The Prince in white

My take on the faltering vampire genre. This is a return to the classical vampire, big inspiration from Anne Rice, simallar style as well.

Never will I be remembered as a distinguished nobleman. Although my previous life was lived in such a manner. I wouldn’t put it as a “dark time” just a reimagining of how life should be taken.

I was changed by the sultan of ego. A highly sinister being whose sole purpose was the petting of his own pleasure. His idea of happiness was an ever increasing body count and a pair of breasts to break the monotony. He claimed his name was toureau and that he hailed from a village near Brittanie France. Although I oftened questioned him on his back ground, I never doubted my findings. His hair was a soft auburn, often times I would watch him groom it after a kill. It intrigued me as to how a person, after death, could continue to covet themselves so? His eyes were the color of quicksilver and burned right through my soul. I felt as if he could see the ash in my veins. His skin was an eerie pale that mirrored the reflection of a carefully preserved corpse. Often times I would find myself wondering aloud reasoning’s for this odd trait. Considering myself a near human replicant.

His tricks were simple enough to master. Truth be told I always felt as if there was more to be taught.

Words were a gift to him. They fell from his lips in the typical French fashion, breathy and snidish.

The table was set in a wild fashion, according to my memory, for a celebration. Many young courtesans, now void of life, littered the table. Toureau sat, arms crossed, his eyes full of deceit and malice, glanced and locked onto mine as I gingerly pulled out a chair and sat down on the opposite side of the table.

“You forgot something dear tome.” Toureau voiced.

“My whole apologies my dear master,” that word stuck in my throat, just as phlegm does to those who suffer from allergies. I had always had a difficult time viewing him as my lord and master. I could never shake the feeling that he was the lesser of us.

“No apologies necessary my dear lost boy, this was your party.” Toureau said.

“On what occasion?” I questioned.

“Your first taste of human blood,” he condescendingly squeaked as he took the breast of a young courtesan in his mouth and proceeded to feed.

Author's Note

Spelling and grammar to be ignored.