He called it a virus. As if it could be so simple. Blood borne, something to be controlled... cured. And for a while, I pretended that he might be right. So goes the human need for hope, even though that which was human in me died eight hundred years ago.
And that was the downfall of this theory of his: Dead is dead. Virus or bacterium, magic or mythology, in the final analyses, I am dead. There is no cure for that. One might sew up a stab wound, or repair a fractured bone, but if the heart is stopped, what is the point? My body walks. I think. I feel. And yet, my heart is still. My soul? That is what I do not know. That I wonder about it makes me think that, perhaps, it is still with me. But in my darkest hours, when the Need is upon me and I cannot resist, I know that I must be without it. A soulless demon with the blackest of thoughts. Dramatic perhaps, but nonetheless true. And even in this age of miracle cures and DNA typing, they have yet to even solve the riddle of that most mundane of viruses: the common cold. Did he really expect to cure me, virus or not? Ah, but it is hope, the hope to help one he cares for, that kept him at his microscope, and led him to this folly.
Not that he hasn't helped. There are the "supplements", given by injection that keep the pallor of death from my skin. It is whiter than most, but when the fashion of today is "gothic", no one questions my paleness. He developed the sunscreen that allows me to emerge at dusk instead of waiting until the sun is completely gone like the rest of my kin. He has made me comfortable in this existence, but I know that he can never cure me. Who can bestow life but a god?
God... I wonder about that too. Is there a God, gods, goddess? Before I became a vampire (why hide from the name?) I lived in a small village where we danced under the light of the moon to pay homage to the Goddess for which it represented. We laughed and made merry, secure that She would protect us. But when I became what I am, it seemed She turned away from me as the others did. The villagers looked at me in horror as I joined their circle. Then they ran, screaming about the walking dead. I looked down to see that I was indeed dressed in a shroud and covered in dirt. I could not imagine why this should be, then I looked up at the Moon and saw the clouds move across Her face. I knew then. I did not remember what had happened, but I knew the result. The Goddess would not accept me, nor does it seem, will any other deity, for I have looked.
That night, I returned to my own home. I pounded the door, begging my mother to let me in, crying for her as a small child might. Through the window in hushed tones she told me what I was, and to leave. The dead have no place with the living, she told me. "I am alive!" I insisted, though in my still heart I knew the truth. No, she cried. No, I was dead and buried three days. That I was outside her door was the work of evil and I was no longer her daughter. My pitiful weeping did not make the door open to me. I lay down on the threshold, determined to be there when the house awakened, but to no avail. Shortly before sunrise I was compelled to leave and found myself in the graveyard, staring at the crude, wooden marker that bore my name. As if in a dream, I lay down in the grave and pulled the earth over me once more.
Later, the muffled sound of baying dogs told me that I was in danger. The village could not abide the undead and so they had come for me. I knew what to expect: I had seen what happened to a corpse suspected of rising. The problem was there was nothing I could do to protect myself. It was day and instinctively I knew to fear the light. They would open my grave and that would be the end. Almost a relief really, though I shuddered at the thought of the stake. Perhaps, the sunlight would get to me first, I thought, though I did not really know what it might do to me. Of course, I now know what the sun does to my kind, and I would take the stake any day, thank you very much. But then, I was innocent and sad and barely able to comprehend what had happened to me. Who could really? The baying and the voices drew closer and I was preparing myself for a second death when I heard the most awful screeching sound. The dogs and men grew very quiet... and then the screaming started. Terrified, I huddled in my grave, hands over my ears though the sounds seemed loud enough to be heard by the deaf. On and on it went until I too was screaming in fear. Then sudden quiet. I lay in the ground until some internal timer told me to rise. Though it was completely dark, I saw traces of a battle fought yards from my resting-place. Blood, some hair, a torn leash, an over turned headstone.... But no bodies. I trembled, wondering what could have taken the men and dogs, afraid to find out. It would be years later that I found out what the Guardians were. Until then, I slept knowing only that I was safe during the day, occasionally hearing the agony of those foolish enough to venture too near my resting place.
Ah.... Sometimes it all seems like it happened but a few years ago. Even as I type this on a computer, under electric lights and the hum of an air conditioner in my ears, it seems that little has changed. The veneer is there, the cover of progress... and yet the frightened villager is still within the modern human. I see it when I hunt, the businessman in his expensive suit, suddenly reduced to a stooped shuffle when the noise in a darkened alley does not turn out to be the expected rat. His once proud head cowed as he hurries to blend with the rest of the crowd, afraid to be singled out by what he instinctually knows is watching him. A predator. A killer. Me.
Does it surprise you that I hunt? Or merely that I admit to it? It's OK. Your misconceptions are not your fault. I too watch the vampires on TV, read the novels, see the movies. The tragic vampire hero is an appealing figure; I will give you that. He (and he is almost ALWAYS a "he") was once a very bad boy, but now would like to redeem himself through acts of bravery and selflessness. He wishes to be human again. I think about that and wonder that I don't feel that way. I guess it must be that I have been a vampire much, much longer than I was a human. I remember being human but after all this time the memories are more like half forgotten dreams. I am not that peasant girl anymore nor do I want to be her again... I am what I am. But not so our bloodsucking hero. He almost never hunts humans, preferring to slack his hunger with the blood of animals, and usually he doesn't even kill them himself, rather he buys his blood from a butcher or slaughterhouse. I roll my eyes as I watch this, as if it could be that easy for us! Blood is the essence of life, but once it is spilt it is dead. Blood from a dead thing is dead and so would be of no use to a vampire. But, for the most part, these little morality plays are amusing and so I do watch as they struggle through their lives every week, fighting their need and winning. Again, as if it could be that easy.
I must sound so cold. I don't mean to be, honestly. I have a cynical streak (who wouldn't after eight hundred years?), but I am not without emotion. As I watch my pretend brethren on the screen, I acknowledge that would be better not to have to kill, to have a choice, as they seem to have. In my early days, I even resolved to starve myself rather than take a life. But in the end there is no choice and I found out the hard way what happens when the hunger is denied. After several nights resisting, I came to my senses just before dawn to find myself surrounded by several dead bodies. My first kills, though I did not remember them. Yes, I can, and have, survived on animals. In fact, I usually take animals these days. It's not a moral dilemma, really, it is simply that I have been in one place for a long time... and I like it here. Taking people eventually attracts attention in this day and age. And, truth be known, I have made friends. I have found that it is hard to look at potential prey as prey if you know their name. Then, eventually, I began to see similarities to my friends in every stranger I was going to eat. I don't know, perhaps I am getting soft. But…I do still hunt humans, and occasionally I still kill them. Why? Because I am a vampire, a predator, and that is what a predator does.
How do I make sense of what must seem senseless to you? I look like a human; I speak as a human speaks. But I am not human and sometimes it comes down to this simple fact: humans are easy to catch. My friend who is working on the "cure", hates it when I talk about it. "You are good." He says, as if he would convince himself as well as me. "You aren't cursed, this is not some supernatural punishment! You are sick and we can find a cure."
I don't think of myself as good or bad. Whatever vampirism is, whether curse or disease, it has placed within me an overwhelming need to survive. My own body will not allow me to destroy myself and drives me to do what I must to continue my existence.... And so I hunt and I kill and I eat. He knows this, though he does not like to think about it. "If you would just stop drinking blood," he tells me, conviction shining in his eyes, "We could beat this thing!" I have heard this so many times that my response is now one of annoyance, rather than the amusement it once was. How many times, must I explain to him, that this isn't a choice? For a human, even breathing is a choice really. Certainly I know that it is a reflex, but you can consciously choose to stop. I cannot even do that, and as a biologist, as someone intimately familiar with my "unique condition", he should know this.
"It is in your cells, you see." He began explaining to me one evening. "The virus has infected your cells and changed them. They are animated, which makes you animated even though you are, uh, no longer, uh..."
"Living?" I asked him smiling just enough to show my fangs, amused by the fleeting look of horror in his eyes. There is always a part in any of my lover's minds that recoils when it is forced to recognize that I am not only not human, but that I am essentially a walking corpse. Of course it doesn't matter; they never leave me. Pheromones, my current friend told me on a similar evening, attract and keep them with me. They are extremely powerful, the reason I suppose the victims in vampire lore (and my own experience) are so drawn to their death. I myself have never had any trouble finding a meal- or a date- so he must know what he is talking about. But, on this particular night, he showed that his interest in me wasn't all about how great I smell.
"The virus has mutated your cells so that instead of growing old and deteriorating, they absorb the cells of the blood you ingest- taking on their characteristics, including their lifespan!"
"Their life-force." I mumbled and continued to file my nails. Really, he was only telling me what I already knew. Sometimes I wonder if the only difference between a witch, throwing the bones to tell you what ails you, and the modern doctor, is a microscope. "You realize that a village wise woman told me that same thing- six hundred years ago. She couldn't cure me and neither can you."
He was crushed and expressed it in typical manly fashion: He shouted at me. "Damn it! I am trying to help you! Don't you want to be cured?" As usual, I didn't answer that. He wouldn't have heard me anyway. He had already decided that he knew what was best for me. Besides, I had a good thing going with him; he was a good conversationalist (we didn't always talk about my "condition") and he was great in the sack. What could it hurt to let him believe that he was going to be my savior? Of course now I know now what hurt it can (and will) do, but at the time I thought it a harmless fantasy. I told myself that it was something to occupy him, that it made him feel good to think he was helping me. But really, I hoped he was on to something. No, I have no deep longing to be human again, but I thought that it would be nice to no longer be a slave to the Need.
You see, I have never believed that this is a disease. My friend is a scientist, and so when faced with the reality of what I am, he chose to cloak the truth in the mythology of his world. And so vampirism became a disease and not a nasty trick of the Devil. It became something that could be cured, treated, instead of something to be feared. To my own credit, I tried to convince him otherwise. I told him how I could find no solace in any holy place. He rolled his eyes as if that were nothing. Many people, he said, are uncomfortable in religious settings. And I am not repelled by religious icons, wouldn't a demonic force fear such things? I cannot change my shape, nor project my will in order to hypnotize... none of the more exotic powers of the celluloid vampire. My superhuman strength, night vision and hearing he explained away as adaptations for my new role as predator. And the sunlight? It is simply that the mutation has made my cells photosensitive. All in all a neat explanation. But if I am not a work of some dark force, explain away the Guardians... I would have asked him to, but then I would have to actually tell him about them and I know him too well to do that. The thought of him killed for his unquenchable curiosity held my tongue.
I was really only half listening when he began speaking again. I had hope but I had also heard all of this before. Now I wonder if my inattention is what brought me to this fate. If perhaps I would have noticed something in his eyes had I looked and suspected...
"I want you to come to the lab tomorrow night." He said. "There is a test I want to perform."
I might have nodded, I don't really recall. It wasn't an unusual request: I had allowed him to do many tests on me. I simply kissed him goodnight and readied myself to go "out for the evening", as he prefers to call it.
That was seven nights ago. As I write this, I am shut up in a cell. A very well appointed, cheery cell... but a cell nonetheless. At first, I couldn't believe he had done this to me. He told me through a slot in the door that it was for "my own good". That if this was the only way to keep me from blood, then this was the way it must be.
I screamed obscenities and hurled furniture. I begged and pleaded. I'll give credit where credit is due; he stuck to his convictions even though I know it hurt him. He put this computer in here so that I might "record my feelings". Writing seems to help me order my thoughts, stave off the insanity for a few moments more, but I have no illusions. I am not a druggie, or an alcoholic. This is not going to go away. I am a vampire, I drink blood. I NEED blood and the Need grows with every passing minute. I do not imagine that because I am rational now, that this experiment will not end violently. I do not recall any forewarning the night the Need took me over, and so I expect none this time. I will be sane right up until that time when I am suddenly not.
So I write, to keep my sanity and also, maybe, to explain why I am going to do what I know I am going to do. I think I will not be leaving this place. There are others in this building and though I believe my friend when he says that he has not told anyone about me, I also know that when the Need takes me it will not be a subtle thing. I will draw attention and either be imprisoned again or killed. Funny, now that I think about it, I don't really know if bullets will kill me. A stake through the heart would do it I suppose, but really, I don't know if that is a myth or not. Perhaps they will shoot the lunatic murderer as she tries to escape and the medical examiner will have a puzzle on his hands. Or perhaps they will shoot her, only to watch her run away. The only thing I know for sure is that even if I find myself free, I will never really know what happened.
Ahhh... and now I hear his footsteps approaching. The time has come and so I leave this final warning to those who might decide to disturb my home: Leave it be. The Guardians are ever vigilant, and unforgiving. Let whatever bloodshed happens here, end here.
Keys in the lock. I will warn him once morrrrrrr
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