The Vampire Alessandro

The book I've been working on for about a year. It's not finished yet, I'm just giving everyone a chance to read it.

The Vampire Allessandro

Written by Alexandra Akiens

 

                                     Part I:  The Enlightenment

 

I sat, hurt and numb in a cold, damp room that revolted me. The grey wallpaper was peeling, and there was that pungent smell of moisture that lingered and wouldn’t go away. I wanted to be alone, unbothered by humans and their habits, away from the world and its injustices. I wasn’t alone in the room though. There sat another being whom I barely knew, who had followed me, wanting to know about me. Although I didn’t know the depth of his soul, or who he truly was, I knew his face. He had stalked me in many cities. Rome, Paris, Florence, Venice, Athens. There was always that being following me, watching me, observing me. I had always been aware that he was there, but I had never harmed him in any way. I suppose he interested me, it intrigued me as to why he was so persistent in his following, and for that reason, I hadn’t slain him. Anyone else, and I would have sucked the very life out of them. He sat at a table in front of me, staring into my eyes. I must say, that for a mortal, he was full of intensity. He had the most stunning and captivating mahogany eyes that gazed into my soul, or so it seemed. Thinking about it, his eyes were slightly odd. They seemed like immortal eyes, but I knew for a fact that he was indeed mortal.

He sat in front of me and talked. At first, I couldn’t hear anything, not the background noise of the cars, speeding past the apartment, not the soft and mesmerising sound of his Italian voice. Nothing. All I heard, if I heard anything, was white noise. Then, after I had become conscious of my surroundings, I established eye contact with him, and began to talk with him.  Not only was he intriguing in his facial features, but he also held a conversation very well. I found myself wanting to kiss him or touch his hair, as soft and glistening as it was. It was when he began to ask me questions that I really started to pay attention. “Tell me about your life, the place in which you grew up. Tell me everything about yourself. I want to know who you really are, the mortal and immortal aspects of your life, how it is and was.”  He spoke in Italian, with a crisp and clear accent that I understood perfectly. He was quite obviously a native. He knew that I was not a mortal man, as others may have thought. He understood what I did to survive, and he was fascinated by it. That I could tell, just by assessing the situation. I contemplated telling him my life story, I thought long and hard about whether he would exploit me and use the information I had given him to write a book, or expose my secrets. After realising that no more damage could be done than had already been done, I began to speak. “My name is Allessandro. I was born into mortal life on the 28^th of October 1446 in Italy, but as you well know, I have travelled many lands, seen many things. I have experienced more than you could possibly imagine.” I sat and thought for a moment, as I collected my thoughts. “During my early life, I worked as an artist in Florence, although by the time I was 18, I moved to Venice, away from the memory of my shortly dead family, and anything that linked me to my past. 

“I was 19 years of age when I was “born into darkness”. My maker had given me no choice. For months on end, I had felt a presence follow me wherever I went. It gave out no vibe, but it let me know that it was there, watching me. I had felt threatened by this presence, though it gave me no signal that it wanted to inflict harm upon me. But I could tell that it didn’t mean well. A great depression had over taken me in the previous year, as I had lost my entire family. The house had been set alight, and everyone in it had died. At the time, I had been at university in Rome, studying philosophy like the vain and pretentious boy I was. I had come home to find their charred bodies, positioned like the figures in my nightmares. I couldn’t bear the pain of living and turned to drink. Every night I would intoxicate myself with ale until I was unconscious. Many a night, I had to be carried home by the people I was drinking with. I would call them friends, but I hardly knew them. They were just my drinking companions.

“I longed for an escape from everything. It was all too much for me. I slept on a friend’s floor, in his flat. It was uncomfortable and I hated it, but it was better than sleeping on the street and risking assault, or the possibility of catching pneumonia. That was exactly what I wanted though. He refused to let it happen to me. Luciano was my only true friend, and I was glad of it. He had stuck with me through the despair and the depression. I openly invited anyone to end it all for me, and it was this being that accepted. The week after my 19^th birthday, the presence approached me in an alleyway. I couldn’t see much of his face, though I could see his eyes. They were amazing and amber. I could see my terrified face in the reflection. I looked panic stricken. My brow was furrowed, and my brown eyes were welling up with tears. I managed to utter a few words in my state of despair.  “Please don’t kill me.” And with that, he buried his head in my neck. I felt two sharp implements pierce my skin, and a strange feeling overwhelmed me. I was being drained, though all I felt was a tingling through my body. He withdrew. My head flopped back, and as he looked into my eyes, I could see my drawn and pale face in his pupil’s reflection. I knew I was close to death. “Such a beautiful boy. I shall let you live.” Instead of dropping my body to the floor, he did something completely unexpected to me. He bit into his wrist until it bled, and placed the wound over my mouth. What was he doing? I couldn’t resist the warm liquid that so rapidly flowed into my mouth. My jaw locked onto his wrist, and I drank until neither of us could withhold anymore. Surges of pain rushed through every sinew in my dying body. I was passing into immortality. “That’s it,” he said, “not much longer now. This is only mortal death, and after this you’ll never get ill or die. You’ll remain forever young and beautiful, just as you are now.”

“Everything went still. I got up from the cold stone floor and looked around me. You couldn’t begin to imagine the things I saw. His eyes were more amazing than anything I’ve ever seen. They came alive as he blinked; yet they remained the same.  It was as though the world was animated. Beauty was restored in to the things that had become ugly. Everything was so much more detailed, as though it was a book that came alive as it was read. The slow patter of water on the floor seemed completely new and perplexing, but I had seen it so many times. Like a new adaptation of an old composition, everything was changed, though only slightly.” I sighed. He looked at me compassionately. And then something occurred to him. “You don’t know my name, do you?” I chuckled. “Of course I do. You are Marcello, beauty of Italy, and fine poet.” In that moment, his mouth formed a perfect “O”. “Shall I continue?” And with that, he nodded.

 

“I ran from him. There was no time to be wasted through standing around, silently observing the new world around me. I had to go and experience it. Women and men were instantly drawn to me. I revelled in this, grabbing a beautiful young girl and kissing her, dancing in the cool November rain, out in the street.

He was following me, my maker, running after me in order to talk to me again. I ran too, I ran faster than mortals could. After a while, when I thought I had finally lost him in the sea of faces, a firm, cold hand grabbed me. It was he. “I couldn’t let you go without warning you, telling you what you need to know.” I laughed at him, as though his words were folly and meaningless, though really, they were completely necessary. “You must listen to me, or you may harm yourself. Do not go into sunlight, as you will combust, and never wake again. You must sleep in a coffin, and to survive, you have to drink the blood of the living. You can never wake at morn again. Decapitation or dismemberment will kill you also.” He paused and smiled. “Go! Laugh, dance, kiss, do what you will, but be merry, and remember what I said.” And with that, he gave me a gentle push and disappeared into the crowd.

I suppose it came to me as a great shock. Never again would I be able to sit on a hill and paint the sunrise, never again would I be able to view the magnificence and beauty of the sunset. It saddened me, but I got over it shortly.

“After a year of living in Venice, I began travelling around known Europe. I went to Paris first, and encountered many new and exhilarating things. There I indulged in the music of the Renaissance era, meeting many extremely talented musicians and artists, enjoying many excellent “meals”, or should I say, drinks. I often let my mind wander back to my time in Venice, and wondered what it would be like, had things been different, had I not encountered “the being”, and had he not chosen me to be his victim. What if he had chosen to kill me instead, or if he had not come across me at all. Questions constantly plagued me, but I would never know the answer to them.

“I enjoyed women. I enjoyed meeting women, seducing them, and then taking them to my apartment. I came upon a slight “issue”, shall we call it. One fine evening, after dinner and drinks (which I didn’t consume, might I add), I escorted a beautiful Parisian woman back to my apartment, for the first time since I had received the dark blood. We sat on the edge of my bed and kissed, embracing each other. After a while of feeling and touching each other, things progressed, and I found myself naked with her, in my bed, still kissing her. When things progressed even further, I found myself to feel nothing, as she caressed my organ. No feeling, no joy, no pleasure, nothing. I leapt out of bed, ashamed and surprised, and she left, never seeing me again. I redressed, sitting this time on the lid of my coffin, weeping tears of blood.

That was something he forgot to mention. Never again was I to feel the joy of sex.

 

“I left Paris, too depressed to roam its beautifully gilded streets any longer. I returned to the old and familiar city of Venice, where I was to meet many adventures. The journey to Venice was quick. I flew with my own power, through the power of my mind and body. It sapped most of the energy out of me, but after I drank, that energy was restored. On the first night, I found a cosy little studio flat which I started renting immediately from an old Venetian merchant. He seemed a little suspicious, but that went away when I offered him double the price he had asked for originally. I enjoyed seeing his plump little face full of glee. It made me happy.

I settled into the flat quickly, and sought to buying new furniture. As late at night as it was there was always at least one shop or market open that I could buy furniture from...and there was. Many of the shop owners thought it a little odd that I was buying a coffin at three o’ clock in the morning, but were thoroughly pleased with the amount of money I gave them. Greed is very easy to manipulate. Returning home from my early morning shopping, I came across an artist, struggling to get into his house, his arms full of paintings, trying to escape by falling out of his grasp. Such beautiful features. He caught me watching him and smiled. “Could I help you with those?” I asked. He chuckled and replied, “That would be very kind of you.” I walked towards him and outstretched my arms so that he could place the paintings in them. He did so, and I was astonished by their accuracy as I looked through them. “Wow. You’re a fantastic painter.” I saw his cheeks fill with colour as he struggled to open his front door, the key sticking awkwardly. “Thank you. My name’s Sandro by the way. I haven’t seen you around before.” I nodded. “I’m Allessandro, and I only moved in about an hour or so ago. You shouldn’t be quite so modest about your works...they’re amazing!” He replied instantly. “Would you like to come in and look at my other works?” I smiled a wide and toothy smile. “I would love nothing more.””

It was odd to be talking about it, that series of events that lead to falling in love with the man that lived next door, a single encounter leading to all that happened.

“He was the man that I was to spend the next 300 years with, that I loved and cherished, and thought the world of. I had never felt that way about anyone in the whole of my mortal life, let alone my immortal life. It was intense and passionate, even though sex was not involved. That didn’t matter though. We discovered that that was not the basis of a relationship, love was. It wasn’t long after our relationship started that I made him a vampire. It would have gotten in the way greatly if I had carried on the facade. He accepted everything that came with it, which made it easier to carry out, although I could tell after a while that he missed all the little things: walking in the warm autumn sun, sitting and watching the ocean’s waves, baking in the sun, sex. I confessed to him that I missed those things too, but that together we could experience things much more thrilling or peaceful together, things that would leave a lasting impression on our hearts.

 

“And that’s when it happened. That’s when I made the biggest mistake of my life. I made another of my kind. What followed was a bloody mess that left Sandro and I completely torn apart. It had killed the last part of me that was still who I used to be. Alessandro, the Italian aristocrat, the poet, the musician, the artist, and lover. I was no longer that person anymore, but what the unforgiving years had morphed me into.

I couldn’t bear the thought of waking up another day. It haunted me, the horrors of my past. The things I’d seen and done. How could I have done that to him? My love and soul mate. I had driven him away forever through my selfish and foolish acts. I wandered alone; never again returning to the place I had lived for three hundred years. In the start, I had often passed my old studio flat, not thinking too deeply about it. But my soul forbade it after a short while of feeling completely destroyed inside, every time I went past.

“I remember the look in his eyes the day I left him. He was broken inside. He didn’t bother hiding his devastation. It manifested itself in his face, his eyes, and the way his forehead became lined, though as blood drinkers, age lines cannot usually be seen.

Despair had driven him to neglect himself. I remember spying upon him one night, not long after we had parted. He hadn’t drunk in weeks, and he was becoming frail. I just wanted to hold him in my arms again and tell him it would be all right, that I didn’t mean the things I said, and the sordid things I did. I knew however, that he would have pushed me away.

“I remember the night he found out, his reaction. At first he was outraged, and showed this by smashing all the mirrors in my house. Then, after his passion spent, he sat on the edge of the bed that was in my room, and wept. His cheeks were stained with blood tears, though that didn’t seem to matter to him. He shouted words at me; he questioned our existence. “Why Allesandro, must we live like this? We have a bed, though at night we do not sleep in it. No. We sleep in coffins whilst the sun beams brightly, for fear of dying, and at night we show ourselves, though we hide from mortals. Why? It is not the life I wanted, and it was you that took that from me. You took my mortal life from me, all because you wanted a companion in this cruel and merciless world. You were selfish, and now, you’ve done it again, though this time, I am not the victim.” He paused and then began to speak again. “How old was this one when you brought him into darkness? Had he lived for 50 mortal years? No. Of course not. You like to take them young. I’m guessing perhaps 17 years. For that was how old I was. I had only just managed to stop growing when you snatched me from the mortal world. My flesh was pink and full of life, but you turned it white. I cannot be around you any longer Allesandro. You infuriate me.” And at that point, I got up and left him sitting there. I would have liked to utter a word of love, or perhaps ask for forgiveness, but my words would have been wasted on him. He didn’t try to stop me either. He watched me walk out. Half way down the road, I heard him weep, and still when I was in another city. I deeply regret what I did, for where is the other vampire that I made? He left me long ago. Back then, although I was six hundred years old, I didn’t really listen to what others told me about people. I didn’t care if others knew him as someone who would leave you, I did it anyway. I knew deep down that he wouldn’t stay with me, that he would just use me for my blood and then run away. And that’s why, when I found him, I destroyed him. I set him ablaze with the power of my mind. Although I should have revelled in his death, in the way his hair frazzled and the liquid in his eyes boiled, I didn’t. I was sad. Sad that it had come to this, that after I had made another companion, I had been forced to destroy him. After he was merely a pile of ash, and I had scattered these ashes to prevent him from coming back in some dreadful form, I fled Rome. Never again was I to look upon my beloved Sandro. He was gone forever.

 

“I went to Florence, where people like me, the artists and the musicians, the poets and the authors were appreciated, celebrated. I fitted in well, though no one knew I was even alive. I preferred it that way. It meant that I couldn’t get attached to anyone else. And although I wanted a companion, or a lover, someone I could share my whole life with, that I’d never have to be separated from, I knew that I couldn’t manage that, and that the other person would suffer. They wouldn’t get the whole me, the real me. That person had died a long time ago, along with the immortal boy.

So, I wandered alone, selling the paintings I wasn’t fond of, and keeping the ones that I was. The walls of my home were covered in portraits and landscapes. Often, I would sit on a bench just after midnight, and I would paint whoever came into my line of view. Sometimes it would be two lovers, sitting and staring into one another’s eyes, exchanging words. I captured the rich, warm colour that she had painted on her lips earlier that night, and the auburn streaks that glistened in his hair. I captured the glisten of their living, mortal eyes, and the way their skin reminded me of the sun, though I couldn’t remember what the sun was like. It had been too long. They had beautiful Italian skin, just as I had when I was alive, just like them. I admired the way her velvet corset was tight around her bosom, and how it made her look like a little china doll. I wanted to be the man that sat at her side, and pull her close to me, embracing her in the warm air of night. I wished to be living again so that I could find pleasure in the simple things that humans take for granted, like the feeling of the warm sun on my skin, and the taste of food. I wanted to be able to find pleasure from sex, and feel refreshed from sleep. I wanted to have a normal life. To grow and then to become old and wrinkled, and eventually die. It would never happen though. I was too far past that stage in my life. I had the chance to be a normal living person, but it was taken away from me at a young age.”

Marcello, with his large and attentive eyes, looked down at the table, and then back up at me. “I think you’re amazing. Your story is...incredible. You’ve captured my heart with your words.” He leaned over the table, putting one hand on it, and the other on my face, as he bent to kiss me. He had such full and sumptuous lips, placing himself firmly on my mouth. I closed my eyes, feeling the true beauty of the kiss. We drew back and resumed his place in the chair opposite me. “I want you. I want to share my life with you, whether I am mortal throughout it or not. You’re an incredible being that I’m not going to be able to walk away from at the end of this night.” I was slightly taken aback, but I’d expected it, just not in the way he phrased it, and not from him, the shockingly beautiful one. He reached across the table with his hand and put it in mine, feeling how unnaturally cold I really am. It shocked him at first, but he became accustomed to it after a few seconds, and a warm, comforting smile painted itself across his face. I didn’t completely understand why he was so drawn to me, but I was flattered to say the least. Perhaps this was it, the person who I really was meant to be with, instead of Sandro all those years ago. I queried the meaning of all that I had endured, the meaningless relationship that ended with nothing but sorrow, the endless nights of depression, where I did nothing but wander alone through crowded streets, full of mortal, living people that I didn’t know, but that I’d never be like again. I missed the days where everything was simple, where I could just sit and paint all day, and then in the late evening, go outside and walk down the boulevard that connected all the houses together. I’d look at the beautiful autumn leaves of gold and brown that looked translucent in the sunlight that warmed my skin. I wanted to return to those days, but the realisation really hit me, that it would never be like that again. “Tell me another story about your life. The places you’ve travelled perhaps? Tell me of one of your experiences. I want to know.” I sat there pensively, trying to think of a story that would interest him. Knowing this curious and fascinated boy though, anything would grab his undivided attention. “My dear boy, you just long to know me better, don’t you? You long to know everything about me, whether others would find it interesting or not.” He nodded without hesitation, like an eager schoolboy. I looked out of the apartment window at the traffic below, the many people rushing to get to their next destinations. I pointed at the scene. “There, you see such busyness. One marvels at the hustle and bustle of the city during the day, but, as soon as night falls, there is an almost horrifying silence that fills the air. Such a silence is enough to make a man go mad! It’s a truly deafening silence that seems louder than a jet plane taking off, yet still unsettlingly quiet. I found this to be the case in Bruges, when I walked the streets at night, admiring the beautiful architecture. There were no people to be seen on the streets. There was no one except for the statues that stood there permanently. No sign of life at all. It chilled my blood. I was convinced that everyone except for myself, had been wiped out in a horrible war, or they all died from illness. Such was not the case. The taverns were all shut, and there were no shops open. It was probably the most terrifying experiences of my life.” The boy sat there in awe, his mouth wide open. “Wow.” He thought for a moment. “Where were all the people?” I chuckled. “Unknown to me, the outsider, the villagers were extremely superstitious. It happened to be a full moon, and so they were all forced to lock themselves inside their houses, because they believed that a creature covered in hair, that resembled not only a man, but also a large dog, or a wolf, would attack them and take them to Hell with him.” This amazed him even further. I decided to play a game with him. I stood up from the table and took Marcello’s hand and led him to stand in front of me, so that it was easier to kiss him. I put my lips to his, and slipped my tongue into his mouth, biting down on it so that blood entered his mouth. His first taste of vampirism. He moaned slightly and I withdrew, playing the tease. He smiled cheekily, and I began to walk away from him. “Where are you going?” Panic filled his voice. “Follow me again, like you have been for the past year. Follow me and you’ll be pleasantly surprised by what awaits you at the end of the journey.” I read his thoughts, and he was thoroughly confused, but he did as I told him. Out of the plain, dull and cold room I walked, running down the stairs that connected the apartment with the rest of the world. The freezing night air hit me like a brick in the face. Colder than anything I had ever felt before, it froze me to the core. People passed the road that I was about to cross, and Marcello followed, being the attentive and curious boy that he was. We walked for a few miles through the busy and bustling centre of Paris, past the pretty little cafés and down the boulevards that I knew so well. I passed a painter that I had known for years, selling his paintings to anyone that showed interest. I knew him, and yet he didn’t know me. I was just another passing face to him, someone that he saw occasionally, but that he didn’t remember. He’d smile at me whilst I viewed his work. Every now and then I’d pay him a few hundred francs for a portrait that he’d paint on the spot. He was a very talented artist. We reached our destination.

 

Part II: Unveiled Secrets

 

 

I stopped him and turned to face him. We stood in front of a tombstone, in a cemetery that he knew almost as well as I did. But he didn’t know it as well as I did, because he didn’t know the underground that lay hidden, opened only by immortal hands and arms. I was thrilled, thrilled that I was finally able to show another living being my secrets and habitat. I talked to him softly. “Know that you are the first person to see what awaits you, other than myself. You cannot tell another living being what you see. It shall remain private, otherwise I will be in danger.” He understood immediately, and with that I bent down, brushed off all the dirt from the “grave”, grabbed hold a handle. I pulled it, and a lid opened, showing a ladder leading down to a dark chamber. I lead him down, down into the darkness. I lit some candles when I reached the floor, using my mind as a match, allowing Marcello to see around him. He was amazed as he looked around him at the walls that were covered in gold, and the sarcophagus that lay in front of him. “This is where I sleep during the day, where I’d like to sleep during the day with you, holding you close to my breast. That’s if you’ll let me of course.” He smiled. “I’d be honoured to sleep in your coffin, just you and I alone, unharmed.” Was what I was doing right? Could I really trust this boy with my safety? He was deeply interested in me, but does that mean that he wouldn’t hand me over to someone for a large amount of money, or expose me to the light for kicks? I had to take that risk if I wanted to experience happiness for even a moment. “Let me show you how this place is so inaccessible to humans.” I climbed up the ladder and slammed the ‘trap door’ shut. With that action, bolts came rushing across the lid, locking into place on the other side. “When I touch the handle from outside, it unlocks for me, allowing me to step inside, into my haven of gold. No other being, mortal or immortal, can open this, because of the sheer force needed.” The walls of gold and the large sarcophagus that lay within this very chamber amazed him. It fascinated him. “Tell me, what do you do for a living, apart from stalk me?” He chuckled softly to himself. “I am a poet. It’s not a very well paid living, but every now and then, my works are published, either in an anthology of poetry, or a publisher chooses to publish a book of mine. It can be very rewarding, especially when a fan sends you a letter, telling you how in love they are with your works, or how my poems have improved their marriage. I enjoy doing it. I just wish it paid better.”

“I understand. When I worked as a painter, all those years ago the money didn’t come easily. But you can leave that all behind now. If you come with me, live with me, you’ll never have to scrape money together again. I have millions here, money that you’ve only ever dreamt of before. You’d always have nice clothes, books, whatever you want. We could buy fast cars, we could travel the world together, and every step of the way, I’d be with you, supporting you.” I think he was quite taken aback by that. His brow raised and then returned to its normal shape, and for a moment or two he was speechless. “I’d love nothing more.” Was all he said.

 

We spent years together, him being my mortal friend, I being his immortal mentor. I enjoyed spending time with him. It was innocent and untainted, not like most friendships between vampires and humans, I didn’t drink his blood on the odd occasion. I kept him away from that kind of thing. I didn’t want him exposed to the harsh reality of the underworld. It was though I was his mother and he was my child, and the big boys in the park did drugs and had sex, and I didn’t want him getting involved in that, because he’s too young. That’s exactly what it was like. You must understand though, I didn’t smother him with my protection. I still let him breathe, I still told him about these things, I just didn’t show him them.

We travelled a lot, moving from city to city without a care in the world. I’d always buy an apartment; buy it outright so that there wasn’t the chore of having to pay rent every month. It left us a nice little haven to come back to the next time we visited. They weren’t cheap apartments either. The least expensive apartment that I owned was £12,000 to buy, whereas an average apartment would be roughly£3000. They were always well furnished in velvet and the floors were often made of mahogany, just like my belongings back in Italy. I had acquaintances in every city that I could rely on and trust to keep a close watch on my flat, so that no other immortal could tear up the place. I wasn’t a fool. I had made sure that the place was secure. It was just like my underground chamber, in the sense that it had large, sturdy locks behind the door.

We didn’t stay in most places for long though, as we soon got bored, or rather, I got bored. There was a place though, one of the most beautifully breathtaking cities in the world, that I couldn’t stay away from. I had spent many years there, being a painter, but never actually selling my work. Why would I need to? I already had millions of pounds. I had to show Marcello the place that I had spent centuries, the place I felt most at home in.

 

Paris. Arguably the most beautiful city in the world. Around every corner, you’d find an artist selling their work, or a street musician, better than the ‘musicians’ that were in the charts. Its hidden talents weren’t appreciated enough. It’s not like America, where there is so much publicised talent, that’s not how it is in Paris, and not how it was ever like either. Everything seemed cosy in France, its warm and welcoming cafés, lit by candles at night, and the social, but never rowdy, bars. Everything seems much more charismatic than England or America, where everything is uniform. I was in love with Paris, more than any other city I’ve ever lived in.

We sat in a ‘coffee house’, as the Americans call them, and we talked like lovers, like poets, and like travellers. We discussed our plans, where we would go first, how long we would stay. I enjoyed talks like that one. “Prague. We must go to Prague at some point. You’ve no idea how tremendously beautiful it is. The sky is always lit with stars that represent people’s happiness, the streets are paved with gold, or so it would seem, for children to play along. It’s such a joyful and historic town,” I paused, “and I really think you’ll like it. Also, we must go to Germany. There is a festival every called ‘Wave Gotik Treffen’. It’s an alternative festival for Goths. I’d find it amusing to try and blend in, see if I just look like another black clad teenager, dancing to EBM.” He laughed merrily. It was very funny to see his face just crack with laughter. “What’s tickled you?” I said, also beginning to laugh. “The thought of you in black PVC trousers with dread falls coming from your head.” By this time we were both in hysterics, unable to stop laughing. I regained my train of thought, and moved as close to him as I could, although I was already sitting right next to him.

“Marcello. Tomorrow night, I will give you the blood. After you have seen the sunset for one last time, and you are very sure of what you want, come and stand directly outside this chamber. Don’t knock. I’ll be able to sense your presence, and with that I’ll come outside to greet you.” I paused, really thinking about whether or not this was the right thing to do, and whether or not in a few hundred years he would resent me for it, after pining for the human life, and the human habits. It was a risk I had to take. If I could be happy with him for three hundred years or so, and then become depressed again when he had left and burnt down my home, I would be satisfied. A small amount of happiness with him would be all I need. “Are you sure you want this? There’s no going back after I’ve put my blood into you. From that moment on, you are a night being. Come; let’s go out tonight, together. Go home, have a wash, shave, paint your face, and I’ll be waiting for you outside that cosy little flat of yours. We’ll go to town, watch the opera and then who knows where it could go from there.” He didn’t know where it could go, but I did.

 

I was standing outside his block of flats for roughly five minutes, looking around me, watching the many passing people. I found it truly fascinating watching people, their behaviour, their attitudes, how they react to certain things, whether they wait at the edge of the road when there is a car coming, or whether they run across it in anticipation, hoping they’ll make it to the other side. For about two of those five minutes, I caught Marcello watching me from his window, watching me watching people, and then later watching him. He peered at me from his window, as if he was observing another life species, in complete awe and wonder. I glanced up at him and smiled, inviting him to join me down below. He disappeared from sight, and then within the next minute, he was on the same level as me, looking directly at me. “Good evening.” I said to him in a cool, laid back manner. “Good evening Allessandro.” That was the first time I had heard him say my name. He made it sound nice. He had such a strong Italian accent, whereas mine had faded, mixing Italian with French. “Are you ready to go? I must say, you are dressed beautifully.” I paused for a moment and then resumed speaking. “Let me take you somewhere, anywhere, let me fly you to St. Petersburg with me, let me bestow gold and jewels upon you, dress you like a prince. I don’t care where we are.” I remained a statue though, void of feelings or emotion. I had a tendency of distancing myself, so that no one could ever tell how I felt, so that I could never look needy or desperate. He blushed, not used to the compliments or the admiration. He looked at me at first, and then he came closer and opened his arms to me. I embraced him, lovingly. “I don’t feel good enough for you.” He said, avoiding eye contact completely. I had an unusual feeling in the pit of my stomach, one that I knew very well. “Allessandro, I can’t do this. From what you’ve told me, you regret ever receiving the blood, and so I couldn’t possibly accept yours. You mean so much to me, that I wouldn’t want to end up loathing you if I realise that I’d made a mistake. That’s what happened to Sandro, and it won’t happen to me, because I won’t let it,” He sighed and stared at the floor, and then began speaking again, “there’s no point looking for me here. I’ve already moved my things. You won’t be able to trace me. You don’t know my real name, you’ve no idea where I’m moving to, and I have no intention of contacting you again. I’ve enjoyed the time I spent with you, and I’m not doing this because I don’t love you. I’m doing it so that I don’t get sucked in any further and risk getting hurt, just because I didn’t do something earlier. I’m sorry it had to be like this. I really liked you. I was willing to spend my life with you, but it just can’t be like that. You and I are completely different. Say I remain mortal for the next God knows how many years? What will I do when you’re sleeping during the day? Do you expect me to give up the sun too, even though I’m physically capable of enduring it, enjoying it, laughing with friends in it? I have to do this; otherwise I’ll regret it for the rest of my life. I need a normal relationship, and this is far from normality.” Tears were streaming down his porcelain face, but he didn’t look upset, just numb. He kissed me one last time, in a passionate yet sorrowful embrace, and then he turned from me and walked away, into the night. I watched his slender figure walk down the boulevard, and then disappear round a corner. That was the last I would see of him again for a long time. The whole scenario seemed incredibly familiar. I walked around Paris, not wanting to waste the beautiful night. I chuckled to myself, thinking about what he had said, ‘You won’t be able to trace me.’ Of course I would be able to trace him. I could always tell where he was, what he was thinking. I think that after he had said it, he probably realised once again that he wasn’t talking to a mortal man, and that I could, if I was a little more indecent, follow his every move. I respected his wishes and wants though, so I left him well alone. It made me very sad to think that in sixty or so years, he would be dead and decomposing in the ground, but I would still be eternally young, and eternally beautiful.

Him leaving made me think things through, made me analyse everything I did, whether I did the right thing, or whether I was a little hasty, or too quick to move. I wished that I had done things differently. I wished that I wasn’t trapped in this damned body forever! Times like that made me crave mortality again. But it never would happen, and that I accepted. There was no point in resenting who I was or what I was, because I couldn’t change it. A small part of me though, wanted to end my own existence, so that at least I could die. I pushed that part of me aside. I thought I’d be more upset than I actually was. I wasn’t really upset, but rather, disappointed. I was disappointed that I wouldn’t be able to teach him my worldly knowledge, or share a great number of years with him. That’s the only thing that disappointed me. There were many other young men like him that I could whisk away and show the world to. There were many other men that would be more appreciative of it too.

 

I needed to drink. I looked at the faces of the many, many people in the street, walking along, or stopping to light a cigarette, sitting in a quiet café and having a coffee with a loved one. I wished it were I doing all those normal things, all those things that people take for granted. I walked down the alley next to the café and snatched up a middle class man, strolling past. I didn’t talk to him...I didn’t want to. I broke his neck and tore his flesh with my fang teeth, draining every drop of blood from his body. I let him drop to the ground, and stood over him for a moment, watching his maroon eyes roll into his skull as he passed into death.

He had satisfied me. I walked away from his body, not looking back on the life I had just taken. I could smell death setting in already. I wasn’t saddened by his death, because it was what I had to do to survive. Humans kill animals to consume to sustain life, and what I do is no different.

 

 

 

Part III: The New World

 

I felt the need to travel, to get out of Paris and leave everything behind. Start afresh where no one knew whom I was, where I was just that mysterious stranger that only comes out at night. I was already that man though. I spoke to no one, and no one knew who I was. People never talked to me, unless I was purchasing something from a shop, in which case, it was necessary to talk.

I thought and wondered where I could go to get away from my long history in France. I thought for hours in my chamber, sitting on the lid of my sarcophagus. I painted a map of the world in my mind, and looked at all the places I had been before, and where I longed to go. I had never been to England, but it was supposed to me very beautiful in certain parts. I packed what little I had, not including the sarcophagus, and left the chamber, never looking back as I walked away from the place I had spent two hundred years. It saddened me, that I was leaving my home. I would be happier in England, in Cambridge, away from the past that haunted me, in a beautiful and historic city. I had heard many good things about Cambridge, that it was full of artists, poets, writers, and intellectuals.

 

I had soon moved all of my belongings there and found a cosy apartment in a busy and bustling street, where I was surrounded by mortals. I found myself in love with the place at once. It reminded me a lot of Paris, and yet, there was something so different and unique about it that I had found nowhere else in the world. The apartment that I was living was larger than anywhere I had ever lived before, even though it was only a flat. The walls, although there were many, were mostly warm, rich colours that made me feel at home in Italy, and many of my possessions, if not all of them except the sarcophagus, where there in the flat, nicely spaced around. I had chosen to buy a new coffin, different from my very first coffin, and yet, spookily similar. It was black and covered in a shiny lacquer, lined with beautifully made purple silk, like the clothes I had worn, long ago in the 18^th century. My surroundings reminded me so much of the life I had lived in Italy, France, and the many other countries that I had visited for long periods of time. The city of Cambridge absorbed me completely, the many little bookshops, the strange, yet interesting music emporiums, every coffee shop that differed from Starbucks or Costa, everything about the city filled me with wonder. It was there that I found old scripts, scripts that I had written at the beginning of the Renaissance era, that were treasured by these mortals. I recognised them immediately as I passed them in a museum of ancient jewels. My jaw dropped, and I stood there staring for what must have been an hour. I wanted to retrieve what was mine, what I longed again to read, but I knew that I couldn’t, because then mortals would find out what I really was. It saddened me really, knowing that never again would I hold that parchment and read it over and again.

 

I lived alone for the first few years, even though I’d talk to people in cafés every now and then, when I wanted the company. I would occasionally invite a woman to my extravagant home, when I wanted to drink and be admired. I loved to see the passion in a person’s eyes, the desire there. It warmed my blood and aroused me, if I was capable of that human feeling. I was thrilled when they kissed me, when they took me by surprise, after putting down their glass of wine on the table and leant over in my direction. When they put their pleasantly warm hands on the skin of my back, it made me tingle. It was times like that that I was happy to be what I was. I didn’t need to be human to enjoy certain things.  I could still enjoy someone’s company, and that was all I really needed. I decided eventually to go into a deep sleep, away from the complications I faced each day, away from the promise of a life I would live alone.

 

Months passed me by quickly as I lay in my casket, dreaming of the past. I dreamt back to the days of Venice, when things were a little simpler. They were simpler even after my entire family had died. I didn’t have to face the complications of immortality. Things were relatively easy then.

When I thought about it in depth, I was like every mortal man that I had ever come into contact with. I questioned my own existence; I wanted to understand why I had been given life. Inside my soul, deep beneath the scars, I was a normal mortal man, yearning for a life that I could never have, yearning for assets that I could never have.

 

Night came too quickly for me, as I awoke from my long slumber. I could have lain there forever, and it would have seemed like a few minutes. Images swam through my head, scenarios, everything that I had ever said or done. Perhaps if I weren’t so pushy, if I wasn’t so strong, he would have been able to love me for longer. Maybe it was my fault that I had lost him, that he had chosen his mortality over a lifetime with me in our little haven of gold. No, it wasn’t my fault, just as it wasn’t his fault. He was right to choose life. I would have done the same if I had that chance. It saddened me, just as everything else saddened me. I needed to escape life, to bury myself for a few hundred years. Months weren’t long enough. That wouldn’t solve anything though. It would just be evasive. I’d have to wake up, dig myself out of the soil, and face everything that had happened. No, I would just live in the moment and deal with everything that came my way.

 

I woke, opening the lid of my coffin and sat, looking around at the paintings of old, and smelling the glorious scent of perfume that filled the room. My heart bled a little, waking up and not finding him next to me. But then, how could he lay next to me? I wasn’t a mortal man sleeping in a mortal man’s bed. I was a vampire that slept in a coffin, cowering away from the sunlight. I rose, closing the lid of my casket behind me, and walked into the living room, where moonlight seeped through a small gap in between two curtains that hung loosely from one of the walls. Shadows lay soundly on the mahogany floor that my cold, yet covered feet danced lightly across. The kitchen was completely empty except for a few wine glasses, some work surfaces and a refrigerator that I had bought a few weeks ago for when I had mortal company, and I wanted to fool them. It had worked every single time, even though I never bothered to store food in it. I had always said that I meant to do some shopping, but had not yet got round to it. They hadn’t suspected a thing. I liked where I lived. It pleased me. It was modern, yet it reminded me so much of my old home in Italy during the Renaissance. What I loved was new technology, and how it enabled me to listen to music that I hadn’t heard in years, or how it allowed me to watch people acting on an electrical box. It was fairly new to me. I sat on my comfy leather couch and, with the touch of a remote, turned on the stereo that sat in the middle of the living room. What should I listen to? I racked my brain in search for something that would please me. Another press of a button, and I had the Verve blaring through the speakers. The bass made my stomach tremble. It felt fantastic and thrilling. Sonnet. It was my favourite song from the last one hundred years. It really summed up a lot of what I was feeling, the feeling of loneliness, having people around but not being in love, I related to it, even though it wasn’t about me, or my kind.

 

I felt a little more at peace with myself, after I had accepted what I was, and always would be. There was no false hope that perhaps one day I could be a man, just like the models you see, or the person that sells you that polar neck you picked up in the shop. There was no delusion surrounding my identity.

 

The air was especially cold that night. I left the house wearing some black corduroy trousers, a plain t-shirt, and a purple velvet jacket that warmed me. A scarf of crushed velvet hung loosely from around my neck. I looked like an artist, coming out of his apartment to get some coffee. I wandered rather aimlessly down the high street, peering into shop windows as I passed them, observing the magnificent decorations that were associated with Christmas. Although I had never celebrated Christmas when I was mortal, the modern decorations and magnificent banquets always amazed me, the mouth watering smells of duck and geese, accompanied by ale and fine cheese. Christmas had been modernised. Everything had become about material things, and proving ones wealth. It wasn’t about love or peace anymore, but who had the most expensive gifts, or who had the most breathtaking light display. I detested it. At least back home in Italy, during my younger years, it was about love and unity, where everyone was included in the festivities. No. That had faded through the centuries. It made me feel a sense of nostalgia though for some reason unbeknownst to me.

A street urchin sat in a shop doorway; trying to wrap what little material he had around himself. The very sight of it struck sorrow within me. I reached into my pocket and pulled out all of the money I had, totalling to roughly £500. I pulled it out, looking at it for one last time, realising how little it meant to me, money, and handed it to the poor, unfortunate boy. His face lit up instantly, seeing how much I had given him. He thanked me profusely and asked whether I was sure or not, as if it was an act of impulse and soon I would regret it. I told him that it was his, and that he should spend it on himself. “How old are you, boy?” I asked him, thinking of where he would sleep. I knew that his family was dead, and that he had no one else in the world, just the generous strangers that he saw momentarily each day, that then disappeared from his life. I already knew how old he was, but it would appear strange if I didn’t. He was seventeen, old enough to live in a youth hostel. “There is a homeless shelter down the road. Sleep in the warmth tonight.” I patted him on the shoulder and walked away, leaving him beaming. 

 

I didn’t feel like a hero, like I had changed a life forever, or that I should be congratulated. I was still Allessandro, the ruthless, cold, blood drinker who was always alone. I had destroyed lives, and I had lived with it too, for hundreds of years. I didn’t feel that remorse that normal human beings feel. That was missing.

On my travels through the centre of the town in which I lived, I passed an art shop. It was an intriguing art shop, full of original paintings, and portraits of people that I didn’t know. I went into the art shop, saying a brief hello to the man who owned it. It was vast, yet, unlike most large rooms, it was well heated and smelled of cinnamon. I walked slowly around the shop, often stopping to look at a particular work of art, examining each detail carefully. One in particular caught my eye. It was dated back to 1463, painted by an unknown artist, although they suspected it came from Venice. It was one of my works. I had painted it during my years as a student in my first flat. I remember getting paint on the floor, and the landlord evicted me. At the time, I had never expected it to survive so long, and to be put in a gallery for people to buy. Then again, I hadn’t expected to live until I was over 500 years old. Some things happen, without warning or reason, out of the blue. These things can either be inconsequential, or they can change a person’s life.

I stood there in awe, in a gallery that I’d never heard of, standing at staring at my own work. I stood there for a while longer, and then, after thinking and observing, I picked it up from the wall and took it to the counter that was located at the front of the shop. I felt flattered, almost, due to the price of it. Over three thousand pounds, for a piece of art that I composed when I was twenty years old. It was my first work or art, and at the time I was very proud of it. I had managed to find a model that was prepared to pose nude for me on my sofa, and it had progressed from there. It had taken me four hours or so to sketch and paint her, capturing the shadows underneath her chin, and the dark skin around her eyes that looked almost like circles, but that had more grace than that. She was averagely pretty, but I managed to make her look stunning. She had a certain sparkle in her eyes, due to the sheer quantity of candles that were burning in the room at the time, and her skin looked warm and soft.

I didn’t appreciate money anymore. It wasn’t something that I had to work for. Handing it over when buying something that I desired wasn’t difficult anymore. I didn’t perish at the thought of not having that money any longer. The owner of the shop had a kind face, aged severely by time, and grey hair that was well shaped around his face. I dug deep within my left trouser pocket, and brought out a small velvet purse. Inside, I found the notes that I was looking for, and, after counting them briefly, I placed the crisp notes in his palm. He smiled, and handed me the painting. It felt surreal to have it in my hands after hundreds of years apart from it, to feel the texture I had sculpted with knives, on such an ancient canvas. It filled me full of joy and wonder. I ran home immediately, faster than mortal speed, and I hung it on my wall. It looked at home along with the other paintings, against the deep red walls of my apartment. I was pleased that I had found this forgotten painting, it amused me, seeing it sit there quite happily on my wall, the oldest thing I had.

For hours I sat and looked at it, my oldest creation that I’d foolishly left behind all those years ago when I relocated. Suddenly I found myself in a rage, screaming and tearing at the air around me. The screams broke the sound barrier, and I could hear cries from below, and all around. Surely, I had damaged people’s ears in my small fit of frustration. I loved the city that I lived in, and yet I still wasn’t happy, not truly happy. Even though I was regaining some of my older possessions, and everything reminded me of my home back in Venice, there was still something missing, something that I wouldn’t ever regain. It was my heart, my ability to love, or feel normal, human emotions.

 

 I saw him. He was walking along the high street in a pair of faded blue jeans and a leather jacket, carrying a motorcycle helmet. He had changed so much since the last time I had saw him. He was broody looking, but he still had that irresistible glint in his eye that I couldn’t ever forget. His hair was a little shorter than before. It came up to the middle of his neck, and the ends flicked out. It was black instead of that beautiful warm brown hair that I used to love running my fingers through. My heart would have fluttered if I weren’t dead. I ran towards him, faster than the human eye could see, and appeared next to him. He turned and looked at me, scared out of his wits to see me appear before him like that. He stopped dead in his tracks. I stood next to him and looked into his eyes. I could see into his soul. “Allessandro? What are you doing here?” Ironic really, that he had come here for a short visit, all the way from London, and he was asking me what I was doing there. “I live here now. I’d like to sit and chat with you perhaps, in my apartment. Just as old friends.” He gazed at his shoes for a while. “I don’t think the answer is underneath those leather boots.” He chuckled quietly. “Ok, I’ll come with you. I have to get my bike though. You could ride on the back if you like.” We were soon on the super bike, hurtling down the high street, like a bullet in the night, towards the road in which I lived. I was driving it.

We came to an abrupt halt in front of a large, four storey building, and after Marcello had gotten off, I park the bike next to the curb. “It’s nice. I enjoyed that ride very much,” I paused, “Shall we go in?” For a moment or two, he just stood there, staring up through the windows of my neighbours, observing what little he could see through the blinds. I started walking ahead up to the front porch, and with my shiny bronze key, I opened the door, allowing Marcello to walk in first. Almost at once, he was stricken with awe. The wallpaper of the lobby area alone was magnificent, and the furnishings, although only a wooden chair and a side table, were made of expensive mahogany. “This is only the foyer. Follow me.” I strolled into the elevator that faced us, waiting for him to follow. I pressed a button on the side panel. ‘4’. The doors slid into the middle, closing firmly, and then we were away. The elevator shot up to the fourth floor, where it opened out onto a corridor. We stood in front of a door, plated with gold, but with no window slots. All there was was a handle, a slot for the key, and a letterbox. I once again went through the process of unlocking the door, except with a different key, and then I opened it to my haven of red. He stood there, unable to move, staring into my apartment. I laughed aloud. “Come in, come in. There is more to see yet.” It was though he had just experienced his first encounter with paradise. I gave him a playful shove, so that I could close the door, stopping the hot air from escaping.

 

Eventually, he sat on the love seat that lived in the lounge. It felt surreal, having him sit with me once again in an apartment, looking at me, whilst I looked at him. Although the location had changed, it still felt the same. He held an expensive glass of red wine in his hand, between his fingers, whilst I sat opposite him, holding nothing in my hands. He began to speak. “I’m sorry for what I said back in Paris, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I was under a lot of stress at the time, and I was unsure of what I wanted.” I nodded, understanding exactly how he felt. “I know. I’ve been there. I could have swept you away from this world of madness and chaos, and taken you to a haven, where only you and I exist.” I sighed softly. “It can’t happen though. You value your mortality, and my heart is made of stone. We are too different to have a relationship together. You’re not like how Sandro was. You have more sense than he ever did.” At that point, I felt the emptiest I had ever felt. I stared at the wooden floorboards that sat comfortably underneath my feet, as if it would get me away from the situation and that gutting feeling of nothingness. “I know why you came here, but I just thought I’d say it before you asked me to go to London with you.” His face was the perfect picture of despair. “Sometimes I really hate the fact that you can read thoughts, that you can always know where I am, what I’m doing. It’s a good thing you don’t take advantage of that.” I nodded. “I should probably go now. Alyssa will be waiting for me. She thinks I’m at work.” Alyssa. His girlfriend, whom he shared a house with in London. Ah, the loyalty. “Alyssa needs you. I don’t. Although in the past I enjoyed your company, I never needed you, I was never dependant on you like she is.” It was odd, because I expected him at that point to wet his lips for the kiss that we always shared on departing. It never came though, as much as he wanted it, and maybe even I wanted it. He picked up his motorcycle helmet, tucked it underneath his arm, and then finally, after saying a soft goodbye, he left my apartment, not bothering to close the door behind him. I watched him step into the elevator that stood opposite my door. I watched him turn around, tears streaming down his soft, Italian skin, and as he waved goodbye for one final time, I wanted to hold him in my arms, but I knew that that could never happen again. That was truly the last I would ever know of him.

I closed my door, and walked over to the window, watching him speed off into the night after standing at the bottom of the block of flats, looking up towards me.

 

I should have been depressed, or unhappy, but there was nothing there, no trace of sadness or maudlin. I was dead, physically and emotionally. That had become clear to me. I slept, avoiding the sunlight. I found it quite ironic how we are seen as strong, indestructible creatures, powerful and beautiful, and yet we cower away from the sun, something so natural and glorious.  I thought about the lucky escape that Marcello had had, and how grateful he should be that I hadn’t taken him against his will. I would feel less alone if I had someone else with me to endure this. Although I didn’t truly want him to suffer with me, I did. I did want him to suffer, I wanted him to feel just how I felt, but the thought of his innocent eyes looking up at me, pleading me to let him out of my grasp, would surely drive me insane. I knew that I’d never be able to talk to him again, even though I’d probably see him a thousand times more, and yet I still adored him. He was fragile, as much as he would hate to admit it, a porcelain doll, precious and so easy to break. I wanted to protect him from all of the cruelty in the world, the greed, and the reapers. I hated the thought that he would be exposed to all of it, and that he had to fend for himself.

That was the decision he had made though, and it was he who had to live with the consequences. If I really wanted to, I could move on, find another desperate mortal that would worship and idolise me and give him the dark blood.

 

It wasn’t long before I decided to leave Cambridge and return to my homeland, the place that I hadn’t been since I left all those hundreds of years ago. My loneliness had driven me to seek out other vampires, in order to find a companion, perhaps a newly made vampire, young and unaware of the dangers, and the way in which we must live our lives. I wanted to mentor someone, to teach them all of the things I never knew about, and that I was forced to find out myself. I could imagine it already, my hand on the shoulder of the beautiful young fledgling, looking up to me as I instruct him how to be, his auburn ringlets glimmering and his brown eyes twinkling. It was exactly how I imagined it to be with Marcello, how I wished it would be.

 

Chapter IV: The Return home

 

I began to pack my belongings a few days after the thought had occurred to me to leave England. The arrangements had been made, and I was eager to return home. Men were coming round in the middle of the night to collect my large, heavy items of furniture and the rest of my belongings, and they were to be put on a plane, and flown to Italy. Meanwhile, I would be waiting in Venice for my belongings to arrive. With the incredible gift that I had received, I was able to fly, without wings or an aeroplane, just using my supernatural powers. Part of me was sad to leave Cambridge, the place that I had felt at home, even though I was far away from my real home. I had explored every nook and cranny, every alcove of Cambridge, and I found nothing ugly or repulsive about it. It was almost as though I was deeply disappointed to go to the place that I had called home all those years ago. Perhaps I had found my home in Cambridge, I had just been deterred by the visit from Marcello. Knowing that he lived close to me shook me.

I knew that what I was doing was the right thing to do though. The other part of me, the sentimental part, was weeping with joy. I anticipated my arrival in Venice. I wondered how much it had changed, whether it had all been modernised, or whether all of the old, picturesque buildings remained. I was soon to find out.

 

I waved goodbye to the beautiful and flawless Cambridge, and proceeded to lie in my coffin, waiting for the men to arrive and remove me from the land of great beauty. My philosophical mind troubled me as I lay there. Questions with no answers flooded my mind, though I wasn’t too troubled with the meaning of my existence. I had learned that no matter how much I longed for a human body, or no body at all, it wouldn’t ever happen, and so there was no point dwelling on it. No. Different questions this time. For instance, was it fate that I had met Marcello, or could that one moment, the first moment that I saw him, have been avoided? If I had not confronted him, would he have continued to stalk me, or would he have given up and gone his own way? I would never know. All I could possibly do was ponder, and that’s exactly what I did. 

 

The air felt so much colder as I was “flying” through the skies to my home. Time around me seemed to stand still, as if everything had stopped whilst I moved through the air. People were mere dots, and cars were no bigger. Everything had been put in perspective for me at that point. I was no great figure in society. I didn’t influence people or change lives. I knew no other vampires. I called out to them, the others. I knew that there must be others, for I could not be the only one. I called out in hope that someone would hear me, some merciful, kind being that was willing to make me a part of their life. I passed over many beautiful and incredible countries, some of them I stopped in. Such magnificence can be found right in front of your nose, that you never realised existed. It struck me, how I had travelled all over the world, but I had never seen such beauty until I stopped looking for it. It hit me, like a torrent of cold air, this incredible unseen beauty. It took away my breath, stunned me. I felt as though I had been ignorant all my life, for surely, I would have seen these sights before then.

 

The wind, although freezing, was refreshing as it ruffled up my hair and clothes. I felt more alive than I had during my years of mortality, so invigorated and youthful. It was like an enormous breath of fresh air that makes you realise how wonderful life really is, how you can manipulate and mould it, so that it becomes something magnificent.

 

Floating through the air, I looked down, through the mass of cotton wool-like clouds, and peered upon a quaint, pretty little city. Its streets were busy, even at night. The place seemed to have a warm glow to it that struck peace within me. This was my home, my Venice, the place that I had deserted all those hundreds of years ago. I wept from joy at the mere sight of it. Memories came flooding back. The rich, opulent colours I had painted the walls of my flat with, the beautiful women that flocked to see me, and the great scholars that I looked up to. No doubt they were all dead. My mind drifted back to the very night it happened, the night I was brought into the darkness. I wondered if he who made me still lived. I would probably never know, but still the question troubled me. I wasn’t able to try and contact him telepathically, because a maker doesn’t have that link with its offspring, and the offspring doesn’t have the special link with the maker either. I began to lower myself, so that I was nearer to the ground, the rich warm ground of my homeland. At that instant I was home. My feet were touching the ground, and I was once again in my beautiful Italy. I wept a little, wiping the blood tears on the sleeve of my jacket. Venice. It was so welcoming to see its canals and small, unknown bookshops and artists again. It reminded me of Paris and Cambridge, in the sense that, it was a deeply artistic and creative city. Around every corner was an artist trying to sell his work off the street, or a poet in his studio flat writing endless verses that would probably never get discovered. At one point, I was one of these artisans. I skipped around, joyously bouncing on my feet, laughing and yet crying at the same time. People watched me as they passed, giggling and chuckling to themselves. I ran into one of the many restaurants and ordered a pizza for everyone in the place, free of charge of course. I handed him about three hundred euros and ran out again, laughing as I went. It was like the sweetest ecstasy to be home again. Serotonin rushed through my veins as though it had been released from a tap that could never be turned off again. It was truly bliss.

 

I had forgotten how beautiful Venice looked at night, the way the stars glowed and sparkled like nowhere else I had ever been, and the way that nothing slept. The insects would still chirp, and the birds would still sing. The men would still drink and make merry, and the women still gossiped and cackled. I had never found a place in my life that felt so welcoming and with such a great sense of community. It was what was missing in my life for all those many years. And it had returned to me again, or rather, I had returned to it. Such a beautiful feeling it was.

 

For a short while, I simply stood there and took in my surroundings, until I realised that I had to find somewhere to rest during the day. I walked down the alleyways, the many twisting and turning paths and roads. It leapt out at me like a wild animal. It was perfect for me, this little apartment that not many people knew of. It was beautiful, but humble at the same time. I knew that it was for me.