Below me, above me, around me is the city. A mote amid
its immensity, I stand and extend perceptions that allow me a
more intensive survey of the region than any man made spy
satellite. Technology has set limits; it cannot feel the minds,
see in all the secret places, know them, with the same ease as I,
a solitary man. A mocking grin parts my lips even as I step
forwards through the evening crowds, unnoticed by any there,
although several move aside to let me through the lines outside
the various clubs. My own state constantly amuses me, and always
has done - whether it is noting my habit of referring to myself
as a man or the certainty that I died over five hundred years
ago. In that way, for certain, my vampiric state has not altered
me, although sometimes I wonder.
Those thing I can remember of the man I was are not always
crystal clear, or if they are there tends to be a dark liquid
adding uncertainty, perhaps. I recall Simkins, the first man I
killed, and how the red fury dissipated so quickly, leaving me
holding a bloody knife and letting loose the contents of my
stomach across the pier. Through time I have become inured to the
taking of life, to a greater or lesser degree. Maybe this is in
part due to the effects of the bestial taint that seems inherent
in our condition, but at least an equal quantity must be due to
the distancing effect of time after time, a habit of just not
worrying too much about it.
Although I like to think of myself as a caring individual I am
still aware that my outlook has been warped in subtle and gross
ways over the ages, though, hopefully, not to the degree of some.
Time and events more than any demonic stain have led to changes,
I feel; blaming vampirism itself in anything but a minor way for
my own foibles seems cowardly, frankly. A sentient being with its
own will should be able to overcome most any trials of the
spirit.
Inside it is warm, causing me to shrug off my coat, whether
through design, habit or to allay suspicion I can no longer say -
perhaps a modicum of all. At the bar I gather the necessary and
then find a spot next to the man who is the reason I am here. He
looks unimpressed with my choice of meeting place, but I am not
accustomed to entertaining others aboard ship or in the Elysium
if I am to be playing the host. I am quite certain he'll get over
it, especially once he's got a few down him. No doubt it's been a
while since he drank anything but oh so precious vitae. How
quickly they forget.
Recollections; ties that bind. Faintly there are reminiscences of
my mother, but these are more of an idealised montage than any
specific incidents. After my entrance into the happy state I now
find myself in I certainly went through periods of which I
remember not a thing, even now.
In recent years a great deal of my memories have returned to me
and I have seen the cyclic, ouroborous like way in which my own
mind trapped me.
Forgetfulness can be a blessing, but I feel it limits ones
choices in further growth a little too much. A man is made of his
memories, after all; the longer lived, the more so it must be
true. To properly face the future one should know oneself.
Across from me my companion is looking in amazement at his glass,
the expression certainly hard to decipher if it were not for his
aura showing so strongly. Reading the faces of Nosferatu can be
an exercise in futility at times, the mangled remains of human
seeming hardly making it an easy prospect. Looking at his Mask
could probably be a lot easier, but I like to see real faces.
Long term habits again.
Drinking has been a mainstay throughout both of my forms of
existence. Some may call it dementia, I simply call it habit, and
a pleasing one at that. The point of having spent hundreds of
years seeking a means of having access in a way other than
through secondary blood products is one barely worth mentioning,
really. Of course, it did cause me to become horribly
disenchanted with my undead existence over those years on several
occasions, but we all have our crosses to bear at some stage.
With the drink I feel more a part of the living, breathing
society around me, just as the first step of learning how to
force down liquid other than blood very early in my unlife did.
Of course the flavour and effect are more of the actual reason,
but I'm waxing somewhat poetical just now.
These pieces of my former life battled for and regained may give
one the idea of a wish to return entirely to mortality - I think
not, at least not for the moment. Over the years I have become
accustomed to my state and have come to revel in aspects of it.
Having abilities beyond those of many others is something that
the human condition is quite happy to put up with - whether it be
a stronger body, greater attractiveness, a higher intellect or
any number of things. Fantastic supernatural gifts can be a
definite bonus too. A diet change and a need to stay out of the
sunlight are things that some people would certainly put up with
for these enhancements, and that many have. It's a pretty good
deal in my opinion, even with the other problems. So long as one
doesn't get eaten by something bigger it generally works out.
Okay, so I'm an optimist.
Business completed, I pick up the comatose form of my not so
talkative companion and leave the bar. You'd have thought that
someone that big would be able to hold his liquor, but
appearances can be deceptive.
After having basically poisoned the poor fellow I'd best find a
likely donor to replenish his reserves and make like the
apologetic heavy handed host. Never mind, it's not as if he's
going to be unable to recover, and it's certainly been a learning
experience for him. That's all life, and unlife, is, really. One
just hopes that one can help others learn too.