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Alicia Chay

Believe it or not millions of people don’t like reading about blood and gore. §ome humans donning perishable goods (birthday suits, their bodies) art so faint hearted they art limited and restricted to inspirational knock offs like Chicken §oup for Σvery Damn Ђing but the Grace of His Mercy, a God I once believed in many moons, many rains and I do mean MANY RAIN§ ago.

Millions of people don’t believe in Ђe Holy Trinity or Moses, the Ten Commandments.

Why did Christ feed 5,000 undeserving humans fish anyway?

I would have killed them all, and fed 5,000 vampires blood and flesh, and would have been done with it.

I would have archived their brains, like I’ve done with every creature, alien, supernatural being, human, Don, czar and larger-than-life entertainers over the past century, dating back to as far as 1875.

Believe it or not there was a time I believed in Aten with all my heart, and then a creature of the night changed my status in life, from mystical mortal to supreme immortal, from deficit to surplus, if ye will, politician, with powers and gifts that humans can only dream of.

Yet why do I sometimes cry out to Christ when I am in grave, unbearable pain? I haven’t always been so weak, for Jesus wept himself, but he wept knowing he was God, knowing who He was and what purpose He was to serve, to save mankind.

I mean He loved mankind so much He gave His life, had it been me the earth would be no more and I’d be in supernatural Heaven. Despite being a vampire I long to be human again, sometimes, and when I have those thoughts I kill humans just to curb a desire to want to be them again, and I have to further remind myself, that if I want to continue living a life of luxury I must do what is required to maintain it.

Who wanted to be dirt poor once more? Who wanted to grow up dealing with a hideous sun that kept my skin dark and unfamiliar?

Back when I was split in twos, both mentally and physically.

One, as a dark girl filled with naivety, and my other self, the girl trapped by systematic government and rule, things so out of my control I still shudder from the memory and those memories weren’t very pleasant.

During those earlier times I even had two different emotional attachments.

In fact, combined, if all my bad memories could form themselves into one Being I think it’d be the devil himself.

I call out to Him usually when I’m covered in guts and blood from my victims when I do sink to my knees and call on Christ the way I used to, when I was only human, even though He was Aten to me during that Σra, during Ђat Time; during a Time I wish I could forget, that I didn’t care to remember.

Pity the fool. §igh.

I’m very opinionated, and that comes with having more money than every mortal bank, combined. And my wealth is another story in itself, and how I acquired it would mean to dig up every deed written over in my name, leaving dynasties and empires for my taking, to do with them as I please. §o I turned them into torture chambers.

I currently own 122 fallen, forgotten dynasties. I’ve combined them into one entity, selling most to other wealthy, deserving blood suckers, some that run nations right as we speak, nations they art still, even during these modern times of technology and digital hogwash, they art still called Kings and Queens, Princes and Princesses…

A literary genius coined the story; to write with such passion and conviction, of the very things he seldom watched or read about, just to see if he could “write a vampire short story” hath turned into a 4,000 page manuscript of unadulterated emotion and unspoken, unsettled pain—with a plethora of complicated and complex characters he wrote by hand with small golf pencils from a prison cell with only his pain to guide him through the grieving process.

I remember during the “process of Creation,” he sat up for hours at a time, 18 at the most, writing well into the crack of dawn, or burning the midnight oil, even after 4 a.m. when everyone slept and snored into the night.

He had blisters all over his fingers, and they cramped so badly it took 3 hours just for his contorted fingers to relax enough for him to release the pencil…

Writing was therapeutic for him, unfortunately I could care less.

§tunningly, for four years and nine months he read every book he touched in the library, researched things that “enlightened him,” and breathed the creation of vampires.

I was only there with him (in spirit) to…push him along, often times talking to him through his subconscious during those times he gave up on creating our existence in the form of characters, but somewhere along the lines the DNA of his past color every single solitary emotion ye art about to read.

I was also there to make sure things were where they were supposed to be and I must say the way we ebb and flowed together, an Immortal vampire collaborating with an intelligent Mortal with Immortal talent, still marveled me until this day.

Why I allowed him to live beats me, because I care nothing for mortals.

I was a bit indifferent tonight.

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