There was no such thing as no vampires.

The day I returned to my village from American life, I watched the blood drain out of a new young boy or girl every day. It dried on the torn skin on their necks and slowly they died in cold blood. The blood moon was getting redder than the yellower. It made the blood dried on the roads glow with the ruby moonlit sky. I was more of a sunshine kind of boy and the scene pierced my eyes, hurting it.

It was more than just a crime scene. It was more clueless and more devastating than that. The fewer and slow killings were making things scarier, more dangerous, and more intense. The only way to survive was to sell the soul to the devil – like I had done with absolute surety. The streets became such a parasitic sight that it gurgled my stomach and no one dared to wash it off. The horror on the faces hit hard on people with neck bites.

Soon, as the dark moonless night was approaching, distorted shadows followed, slowing my steps even as I tried to rush. The shadow followed in magical steps and the heavy spirit almost pushed into me. It was an out-of-body experience as the air became colder and my legs froze. I started to lose energy and things were blurry. It was black and white and I felt my neck getting warmer. The world was soon white and then I blacked out when I didn’t know that I would.

I woke up still dizzy and from an overwhelming sleep. My hands were pale and the green veins showed up as I realized I was on the filthy pavement covered with rotting blood. It started to rain and my hair was dripping with raindrops. Slowly even the water started to become red over my long brown hair. I scrunched and struggled to see the red clearly over light brown hair. I looked up to see what was supporting my head and my neck hurt terribly, stiff as a rock. I looked up to see a dark almost black face that I could make out but I knew that spirit made it black.

All I could see is little pieces of flesh and blood on the fangs that showed up. I could feel the puncture marls and smooth indents of her long fangs that almost reached the chin poking out of the dark mask. She pulled me into her car at lightning speed and static filled my weak ears which made me feel even more weak. The air was contaminated with an enchanted scent as the chauffeur sprayed something on the seats. It overpowered my senses with a terrible medication-like smell.

The rhythm of the rain on the windows sounded in sync with the rhythm of the heartbeat and throbbing in my neck. I remembered the rose eyes shining at me filled with bloodlust. The tires screeched to a stop next to the graveyard and the air was poisoned with disappointed, sad, and angry hushes. It made my hair rise on its end. But before I could be pulled out I voluntarily followed her right behind. There was great tension increasing as the spirits around me became more active at 3 at midnight.

The cloak that she wore -covered her small body- was a historical cloak. The way it fluttered in the wind was time framed. I heard her whisper. It was a sign we should stop and just listen. I plopped on a grave even though I was scared of the unending array of graves.

‘I know what a coffin feels like. It is like time is buried inside but still moving. When I came out of it I was still wearing the cloak.’

‘We are not some heroes of fantasy- we have a natural need for blood because of the ancient curse of vengeance. When our royal ancestry was buried for the throne in the forest, my bloodlust became as real as the blood on the streets, thousands of years after that scene that filled me with pain and voices of ghosts cutting through the air.’

‘I couldn’t fight for the vengeance of my family and that old, unfulfilled revenge turned into a timeless black hole in my face.’

As she told her past in an angry voice, the fang marks burned more and more ferociously. She had a French accent laced with contempt for the past lingering on her fangs that brushed her lips lightly. I thought this was the perfect part of the story which could have the ending point of it. But I was unsure that it could be me who ends his life tomorrow instead. The puncture burned on my skin making me more of a scapegoat every second.

‘You need to see something.’

The grave she pointed to was a double gravestone.

‘Mr. and Mrs Wilson

Belle Morte’

Those were my parents.