(PG-13 now, R later on)
One
When you wake up in the middle of the night, gasping from a nightmare, it was me you were dreaming about.
I doubt you have ever heard the name “L’angelo da Parma”, or likewise any tale concerning me. I am a recluse—a shadow—by all means now non-existent. My name is spoken amongst few—by those that also hide in shadows while longing for light, by those that have been feared and persecuted since the dawn of time. It is said by those that have claimed the name death far before their time, by those that look upon the valley of shadow while standing inside of it, and by those that mourn their forgotten pasts and are helplessly forced into new beginnings. There is nothing so powerful, nor pitiful, as these creatures. With my story, I will tell theirs. With my story, I break the forced submission and chains, and let the dawn finally break upon us.
I do not think that ever the most brilliant of men could put my life into words. Shakespeare, Dante, Milton—they would be speechless, and no sooner begin my neglected tale then declare it madness and set down their pens. I have remained alone, bearing this story as a cross for many years. It is only now that I long to throw it down onto the umbrageous ground. I long for freedom—to again walk among mankind as an equal, without the title of master or slave. I long for release from the past; I desire for new beginnings.
And so, I will tell my story, without inaccuracies, divine opinion, or superstition. It is simply the story of my life; I see no need for exaggerations.
One would think that people would find such a story horrifying, but man is a hypocritical race, and those I tell it to always find it entertaining. Because of this, my goal is not to focus entirely on the course of my life as one would an autobiography, but on the things that affected it and made it what it was. People will still manage to find amusement in it—how can they not? It exposes the true sinners of God, and tells the truths of human cruelty. Nothing is more diverting to mankind than its own madness.
I am a vampire; you should know this before I go any further. I am still at the lingering youth of four centuries, born into death during the time music first made its impressions on mortals. I would not say to you that I am evil, just as I would not say to you that I am pure. I do not kill because I lust for it. I do not kill for the pleasure of seeing a life slip away under my hands. I do not kill for the same reasons that some many humans kill for. I kill for life; creating death is a necessity to me. If I saw you today in the street—the chances are I would not harm or even notice you. I do not focus my attention on people anymore.
Do not misunderstand my words by thinking I dislike humans. There are a few I enjoy spending my time with, though the majority of humans tend to disgust me. Drug dealers, alcohol addicts, criminals, and prostitutes—those who endanger others with their own sinful habits—when I must kill, they are my targets.
Children are entirely different, however. I have only killed a child once in my life, and the day I did I became a monster. I remember it clearly, the life drained from his eyes as blood passed through my greedy lips. As a villain, I let him fall lifelessly onto the cobblestone road, and as a demon, I left him there to rot. That was the day I completely lost my innocence, and from that moment onward the thing I stole from become an object of jealously.
Past my jealously, I have a deep love for children. To me, they are like angels, and worthy of nothing less then admiration. They are pure, for the years of sin have yet to befall them. They know nothing of the world, and yet they know everything. Mortals are like shallow puddles and as they move throughout life their childish wisdom evaporates. I cannot tell how many nights I have sat beside a window, longing to again be a child. It is hard to believe that I too was once one; it was so very long ago.
I have taken the time to read about humanity’s view on vampires, searching for the reason they in the past have hated us. I purchased many books dating back to the thirteenth century, made of tattered leather that disintegrated as the slightest touch, and studied them page-by-page. I have dug through countless library shelves of Italy, France, Germany and Romania, reading anything I could find. At night, I have slipped into the dark chambers containing the Vatican’s long forgotten books, and feasted my eyes on their nonsense. After years of fruitless searching, one morning as I lay in bed, it dawned upon me that I had wasted hundred and fifty years trying to understand something that humans themselves could never comprehend. They could have never explained why they hated us. Their ignorance of the matter should have been clear in the beginning. They make us out to be monsters, demons, and apprentices of the devil. They speak of us being weakened by garlic, crucifixes, and holy water. They believe we have no appearances in mirrors, and that we burn if we step out into the welcoming rays of the sun. And yet, even if faced with death, they could never explain why they think these things of us, much less why they hated us.
I understand now that it is in my hands to truly explain vampires, both from the past and of the present.
Many humans do not want to believe in my story, much less live with knowing it. It frightens them. Perhaps it mankind’s way of dealing with what it should not know and what should never have been in the first place. You, I expect, have already been charmed by my words. I implore you to accept your fate, trust, and listen to me. You have all the time in the world.
My life in the human world was never easy. It was a stretch to even call it a life. Life to me was like a forbidden fruit, far too high among the branches of the tree to reach. My survival was dependent upon the mercy of others, and I only received the spoiled fruits that fell into my hands.
During my childhood, I was a pauper on the streets of Castelnovo, Italy, and begged for the little goods I received. I can remember very little of my parents, which as a child was heartbreaking to accept. At night I dreamt of those tall, shadowed figures that revealed themselves like apparitions in a forgotten graveyard, and called out to them, only to receive silence as my reply. Should I have even thought of why they abandoned me? Should I have cared who they were? No, no, I should not have. Yet such a burden was impossible, for every human on this earth thinks the most of and longs for the very thing that he cannot have.
When I stop and look back on my childhood, I am truly amazed I survived. Italy in the late sixteenth century was nothing like the common world. Few ever spared me any food or goods. Most would pass me, wrapped in their long coats and laced with their jewelry, and think of me as nothing more then a filthy rodent. I ate when I could. I wore what I could find. When I was sick, I clung to life on my own. I am certain that my survival was a fluke that God overlooked.
Disease was common in Italy. The streets were littered with garbage, and many times plagues befell the city, often killing a forth of the population. I was at an advantage toward this, for as I was never in a household, I was never living with the disease bearers—the rats, nor was any disease passed to me through humans. Even the rats did not live in my condition, and fled to the households!
The spring and summer were a time of leisure for me, and I often fared well. Upon the coming of winter famine often struck, and at times even the wealthy went hungry. At times I would linger at the homes of the starving aristocrats simply so that I could watch their solid oak coffins be taken out and dragged to the cemetery by two black horses. To see them being pulled to their graves in such a fashion filled me with a morbid sense of delight, for while they would soon lay rotting under earth, I would continue living.
The child beggars were the worst off of all classes, for we were seen as scoundrels of bastard blood. We were chased from of the marketplaces whenever we entered, for we had a well known reputation of being thieves. Of course, stealing was a sin necessary for survival, and those that did not steal and waited for bits of crust perished.
There was only a single sense of joy in life, of such minute worth was my joy it amuses me now to think I ever valued it. My pride was knowing. Knowing what day it was—what year—what season—knowing how to simply survive! Knowing brought me great pleasure, no matter how trivial the knowledge really was. I was a child then, and never had been offered the fruits of education. What could one expect?
There was a specific even in my life that doomed me to become one of the damned. I am certain, as a child, if I knew of the terrible fate that awaited me, I would have avoided the man who was responsible. How deceiving was that devil, whose eyes were brighter then the infernos of the sun. The man’s horses had brought the carriage to stop a few feet away from me, and the door opened, letting out a warm burst out air. He gazed down at me like a father would—with kind reassurance and adoration. He was an aristocrat—a class that had a habit of hating and ignoring my kind, and so it much be understandable when his compassionate eyes met with mine I was taken aback. The devil, seated comfortably in his carriage, outstretched a silk clothed arm to me and smiled, revealing a set of decayed teeth.
“Come child, you look cold. Why do not you come with me? I have many chores at my house you could work at.” The man spoke in a soft diminuendo, and his eyes pierced me like daggers.
It had been days since I last ate, and the man’s fat cheeks and my own disoriented thoughts convinced me to accept his offer. As I stepped into his wood carriage the sweet sound of children laughing reached my ears. I turned to look to see a brother and sister, hand in hand, dressed in expensive furs, chasing one another down the white roads. They turned a corner and disappeared forever into shadow.
The man and I did not speak in the carriage ride to his home. Already a feeling of anxiety had overcome me, followed with a despair I had never felt. I did not know my fate—if I had I doubt I would have so quietly allow him to take me. I longed to be with the laughing children on the road, and to experience the innocent bliss of childhood. Instead, of all things, a simple mortal would rape me of my rights. A mortal, who in thirty years times would be in his grave, would steal a life from a child that would live forever.
It was my own fault—I had sold my soul to the devil—and he had sold it to a vampire. I had no one to blame but myself.
During the carriage ride I recalled all the memories of my past, and found them to be melancholy. There was nothing—nothing but sadness, despair, and suffering. The cold winter months followed by the artificial bliss of summer… The temporary relief of eating a slice of bread, only to be again filled with hunger hours later…
With a sudden jolt that frightened me, the carriage halted. There was an unfathomable desire in me to please the man, and so I acted first, stepping out of the carriage and hold the door open from him as if he were my king. He stepped out with what seemed an adopted sense of dignity, and already a born hatred took root within my heart.
The man walked through the snow with leather boot that were trimmed with fur, as I followed behind him barefoot. How I envied him—and what loathing it baited. I wondered why God had destined me to such a horrid fate as to lie on the streets starving, while he gave a single man such excess so that he may live in unneeded luxury.
His home was to me a mansion; it was two stories, and had a Gothic style tower that cast an ominous shadow upon us. Surrounding its façade was a large space perfect for gardening. With imagination, one could see the delightful colors of foreign flowers, more spacious then garden of Eden. Intricate fountains and statues of cherubs displayed themselves, and grinned at you with an amused look in their eyes. Their short wings were raised upward, beholding the sky.
I wondered if this man had any children, and with a child’s eagerness imagined sitting on the floor with them, as my friends. I imagined being allowed play with toys, and laugh in unison with them. I thought of brushing my little hands over the wood walls, which were rich with scent of new chestnut.
Reality returned to me, and the little bit of childhood I clung onto left me for eternity. It was as if a farm horse had suddenly realized it indeed was not a steed, nor could it ever be one.
The man led me into his home through two great doors, twice as tall as me, and I was immediately greeted with the scent of rosemary. The walls were of fine wood, and lined with candles that lit the room in a florescent glow. Great white columns rose from the floor and supposed the wide roof. I had never seen such things before, and no longer did I linger in sadness of not having a childhood.
Oh, yes, his house was magnificent, and every bit of what I imagined it to be. I could not believe that a king himself would live better. However, the kindness the devil had shown to me soon wore away. It was as if a demon overtook the man—worse then Lucifer and more vengeful then Gabriel. I became dizzy, and sought refuge against one of the cold walls. I heard the click of the door being bolted, and the fat man glanced at me. At a slow pace, through with great deviancy, he made his way toward me.
As I felt the chill of his shadow, I closed my eyes and prayed. He took me by the collar of my ragged shirt and slammed me into the wall, letting his fist come into my face. A warm stream of blood spurt forth from my nose...
“You are mine, stray boy. You have come to me with the desire to no longer thirst and hunger, and with stupid folly. Foolish boy, do you not know to never make pacts with the devil? Now you must pay for you sins.”
The man sounded like the devil himself, and I was inclined to believe him! I remembered the rumors that circled the streets of witches possessed by the devil, and of the devil coming in human, and a deep fear roused in my heart. I began to cry. The man ordered me to stop, and to my dismay I found it impossible. My sobs became only more erratic, and I collapsed dizzily into his arms. I closed my eyes, and allowed him to drag me.
I was soon lifted from my feet, and the man heaved me down into a place I first believe to be hell. My skin burned from what I thought was red flame, and I let out a terrible scream. Only when I realized that my arms were covered in blood did I understand I was still on earth—a worse hell then the inferno.
My eyes soon adjusted, and I found myself in a wine cellar. The dampness filled my lungs, and I struggled for breath. The door to my salvation had been shut, and I was concealed alone in this tomb.
I became terrified at the prospect of dying in such a horrid place. I held my hands to my nose to stop the dripping blood, which had mixed with the dirt beneath me to form a black flour. My eyes strayed, and I found I was not alone in this hell. There were others that were damned, also. Across the cellar were several other boys curled amongst one another. Their eyes were dim against the light that penetrated through small cracks of the ceiling. Their ribs were visible beneath their meatless skin. I am to this day unsure how long those poor souls had been confined in such a hell.
I had no strength to lift myself and crawl toward them to seek comfort. All will for life had left me. I decided that I would not let myself cry, for I had really lost nothing. What did it matter if I died? I never had a life to begin with.
As a corpse, I closed my eyes.
That was... incomparable. I don't think I've read anything with quite as much depth, intense development of character and intelligence, except for perhaps the Pellinor series, and that was fantasy, this is edged with a languid sarcasm which I throroughly enjoy. You need to look over it again, you have a few spelling errors, as well as:
those that did not steal and waited for bits of crust perished.
i think it should be
those that did not steal, but waited for bits of crust, perished.
however, I simply cannot wait for the next instalment... it was a riveting read... I'm addicted! Indeed charmed by your words.