A Life Of Darkness

Just beyond the window I could see the alley. The streets were quiet. It was no later then two o’clock am and the night was still young. It was dark and the only light came from the clean full moon. I was watching a man and a woman who had just come out of a nightclub through the alleyway. The man had been drunk, laughing as he struggled to regain his footing. The woman, however, I knew. She had pale white skin, cold and icy, with dark long hair and mystical violet eyes that would lure any man or woman to her bidding. Her figure was slim and beautiful with long smooth legs, supple arms, and slender waist. She is a night stalker, a dark angel, a trick’s trickster, and a slayer. She is a vampire-as am I.

"Have you fed, Antonio?" I turned and there he was standing through the dark doorway, my creator and master, Silvio Balarius. He too had pale white skin, with dark crimson eyes and long curly white hair that he fashioned back in a ponytail.

"Not yet," I replied feeling a tad weak and hungry for the blood of a mortal, "I was just thinking."

"Of what?" Silvio asked in his exotic Spanish accent. He was now staring down through the window watching as Persephone, a fellow vampire and my sister, sunk her teeth into the drunken man’s neck sipping away at his life.

"Mortal life," I said, almost abruptly, "I can’t seem to recall mine and yet I feast on so many night after night. I can only remember my mortal death."

"You are having your regrets of vampire-hood." Silvio assumed as he turned away from the window closing the curtains and shunning the light from the moon, "I never had that regret… I am what I am."

Silvio was the first and oldest living vampire in the world, or so he says. He was never a mortal and was born into darkness from the beginning of the seventeenth century. He had to learn of vampire life the hard way going almost half-mad in the process and risking death many times.

He pulled out a wooden chair dusting it off with a white handkerchief and then folding the handkerchief and placing it into his marvellously handmade azure suit. He crossed his legs and sat comfortably with his hands interlacing. "Tell me, Antonio." He hissed, "What do you remember of your mortal life. Tell me what it was like."

This was unexpected. Silvio was always dark and mysterious never caring for anyone but himself. But he was also alone and had no knowledge of anything but being a vampire. He was interested in life, even though he killed often, and wanted to know it’s value and it’s importance. How ironic of a vampire.

The end of my mortality and the beginning of my immortality begins in the old world of the eighteenth century. I had just witnessed the death of my mother and father and mourned for them with liquor clutching to my hardened lips. I was often drunk and walked the streets at night not knowing where I was going-not even caring. I would often wake up in the morning in a ditch with a headache that quivered my skull.

Occasionally I would tempt death. Wrapping a rope around my neck or feeling the cool blade press against my wrist and throat. But Persephone would stop me from doing it.

"I want to die…" I would moan to her my head resting on her breasts, "Let me die! Let me die!"