Someone out there wants to translate my work (Bleach: Memento) into Polish---whoah that's something XD. Can't wait to read it...er...wait, how can I read it, I don't know how to read Polish *smack on the head*....Well, anyway I'm excited. And I mean REALLY *jump jump*
I wrote this when I was in...wait, should I tell? Whatever. I just want to share something I wrote when I was young (freaking teenagers) and after digging my archives, I found this *laughing*
Oh and ah, excuse the title. I couldn’t think more other than the obvious.
Note: None—except if you’re a kid below fifteen. Besides, what’re kids doing here anyway? Hello 18 above!
Okay, here goes...This
brain of mine doesn’t give a shit for those screaming teenage girls and
girls-alike when they thought about vampires do fall in love but I’m telling
you, they did freak me out! The obsession and the idea of this peculiar
devotion—of which mostly passed when you reached the age of twenty, empowered
the great population made me so pissed I want to gag their mouths with my own
fist just to shut them up from speaking the protagonist names over and over
again as if was possessed and ended up naming their dog after the movie.
Oh for
crying out loud. Grow up!
However
I’m not here to judge and I do apologize for my part. I’m just telling common
sense is not an option, that’s all.
Anyhow
I’m here to introduce my next work and yeah I know, what a preamble way to
start, huh? Please spare me *pleading*
Vincent
the Vampire is my next story, and let me warn you though that this is not a
typical—what's that word? —fluffly stuff most avid fans around the world used
to follow. This is not about teenagers with cheesy moments and love—well, I can
fix that. It's my own work anyway. The story’s all about survival, damnation,
salvation, awakening and such, with porn on the side...or not *grinning* full
of angst and not-for-kids parody or whatever you call these days. I'm having a
difficult phase right now but I am dealing with it—by smacking my own forehead
till my brain comes out of my ear just to finish this and I hope you’ll like
it. If yes then thank you. If not...then go away LOL.
Oh and by
the way, if you thought this story of mine has the resemblance to Anne Rice's
work, then think again. As much as possible I want to...you know, create my own
thing. I’m setting myself away as much as possible from any books, television
shows, movies—oh for fuck's sake, especially that! —which can debunk my idea of
the world of the undead, so that I can do my own shit.
The only
resemblance or characteristic of my main character was like the old-age tales
of Vampires except the following: crucifixes are full of bull; they can be
killed lightly as any human; no impaling of stick—of which I find it very
ridiculous even now; the coffins and the no reflections-thingy that were so
infamous back then—is out of a question now, and aside from being a narcissist,
they can be bitchy at times of needs and has the power equivalent of at
least...uhm...five men. The best way to describe my protagonist/antagonist,
aside from being a fierce killer, is that 'they are afraid of sunlight, they
are night creatures, and they are alone'. And yes, I believe Vampires have not,
for so ever been, fall in love. Duh. Hello? No heart. But can be possessive
like crazy.
Author: Niq Caidic-Roman/Unanimo
Language: English
Genre: Romance, Drama, Humor, Adult
Warnings: Some themes and languages are not suitable for minors
Status: On going
Chapter I
She had a life with a different perspective. Some call her gifted, witty, vibrant and everything in between. And some…well, flaws if you may, as Katalina had a long list of her unexpected behavior that will reveal by itself in the future.
Graduated as Cum Laude at the age of nineteen from respected universities and considered as one of the aspiring youth ever made into a one-man—or shall we say—one-woman art show, despite of her youthfulness, she made a name and bested her peers. What amuses the critiques mostly was Katalina’s technique happens to be much advance for her age, and four years later, the critiques christened her by the name of ‘golden hand’ and became one of the most well known surreal artists in local and abroad.
This young woman from a well-known family was a goal-minded, always determine to win, and thus she always win. No one in this world could stop her from committing success. No one can stop her gaining dignity and victory. She had it all; fame, fortune, name. A young age of twenty-four nonetheless earned the honor of a fifty year-old veteran. However, or others may say, all things come with a price. Hence it was true. All of these honor, reputation and wealth reduced and frosted her freedom. She did make her own way to the top, but theheight became her greatest fear.
When she turned twenty-seven, her whole persona changed. She became bored, snob and egotistical. The tiring gestures she made at the parties, television shows and huge corporate events became her little world. She can’t even remember when was the last time she decides what to wear or what time to brush her teeth. She was all locked up from the outside world, confined and converted into corporate monkey who always tell when to dance and when to halt. Hell, she even endorsed some brands she can’t even recognize.
This is not the kind of life she’s dreaming about. Yes, she’s infamous, earning as much as six figures a week from her appearance alone, not including the price of her work. But it was all tiring, and the people around her starting to tear up her dream.
All good things come with a price. No shit.
She would cut her ear like Van Gough did just to make them go away.
And she did make them go away as her ‘issue’ suddenly burst out of nowhere. The last exhibit she made was a complete disaster, opposed to the ones she had made before. She did that on purpose. She did that to make them believe she’s gone insane so that she can go back where she could start a new beginning of her life.
But all things come with a price, like they said. The critiques and her own supporters dropped her like a rug on the floor. The years of crafting her name disappeared in just a day. The Kat ‘Golden Hand’ Grant became nothing more but a common stupid.
Moronic? Yes, with an absolute freedom, nonetheless…
Chastising away from the world of celebrities as she was once considered by critics, was great impeccable timing indeed for Kat. When her own manager declined her existence, she met a young man named Matt. An ordinary man ordained to rule her world. The handsome, tall, bedroom-brown-eyed boy that so perfect for her... or so she thought he was. Kat doesn’t care if he belongs to an ordinary world, differ to her own. What makes important was he loved her. The two get along after few months, became a couple and had a blissful relationship. Kat thought she had it all when Matt came to her life.
Anyway he thought the same way, but until Kat fucked up again.
Kat never lost the limelight of her name, really. Like hibernating, it made her popular even more. The ‘Golden Hand’ became the ‘Bad Girl’ when the beast inside her sprawled out. Her talent was set aside and her behavior was emphasized. She’s a feast from the eyes of any reporters, newspapers and magazines; labeling her as the greatest and the worst.
She doesn’t need to paint again… that was she said. “I am the icon itself. I don’t need them.”
Warnings: Some themes and languages are not suitable for minors
Status: On going
Prologue
Walking slowly at the spacious and well-lighted room of the Schaeffer Gallery, Dean Stratmore, CEO and Co-Founder of Indio Arte was examining the area, glancing here and there at the colorful and monotone paintings of famous local artists with calculating eyes, making sure if he did the right thing to designate the artworks into an alphabetical order. Sure some of the want-to-be artist and the likes were pissed off about the results, but their annoying debates had finally ended up with Dean’s decision few days ago.
He’s the boss, why do they bother anyway.
Smiling inwardly, Dean’s recollections few days ago was kind of… comical. As far as he knew himself, other than a business man, he was strict and conscious when it comes to his gallery. But what happened few days ago made him wonder why he did such a conclusion. Maybe because he intended to line the artist as equal or maybe just to shut them up.
The gallery’s due opening within three days and the interior was already settled. There are one hundred and thirty-two paintings on display and it all belongs to a group of recently Likha Awardees, ages twenty-two to thirty. Their works were not that bad, maybe splendid to others but hardly satisfactory for Dean himself. He’s a little dismayed every time he sees a painter revised or rather embracing too much influence from their iconic idols which made them almost their clone.
If isn’t about the money…
“They are all amateurs,” Dean murmured. “Mixing paints then splashing across the canvas… what a waste. You are all amateurs.”
After the long staring from wall to wall, arms across his chest, he stepped back and walked to another hallway. There, where the hall was lightly lit, he took his keys and opened a huge door at the end corner. This room was strictly forbidden for those who are not welcome. This door was his own sanctuary, a place where he filed his own memory.
He entered slowly and turned on the lights. He smiled, really smiled. His eyes were set narrowly at the center of the room, which the painting of his friend displayed.
The famous artist…
The famous young artist…
The famous young but dead artist…
And then and there, the name encrypted below the painting made Dean cried.
“Reminiscing again?”
Shaking his mind clandestinely without pinning away from the painting, he smiled as he expected an old-age woman with ash colored hair appeared by the threshold of the door.
“Are you ready?” she asked slowly before she stood beside him. “The gallery will open soon.”
“Our gallery will open in three days,” he corrected and then finally glanced at her. “Don’t forget you owned it too.”
“Partially,” she mirrored Dean’s expression. “Secretly and partially, don’t forget to add that too.”
He considered that note for a while then glanced back at the painting. The silence in between them was annoying; Dean hated this part for he knew she’s about to say something. But before she could do that, he started to move away.
“Do you pity me?” she asked finally while noting the melancholy look in his eyes. She sighed and stepped ahead towards the door. “Don’t look at me like that, it makes me feel guilty.”
Dean stood for a moment and then gazed back at the painting. “No, Kat. I don’t… never did.”
My father was born when Ordoño II was crowned king. By the time my father died he was two hundred and fifty seven years old. Too old, right? Not for him. When life was taken from him, his face was as young as thirty five.
He said he was a Castilian...well, that’s what he said. But his cerulean eyes and dark golden hair tells another story. I don’t know if this was all true, for I believed he knows everything. He knows Ptolemy, he knew Cesar from the back of his mind, he knows the way of Romans, he knows the Christ as if he played with him when he was young... and as if he was there when the Messiah was crucified. I don’t know if my own father was pulling my leg or just telling a bed time story when I’m about to go to bed. But I don’t care, all I knew he was a magnificent man whom I love and remembered.
My father was too secretive. Maybe because he wants protect us, maybe because he wanted to live a normal life.
He knew he can’t, that’s why he lied. Not to us though, not to his own family... but to everybody.
Before he became a merchant, he was a soldier, a royal guard under six various monarchs in seven distinctive empires. He could fight even with his eyes closed, and his sword, Setelah, was his only trusted friend. He gave that to me by the way when I was seven, and even used it when I was fifteen. But as years and so thus the world progressed, I hid it somewhere. It became my only treasure. Swords these days were deflated; you see them only in the museum.
Let me tell you that later. Where was I? Oh yes, I was talking about my father.
He was merchant like I said and we often travelled city to city till we reached Babylonia where I learned so many things about trading. Babylonia was a beautiful place of about markets, temples, and gardens. Ah the gardens, especially the gardens. I also learned botany from that place, you know, though I don’t know what the hell botany means. I just pick a flower or herbs and announced its name. Heck, I even invented my own and my sister laughed at it. I think Babylon is where my boyhood embroils. How can I not? Did you see how beautiful the girls there? Oh believe me, if you’re there, you too will be overwhelmed.
We settled in Eshnunna, few miles away from the capital, neighboring with the Sumerians—which I got scared at first by their dark eyes and wavy hair, makes me...what’s that word...jumpy? Their woman were beautiful, but their men mostly bulky. Their priests too were little bit weird, maybe because I don’t understand their songs when they sang, but it in the end it was indeed pleasing to the ear. One time I let myself inside their temple. There was statue of gold, and they said it was their god. A seven year-old child like me could get confused at times when a parent taught their child what God really looks like. My father never said anything about gold. There something about wood though, but never about gold and I was confused as hell when I saw the deity inside the Babylonian temple. My father laughed when I asked him, “I thought God look like us?” And he said, “Yes, he is. But what you saw earlier inside the temple was only a memoir figure. Won’t you have a memory of your love one when they are not around?”
I told him yes and I understood what he meant.
We are not that traditional or religious family, my mother often tells. She said she lived long enough to see there’s no miracle, as in none! I don’t understand. However, my father had a different story. I mentioned earlier about Christ, right? Well my father often tells His lovely tale about the feast, His water turned wine, His fate by the hands of Romans, even about this man called Lazarus. “What about Lazarus?” I asked my mother one time and she told me “He’s a man who sleeps more than a day and one man finally woke him up.” Very odd descriptive, ne? My mother was full of humor, she makes me laugh, and my father just shook his head when she does that.
My father was wonderful story teller, I asked him again about this Jesus fellow. He said he knew everything about Jesus, not from the book, but visually, literally. “Jesus was a Hebrew who condemned by his own people, yet still he sacrificed himself to be impaled to save mankind.” He explained. “Sad story, wasn’t it? I wish I could save him.”
I curiously asked where was he when Jesus was caught, and my father absently said, “I was one of the guards.”
I told you my father was lousy liar when it comes to his age. His face had not reached the age of forty, but his memory was more than a century old. And when my age turned seven, he opened my eyes and teach me the things I will never ever forget throughout my entire life.
First he introduced me to the art of weaponry. Imagine that, me, merely a boy who only knows hide and seek, run and swam, now forced to grip a sword bigger than my body—who gave him that crazy idea anyway? I am only seven years old for crying out loud. Playing was the first agenda to every boy of my age!
But no, I am not like the others. As the son of the most mysterious man in the world, I have to turn around and face the reality. Since then I never did felt the kid inside me. My childhood days were different than of those around me. I started training with real swords rather than sticks the day after my seventh birthday.
Few days had passed, I was inflicted by humiliation. Naduane holds her doll made of rags while watching me and my father spar then laughed at me when I end up to the ground, holding my dear life not to be impaled by Setelah. “Stand up, boy!” My father shouted. “Your future opponent will not be merciless as me. We are not done yet, and yet you’re complaining already?”
“Maybe he likes to play dolls instead?” my brother, Haji, teased and then laughed. My father joined him too in a beat. I was furious. So furious I throw away the sword and run inside the house.
“Why are you doing this to me?” I said when my father followed me inside my room. I was crying—no, I was whimpering. I was so embarrassed that I almost cursed my father that day. “I hate you, you’re making fun of me.”
“No,” my father’s voice lingered. It was soothing that I almost stop weeping. He touched my shivering shoulder and pulled me close. “I’m not making fun of you, I’m making fun of me.”
What in god’s name was that? I wonder what that meant. I looked up and searched his eyes. “Why?”
“Because I saw myself in you when I was your age—that was when I commencement myself into training.”
My father did have a sweet tongue towards everything. His words were like magic.
“I am so sorry, Jameru.” He said, touching my face. “I never mean to hurt you.”
“I dishonor you, father.” I cried more. “I’m not worth to have Setelah.”
“Then you have to make yourself worth it. You have to be patient, child. Loss always comes with humiliation, but that doesn’t mean you had failed. Sometimes it was necessary, but there is always tomorrow. Ability is not a choice, Jameru. You have to earn it.”
Easy for him to say. I told you he had a sweet tongue.
But then again, my father outwitted me. I have to ride on. “Were you as clumsy as me when you’re just a boy, father?” I said, drying up my tears.
“Yes,” he smiled. “More clumsier than you can imagine and... much smaller than you.”
I smiled finally. “Really?”
“Well, your brothers too were smaller than you when they were seven.” He laughed.
“Did you teach them too?”
“Some of it.” He shrugged. “They have their own ability, you know. Unlike them, you’re different. Both you and Naduane are different.”
My curious gaze gave him something to contemplate. He looked away, somehow distracted and disturbed. I never saw my father’s face as gloomy as this one before.
“Let me tell you a story,” he started after he kept himself silent. “A story about a boy who disobeyed his father.”
“Like me?”
He laughed a little and hardly ignored my question. “Did you intend to disobey me?”
I shook my head.
“Then no, he’s not like you.” He smiled and lifts me up to his arms. We climbed to our veranda and stay there for a while. I nearly forgot what he’s telling me... how I wish I did, but my father has his own intention to enlighten me.
“The boy was about nine years old when those tall, dark men came to their home.” He said suddenly, his face was blank, full of pain. “They claimed they were... they were the enemy, and the boy’s father wants his son to hide somewhere... or run away, so that these... these monsters wouldn’t harm his son.
His father became furious at him when the boy wanted to stay behind to defend his family. But he was too small, too young and doesn’t know how to use such weapons. They boy’s father became desperate, he had to do something. And when those dark men started to attack, the boy’s father sacrificed himself.”
I look into my father’s eyes and noticed there were tears starts to build up. He was sad.
“What do you mean sacrificed, father? I don’t understand.”
His face was beyond description, contorted. I don’t know what I saw back there but it has something to do with his past that I sometimes begged him to tell me.
He lowered his eyes for me not to see the wetness in it. “These men,” he began. “These men want to destroy the likes of the father and the likes of his son. They’ve been hunted for so many years because of who they are. It’s not their fault to be born that way, but somehow others think they have flaws for them to have the right to live in this world. And because his only son was in danger than to him, the father let himself be killed... to save his son.”
That’s the time I saw my father cried for the very first time in my life. Probing started to build up inside my head. My father was not just narrating a story, he was telling me something more valuable than anything...
Survival.
“Jameru,” he whispered and embraced me tightly. “I want you to know, my son, that whatever happens to me, what fate come upon me, I want you to know that we love you more than anything in this world. Now listen to me. One day someone will come and claim my life, if that time comes I want you and Naduane to run away from this house, run as far as you could and don’t ever look back. I want you to live, Jameru. I want you to live a normal life without the pain of the past, without the image of death. Do you understand?”
Pain struck my heart and I began to cry again. My father was saying goodbye already.
“Are those stories of yours will happen again someday?” I asked him.
He didn’t answer, instead he said, “Promise me, Jameru, promise me you’re not going to disobey me just like I did to my father. Protect Naduane for me. Protect each other. The two of you are just like me and your mother. You’re one of a kind that’s why I want you to have Setelah for you to defend yourself. You have to promise me!”
The only thing I remember was a nod then a sob. And I think my father pushed me too hard for me to understand that one of those days, he will be gone forever.
“Choose. Should I give you life or should I give you a quick death?” – Markus the Tempter
Three years ago...
I was once a normal young lad, born from an aristocrat family with an insignia of a noble, heir to my father's wealth and in love with nature. I was free, free from restraints and rules from the masked monsters of society—a free spirit, so to speak. I was the eldest among my two siblings and the protector of my family. My name, Vincent Amorrosi, age twenty-two, a name was not an easy to bear and uncared for.
Yes, I was pretty well known from our homeland, respected and admired. I dreamed to be a diplomat like my father, that’s why people around me respected me too much. And there those who hated me, they called me loather of lows, the Knight of Shining Armour of the rich and the fiend to the poor. I only laugh the day they labelled me with those titles. I’m just the son of a wealthy man, how can I be the offender.
One night as I came home late, an intruder broke into our home. They took whatever they can carry and leave our house almost drained. As a youth, I am impulsive. I have too much audacity in me, so I followed them through the woods. But these people, these mad people start to attack me when I confronted them. I did fight equally by blocking the blows while hitting their jaws at the same time. They were three older men, I trounce down two. I never knew the third person behind my back was aiming a weapon at me. When I was caught off guard, he impaled me with the knife, it hit right through my chest, where my heart lies. Any person could scream with fright, I am not, for I am nearly dead, lying to ground, focusing only to my breath.
“Leave him,” I heard them said, as they dragged my horse away from me. “He’s going to die anyway.”
By the gods, kill them now!—that’s the only thing I could think of. What on earth am I thinking, fighting these horrible men only with my bare hands?
I can’t walk, so I crawled. I don’t know where I was going and I don’t know how to get there, but I crawl with heaving breath and prayers. On my mind there’s only one thing...I can’t die like this, this is not fair!
I knew my life was about to take a leave, and I knew there’s should be a winged creature or a beast waiting to hold my hand to pull me away from this dark lonely place. I am panicking, I am in a verge of hallucination, I am begging for either the angel of god or one of the demon’s legions to hold me.
None of them came.
God wants me to die in vain, while the devil wants me to die in pain.
I am doomed.
Help... me...
“Are you in pain?”
“Wh... who said that... what?”
A figure of a person... or a ghost, I don’t know, was standing in front of me. The darkness of the night and the shadows of the trees were covering us yet his face was as clear as blue morning sky. His eyes were brown, no...gold, like the bushes of autumn. His long crimson hair swirled like silk as the wind caressed our cheeks. He is beautiful and young and I haven’t seen so beautiful as him throughout my entirely life. He smiled like an angel and moved like a melodious deity. He slowly kneeled beside me and tilted my head, encouraging me to hold my last breath for me to see him clearly. Then he asked me, “Do you want to live, Vincent?”
“How... how did you...” I gasped, palming my wound at my chest while narrowing my eyes on him. “Wh... of course I want to live! Wha...what kind of a stupid question is that?”
The red head chuckled and shook his head. “You are dying yet you’re still discriminating. What kind of spirit you have there?”
“Leave me if you’re not a help...”
“See? Ego.” He said, and then stood up.
“Wait...” I gasped when I saw he's about to walk away. "Wh...where're you going?"
“Here,” he replied as he sat few feet away from me, closing his eyes. “I’ll wait here if you change your mind... or perhaps—”
“Who are you?”
“Shhh... be quiet.” He opened his eyes. “I want to hear the crickets.”
“God damn you!”
“Oh indeed I am,” he said. “Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere. I am following you, watching you from a far. This is my chance of meeting you. Why would I leave?”
“Then help me already!”
“Is not that simple, my friend,” he smiled. “I have to give you choices.”
“I’ll pay you.”
“Oh don’t be absurd, most of your money had been dragged away by those bandits out there. You’re nothing but poor boy in rich clothing. There’s nothing in your world could pay me in exchange to my offer.”
“Just name it!”
“Impatient brat, are you? Wouldn’t you just listen to me first?”
I stared at him, contemplating. His smile was still angelic, but I knew behind that grin of his there’s a reason behind for all this.
“Go on,” I nodded.
“We both know there’s nothing we can do about that wound of yours, if I didn’t give you something for the relief awhile ago, you’re dead already.” His smile widened when he saw my eyes blinked. “Surprised? Are you asking yourself when did that happen? Oh believe me I could give you more.”
There’s this pain again heaving my chest. Then I coughed off blood. I am scared.
“In a few minutes,” he continued, “you will become dizzy, then your body becomes numb, and then your eyes will be blind...or your eyelids will close voluntary, I don’t know. All I know is the only thing you could see is black... then your hearing will stop, you will feel cold, and your heart will seized its movement while the air from your lungs will stop accumulating air...and that my friend, is the process of death.”
He knew I was becoming impatient by his preamble. He smiled again as he stood and walk towards me. “I could give you life,” he said, touching my face. “I could also give you a quick death if you want to. Either way I have no worries, I’m only here to ask choices. But if I were you, I choose the first option. However, let me remind you that there is a price to pay.”
“I could pay you, save me.”
“I am no doctor, nor near the position to be one, Vincent. I am not what you think I am.”
“Then what are you?”
He looked into my eyes again and I felt a relief...for a while. He took a blade that had rested in front of me, I don’t know where the hell it came from, but it was already there when I saw it. He stood up and opened his tunic and, to my surprise, he slashed the blade towards his chest. I know it wasn’t a shallow wound, as the blood dripped like a curtain. “What are you doing? Are you insane?” I said to him, but he only smiled at me. Then as I blinked my eyes, and I know I am not lightheaded that time, the wound, his deep gashed wound, and his dark fresh blood covering his torso...was gone. What was left was his unblemished alabaster skin.
“I could give you the power of healing,” he then said. “That wound of yours is nothing compare to mine.” He sat near me again and holds my chin up to him. “So let me ask you again, do you want to live?”
“Yes,” I exclaimed, or was that my last breath. “Save me. I want to live. I want to die as an old man, not like this...”
“Are you certain?” He asked again, making sure if he heard it right. “Once I give you what I have, like I said there’s a price to pay.”
“Tell me.”
“Simple,” he flicked my black hair away from my face. “You will never see the light of day again.”
“What?”
“You will live only to serve me. You will leave this...” he vaguely waved his hand “...all behind. You will forget who you are but only your name. Is that clear enough?”
“I’m going to be a slave of yours?”
He shook his head. “No not a slave, an apprentice. And I am will be your mentor.”
“Wha...”
He pulled me up and carried me in his arms. “Quiet now, we’re running out of time. Answer me now.”
“Look,” I gasped. “I don’t know who you are and I don’t care. Just do whatever you can just...save me. I would be more grateful if do it quickly.”
“I heard enough!” He hissed and dropped me to the ground. He revealed the flesh of my neck to his mouth and I felt a sting of pain. As if like something draining my strength, the pain began to overwhelm me. I can’t move, I can’t breathe. The only thing I heard when my sight had turned black was...
“I came to the world without knowing I could be an immortal one day... But everything has a price to pay...” – Vincent Amorrosi
Those who survived from the plagues of death thought they were blessed. They never realized it was more painful than living than those who are already dead.
But I am not dead or living either...I only sympathized and then feed.
July, 1892. Paris.
Paris was the place where the artistic and wonderful world of socialist and politics, courtesan’s men indulges, musical theatres pampered by aristocrats, operas, museums, street whores with bohemian stereotypes writhe into one. The promise land for a wanderers like me, whose dark secrets had no place for the modern world, as if like erecting a paradise to concrete bricks could fathom. Yes. Paris. The vast and colourful streets full of sundry people, their accented dresses and lovely tunes of language...lovely. What a sight to see, what reward to have, a chance of a lifetime. Paris was my new life. Paris is my way of finding lust and independence and... peace.
Peace. Spewed on that thought!
How could I have peace if someone’s here with me was a puppeteer of mine? If it wasn’t for him, I could have been dead three years ago you know.
My mentor.
Peace... with him? I rather call it a living hell.
The truth, I only fled here in Paris with my mentor when my own family thought of me as monster and wanted to kill me. Tragedy really, I would never thought I will be on the far side of the world because of my catastrophic outcome. Everywhere I go there’s death and hell in front of me. Death to my victims while hell waiting from my home. And my hell is here right now, sleeping peacefully on his bed, few feet away from me. Sometimes I wonder if he did really forgotten being a human once, with a soul, with a beating heart. Now as I look at his sleeping form, all I could feel from him was living shell with a goal nothing but to feed his hunger. I am afraid I will end up just like him one day, despising the world and everyone in it.
He made me. I am his creation, given with gifted cunning, beauty and immortality. Though this was beyond any human can take, I’m still furious thinking about it.
Markus. That was his name. The name I will remember for the rest of my life.
Every morning when he sleeps, I stood watching Markus as I was a guardian of his, a protector so to speak. I don’t know why but I must, maybe he made me to. I feel like empty and weak when he’s not around, but when he does I despised him for just looking at his sweet devilish grin. And last night he fuelled my anger even more. He smouldered four of the five family members just two blocks away from our place, leaving a lonely boy as the only survivor. Two weeks in Paris and Markus had already killed more than my finger could count, and I can’t help myself but disgust by his euphoric ways. My blue eyes flared and my blood bursts into fury when he let the boy go, saying the child was not suited to his taste. That was insult for me and he only laughs at me when I punched his face last night. Markus had a thing with people’s fate; flirting with them, gain their trust, and then slay them swiftly or, in circumstances, slowly. It was one of his fortes, one of his likable sports.
And since this morning, I waited for him to be awakened. I waited in vain for him to explain something to me. Why? Why does he have to do that? Why kill them all?
“What are you doing here, Vincent?”
Ah, the master was awakened finally. He was groaning into the pillow. I know he was tired from the last night’s buffet of his, but I’m not going to stand here shouldering all the guilt while he imperiously pondering around with his bed.
“Waiting for you...” I answered.
Cursing, he pulled the pillow away from his face and leaned at his side. When he saw me sitting at the safest part of the room hiding behind the shadows of curtains, he cocked his head slightly. “You’re not going to leave me alone, are you?”
“Why would I?”
“Typical, you are.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “What do you want now?”
“Answers?”
“And from what question that would be?”
My eyes fixed with his stare, holding it for a moment. He knew damn well what I’m about to say as I saw slight irritation from his frowned face. “I know you need to feed and it was reasonable for you to do so.” I said. “But what you did last night was beyond rational, Markus. Why kill them all? You can have only one. That is our rule.”
“Rules, you say?” he said, raising one brow. “And when does this rule had been occurred, hmm? Does it arise to you when hunger strikes, principles have no use? Do you ever have an urge to question yourself while feeding? Why to kill? No, I guess not. For the likes us, we must prepare for this kind of judgement. I am surprised for three years you haven’t accustomed to it.” He eased himself up. “Your daily query really hoists my day, my friend. You have no idea how impecunious you are sometimes--" he nodded towards the nightstand, "give me the wine."
“Get it yourself.”
“I don't have time for your ridiculous attitude. Get me the wine now!"
"No."
I saw his lips thinned and a flash of anger blaze into his eyes. Yes, that's what I am, a mere defiant. I don't know why I like to angered him though I'm fully aware he could throw me to the lions anytime. But Markus was an impatient creature. He will never do that to me. So instead of taking my foul obedience seriously, he stood up abruptly and walked towards the nightstand. "Go back to your room," he said, grabbing the bottle. "Whatever question might that be, we can discuss that later."
"No!" I screamed and before I knew it, I was grabbing him by the collar. “You son of a bitch!” I screeched to his face. “Why did you let the boy sees you kill his family? We are murderers, we are sinners, I know. But slaying all his family—“
“They’re witness, you imprudent brat!” he squirmed under my hand. “I meant the boy to live, he's too young for me! The boy's mind was corrupt already. I intended to kill only one, but because of you, because of your stupid sympathies, they saw what we did and because of you I have to do something about it! Now let go of me or I swear you will end up sleeping with beggars outside this walls!”
My grip loosens, not because of his taunting, but because I can’t look at him anymore without thinking I want to choke his breath out of him, or hell anything I can use to strangle him.
I turned around and once again sat behind the curtains.
“Go back to your room.” He demanded.
“I can’t put myself to rest...”
“Then do something about it!”
“...I hate you...”
He laughed. “Correct me if I’m wrong, my dear. That’s not what I’ve heard three years ago.”
I pressed my eyes closed and bowed my head for some reason I don't know, as if he trapped me once again. Yes, it’s not the same thing; I don’t know what damnation means when he offered me something I cannot refuse. But I wasn’t thinking imperative that time; he knew I would say yes three years ago. Having a deep blade impaled to my chest wasn’t a good idea to have such decision. I was nearly dying and I am such a coward to face it.
Am I really...?
My heartbeat raced into a rhythm, trembling with anguish and resentment. My family, my life, my soul should rested without fear if I could only yield my pride and embraced death. Markus, this red-head, was masking as an angel when he saved me. Miracles do happen...no, this is not a miracle. This is a curse.
I raised my gaze and darted towards the smiling beauty in front of me. I said nothing, I lack of confidence to defy him. I am afraid of those eyes. His eyes that shone the deepest gold that shivered down my spine.
We stared at each other, studying, letting the annoyance to sink in... and then the devil himself smiled again, as if he knew what's on inside my mind already.
“You know fully well you can't kill me, Vincent." He said. "Not in a million years. Hate me more if you like, but you cannot dispose the likes of me."
I know. Lecture no longer needed. But if I have a spare time, I want to try it all over again. Who am I ridiculing of? I tried to kill Markus more than once, and utterly failed more than once. I poisoned him, slashed him with the sharpest blade I could ever grasped, I even left him once—twice and hide away. But Markus was one of those elders you may consider gifted, while I, I was compared only to a mere child. He’s the superior, hundred years older than me, my power has no match against him, as if I was only a pawn to a king. Then again, I pity him at times. I am the newborn killer and he was... well, he was lonely and perhaps he needed me.
I looked away and moved across the room. I ignored his watchful eyes and sat near the window. The glowing shaft of light from the sun danced through the drapes and then bounced to the marbled floor where the pattern visibly changes into a kaleidoscope. Our room has the aura of dusk; I never saw the true shades of its walls since we set our foot here in Paris. But nevertheless the colourful floorings and the reds of the stained glass helps illuminate what I needed and wanted to see.
“Vincent," he drank the wine impatiently. "If you’re going to drool the whole morning, you might as well do—”
“Amazing, is it not?” I said to him, still staring at the floor. “God’s creations...?”
I felt Markus flinched. My shifting of moods really does wonder him. He could have said yes or no, but he’s not in the mood of answering me.
“Simplest things make me happy.” I said. “Like for instance, watching the dancing lights everyday when dawn had ended. I admired it so much. Why is it so?”
I know Markus would not answer that either. But who can I ask? He was standing there, watching me, sipping his wine, playing with his own thoughts, completely ignoring me. But I am his pupil and he was my teacher, so I demand some answers. I know he can. My real age and the lines of my face have the same like his, however, Markus’ wits and familiarity to the world was no doubt ancient than mine.
“Perhaps I was marveled by the beauty of the sun,” I carried on, “the simplicity and its offering, of which I am aware that those playful innocent lights were harmless, it could kill me...” I halted when I heard his audible sighs, and then I looked at him and studied his face. He was sad, or frowning, I don’t know, but I do know that if I'll continue my words it will made him shiver. We are creatures of the night, he told me that many times, but I needed to ask what's bothering me through all this years. “Markus..." I began, trying to change the mood, "when was the last time the sun gleamed down on you?”
The question was blunt and stupid, I can see in his narrowed eyes. “I don’t know if that’s the most ridiculous question I ever heard coming from someone like you, but my answer is I can’t remember.” He said. “I can’t recall feeling its heat either, never nor can I remember how it rested upon the valley or any slopes, any mountains. Sunrise or sunset had nothing to do with us anymore, there’s only twilight. Now, for the last time, go back to your room.”
“We are damned.” I whispered, hugging myself as if I was cold. “Is that really it?”
“Vincent,” he said and walked across the room. He stood before me and then placed a hand onto my shoulder. “We are damned since the day we’re born. We are puppets, an entertainment for its creator. We're all the same. Do good or evil, all the same. Make a prayer, serve the convent, slit someone’s throat, steals someone's bread, all the same, there’s no difference...”
“Choices, my beloved mentor.” I said. “There are choices to comprehend, must do. I never thought I’ll be an immortal one day... no one can refuse any offer like you did. But I became selfish. You gave me a choice, and I choose to be with you... though there’s a price.”
“Are we going to talk about this all over again?” he asked, irritatingly. “Are you implying that this all my fault? Your family thought of you as the devil in disguise, they don’t know you anymore. People around you don’t know you anymore.”
“I said my choice is to be with you, was it not? Am I not enough? Why do you have to take my family away from me?”
“Are there no sufficient reason passing through that thick skull of yours?” he said, and then grabbed his robe, turned to his heel and walked away.
“The sun is still up," I asked, "where are you going?”
"To the other room," He shouted. "So that I would not tempt myself to smack your head!"
Title: Vincent the Damned
Author: Unanimo
Language: English
Series: Chronicles of a Vampire
Genres: Drama, Suspense
Warning: Some language and descriptive elements are not suited for minors
Status: On going
Prologue:
Those who survived from the plagues of death thought they are blessed. They never realized it was more painful than living than those who already dead.
But I am not dead. Nor with the living either.
I lived. I died. Then I lived again. They gave me a second chance. They gave me air to my lungs, ears to hear, and eyes for me to see. Use it, they said. Use it wisely. But I never knew what they gave to me will come the death of my soul.
My creator left me unheeded, vaguely aimless. He was taken away by the sun and scattered while the moon was still ripe. He left me without hope, bearing me the marked of a damn soul. He never gave me the last thing he promised.
He left me with thirst and took the beat of my heart.
I searched. I hide, for there's no one could understand what I am.
Okay, here goes...This
brain of mine doesn’t give a shit for those screaming teenage girls and
girls-alike when they thought about vampires do fall in love but I’m telling
you, they did freak me out! The obsession and the idea of this peculiar
devotion—of which mostly passed when you reached the age of twenty, empowered
the great population made me so pissed I want to gag their mouths with my own
fist just to shut them up from speaking the protagonist names over and over
again as if was possessed and ended up naming their dog after the movie.