Immortal

K. Barratt

VAMPIRE_2008-2011_00_c_Stage_Entertainment                                                                                                                                                                  (image by ja_-_produktion_-_TANZ_DER_VAMPIRE_2008-2011_00_c_Stage_Entertainment.jpg)

He would come every night, tapping gently the glass of my window. He would come in the shadows, in the mist, he would come to me. His touch soft as breeze. And as a winter breeze, just as cold. His skin, smooth and serene, a soft marble of sorts. His eyes, the moon, appearing from the thick veils of clouds, and my doubts would wither, like flowers in the snow. And his kiss would drain me, burn me, kill me -and yet I longed for it, this burning, this draining. This death. For never was I more alive than in the arms of my immortal. I was his offering, his sacrifice, his wet nurse, his lover. Only he would give meaning to the dread of my days: to the long, agonizing collapse of a world with no emotion nor hope nor love, just tarnished glitter and fake gold; masks passing for happy folks; humans who were truly corpses; putrefied in the inside; people, who could and had been as monstrous as him. I did not fool myself. I knew. Of him and his deeds. I knew it all. I understood his blood thirst. How could I not, as I offered my neck to be drank from? He took just enough, to keep me pale and weak, but breathing. And after the ritual, he would love me. Love. Me. And if he did not, I told myself he did. He spoke of things I did not understand, nor cared to. We played house in the dark gardens. And I eventually opened myself fully to him, undressed my soul in ways I had never done before nor since. And I think he felt for me. Something.

And then they came, oh great heroes, with stakes and fires, holy waters and silver swords. They saved me from myself and his hold, they said, as they slain my beloved: cut off his head, impaled his heart, turned his beauty to ashes. And they congratulated themselves. The vampyre was gone and I had returned to their world, the world I belonged to, apparently. A world of pretension and lies, and petrified smiles and frozen hearts. And when I preferred the shadows to daylight, the doctor call it melancholy. Let her be, he said. Yes. Let me be, you bastards. Let me reach my true potential. A being of the night even before he floated behind my window pane. You will pay, oh great heroes, champions of life. I shall fill your souls with the void you have filled mine. With the anger. And the fear. With grief I will drown you! With madness and hunger and rage and lonesomeness! Oh, sorry are you children of the light. Sorry are you, in your human disguise. Go on, then, continue your dance. I am in no hurry. I have all the time of the world, I, the new immortal, as I learn my craft; sharpen my skills; find the ways to deal with my prey. Persist, then, with your petty lives. I shall destroy you bit by bit. And when you can take it no more, I will come. I will be the last thing you see on your dying day. And there will be pain.

 

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