From THE LONGER THE FALL by Inanna Arthen:
“What happened to you that day, Diana?”
“I can’t…”
“I think you should. Because one thing’s for sure, it’s still hitting you like a ton of bricks. You can either talk about it, or you can drink yourself to death, but it’s going to be one or the other, the way you’re going.” Her voice softened. “Come on, hon. Don’t you know yet you can trust me? Whatever you tell me, goes with me to my grave. And you’ve already told me plenty.” Moira watched as Diana’s hands slowly fell to her lap, but her head remained bowed. “Don’t make me read it in a note.”
Diana looked up sharply. “I’m not suicidal, Moira.”
“Yeah? You couldn’t prove it by me. Sure, maybe you haven’t slit your wrists or anything, but I wouldn’t leave you alone with a bottle of pills. There’s more than one kind of suicide. How do you think my uncle went?”
“The Freemason?” Moira nodded solemnly, and Diana’s shoulders sagged.
“The death certificate said cirrhosis, but we all knew.”
Diana looked away, both chilled and frustrated that Moira didn’t understand. “That’s not the way it is, Moira, it’s—I just feel…horrible. All…wrong inside. Like a skein of wool that’s been played with by a cat, it feels like a mass of tangles, all snarled and knotted, nothing where it should be. Nothing feels right, nothing tastes right…”
“Should you see a doctor?”
“It’s not medical, Moira, it’s something else entirely. Gods…I want to tell you, I swear. I want to tell someone, so much. But I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
Moira pursed her lips thoughtfully and reached for the pack of cigarettes on the table. “Well, I can think of one place,” she said, almost idly, as she struck a wooden match and braced her elbows on the tabletop to light the cigarette. When she finally succeeded, she blew out a gust of smoke and leaned back in her chair. “Why don’t you start by telling me about the vampires.”
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