Patricia stared at her reflection at in her bathroom mirror and sighed wearily. She was tired - tired of feeling confused and manipulated.
She reached for an eyeliner pencil, glad that she no longer shook so hard from the efforts of detox that she risked blinding herself, and dwelled on her thoughts.
"I could believe that he was a hallucination." She muttered to herself. "But…" she glanced down at the straight razor next to the sink. "That damn thing." She remembered the vision she had received from the battered instrument, apparently given to her by the shade of her Sire that had taken to following her.
...Gammon desperately carving up a man resembling dear old Michael... Patricia sighed again. "Which means either I've taken to impersonating Gammon - and not remembering it - or Gammon's a victim too." Patricia frowned at her reflection. "Or he's in on this with Michael. Assuming Michael isn't part of me…" her voice trailed away.
"Shit!" she hurled the eyeliner in her hand across her small bathroom. "If only I had some ground to stand on!" she declared angrily. "There's no proof of anything - not even if I'm going crazy. Just circular dialogues, strange visions and the fact that not only do I not know what to believe, but I don't even know what I want to believe!"
Patricia glared at the razor. "All I know is that I'm being…haunted…and I can't even fight back."
That was what really rankled. Trish had become used to fighting back, tooth and nail. If something or someone was a problem, she wanted to meet it head on and strangle it with her own hands - if necessary, if possible. This time she couldn't even quantify what the problem was, let alone deal with it.
Trish tried to return to the task of getting ready to go out. She had promised herself a night on the town - in the hope of distracting herself - and she hoped that it would be free of uninvited guests. 'Michael' had left her alone for over a week now.
Patricia frowned at her cosmetic efforts. She had prettied herself as best she could before going out amongst humans. Her visage had become so pale and drawn over the decades that even with makeup, Trish frequently had to make excuses of a recent illness or hectic work schedule to justify her wan features. With makeup carefully, inexpertly plastered on to her face, she felt like a clown. But in San Francisco, who's going to notice?
Patricia scowled, watching her reflection mimic her. Is this real? How do I know? This situation seemed so familiar, but she couldn't place it exactly. Another aggravation. She picked up the razor and flicked it open with the ease of long practice. Drawing the sharp blade across the palm of her left hand, she hissed at the pain, but let blood slowly drip into the bathroom sink.
"This is real." She told herself firmly, prodding the open wound with the corner of the razor. "This is real, damn it…"
And I am going to go out and have a good time. She resolved. I am not going to let that bastard force me into hiding…