Mythology from Mesopotamia is swimming with them: Lamashtu, Lilitu, Gallu… etc. Things from the Kabbalah, Ancient Greece, India, Western and Eastern Europe, Africa, Asia—god, even the Aztecs have them: The Cihuatateo were spirits of women who died in childbirth and went around literally ******* their victims silly. These myths extensively and explicitly tell you how to identify these creatures, how to ward them away, and how to kill them. You would think that out of all this you would be able to find something about being one.
Suggested Titles and Taglines:
Vampirism for Dummies [Obligatory] This Sucks: A How-To Guide for the New Vampire Hearts at Stake (Just because you bite, doesn’t mean your love-life has to.) Make It Count (Wise Investments for the Modern Vamp!) B Positive! (Coming To Terms with Un-Death)
But then of course there is a whole slew of literature on vampires, from Polidori’s The Vampyre to penny dreadfuls, Carmilla, Dracula, The Vampire Chronicles, Anno Dracula… and who could forget the illustrious Twilight Saga—which in a weird, roundabout way became the catalyst of the events that led to my death (**** you, Meyer).
I don’t suppose you, my dear imaginary reader, will believe me when I say that I’m a vampire and I’m pulling a Lestat and chronicling my days—excuse me, nights—as one of the undead. Because I’m not! As far as you’re concerned I’m a bored, chubby teenager in the suburbs making these things up in her head because it entertains her. That’s right. You’re absolutely right. Let’s keep it like that, and never ever venture into the dark, demonic recesses of the world we occupy. (Quota of melodrama for the day: achieved!)
Here’s what happened, and it’s important that you read this:
Did you read that? All of that? Promise? Good, because the following won’t make any sense if you didn’t:
The rules of good narration state that Liesin should have turned me into what I am now; all roads and trajectories pointed to that. Fortunately for me and unfortunately for you literature critics out there, that didn’t happen. What I can assure you happened next was that I refused to sacrifice on Liesin’s altar as he’d instructed, and, true to his word he killed one of my friends—my roommate, god rest his soul, who will be referred to as Giacomo.
You can probably still read a little of this story in X City’s newspapers, as it’s still quite fresh, but the gist is that I became a lead suspect in his death because of my interest in the occult. Funnily enough, as in a self-fulfilling prophecy, I did end up killing somebody: He was the detective investigating the case, and he was, like many of us are, in the wrong place at the wrong time. I still have the gun—which a friend, wherever he is now (let’s call him Noah) gave to me—and for two days I became a fugitive.
During the two or so weeks of the investigation of the death of Giacomo, I stayed with and under the protection of a man we will call Chuck. Chuck, you have to understand, was then—and still is—a new vampire, and I’ll admit that I had my suspicions, but then I was unwilling to admit to the fact of vampires, so I thought I was out of my ******* mind until Chuck admitted to me that yes, he is a vampire, and how it was probable that my friend Noah is also a vampire, and Liesin. Let’s never forget Liesin. Now I understand how difficult it must have been for Chuck to resist the impetus of his desires: To drain me dry… which happened anyway but not until later—not until I deserved it. Not until I was shot in the head and put in a very lethal coma. That was when Chuck—my hero, my Deus Ex Machina, my savior—who doesn’t even like me that much, or at all—whisked me away from the hospital and turned me into what I am now:
A bored, chubby, teenager in the suburbs.
I’m all muddled and everything is coming up ****, not to mention that I’m still running from the long Sarah Jessica Parker face of the law (see, that’s a celebrity and a Mounty joke all in one). There’s something very surreal about all of this, as you can imagine, but I can’t even begin to describe it. How the hell do you describe a painting to a blind man, or singing to a deaf mute? I don’t know. I guess it’s like waking up with a very bad hangover and five days later it’s still there. Things are much brighter, you feel things more—there is more, much more, just more, as a fellow fanged fiend we shall call Piper, told me.
I vacillate between pure and utter terror and panic—which is, surprisingly, a very quiet thing—and awe, wonderment, even ecstasy in my new indestructability and veritable divinity (I understand you now, Liesin, you shitfaced, demented ****!). Bite the mushroom, eat the biscuit—DRINK ME. I’m a criminal, a murderer, a demon. I drink blood, I take lives; I think I may have killed two people this week. If it was your father, your mother, your brother, your lover, I’m sorry. I am no more culpable than you are when you eat a burger. (Meat is Murder, Morrissey.) I think. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. Dear John, What is applicable? What nightmares of morality await, and how the **** do I hide these fangs? They're irritating.
"I was a newborn vampire weeping at the beauty of the night" ... and teething.
Dear Reader, I'll write more later; I'm getting restless. I have to wash my cape and bathe in the blood of a virgin or something.
Date: 23 July 2012 Mood: weirded out Music: Pull My Hair – Bright Eyes
Belladonna is dead.
It’s all over CNN (Central Nosferatu Network): Belladonna is dead. I didn’t exactly know her because I never really talked to her except for that one time, pre-mortem, that Chuck introduced me to her and her husband, Arnaud. Chuck seems sad about that. He and Toni are going on some kind of vigilante, Desperado kind of thing that I don’t want any part of; I’m too young to be causing any kind of ripple in Bon Temps. I like Belladonna, she was kind to me, but I reckon dying for her isn’t any part of any plan I have.
Dear Reader, there seems to be some kind of arcane civilization of vampires that is who-knows-how-many centuries old, right here in the very middle of Bon Temps, Ontario, Canada. There are hierarchies, “bloodlines”, feuds... . Reading through the CNN, which is allegedly run by some magic vampire in some separate dimension (I’m not making this **** up, but whoever is probably is on some Grade A ****), I can tell you that it makes absolutely no ******* sense to me.
Last night I met a guy who was turned into a vampire in December, a whole seven months before me. Piper, named because I met him while he was luring humanity’s dregs to him, busking on the corner of the Necropolis—a veritable demonic Pied Piper of Hamelin, except he’s not exactly pied but looking world-weary and scruffy like a ******* rock star. He’s too tall and tired-looking, but have you ever seen eyes like that on anybody? Transparent blue, like being judged by a Siberian Husky, thank-you-very-much.
After letting me join him in a very impromptu, macabre kind of dinner date which consisted of a couple of rockabilly entrees (don’t worry, Betty and Jimmy are still alive—probably), we talked and he gave me the humble beginnings of a glossary of vampiric terms (to be added to later, as I learn them).
Allurists – A “brand” or “path” of vampire, the most charismatic. Bounty – A vampire in violation of the Masquerade will be hunted down for a bounty. Catacombs, The – Accessed through the sewers in “Bon Temps”, creepy crawlies abound. Mummies, too. No ****. CNN (Central Nosferatu Network) – Basically reddit for vampires. Fatal flame wars abound. Piper and Chuck say that this forum is run by a vampire in the Shadow Realm. He also assigns bounties. I know. Trippy. Killers – A “brand” or “path” of vampire, the most physical. Masquerade, The – Probably the most important term in the vampire’s vocabulary, the Masquerade is the code of honor by which vampires young and old alike are bound by virtue of death. Paths – According to Piper, certain “brands” of vampires, classified by qualities and abilities inherent at “death”. Shadow Realm – or “The Spirit Realm”. Beyond the Veil. A kind of limbo that vampires return from as soon as they find an exit (what the ****?). Quarantine Zone, The – aka The QZ. Quarantined for zombies. More information as I get it. Zombies – A nasty rotting revenant. I haven’t seen them up close and personal yet, but I bet they look a lot like the ones on the silver screen. Apparently, you can kill them with a few well-placed bullets. Get your Resident Evil on. No idea where these fuckers come from.
Piper gave me his number, and I think I’ll be calling him a lot. It’s nice to know somebody who isn’t Chuck or Toni, and somebody who knows a thing or two about what he’s doing but is as absolutely lost as I am in this weird parody of puberty.
Nowhere Newsman Voice: We interrupt this program to bring you Griping From A Teenage Terror.
Chuck and Toni seem to live in a complicity I don’t understand and am excluded from. The most Chuck and I share are a few words here and there, and me breaking the news that Belladonna is dead (though for some reason she seems to be contacting CNN from beyond the grave. Don’t ask me how). Despite the fact that Chuck has saved me countless times—I, the eternal damsel-in-distress (disgusting, isn’t it. Say hello to the abolition of Women’s Lib)—we still don’t regard each other very differently than when we weren’t anything more than coworkers who didn’t like each other very much. Chuck is still constantly annoyed at me. Toni doesn’t seem to know I exist.
Chuck’s the kind of guy who knows he’s good-looking. Some kind of half-Indian, half-white mutt, gorgeous, with this dark silk skein of hair; towering, beautiful; skin the complexion of red, baked earth. You know the type. He’s got a cruel mouth, though. You should see that thing twist up, dear reader. It is a true force of nature, like a contemptuous hurricane.
Toni’s got a sweet look, but it’s like she’s not all there. She’s got a milky, effusive complexion, and she’s got a presence—an aura—that floats. Not like Chuck’s earthy aura: when he stands in a room, you know he’s Standing. In. That. Room. Toni stands like she’s not entirely rooted in the earth; she’s always somewhere else, thinking about something else. It makes her beautiful, this detachment.
I don’t know either of them.
Nowhere Newsman Voice: We now return you to your scheduled programming.
Piper says he doesn’t know what I could be—what brand I am—but I have noticed that there is something very strange going on with me and the poor people I leech off of. I feel this surge of electric or magnetic pull inside of me when I talk to certain people I want to “feed” off of (God, that sounds so gross), and they get very goofy and start to acting like sleepwalkers.
You know how Lucy Westenra got in Dracula (the novel, not the dreadful movies it spawned)? Like that. Brain dead, in a trance… goofy as a Downy with X and fifty grams of weed in their system at a rave. It’s kind of really, really evil; they never stand a chance.
________________________________________
Bought new clothes today, finally. I mean “thrift shop” when I say “new”; can’t afford anything else. Life as a vampire isn’t so glamorous after all. Caveat emptor. Resisted the urge to call my mother. Frantic messages on my voice mail. Word is apparently out that I am a criminal and that I have been shot in the head and stolen from the hospital. Saturday before last was my father’s birthday.
