Time, an obsession that many try to tame and control. While some fear, I contemplate the moments created by its movements. Faces change like landscapes as time sets its tempo.
Tick tock, tick Tock, minutes pass, where sleep is required to preserve youth. I watch dawn rise with restless eyes.
My love for the bright star remains unrequited; its rays reject me or ask for a solemn tribute.
The first of my kind could not withstand sunlight. Evolution changed the game, yet it still takes a considerable consumption of blood to walk in the daylight for a mere four hours.
Books speak of burning, but like every species, we adapt. I have never witnessed a vampire roast unless someone deliberately set fire to them. No vampire is stupid enough to hang out in the sun, no matter their rank.
Having greeted dawn, I close the blinds and sit down with my book.
These days I just desire to chill; my old bones appear to require listlessness. Perhaps it has something to do with my current mindset, as I have relaxed ever since I arrived at Crimson heights.
The people there are friendly, and those of my species civil. Above all Crimson, remains a city without Repugnant.
All this peace reassures and alarms me as a recurrent question knocks at the back door of my mind:
How long, how long will I enjoy this melting pot?
The citizens are unaware of our presence amongst them, and it is essential things stay this way. These long years of immortal experience taught me living hidden is living happily.
Though no one can say, I hide, for the deed is somewhat inconceivable for a Tepes. I live in total silence, nourishing myself with angst, and the pathology humans call depression.
Being a First has many advantages. We learned to survive without drinking blood but with diminished facilities. I, for instance, can recharge my batteries by consuming sugar or salt. Since these nutriments are substitutes for our bloody regime, their intake must be in quantity.
Blood remains the ultimate must-have for power, I prefer to do without, and I would hate to father a Second.
Jesus says Seconds mean power, but for me, they are endless pain.
The book I am reading is fascinating. It’s about vampires; of course, how humans see us intrigues me. Unlike the vampire’s thoughts on humans, their perception of my species has not evolved.
Humans still imagine our skin glittering under the sunlight, a cold touch, and a considerable sexual appetite. You can scratch the first two, but they are quite right about the sex.
Like fright and angst, the energy generated by sex nourishes us; it’s very primal, almost feral, with the only goal of quenching a need.
Also, sex has no inconvenience for us. Seconds are sterile as for Firsts, there is only one week in the whole year for us to conceive a child, and the rest is party time.
During that one mating week, it’s a lockdown. The pheromones my body unleashes have produced a few disasters in the past.
Have you ever seen an Axe advert, women chasing one man like he was chicken breasts?
Get the picture.
Even with the precautions I take, it isn’t rare to have a baby boom in the neighborhood. Let’s say I arouse passions.
This book is hilarious as if a modern vampire would sleep and travel in a coffin.
I’m sorry to say this, but vampires love beds, and transportation via coffins is no luxury. It’s cramped dark, and you better not want to pee. And it’s not like you can read a book in there.
Jesus sold my coffin at an auction for 450 000 dollars and used his coffin in one of his rock videos.
We adopt the same means of transportation as everyone. No noble says no to champagne and caviar on a First class flight.
A few extremely poor vampires still try to travel as extra luggage, but it’s impossible to go through customs with the detectors. It’s notably difficult for era clandestine, those unable to forge identities to reintegrate society when they identify as dead.
I’m offended as a minority. I wish people would do real research about us instead of daydreaming and making us look like some sexy but yet sordid freaks.
Humans like us on paper, but I’m not sure they would appreciate our true lifestyle.
Most vampires these days do not have more ambition than humans. The conspiracies and wars died with the Helsing, and those who carry their heritage are Hawks.
As for the rest, we cook, clean, work. There’s nothing glamorous or rock’n’roll unless you are a rock star like my brother. Formerly known as Vladislav, he identifies himself as Jesus Tepes and lives the fast life, nourishing himself on fan’s euphoria.
There is nothing dark nor mysterious about us; for example, I only wear black because it’s the trend, but I love gray, blue, green, and naturally red.
The color is compelling, evoking passion, lust, romance; red is beautiful. It’s the only color with a taste and a fragrance. For a vampire, red is the essence of life.
The day passes quickly, I’m not a philosopher, but the time on my hands makes me ponder about many things, and like a mad scientist, I reflect on the purpose and significance of life.
“Boss, where do I put the sugar?”
I turn to find Mephisto with a trolly filled with my 50kg of sugar, and I can see another trolly with my 20kg worth of salt.
“Just stack them in the kitchen where you space. It’s only two weeks’ worth of munition.”
“Okay, boss,” he replies as he takes off his cap to scratch his head before moving the goods to the kitchen.
“And Mephisto, please cut in out with calling me boss, my name is Søren.”
I shake my head in disproval. The kid does what he wants, but he’s loyal, and with him, I need not use speech. As I said, I live in silence. The last spoke was in the 18th century.
Telepathy gives me freedom; at first, it was my laziness, and now it’s a habit that has made me tongue-tied and afraid of hearing my voice. My mouth only opens to either welcome food, brush my teeth, or bite.
Mephisto arranges everything; he is not a Second or a vampire, but he’s worth a thousand. The kid alone makes me believe all species can live in harmony. Mephisto is my link with the era like Louis was for Lestat in Interview With A Vampire. He and Google allow me to be in phase with reality.
In a city like New York, Mephisto would be an adored trendsetter, but in Crimson, the boy, if I can call him that, is just another eccentric. The Milieu looks like a teen, but he could be older than me. He has never revealed his past. Apart from his apparent youth, I have never distilled any power.
“Boss, it’s time.”