The Cemetery Diaries
A Vampire's Mistake
I made a mistake. Those words mean so much more to a vampire than to a human being, because we can create in ways that natural beings cannot. I made a mistake, and she had corporeal form. Now I see her in the arcs of red that chaos throws over my head like a fountain, and she is you. I took away your beating heart, my poor love, but they are the ones who broke it. They’re stopped in the road, bikes turned sideways, like blood all seized up in the country’s black tar arteries. The landscape aches around them, melting in the sweltering heat, begging them not to do it, but it’s too late. If you don’t live for something, I find myself thinking, then you’ll die for nothing. What did you live for, Trixie? The truth is now, we’ll never know. All I’m sure of is that you only ever wanted to perish, you didn’t want to be destroyed.
You, my next victim, are laughing, and I put thoughts of my loss away. You will regret stepping into my thoughts, and becoming the subject of my narration. You are rugged, six foot five and towering, but you won’t last long. You lived too recklessly to ever grow aware of your weaknesses. The sun can incinerate your eyes, and holy water can wither your flesh, but do you know such things? I warrant that you don’t. You know only the vague evils of sunshine and garlic and stakes. You don’t even know the evils of your own kind. In fact, you celebrate them.
You are pacing across the tarmac, by yourself at the tip of the pack’s arrow, boots crunching. Your long hair is braided back into a slick ponytail, laced through with cruel garrotting wire. Now it’s your turn to make a mistake. Out on your own, with only your ego for protection. I step over the body of my crushed flower, lily-white in a bed of roses, and my eyes are hard as onyx behind shades that now serve a double purpose. I see your own white eyes are unshielded, as if you want to burn, fiery falling like an angel. I reach behind my back, and see the fluidness of my motion reflected in your dense pupils. They contract as the sword cuts through you, the wooden weapon I keep beneath my jacket at all times, edged with razor blades and a stake at both ends, because I know the only threat to a vampire comes from within the underworld.
A stroke later, there are two of you, made four, then five as you sycophants step forward, some braver than others. I slice six into twelve before I leave, scooping up your old body and hoisting her over my shoulder. I drag your tall body, too, lashing it to the back of my bike with old seaman’s knots. You shall suffer as I once suffered. I kick start the motor, and leave the rest of you anxious and injured. You are no creations of mine, no children of my blood. Whatever your fate is, it’s not my business anymore.
All except for one of you. I catch your golden eyes inside that frame of flame-bright hair, and I see that you’re unique. A follower, but not loyal, and so capable of following me. You prowl a little closer to the bike than your peers, as though you are a proud lioness, tawny maned, and its low rumble is the call of your king. Between the bloody bundle and my shoulder blades, you slide into the back seat, slipping easily. For all your muscle, you are slim and lean, a wiry fighter who can pick the winning team. It is better, besides, to be a pack of two in crowded civilisation. A smaller number attracts less attention. You nod silently, assenting to my every thought. Let’s go.
We rise into the sky, where the sunset is erupting, spreading like a wound, staining the undersides of the clouds. The hills are crowned gold, and shafts of sunlight spear the distant harbour like roads for Valkyries. I follow an ascending beam, travelling up until the land is a distant map spread out for my perusal. I follow highway and river until we are back at the cemetery where your dead body was born, and where your surviving body will be interred. You have been so many things today; a call to violence and valiance, a cause for grief and sorrow, but not for shedding tears. When all is said and done, I only have dry eyes for you.
You, my next victim, are laughing, and I put thoughts of my loss away. You will regret stepping into my thoughts, and becoming the subject of my narration. You are rugged, six foot five and towering, but you won’t last long. You lived too recklessly to ever grow aware of your weaknesses. The sun can incinerate your eyes, and holy water can wither your flesh, but do you know such things? I warrant that you don’t. You know only the vague evils of sunshine and garlic and stakes. You don’t even know the evils of your own kind. In fact, you celebrate them.
You are pacing across the tarmac, by yourself at the tip of the pack’s arrow, boots crunching. Your long hair is braided back into a slick ponytail, laced through with cruel garrotting wire. Now it’s your turn to make a mistake. Out on your own, with only your ego for protection. I step over the body of my crushed flower, lily-white in a bed of roses, and my eyes are hard as onyx behind shades that now serve a double purpose. I see your own white eyes are unshielded, as if you want to burn, fiery falling like an angel. I reach behind my back, and see the fluidness of my motion reflected in your dense pupils. They contract as the sword cuts through you, the wooden weapon I keep beneath my jacket at all times, edged with razor blades and a stake at both ends, because I know the only threat to a vampire comes from within the underworld.
A stroke later, there are two of you, made four, then five as you sycophants step forward, some braver than others. I slice six into twelve before I leave, scooping up your old body and hoisting her over my shoulder. I drag your tall body, too, lashing it to the back of my bike with old seaman’s knots. You shall suffer as I once suffered. I kick start the motor, and leave the rest of you anxious and injured. You are no creations of mine, no children of my blood. Whatever your fate is, it’s not my business anymore.
All except for one of you. I catch your golden eyes inside that frame of flame-bright hair, and I see that you’re unique. A follower, but not loyal, and so capable of following me. You prowl a little closer to the bike than your peers, as though you are a proud lioness, tawny maned, and its low rumble is the call of your king. Between the bloody bundle and my shoulder blades, you slide into the back seat, slipping easily. For all your muscle, you are slim and lean, a wiry fighter who can pick the winning team. It is better, besides, to be a pack of two in crowded civilisation. A smaller number attracts less attention. You nod silently, assenting to my every thought. Let’s go.
We rise into the sky, where the sunset is erupting, spreading like a wound, staining the undersides of the clouds. The hills are crowned gold, and shafts of sunlight spear the distant harbour like roads for Valkyries. I follow an ascending beam, travelling up until the land is a distant map spread out for my perusal. I follow highway and river until we are back at the cemetery where your dead body was born, and where your surviving body will be interred. You have been so many things today; a call to violence and valiance, a cause for grief and sorrow, but not for shedding tears. When all is said and done, I only have dry eyes for you.