February 18th, 1946
Per usual Cyrus treated me well on Saint Valentine’s. It was a night filled with little gifts, laughter and smiles.
I purchased him a bottle of wine and cooked a meal. The two of us ate together under the stars. It was almost romantic. Like always, I pined for him to kiss me, touch my hand, do something to show that he cares for me in the way that I care for him. However, like every night that has gone by since I met him, nothing of the sort happened. He was the perfect gentleman.
Instead of becoming sick at heart as I normally do, I became insanely angry. I have announced my desire to stop drinking his blood and to be rid of my need of him. It has not gone over well. We have quarreled each night since our ‘non-date’ of a meal together and I have even dared to get violent with the vampire.
I am beginning to show signs of withdrawal. This night would be the night that I would definitely need to take in some of his blood to stave off the shaking, sweating, and general restlessness. Despite his insistence, I have refused. I am agitated; my legs will not stop quivering, and sweat trickles from my brow almost constantly.
A few hours ago Cyrus brought me a cup and sat it nearby. He did not state what was in it and in my agitation I knocked it away, whirling on him in frustration and pent-up pain. I accused him of slipping blood into whatever drink he was giving me. The shock in his face hurt me, but the pain in my chest from almost two years of his indifferent rejection spurred me on.
I placed both hands against his chest and pushed. I am not sure what foul things flew from my lips. It was as if I blacked out and became a raging demon. All I know is that those honey gold eyes grew more and more pained. He stumbled back away from me, frowning, almost in tears if truth be told. The only thing he muttered was my name, before turning on his heels and leaving me.
I collapsed in a heap and sobbed for I know not how long. Why could he not just strike me down!? The day we met amongst bombs exploding on a blood strewn battlefield I begged him to kill me. Now it seems that I do so again, not with words, but actions.
I have no idea where he has gone. When I finally managed to collect myself, I found his tent empty and no sign of him amongst our traveling band. A part of me hopes that he leaves and never returns, while another part feels bile rising in the back of my throat at the prospect of never laying eyes upon my beloved again.
I am so lost. I only want what is best for him and I know that can never be me. He has shown little interest in caring for me the way that I care for him. I cannot possibly keep him glued to my hip for the rest of his unnatural life. My emotions are too unstable and I am too much of a burden. I have to make him leave me or kill me, for both our sakes. I am too broken and he is too perfect.
I must rest, Journal. My head is spinning and I feel as if I am vomit.