Breath, Chapter 1
By Victoria Dougherty
Bridegroom, let me caress you,
My precious caress is more savory than honey,
In the bedchamber, honey-filled,
Let me enjoy your goodly beauty,
Lion, let me caress you.
--at 4000 years old, this is the oldest known love poem ever
discovered.
Each of us has a before and an after.
Before, I was just a girl.
A lucky girl, you could say.
One born to a good family. I lived in comfort and
even some style. Was certain of my place in the world.
Sure, it was thousands of years ago, but rich girls haven’t changed
that much over time.
Neither has love. Or lovers for that matter.
The sting of pleasure that burns
through your every cell
from that first kiss.
The venom that is love.
Deadly beautiful. You’d die a
thousand times to feel it again. I have.
That’s what brings me to my after.
Because after love, I was everything. And nothing.
A pawn, a slave, a witchdoctor, a street urchin.
The leader of a revolution.
Even a queen, once. Only once.
But a Nin’ti always. Evermore.
Nin’ti. A mighty contraction of a word
coming from the most ancient language
known to mankind. Nin means “to live”
and ti “to die.” Over and over.
Quite simple on the surface of things.
Nin’ti. As rare as an angel or a demon.
If you look up the word, you’ll find that Nin’ti was a
Sumerian goddess—a Lady of Life.
But that’s only the surviving interpretation.
I’m not a goddess. Most of the time I’m quite human,
actually.
Nor have I ever been Sumerian.
Nin’ti.
If I were whispering what I am through a pair of lips,
my hands would be dancing along with my sentences.
That’s been my custom in any body I inhabit,
talking with my hands, I mean.
Nin’ti.
That’s me. Sounds strange to say it even after millennia.
As strange as it must be for those few, wretched creatures
who find themselves staring into a mirror
empty of their reflection
to say, I am a vampire.
But it’s what I am. A Nin’ti. That is all.
Forever young, eternal even.
Forever moving and starting over.
God’s idea of a celestial military brat. Always the new kid.
New school, new parents, new culture and time.
Always a new death.
And always before the sun sets on my seventeenth year.
I’ve never lived a day beyond it. Don’t know why I can’t
make it to eighteen. Must be a reason, though.
I’ve never watched my face age
into a richly lined map of my life—
a testament to my joys, jealousies, tears, and humor.
My very humanity.
And I’ve never been a boy.
Always and never. The story of my life. My lives.
And one more thing—the most important of all.
This one’s an always.
An always is always the most important thing of all.
Always the same love.
Fierce and exquisite.
Warm and consoling. Imperfectly perfect.
Never a never.
The sort of purity that can only be conceived through fire.
That fire will be lit again very soon. I hope.
