Author's Note: Ahh... I almost forgot to update. I updated one of my other stories so I think I got mixed up, if that makes sense.

CHAPTER SIX

During the day, Vicente dreamed of revenge.

In his dream, he brandished a dagger, carrying it into his house. His house was the way he remembered it: perfect, sunny, comforting… there were no bodies or blood on the floor. Even his mother’s piano music filled the halls—it was his favorite song of hers.

The song started out, flowing lightly and gracefully throughout the house. Vicente’s consciousness was separated from his body and, soon, he found that he had no control over the moving body. He could do nothing but watch himself as he walked deeper into the house.

Vicente walked into the parlor and saw someone sitting in a recliner. It was his father, Guglielmo. Vicente joyously walked up to his father as the piano music took an upbeat tone. Could it be that his mother was watching over him cheerfully?

Vicente greeted his father and walked around the chair, waiting to see his father. What he saw, however, wasn’t Guglielmo at all. Rather, he saw a faceless man.

Vicente, mind and body, jumped in panic. Vicente’s body gripped the dagger tightly in his hands, backing away from the faceless creature. The faceless man stood to his feet. He was so tall that he towered over Vicente and had to stoop down so he wouldn’t hit the ceiling.

The piano music was distorted. Vicente imagined his mother’s dead fingers slamming on the keys in a manner that Vicente absolutely abhorred. Vicente’s head throbbed and he stared at the tall, faceless man in fear. Then he swung his dagger wildly at the faceless man. The figure fell, toppling over and shaking the entire house. The floor shook violently and Vicente’s vision blurred. Dizzy, he puked in the corner.

When Vicente looked back around, he saw the floorboards tearing off and being sucked up into the sky. The faceless man was dead and bloody.

Vicente tried to exit the room and escape the house. He couldn’t get the sound of crashing piano keys out of his mind. Vicente stumbled into the next room but heard his name being called. He turned back around and his eyes widened.

As the floorboards flew into a black abyss and the furniture shook, Vicente saw Giraldo being crushed under the gigantic, faceless man.

Giraldo called out Vicente’s name again but the sound, like the music before, was distorted. Vicente ran back to save him but Giraldo’s face began to melt away, the fragments of his being sucking up into the sky along with the house. By the time Vicente stood before him, Giraldo’s body was devoid of life. Vicente reached for him but then the corpse moved, suddenly looking at him with bright, terrible red eyes.

Vicente cried out angrily as Vitale clawed at the shifting floor. Piano keys flew around them. Vicente ran to the tall, faceless body and began to repeatedly stab its head with the dagger. Even as his arms tired he continued to rip at it. Blood came out and Vicente attacked until the blood filled the room and drowned him. Before he died, Vicente work up.

Vicente awoke, panting. He rubbed his eyes, looked around and realized it was still light out.

He wasn’t used to his new sleeping schedule yet. It was hard transitioning from a day-walker to a person with nocturnal habits. Vicente wasn’t sure if he wanted to go back to sleep. He didn’t want the same dream to come back to him.

Vicente looked at his surroundings. The other night, he and Vitale left the city and walked many miles. According to the map, they were almost home. Vicente estimated that, when night returned, they would be able to arrive back in his hometown.

Once there, Vicente would be able to begin his hunt for his family’s murderer.

Revenge.

The idea, the concept, the sound of the word made Vicente’s blood stir. Revenge was the only thing that fuelled Vicente’s urge to live now. Interspersed between moments of black and grey, numbness and darkness, Vicente occasionally felt the feeling of yearning for vengeance. Vicente was determined to find his enemy and rip out his throat. He would kill the monster that took away his family in the worst way imaginable.

Vicente took in his new environment. He barely remembered invading the barn. He knew that Vitale was hiding somewhere but he wasn’t quite sure where. However, the day was still early and Vicente knew he would find Vitale later in the night.

Vicente laid back into the hay and urged himself to sleep. It took time but eventually boredom overcame him and his mind drifted into slumber, then followed by wishful dreams of revenge.

“Wake up.”

On command, Vicente’s eyes snapped open. He didn’t even feel drowsy.

Vicente sat up without willing it, listening to the soft rustling sound of the hay atop of him moving. He looked into his commander’s dark, red eyes. Vicente blinked and, suddenly, he felt more of his independence return to him.

“We have to leave this place,” Vitale declared, standing. “I’m thirsty and vengeance awaits you.” He then scoffed. “Besides, this place smells foul.”

Vitale leaped from the upper story of the barn to the floor below. Vicente watched in amazement. It was wrong to say that Vitale jumped because he hadn’t. Rather he glided downwards—landing with the softest of noises.

Vicente stood and brushed hay off his clothing before climbing down a ladder. He seemed so slow and foolish when he stood next to Vitale. He barely remembered the days when it was the other way around.

Only after a short time of feeding, Vitale had returned to his life before the priest staked him to the shed. He was now perfectly healthy. Vicente soon realized that it was no wonder why vampires were such powerful predators. Not only was Vitale more than capable of chasing down prey, he was also incredibly handsome once he was healthy. He was so good looking, in fact, that Vicente was positive that Vitale could draw in any prey that he desired. Vitale was like a rose with thorns, in a way—beautiful to look at but dangerous to be near.

What ruined Vitale’s beauty was his beastlike thirst for blood. Vitale was the farthest thing from beautiful when he drank.

On their journey—the last voyage it would take before they would reach Vicente’s hometown—Vitale came across a merchant who was camping next to the route. Vicente didn’t have to guess what would happen next. With a speed that Vicente could barely witness, Vitale snuck up from behind the merchant and pulled the merchant’s head back. The merchant barely let out a scream before he was bit.

Perhaps it was because of the swiftness in the kill but Vicente felt a strange immunity to the killing. Before, every death and the sight of blood would drop Vicente to his knees. But after only a few deaths, Vicente was immune to any of the emotional effects he used to carry with him. He no longer held grief or pity for the victims, just disgust at the smell of their rotting corpses.

After the merchant was dead, Vitale went through his things. Vicente went in as well and only took money. Vitale, the materialistic one, grabbed more things.

After robbing the dead man, they moved on.

It was now apparent that this sick ritual was just another part of Vicente’s new life. It was no different than getting up and dressing in the morning. The disgusting cycle of death revolved around and around again. After sneaking up on innocent people, Vitale would then suck their blood like the leech he was until Vicente became immune to all of these filthy activities. The smell of blood and death no longer bothered him. All Vicente thought of now was revenge.

It wasn’t long before a city appeared in their sight. Vicente stopped, taking in the sight of the entry of his old city. When he had run away on that fateful night of his family’s death, he had never expected to return.

But had he returned? There was no joy when he saw the tall, splendorous buildings. All he felt was the sheer determination of exacting his revenge.

The whole world was in black and grey and the only thing the resentful artist saw in color was his revenge. Upon arriving in the province, Vicente was sure to avert his gaze and hide his identity. He was still wanted for the murder of his family, after all.

Vicente moved as quickly as he could, leading the way to his old house. Vicente just hoped that the house and its belongings hadn’t been taken. If so, Vicente would have been furious.

The house was in sight. Vicente, to avoid being seen, disappeared behind the building. Once there, Vicente asked Vitale to sense if anyone was inside.

“It’s empty,” Vitale assured.

Vicente moved to the backdoor and jiggled the handle. The back door had always suffered problems and, when twisted just right, it was able to swing open for anyone who commanded it.

Vicente knew everything about the house. It shamed him to know that, one day, someone who was not as knowledgeable would take it all away from him. The very thought made him sick with fury.

But hadn’t it already been taken away from him? He was technically exiled from this city, forced to live as a refugee.

But not for long, he assured himself. Once his family’s murderer was put to death then he, too, would be taken away by Death’s hands. There was a part of him that feared Death’s cold embrace. However, it had to be done. This world and its cruel injustice was no longer a home to Vicente.

Once inside the house, Vicente noticed nothing had changed. The furniture was still there. The memories were still there. Vicente, as he ventured further into the house, realized the only thing that had changed was that the corpses and their drawn blood had been cleaned up. Vicente, though he could not explain why, felt horrified that it had been that way. He felt as though cleaning the house was erasing any evidence of his family. He felt there was something missing in that house.

Moving forward, he began to feel nostalgic. He saw his mother’s piano and remembered her melodies and tunes. He remembered her sitting next to Giraldo on the bench and watching her teach him the notes and keys. When his mother wouldn’t teach him the piano, Vicente would get so jealous. It wasn’t until he was older that Vicente realized he was never taught the piano because his true talents lied in painting and drawing.

In the parlor he remembered the Morazzi family. They would stop by and talk here in this room. Vicente’s mother was such a good hostess. Tonio’s wife and daughters were always gracious with compliments. In fact, they were just as good of guests as the Lazzari family were good as hosts. They had many fun times in this parlor.

Vicente trudged up the stairs. He saw his parents’ bedroom but did not walk in. It was an invasion of their privacy to do such a thing. But he did peek in Giraldo’s room. Even now, his room was as neat and clean as possible. A small stack of books sat on the bedside table.

Vicente moved to the room next to that. It was his room. He had spent hours in this room, pondering over things and allowing this place to be his sanctuary. No matter what the problem, it seemed he could always escape here.

He shut the door gently behind him on his way out. Down the hall he noticed a room with the door cracked open. As if tempting him, he was pulled toward it. He immersed his body in the room.

It was the old studio.

Paintings hung on the walls and leaned against the shelves. A dirty table with old, dried paint on its edges stood and held all of the tools made for a painter. Compelled, Vicente reached for the tools. He hadn’t painted in days and, already, he felt as though he was missing a friend from his life.

Heart racing and hands trembling, he grabbed paints and brushes and sat on a stool. Before him there was a canvas, slightly dusty but already set up—as if it was waiting for him all of this time to return. Using a pencil, he sketched quickly.

Not long after, he was painting and the rest of the world was obsolete. Vitale, the city, even the man that took the lives of his parents and brother… all of these, plus more, disappeared the moment Vicente touched the canvas.

When he was done, Vicente barely noticed that time had even passed. He didn’t even realize he was painting. One minute a blank canvas was staring at him and the next minute he saw a portrait. But it wasn’t just any portrait.

There was Guglielmo, Francesca and Giraldo.

It was his family. Or, rather, they were the people that were missing in the house and were waiting in a place that Vicente couldn’t reach.

“It’s not that bad,” Vitale said. Alarmed, Vicente turned around. Had Vitale been watching him this whole time?

“You have a great eye for color and texture. However, the details aren’t completely accurate. Have you forgotten their faces already?”

Vicente’s gaze fell from the portrait. Had he forgotten? Vicente wasn’t sure. True, it had only been a few days since they died but, without them, time had seemed much longer than that. It seemed unfair that Vitale, who only stole Vicente’s memories, understood their faces more than he did.

Then, suddenly, Vicente thought about something. He rose to his feet, knocking the stool behind him.

Vitale stared, surprised.

“Where are you going?

Vicente brushed past him and ran down the stairs. He exited the house and began to run.

It was late at night—or, rather, very early in the morning. The sky was a murky grey. There was something in the air that warned of bad weather. Still, Vicente trudged on. Following him was Vitale.

Vicente passed a pair of tall, iron gates and before long he was in a cemetery and looking at his family’s tombstones. They had already been buried without him.

Vicente stared, horrified, and his knees buckled. He sat in that position, his knees digging in the cold, wet earth. He could barely believe it.

His family was dead and buried. There was no hope for them now.

Vitale just watched passively.

Vicente’s hands reached to touch his brother’s tombstone. Days ago, he was holding Giraldo’s body in his arms. Now his brother was rotting in the dirt—his tombstone just as cold as his dead skin was now.

Morning was coming soon but all sunlight was blocked by rainclouds. Vitale didn’t rush Vicente. Rather, he allowed the person to lament his fallen family. As he watched the artist mourn his brother, a few of Vitale’s own painful memories and secrets rose to the surface. Vicente’s tears fell harder and faster than the sprinkle of rain. Still, he made no noise.

Vitale looked at the town behind him warily. Though no one was in the streets, they were still awake. Vitale nudged Vicente.

“That’s enough. Let’s go before we’re seen.”

Vicente didn’t move. Vitale sensed that Vicente wanted to move but couldn’t. Vitale, with an annoyed huff, picked up Vicente off the ground. In a flash, he sped to the house.

Once there, both were tired. Vitale carried Vicente and dropped him on his bed. Vicente gripped the sheets. He was tired and it had been a long time since he had been in his natural bed.

Without a word, Vitale left and shut the door. He went downstairs to the cellar, the darkest room in the house.

Vicente sat in his bed, feeling a familiar numbness. His family was dead; there was no doubt about it. If it wasn’t apparent to him before then it was now.

But despite everything, it was good to be home. Vicente still treasured the house’s memories. All of the funny and all of the sad moments came back to him.

As the memories of his home and family began to flood his mind, he fell asleep with the same oath he had made long ago. He vowed to spill the blood of the man who had taken away these precious moments from him, even if it did cost him his soul.

End of Chapter

A/N: Rereading this chapter, I think I dumbed down Vitale's dialogue a bit. o_o He seems to casual. Ah well.

I wanted to take the time to point out that there are a lot of dream sequences in this story... I think I did it unintentionally. I mean, I wanted Vicente to have dreams, but I didn't think I realized how many I put in this story.

At first I didn't like it. Redundant plot devices are annoying and unsatisfying. But I'm currently taking psychology and we studied dreams so I think I like the fact that its included into the story.

For anyone who doesn't understand, the purpose of the dreams in the story is to reflect how Vicente's consciousness is being consumed by the things he's worried about... such as revenge or the death of his family.

Anyways, I just wanted to get that across in case people were wondering why Vicente has so many dreams in this story. I think its a bit baffling too.

As for the particular dream in this chapter... yeah, its probably the strangest one in the entire story. Its a complete acid trip. Most of it is just odd but some of it contains symbolism... but that's for the reader to interpret.