I have known death. I do not wish to misconstrue my meaning; I do not mean that I have seen the specter of death (if one exists), or that I have glimpsed the meaning of it as some seek to grasp the meaning of life. Rather, when I say that I have known death, I mean that I have known it intimately, like a lover comes to know the body of his partner as well as his own. Over the course of my life, I have become well acquainted with death; I have come to know her supple curves, her touch, have come to recognize her scent as I seek her comfort on a long, cold night.
Death as a lover—a curious notion, to be sure. Not so curious, I suppose, when the nature of my life, or lack thereof, is taken into account. I cannot take a real lover without first feeding, due to a cruel trick of the anatomy that can make it rather difficult to achieve a state of arousal. Due to this unfortunate aspect of my current existence, sexual contact with others (human or not) can be a rare prospect indeed for my kind.
And thus the preoccupation with death begins to be illuminated. It is not only this, however; death is our livelihood. We are predatory beings by nature, and we cannot survive without feeding on others. The first time I killed a human, a sense of guilt was curiously absent during the act itself; even at that early stage, I could already feel my heart hardening to the thought of killing humans. I felt little pity for the poor devil I had sucked dry, and even less as time went on. A note about being turned. It is a part of our beliefs that the one who turns you is responsible for your education as a member of our dark fraternity, such as it is. Education is a heavy burden, and thus you learn not to turn humans lightly. Most people (myself included) are turned by mistake; being careless and not sucking all of the lifeblood out of your victim will turn them (and give you a harsh lesson about being diligent in your killing).
I was turned the night President Lincoln was shot. People always say they still remember where they were when they heard Jack Kennedy had been shot; I have had the dubious honor of being alive for three presidential assassinations, but the only one the above has held true for is the most recent. Perhaps humans have a greater capacity for empathy than we do, and we damned souls experience death firsthand regularly. But then, I knew Jack and Bobby Kennedy personally, and both their deaths rocked me to the core. No young man should have to die for his political beliefs, in war or peace.
I was turned by a woman named Gabriela—at turns my teacher, my taskmaster, even my lover, after a fashion. Despite her pallid complexion, a commonality all who possess our damned souls share, Gabriela still had dusky, olive-kissed skin, complimenting her ample curves and her long sable curls beautifully. She was glorious, the most beautiful creature I've ever been with—alive or dead. Gabriela. I still savor saying her name. I love the way the three mellifluous syllables move across my tongue, like caressing a lover's bountiful charms. Gabriela. My muse.
Gabriela introduced me to this world; she shared first the mystery of death with me, and then the wonder of what comes next. We are not so much dead, though, as we are caught in a sort of limbo between waking life and this nightmarish dream I now live. I cannot claim a level of authority on the existence of an almighty God or our immortal soul, but I can say that I do know beyond the shadow of a doubt that Hell exists, and that our kind live it every day.
The first person I killed was a child. I do not take pride in this, but nor do I apologize for it. The simple fact is, children are much easier to kill than adults, and a young vampire may sustain himself on less blood; in other words, an adult may have too much blood to take in (which can lead to inadvertently turning your victim).
The child was small for his age, no more than eight or nine. He was sickly, pitifully thin, and his unruly mop of white-blond curls hung in his face as he walked home in the chilly Baltimore rain. We followed him, watching him stumble and cough as the cold November rain soaked through his clothes. There are very few advantages to being like me, but a reduced sense of feeling the cold is one of them. Gabriela and I followed the boy at a distance, waiting for him to turn down an empty street.
When the time came, I was hesitant; Gabriela pushed me down the alley he had entered forcefully, and the boy turned as I stepped in a puddle loudly. His soft blue eyes looked up at me in the dim light as I approached. I was appalled at the level of violence and brutality Gabriela employed in her feedings, but as I drew nearer to the boy down the alley, I felt the thirst for blood, previously a dull ache, blossom into a feverish need. A loud crack erupted from his body as my hands gripped his fragile vertebrae. Warm, wet viscera and gristle sprayed my face as I broke his spine in two. For a few moments, I simply enjoyed the sight of the boy's life-force raining out of the wound I had created; I gripped the two pieces of his spinal cord greedily as I felt his throbbing life-force drain out of him out of him onto the street. I buried my face in him, feeding voraciously. The open maw of his wound was sticky and inviting, meeting my eager mouth like the hungry kiss of an enthusiastic lover. The boy didn't cry out as I descended on him. The only sound he made the entire time was a ragged, labored wheezing as he struggled to take air into his crumpled, broken body.
