The Life of a Vampire

I was a creature of the night. I had become death itself. It was perhaps my existence as a vampire as to why I was not happy. It was a long, unkempt, and unhappy story as to how I became what I am and how I am. Some of you would like to hear it, perhaps to become like me, and it is exactly to that crowd I leave my origin of creation unknown to those who seek it.

I don’t really want them to become like me. It is not freedom. To see what I see on a daily basis is a nightmare happening in real time. No one wants to think of themselves as the villain, but there comes a point in a person’s life where they must truly examine themselves. It was about the fourth or fifth time the hunger overcame me during those early days where I realized I was not on the side of God, the holy father, Christ, and all his merry angels. No, I was one of the damned, an abomination on the inside, a face like a chameleon, and an unquenchable hunger. I was beautiful when the situation called for it, terrifying when otherwise. The moment of time I begin this tale at, I bore the look of the grotesque.

“Please, mister. I’ll give you anything you want.. Anything! You want my watch? My credit cards? My car keys?!” In front of me stood a nice midnight snack. Of course, this would only be the beginning. One never satisfied me.

“You are at home, Gregory. You are watching television. Your wife is sitting next to you. Your children are playing quietly.” I used the eldritch speak, and his eyes grew dull. He nodded affectionately to kids that not were there.

“Honey, could you fix me a glass of water? I’m parched, dear.” It was a poor choice of words.

“So am I.” As he suffered in his catatonia, I bit into his jugular. The carotid was far too high-pressure, like shaking up a soda can, but the jugular gave a nice, slow, and reliable flow. I drank his life from him, and shuddered. It was bliss, heavenly bliss and tranquility of such a nature that the human cattle will never know. I felt warm inside, alive again. That awful nagging hunger was gone. My chin was dripping with red liquid far sweeter and more intoxicating than wine could ever be, and I loved it.

My hunger sated, I walked the streets, laughing, playing, bar hopping. From place to place I roamed, looking not for a victim, but for a friend, for human company. I meandered into a place called the Green Hog, and glanced around. It was at medium capacity, but the crowd looked young, happy, full of life. Well, most of them. My eyes were drawn to a sullen lad and his female companion. I could see what he wanted, the hunger in his eyes, the devotion, the lust. He was serious about her, I knew at a glance. And so I walked over towards them. The eldritch speech was a powerful thing, capable of great evil, as well as good.

“Hello, sir, ma’am. I couldn’t help but notice how lovely a couple you are. I’ve taken the liberty of having a bottle of wine brought out to you. I hope you enjoy.” I stared into their eyes, and they stared back, not sure what to make of me. Then, the woman spoke.

“We’re not a couple. This is my best friend, Peter. We’re just having a nice dinner together. It’s my birthday, in fact.” As she delivered her dialogue, Peter’s eyes became downcast. I could tell their friendship meant more to him than she thought.

“There are two of you there. You are a couple, at least in the literal sense of the word. Peter, I know what’s inside your head right now. You love her. And... Miss, you will find you love him as well.” She looked dazed, but the elder voice held great power. Later I would regret what I did for the man. He was a psychotic, an obsessive. Six months later, I read an article in the paper. He killed her, and put a shotgun in his mouth. If I weren’t already one of the damned, I certainly would be after that bit of manipulation.

the short stories forum is that away!

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a reply to: okamitengu

This is a rant. How is it not a rant?

I'm not sure if it's a rant or not... But it's very good IMO. One of my favorite writers (Christine Feehan) writes about some of the same stuff in some of the same way. I usually keep her books at the house and not in public to avoid "The Looks".

Anyway, if it's a short story... nice writing and I enjoyed reading it. If it's true.... Nice writing and I enjoyed reading it a lot please always remember that come what may.

You have a knack for writing! Loved this short story but I think youhit the wrong forum hehe. it happens to the best of us. You should seriously think about penning novels. You have an amazing imagination and a way with words which draw the reader in wanting to know more. from one writer to another, you definitely have the gift of word weaving. Awesome job.

Agreed, great story but wrong forum.

a reply to: Grifter42

You have a wild imagination. You should write fantasy books.

Trying to fix and improve human relationships is no easy task, your intentions sound like there where in the right place but your experience was lacking. Being a vampire it sounds like you have plenty of time to work on it. If this kind of thing was easy the world would not be in the crazy mess it is. Try not to be too hard on your self and take note for next time a similar situation arises.

After my attempt to better the man’s existence, I left the Green Hog. It was too garish, distastefully decorated with tacky 1960s memorabilia. The night was still young, the moon in full bloom. The air smelled of diesel, of cigarette smoke, of winos in alley-ways a couple hundred meters away. I could hear the beating heart of the city itself, a dead-end town with nothing but drifters, grifters, and lowlifes with knives. I hated this place, but it was fair game to hunt here. There was scanty a church to be found. The only holy men to be found stood on soap boxes raving out their lunatic truths to the world. Indeed, the damned did walk beside him. I passed by, and continued my stroll.

Prostitute, drug-dealer, pimp, prostitute, drug-dealer, pimp, prostitute, drug-dealer, pimps, it was all I saw. They were everywhere. I could smell the sin on them. I could smell their disease. These kinds were dangerous. Junkies so hopped up on meth that even the elder speech couldn’t convince them to change their ways. I could have fed on them if I wanted. But their blood tasted foul, I learned from experience, makes a sanguine entity as myself far too twitchy. Occasionally, I would put them out of society’s misery, do the city a little clean-up, but I left their blood to pool on the ground. To be honest though, I was rather similar to them, an addict of a different nature. My drug of choice was a crimson liquid that was most certainly not wine.

If you’ve never drank the blood of man, you’re missing out on an experience of a lifetime. Simply put, it is sweeter than any ambrosial intoxicant that mankind swills. It is more of a rush than the garbage the streetwalkers shoot up to make their life bearable. It was my god, my slave driver, my motivation to continue on in my un-life. I felt a devotion to it, an addiction. To call it anything less would be a lie.

There was always the guilt though. Perhaps one day, I shall feed one last time, and then wait to watch the sun rise. But not this morning.