrow back was shaking.
Shaking with laughter.
Jon's boney shoulders jumped up and down, breathless snickering wracking his entire frame.
He peered up at Tim through spidery bangs. As if on strings, his lips were pulled into manic smile, eyes alight with joy. Hysterics were carved into every crease of his face.
"You can't. You will never be rid of me." He whispered, voice pitchy with wonder.
Someone pushed Tim aside; he stumbled out of the way without even turning to see which of Jon's victims it was. Red faced anger entered his sight, made fuzzy by the film of haze filling his brain.
Helplessness squeezed like a band around his chest; no one would believe him about Jon. Not Sasha, too paranoid to see the problem right in front of her. Not Martin, who would give and give and give to a monster who could only take. Not Elias, who had let Jon into the Archives in the first place.
"-at is your problem, Tim?! What could /Jon/ have done to-" A tinny voice buzzed beneath the rapid gallop of Tim's heart.
Jon was right– Tim couldn't do anything. Nothing would keep Jon from weaving his web around all of them; all he could do now was watch as the threads tightened and tightened until they each snapped under the tension.
Something bumped– shoved his shoulder. Salt and pepper hair left his vision and, instinctually, Tim's eyes traced the monster across the room.
From under Martin's arm, Jon pressed his face into his shoulder. Crocodile tears soaked into the soft, well-worn knit of Martin's favourite jumper. In stark clarity, Tim zeroed in on the hand that raised behind Martin's back.
Jon waved at him slowly and deliberately as he was led gingerly into the breakroom.
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to some degree, there's no denying that john was at least the smallest bit aware that he was actively deluding himself (and others) into this "god's will" fantasy of his — and the moment where this is most prevalent is during book iv-v, when riley is changed. riley wasn't supposed to be there, not at the rec center, not that late, not after the aa meeting. he was never supposed to come back. and it wasn't god's will that brought him back — it was riley's will, his own suspicions. and because of his own will, indirectly, the angel attacked riley. this part is left mostly to interpretation as the episode ends abruptly, but the implication that i've gathered is: the angel did not turn riley, the monsignor did. riley was not chosen by god; he was chosen by john. because god couldn't cleanse his conscience of his altar boy dying — not like that. not when he had the choice to save him. but this is where john's delusion, for lack of better word, starts to fall apart, because his own selfishness is what drove him to turn riley - not god. what does this mean for his narrative he's (bev's) spinning? was god working through him to enter communion with riley? or was he acting on his own? he isn't sure himself and assumes the former (he knows it was himself). so every time he tells riley, "god chose you," he is actively lying. and he knows he is lying. but lying is no longer a sin to him now — it's a tool to use to coerce people into the gift he's giving.
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