Forget that Anne Rice bullshit, there’s nothing romantic about being a vampire. Everything changed that day in Nassau when the vampire bit me and made me like him. It changed how I saw the world.
I was like most people in most of the worlds, having no idea that there were vampires, or a Crimson King, or low men, or a Dark Tower at the center of it all. Even as the colors died I found I could see more.
Not that being able to see the dark blue aura that clings to me and my kind like a living shroud is anything anyone would want to see. Or the smell of hot metal and charred onions that cling to the low men. And especially not the chimes that are always ringing just out of hearing range, but which float almost into perception when you least expect it. Like the fucking mission bells in Hotel California.
The only thing in the world that stands out is blood. As bright and as fragrant as a rose garden used to be. I can almost see it through the skin, beating just under the surface at the throat… It’s become my world. It’s not like I’m really undead or something. I don’t know, I barely understand it. But I can and do eat food, and if I don’t, I get hungry just like I used to. But it’s blood that I really need.
Let me clear up some other Dracula-myth bullshit. No one’s ever chased me away with a cross, though I’ll admit that no one’s tried yet. I haven’t been in a church for a long time either (way before I was turned into a vampire), but seeing crosses doesn’t freak me out. Sunlight doesn’t make me burst into flames or anything. I don’t have to sleep when the sun rises and I don’t sleep in a coffin. Get over it.
If you meet me, you’ll never know what I am or who I am. Even if you’re my prey. Drinking blood is… it’s like a drug. When I get my fangs into you the blood is all I can think about. The hot, metallic taste dribbling down my throat. I don’t know what my victims are thinking, but no one’s ever fought back. They just lay there until I’ve had my fill. I’ve watched the puncture wounds heal up within seconds and then after a minute or two, people sort of snap out of it. Go on with business as usual like I hadn’t just bit holes in their neck and licked the blood up as they bled.
But we know. Once someone’s been bitten it marks them. That dark blue shroud sort of rubs off on them, leaving just a trace around their neck. And they go down easier too, like they’re used to it. They just tilt their head back and they’re already gone into that blissful trance or wherever they go before I’ve even pierced their skin.
I wish I could say that it’s some kind of glorious high. Yeah, when I drink the blood is my world, but it’s still blood. There’s no amnesia for me, nothing to make me forget that I’m drinking someone’s blood, that I’m a parasite squirming through the shadows in-between worlds.
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