A Journey of Fajro

In the beginning, it wasn’t our kind who chose to reveal ourselves. I remember it like it was yesterday. I was sitting in the living room, flipping through channels, looking for something—anything—to watch on the television. My parents were out doing whatever it was they did.

At the time, I was an only child, so I had no one to talk to, really. I spent most of my time at home, so… I guess you could say I was a social pariah. Being a vampire didn’t promote great social skills.

That’s when it happened. Everything began roaring, the ground shook, and then the power went out—never to turn back on again.

From a young age, I had always been told I was special. I used to think it was just because I was considered royalty, but that title—whatever weight it held—was ripped away from me when a psychopath took over. The world went dark, and years passed. During the day, things looked almost normal, but at night, it was like the earth had been draped in a black velvet curtain. The wild had reclaimed the world from those who had abused its generosity.

Eventually, after much debate, my kind chose to reveal ourselves to the world. We came out of hiding in hopes of helping rebuild what had been lost. And when we stepped forward… so did others—creatures far more sinister in nature. Funny thing is, all those myths and legends you’ve heard or read about in storybooks? Yeah, well… they’re real. Let’s be honest—the world isn’t what it used to be.

My father stopped being around as often. He was expected to help guide the transition into this new world, a task passed down by the other council members. It was a tenuous mission, one he never explained. The few times he was home, we would beg him to come out with us. But his answer was always the same.

“Not now, my sweet. I’m far too busy.”

“Some other time, my darling.”

Or some other variation that stung just as much. He never told us what he was working on or why it took so much of his time. He refused to involve us, especially me, in any of it. Every time I tried to ask questions, he’d shift the conversation like smoke, slipping through my fingers.

My relationship with my mother was far better in comparison. She always had time for me, no matter what she had going on. She was beautiful in every possible way. Her bright forest green eyes would glint with mischief whenever inspiration struck. I remember how she’d tie back her long raven hair—kept perfectly at waist-length—just to sit and play games with me. She never hesitated to put her work on pause if I asked for a cuddle. Back then, she was the most amazing, nurturing, and kind adult I knew. The kind of mother you’d find only in fairy tales.

Then everything changed.

We heard a knock at the secret tunnel. My mother and I both froze. We knew exactly what that knock meant.

The door to the tunnel creaked open slowly, the silence dragging out every heartbeat. We were bracing ourselves for what was coming—already dreading it.

And when we saw my uncle standing there, not my father, we didn’t need words.

We already knew. My father was dead.

In the process of being edited 😉