There exists within these opulent mahogany paneled halls a certain sense of doom. The sun rises and the sun sets, yet fear lives in the brightest hours of day, exerts a power just as strong as it does in the depths of night. It's the anticipation of sieges of the future, the memories of those past. Together they create a bad dream that never seems to end.
My father has turned his remote chalet into a fortress of sorts, and so far it stands. Yet everyone worries about its fall. Inevitably it must for the enemy numbers are in the thousands, and there are barely a hundred or so of us. There's only so much technology, tenacity and discipline can do.
The staff itself is a vulnerability of sorts, they help with the defense and keep the place safe during the day...yet at night...one never knows if someone they knew is tempting them to open a window or a door, inviting them to become something more than mortal. So far my father's reign of fear and zero tolerance has been effective at keeping them at bay, yet in these latter days the cracks have begun to show.
Sometimes I wonder if Mother appeared outside my window that I could keep it closed, for I missed her so. Despite the nightmares there's a deep desire to be with her again, and so I understood how very real the threat was. A single breach could be the death of all of us and then Grayson would win.
I suspected that in the end he would anyway, and I also suspected that this was expected by most within the mansion. Ranson and her mercs thought guns and traps and bombs an answer, my father thought if we could find the emotional back doors the vampires were using we could stand. My sister, consumate inquisitor former psychiatrist, thought psycho-analysis and propaganda a key.
Hate me if you must, because I had no strategy at all. I saw it all play out in my minds eye, believed the conclusion would be far more grim no matter what was done. We were about to be surrounded, the enemy manipulated our emotions, poisoned our dreams and were far more clever than they were ever given credit for.
In essence, I thought we were doomed. We should board the trucks and limousines, flee east towards the rise of the sun, take our chances before we were encircled by Grayson for indications suggested he intended just that within the month. Once winter came...well...I said my father's mansion would become a cattle pen, albeit the most palacial one in post Change history.
In some circles my opinions made me a traitor. More the fool I for having voiced it in the beginning. What little influence I could have had on the 'battle', if you could call such a fucked up situation such a thing, was erased because the situation wasn't yet as dire as I had predicted it would become. I was reduced to a stereotypical 'drunk', a spoiled wolf pup, and sidelined from the RC, or Resistance Command.
It wasn't long before I decided to act the part. The mansion was drowning in alcohol, and I had little left to do once my father's sycophantic, simpering council sidelined me on grounds I was mentally incompetant. Some went so far as to suggest I was in thrall to my turned mother.
Well...fuck them all. I suppose when I'm torn apart in the ruins of the mansion, thanks to the failure of their leadership, I'll remember that at least I tried...yet hopefully I'll be so wasted I won't realize I'm dead until I actually am.