His little black book was beginning to burn a hole in his back pocket where it often lived. The events in the short time since he'd become what he was were weighing on his mind. And what was he?
Vampire. Vampyr. Undead. Unnatural. Powerful.
Yes, powerful, he was that more so and not just in physical resilience and strength. He had abilities that he never thought possible, and was exposed to other beings that had even more. He was just the tip of the iceberg as far as the vampires went. He'd picked up some pointers from his sire's husband, Lyonel, about their condition. Eva showed him how to feed and about her abilities, but Lyonel's matched his more closely.
He could inspire others to give them a boost of sorts, had that not been exactly how he'd chosen to spend his life? To sing to crowds, to feed them music, to inspire them and in reward take their admiration.
It made sense to him and these were the kinds of thoughts that had begun filling his little book alongside the lyrics.
Lyrics, words, buzzing through his head so rapidly that he struggled to pluck them from his mind, to write them down quickly enough. He pulled out the book and his little pen, another series of unconnected words being scribbled to fill one of the tiny pages. This book was a few pages from being finished, soon it would join the rest in the shoebox under the bed, each one labelled for the months and year they are in. He'd more of these little books than he could count.
From around the age of fifteen the books all had a few pages in the back dedicated to charts, broken up into categories to keep his affairs straight. One chart in particular detailed his "romantic" adventures, with four categories; "Name" "Interest" "Yes" and "No". He wrote dates next to the "yes" names, and would underline the name if it wasn't to happen again.
When he thought on it too long it seemed wrong somehow, but he liked to be organised, he liked to be in control of what was going on in his life. He could roll with the punches, his way of coping with surprises and changes in plan was to document them. He didn't live his life to a schedule, you missed out on too many experiences that way, it was more that he struggled with others having too much ownership over the things he did.
He would only have himself to blame, himself to be accountable for.
He made himself responsible in that way, being able to look back on his indiscretions, on his interactions and thoughts. Reflection could lead to self-improvement and while he thought himself pretty fine he saw no harm in continuing to strive.
His little book felt good in his hands, the equally small pens he had hundreds of in case he lost one, at first they'd been difficult to use with his long fingers, but he persevered. The front of this particular book held one of his favourite quotes ("Just fear me, love me, do as I say, and I will be your slave!" - Jareth the Goblin King, Labyrinth), a perfect statement for how he felt in regards to affection, to relationships. Those he chose to keep close were ones willing to do anything to make him happy, and in return were bathed in the sunlight of his care.
Sunlight, yes, he was the sun. Burning up fast, burning bright. Blinding.
His pen moved across the remaining pages, Kaspar finding a park bench to sprawl on under a crackling streetlight. It was 3 a.m. and yet people still roamed, club kids leaving early to perhaps go to another party, junkie's reeling from a fix, other vampires out on the hunt or just going about their business. The one that caught his attention though was a mother with a stroller looking exhausted, her baby one of those who refused to sleep in the stillness of the night.
She stared at him as she walked by, at first it was a look of alarm, was he dangerous? Was he going to give her trouble? Her smile betrayed her, she'd decided he was pretty and looked innocent enough. No surprise. He returned the smile, leaning forward to peek inside the stroller when she slowed her pace, a compliment on the child, a reminder to keep up the good work. He spoke to her briefly of his own son, yes, his son. It seemed to surprise her, the woman gushing over how he seemed too young to be a father but no doubt the child would grow up to be handsome. He thanked her and let her rush off, flustered but exhilarated as the child began to stir.
Ah, she'd go home content, a brief flirtation and discussion with another human being could do wonders for a new mother.
His own partner in crime had been praised like a queen during her pregnancy, Kaspar seeing to her whims and in return receiving his own share of praise. It worked for them both, they were happy. He adored his little family, a slice of normalcy in a world that was growing increasingly more insane.
Insanity was the new normal, he supposed.
Another book was finished, a signal for him to move on for the night, to return to visit his son who would be waking soon to be fed, mewling and stretching, reaching for the milk he expected to be at the ready for him and Kaspar would be there. Taking the boy in his arms, whispering advice, telling him stories as he fed him from the bottle his mother had filled earlier in the day. It worked, it could work.
It had to work.
He stretched out his long limbs, beginning the short walk to her house, to his waiting son and to play one of his favourite roles, the doting father, the good guy. He rubbed at the tattoos on his fingers, the skull on one hand and the cross on the other. Light and Dark, two sides that represented the whole and tonight he would be the light.
