Memoires of a Mad Vampire

By Madame Elisandrya De Sade

One can almost hear the whispers in the dark, and the howling of ancient wolves as they seek their respite between the pages of Madame''''s magical novel. Mmoires Of A Mad Vampire is a semi-autobiographical novel based on the life and experience of the author, Madame Elisandrya De Sade. Spanning several continents and centuries, the work reads like fiction, yet for those that know her well, the question remains clear... Just how much

is fact, versus fiction? Intriguing, stimulating, exotic, and taboo, the book''''s many chapters often begin with poetry or prose, further stirring the reader''''s imagination to take part in what has proven to be an awe-inspiring journey through eras past.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Aug 3, 2005
• ISBN: 9781467029018

Madame Elisandrya De Sade

  Madame Elisandrya has lived all over the world. From Spain, to Norway, to France, and America, she has experienced many levels of spirituality. Written about and heralded as an expert on romance, Pagan spirituality, sensuality, and vampirism, she is the subject of many books, movies, and documentaries written by keynote authors. A practiced psychic and spiritual advisor, her many skills and talents also include singing, cooking, gypsy dance, and poetry.

Book preview

Mémoires Of A

Mad Vampire

by

Madame Elisandrya De Sade

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This book is a combination of fact and fiction. Some people, places, events and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. However, any resemblance to actual persons - living or dead - or historical events is purely coincidental.

© 2005 Madame Elisandrya De Sade. All Rights Reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 07/25/2005

ISBN: 1-4208-6016-X (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4670-2901-8 (ebk)

Mémoires Of A

Mad Vampire

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Madame Elisandrya De Sade

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Mémoires

Words splashed elegantly across a page

Like paint upon a canvas.

Portraits, pictures, and images

of a life so passionately lived.

I see you sitting alone in your room,

these chapters/paintings

hung upon the walls surrounding you.

You stare at them and remember

the stories of your life.

The loves, the pains, the tragic ends,

and the mystery of all of your beginnings.

This story reveals to me the you

which I have always envisioned.

Beyond the leather, beyond the lace,

and the miles and miles of crushed velvet.

Beyond the walls of marble and stone

in the palace where you reside.

Beyond high collared gowns and long cuffed sleeves

and the candle lit glow of your room.

Beyond elaborate extensions of parts of your self

which have safely been built around you.

You have always appeared to me simply

as the most tender of beating hearts.

After reading your words, this is my offering to you, Madame…

Andrea L. Fitzpatrick

Contents

Acknowledgements

~ Statue ~

Chapter 1

~ Dance, Dark Angel ~

Chapter 2

~ Peace Within Her Blood ~

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

~ The Blood Dance ~

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

~ Oil Painting ~

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

~ The War of Love ~

Chapter 13

~ The Sound ~

Chapter 14

~ Love Eternal ~

Chapter 15

~ On Loving A Mortal, And The Inevitable End ~

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

~ Dreamer ~

Chapter 18

~ Angel Hair ~

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

~ Crime of Destiny ~

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

~ The Arch Angel ~

Chapter 23

~ Michael’s Hands ~

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

~ Tears to Ink ~

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

About the Author

Acknowledgements

Where does one begin when one has so many centuries

of appreciation to share?

In this round, my heart feels all of

La Famille du Lionesse.

Any pain and love I have ever felt, brought me to the place where writing this was even possible.

Mostly, I thank my mother, daughter, and granddaughter.

With Special Thanks to:

Aengus. I could not possibly have completed this without you.

Lahde, Bram, and Carrie, my darlings, all, for reading this story a hundred times and still offering their tireless editing.

To Shiva, Captain, Louie, Joshua, Loki, Billy Buttons, Tommy Two Tone, Joe Bells, Fluffy Snookums, Misha, Azziz, and beautiful Odin...

some past, some present.

To Utah and Luna, my wonderful, loyal wolves.

Utah, I’ll see you in the Summerland, my friend.

Luna, do you wanna go "SOMEwhere?!! (wag wag!)

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For Teresa Maria.

Both of you~

And for everyone I have ever loved,

Especially you~

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Offered here is the mindless scribbling of an

ethereal being.

My words, describing a less, or perhaps a more introspective view of my tarnished remembrances of lives lived and loves lost. An accounting, if you will, of the tortured centuries I have spent in which I affectionately refer to as, "My Season in Hell".

 ~ Statue ~

I sit like a statue

And gaze out at the restless sea.

A tiny, shimmering tear falls lazily

down my porcelain cheek.

Leaving its salty path

as proof of its passage.

A quiet sigh escapes my lips.

My heart skips a beat.

The agony deep within my breast is strong

and unrelenting.

I know not what I fear.

I only know...

It terrifies me in its secret way.

Who am I to know of love?

Would I even recognize it... if it

flew to me on gossamer wings and landed, silken …

on my tender heart?

I cry out for a lover who

Cannot even hear my voice.

And so I wait like a statue

And shed another tear.

It joins the first...

They fall together to my feet

Tinkling like glass.

Chapter 1

Who would have thought that February 14, 2000, would be a perfect day for a kill?

With the warmth of the San Diego air kissing my flesh well past the midnight hour; life was not the prevalent thought on my mind. Yet kill I did. But was it that, truly?

I guess it depends on whether you see the sustaining of one’s own life as killing. Was it murder? No, but killing, ahh, yes, well someone did end up dead and it wasn’t me. And I would have died, had I waited too long. So perhaps we should consider it self-defense. Yes, that seems fair.

Perhaps these words can put a shiny new spin on an ancient belief that vampires usually end up killing their prey. In our defense, it can be rather difficult to get all the sustenance that we require to exist without finishing off our donors on occasion. We do however try to avoid that extreme at all costs.

Being Preternatural does not change the fact that hunger does exist for us too. And we, like you, seek only to quench hunger’s passionate grip on our otherwise gentle form.

So I fed, and fed well, for she was a tender little thing, perhaps no older than 24. It was all I could do to resist giving in to a bit of sport before staving off further hunger pangs. She was so charming that I let her flirt with me a bit before tasting her.

I never even caught her name.

But that was last night. May as well have been a lifetime ago, considering how the timing of my life plays out. The very thought of being a walking anachronism brings a chuckle to my ancient lips. To the common eye, I appear to be perhaps 30 years or so. I hear that often, and it never ceases to amuse me.

Nevertheless, the pretty young woman died slowly in my arms, her mind a blissful blur of delicious images of her lustful youth. I opted to give her such images, as I have with many of my past prey. It seems to distract them from the reality of their immediate circumstance. Their blood transfers from their vein to my heart amidst glowing memories, real or contrived, and eases them into a pre-orgasmic state. Then there are the ones that are not as strong in constitution just slip away, the little darlings. It is never easy to tell, who will survive my timeless kiss. At least not until I feel the pressure of their vein against my tongue. That is when I know, right then. But by then, it is often too late, depending of course on just how famished I am.

Those rare unfortunates that indeed succumb when I am through taking my requirement are laid in blissful repose in some seemingly natural way, knowing it will be easier for those that will ultimately find them. But not all my prey end up sans life. Only those that find me when I am half out of my wits from the base hunger that can occur when I have not found my ease in far too long. The ultimate demise is a rare occurrence. But at those times, it had really come down to them … or me.

In the new millennia, people do not concern themselves with the existence of vampires, so few tend to question the markings we will almost inevitably leave. We can only cover-up so much of our deed. The rest must be overlooked by the less than brilliant mind.

That same said ‘mind less traveled’ surely loves to recount what it couldn’t possibly know. Writers, for instance, are by far the most notorious of the lot.

For so many years now, I have read and wondered over the intriguing literary victuals cooked up by prolific writers regarding vampires and the like. There is a common thread within the writings. A basic kernel of truth, if you will, that vampires exist. Isn’t it amazing, such perception?

The question should have never been raised as to if, but to "how". To be mortal in this world of sublime madness is quite difficult enough. But to be Vampire, now that is the harsher reality indeed.

We, just as all the living creatures on this hunk of mud and ash called earth, must trudge through our existence, no matter what the ultimate conclusion or how long it takes to achieve. For most, it is a brief passage. For mortals, it is a century or less of entangled lives and pointless mortality. But for the Vampire … ahh~ for Vampires, it is indeed the deepest exercise in futility.

Limited lives offer less contrast; less to lose, if you will. Even so, very few make the risk of life. Love, dreams, all left to rot on the vine, but why? Risk it all! Within a few decades it will be pointless to you. Life begins and ends with a dream, at least for the mortals.

For instance, mortals have so many gifts taken acutely for granted. Love… family… regret. So often these elements are not taken as honest realism that should be cherished fully and well. To fall in love, to share that life with someone is more than a gift, it is the very essence of life itself.

Delightful theory, all painfully torn from a breaking heart, once a vampire feels the kiss of eternal night.

Gothic images come into mind when Vampires are considered. Images of graveyards covered in mist, and ancient, leafless trees that arch and lean and scratch at the blue-black satin of the night sky. One imagines the sounds of wolves howling in agony, and the darkest of hours, so familiar.

To be Vampire is to be all too comfortable with these things, thought not always in their reality. The very essence of these images can be felt deep within the soul. For to feel the pain of loneliness, to know the memory of lost time and the torture of an eternally breaking heart, that … is the agony of ages.

Life spent knowing full well you are unlike most all in your acquaintance, is a life of grief and angst at best. Life spent acutely aware that you are a child of the night, and the stuff that nightmares are made of, is far less glamorous than one would think.

It is a life I know all to well.

The most difficult part is finding that, hope as you might, love will not be your gallant savior, rescuing you from the pain that tears at your soul night after treacherously lonely night.

When a vampire finds them selves feeling emotionally hollow, usually after years of not concerning our selves about being alone, we seek our mate. And just as humans, we make mistakes in our choices, though it can take lifetimes to discover instead of years. And so we seek again, usually after a long period of trying to decide whether we should seek again or not. But I will tell you of that later.

The only constant companion of a love-lost Vampire is unspent passion and painfully empty hours.

Finding love for a vampire is the epitome of the proverbial ‘needle in a haystack’. Trying to find a mortal with strong enough convictions and focused individuality is nearly impossible. The alternative of course is finding another of our blood. Bah, a waste I say, as it would be akin to the colliding of two nuclear bombs. It is complete overkill, in its most visceral sense.

Yet the hunger grows as each hour passes, sated only by the occasional injustice of an attempted, and ultimately failed union.

Thirteen moons occur each year. There are thirteen elements to a Vampire’s existence. We, who are of that nature, are well aware of those elements. We are painfully aware of their deeper effect on our immortal souls.

Of the elements, only love is a common bond between our mortal brethren and us. Fortunately, a Vampire does not have to live their entire existence without love. Although once love is lost, we are branded sometimes for ages by the blistering fires of unwelcome solitude.

For the lucky few Vampires that have their mate by their side, love is truly otherworldly. But once achieved, love must be savored, and protected by the powerful hearts that hold it.

I overlooked that fact a long time ago, mad that I am. And I am left with what is available to me, which is still remarkable. For a Vampire without love, there is only desire and lust.

And hunger.

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 ~ Dance, Dark Angel ~

My bloodlust slashes and parries with my malcontent.

I call to the wind... Carpe Noctum...

And it answers me …

"Dance, Dark Angel... Dance.

Dance into the darkest shadows"

I move to the edge of the forest,

And hear the whisper of the trees mocking me, making me weep,

Knowing fully, I must go forth, and so I do.

With the merciless beauty of the night surrounding me

like a velvet cloak.

One I have donned these many years of searching.

It envelopes me, warms me, keeps me safe...

Or so I believe.

I look to the sky, my eyes crimson,

And feel the ache of centuries of night

Tearing at my soul.

My blood is pulsing, pounding in my ears.

And a howling... rich... and pure, rises

From the bowels of the earth,

Passing through me in