Tuesday, November 8, 2011

Vincent VulgarVlad's musings

This is a snippet of something I'm planning on working more with. It's really a spin-off of sorts of a story I almost finished some years back. After going over my old writings, I realized it had too many errors to simply be edited, so I threw the idea in the trash. I recently thought it might be a better idea to just redo the whole thing, as I believe much of the original had great potential. It just didn't seem fair to throw away so much creativity, so here's just a small taste I whipped up in like an hour and a half.
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I often find myself alone, lost in a deep thought. It’s the only way to achieve the closest thing to peace. But when I say closest, I don’t mean close at all. Which is more peaceful? Living among those who find immense pleasure in bloodshed as well as their own hatred, or resorting to isolation in an attempt to muse upon that which I could never fully understand? I’d rather endure the latter. At least it does not talk back. But then again, would I rather listen to Jagger’s rugged voice preach slime coated demands of how I should act, or lose myself in my own dangerous mind, where my unnerving curiosity threatens to drag me down deeper into those before unvisited spaces of my mind with each burning question, hoping to find answers somewhere unknown? Neither one is peaceful, so I continue on, my curse of thoughtfulness never promising me any quiet moments. This is why I’d rather be alone to let my mind overcome me. It’s not like I have a choice. Eventually I must give in, so at least this way my thoughts won’t mix with the voices of others around me. I can focus on them alone. And so it begins.

Hanging low against one of the tall castle walls, there is a wide mirror, located along the hall beside Jagger’s room. I have a habit of stopping for a moment while passing by to glance at myself. What I behold, I cannot describe in words aloud because I myself do not know what I see in my own reflection. This realization strikes more fear into my cold heart than my nature should allow. I begin to dwell on the subject of vampire reproduction and how I, along with others of my race came to exist within this world.

Through child birth the body is produced, though lifeless and dead. The baby’s appearance is that of something inhuman still. Its skin paler than the full moon, with gruesome fangs and features as sharp as a blade. Only through a mother’s bite is life given to these soulless creatures. The body requires poison to awaken that which the power of some God given source of life cannot. And while I speak of this Heavenly being so many of Melinda’s kind deem their maker, what then gives my kind the power to resurrect those born dead? It is Melinda who rules this realm with her magic spells bestowed unto her by something even more unfathomable. And is it not this mysterious God who gave Melinda her life? If so, is it then acceptable for her to turn away from that God and in essence, become one herself? If not, then am I to blame for my unlawful existence despite my desire to remain innocent, simply because I am from that which rebelled against God? Then why do I even believe I receive a chance at judgment? If I am not one of His creations, why should I? But, surely since the existence of my race spawned from the imagination of man, I too am linked to this God I know so little about.


These thoughts are what trouble me, but not solely. As I gaze into the mirror at my ghastly reflection, I am forever haunted by what I see. There are no puncture marks on my neck. Every vampire has a mark on their neck, as proof of that first bite of life given to them by their mother. It is what awakens us from the dead and keeps our shriveled hearts beating. But can I truly be called a vampire if I do not have this mark? If I never received such a bite, how then am I living? Does this mean that the same God who gave Melinda life gave also me a soul? If this then be at all possible, then how? Why me?

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