Vampire's Monologue
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"You've never been in love with a mortal," Meier had told him, scorned him. Spitting the words at him like an insult.
You've never been in love. You wouldn't understand.
Sometimes D wondered if he had ever loved anyone.
Had he loved his mother? Perhaps, in the beginning. Being held against her bosom, seeking companionship in a castle teeming with vampires. His mother was his only solace when he was younger, under grown, in his father's house. The older vampires teasing him, tracing his skin with their cold nails, sharpened like claws. Tongue's tinged blue with death, licking him, testing the veins underneath. Just teasing, of course. His father had made sure it was only teasing. Running from the cold caresses of the vampires into the welcoming arms his mother, who kept to herself, avoiding the parties held below in the wide halls of the castle, that had been D as a child.
His mother never participated in the mass feedings down below, lavish parties of splattered blood. She never let another vampire touch her besides her husband. She refused to befriend the other mortal guests, invited to the parties for food and play. They never stayed for long any way, eventually eaten, converted, or escaped.
She never tried to escape. She let his father lock her up in the tower, high above the mists of the clouds. Preferring to be the caged bird, she had let D wander about the castle, doing as he would, alone the corridors of the seducing vampires. They had called to him, promising pleasure and power. D had known to stay away, even if his mother had never told him to. He was not a fool.
Like his mother had been.
When he had awakened as a dampeal, with lust in his fangs instead of his loins, his mother had abandoned him. Cast him away from her tower. The only vampire she could stand was his father.
No, he had never loved his mother, who held him close when he was young, and threw him away when he had grown. How can you love a mother who can see only your father?
But her arms had been warm and comforting.
When he had been cast down from the upper reaches of his father's house, he finally consented to the sweet voices of the vampires, offering him blood and wine. They welcomed him with cold embraces smelling of dead flowers.
And a party had been thrown, especially for him. The castle walls draped in red, the dance hall furnished with an orchestra of strange creatures, biting and snapping, his father permitting him to wear one of his expensive coats, blossoming lace and diamond cufflinks. D had looked the part of a vampire prince then; his long hair pulled back, his skin just turning pale. Beautiful and immaculate, untouchable and divine, God-like and Godless, one of the vampires whispered to him. He danced with them, the inhabitants of his father's castle; he had felt like one of them.
The vampires brought him a girl. Not a year older or younger than him, dressed in white, like a wedding dress, dripping silver enfolded rubies. Blond hair spilling over the satin, blue eyes drained of most color. She had been his bride, a gift, a token, a meal. He held her close, tightly and firmly, for she was his doll to do with as he would.
And he had been too young then, to understand the desire to lick her neck, to bite deep, and to lap up the crimson wine.
She died in his arms, so much blood drawn from her she could not even be converted.
Had he loved her? His one and only bride?
Of course not, she never even spoke a word to him.
But her dying breath, her opal eyes closing, that had caused him to awaken. To understand what he was and what he could be. That had driven him to run away. Away from his father and his mother, away from his lineage and ancestry, away from her cold dead body.
His father? No, no. His father, that was a different story.
There had been women, even men, who he had met along his journey, who perhaps he had cared for. Like the sweet and gentle Doris with her whip and blonde hair in braids. Whether they had been fellow hunters, villagers, or victims of the moments his bloodlust had become too much, it didn't matter. They were nothing but faces in memory, no real emotions attached, except for maybe fondness.
There had been a vampire also, but that had not been love. Lust and loneliness, perhaps, but not love.
He still bore a scar from her on his chest.
Then there had been Leila.
He still remembered her warmth against him when she had ridden with him away from the spaceship receding into the sky, the scent of her hair, the pulsing of the veins on her neck. It would be lying to say he didn't want her. She had been nice, almost amusing. He had enjoyed riding with her; a part of him wishing the ride would last for a while more.
She had smirked at him when she had left, telling him "So long" and finally placing her hand on his arm, feeling his muscles beneath, then moving to his hand, touching the cold flesh with her fingers. Had she been disgusted? He thought not, she had looked melancholy.
Love? No, too strong. Companionship? Too simple.
He had liked her. He had called her a friend.
Then that was what she was.
He had had too few of those.
So he had never loved anyone. All those he knew who loved ended tragically. Father and mother. Meier and Charlotte. Death was the inevitable end of love.
Did he love himself?
Carmilla loved herself, and she had been disgusting.
Was he lonely?
Always.
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"You've never been in love with a mortal," Meier had told him, scorned him. Spitting the words at him like an insult.
You've never been in love. You wouldn't understand.
Sometimes D wondered if he had ever loved anyone.
Had he loved his mother? Perhaps, in the beginning. Being held against her bosom, seeking companionship in a castle teeming with vampires. His mother was his only solace when he was younger, under grown, in his father's house. The older vampires teasing him, tracing his skin with their cold nails, sharpened like claws. Tongue's tinged blue with death, licking him, testing the veins underneath. Just teasing, of course. His father had made sure it was only teasing. Running from the cold caresses of the vampires into the welcoming arms his mother, who kept to herself, avoiding the parties held below in the wide halls of the castle, that had been D as a child.
His mother never participated in the mass feedings down below, lavish parties of splattered blood. She never let another vampire touch her besides her husband. She refused to befriend the other mortal guests, invited to the parties for food and play. They never stayed for long any way, eventually eaten, converted, or escaped.
She never tried to escape. She let his father lock her up in the tower, high above the mists of the clouds. Preferring to be the caged bird, she had let D wander about the castle, doing as he would, alone the corridors of the seducing vampires. They had called to him, promising pleasure and power. D had known to stay away, even if his mother had never told him to. He was not a fool.
Like his mother had been.
When he had awakened as a dampeal, with lust in his fangs instead of his loins, his mother had abandoned him. Cast him away from her tower. The only vampire she could stand was his father.
No, he had never loved his mother, who held him close when he was young, and threw him away when he had grown. How can you love a mother who can see only your father?
But her arms had been warm and comforting.
When he had been cast down from the upper reaches of his father's house, he finally consented to the sweet voices of the vampires, offering him blood and wine. They welcomed him with cold embraces smelling of dead flowers.
And a party had been thrown, especially for him. The castle walls draped in red, the dance hall furnished with an orchestra of strange creatures, biting and snapping, his father permitting him to wear one of his expensive coats, blossoming lace and diamond cufflinks. D had looked the part of a vampire prince then; his long hair pulled back, his skin just turning pale. Beautiful and immaculate, untouchable and divine, God-like and Godless, one of the vampires whispered to him. He danced with them, the inhabitants of his father's castle; he had felt like one of them.
The vampires brought him a girl. Not a year older or younger than him, dressed in white, like a wedding dress, dripping silver enfolded rubies. Blond hair spilling over the satin, blue eyes drained of most color. She had been his bride, a gift, a token, a meal. He held her close, tightly and firmly, for she was his doll to do with as he would.
And he had been too young then, to understand the desire to lick her neck, to bite deep, and to lap up the crimson wine.
She died in his arms, so much blood drawn from her she could not even be converted.
Had he loved her? His one and only bride?
Of course not, she never even spoke a word to him.
But her dying breath, her opal eyes closing, that had caused him to awaken. To understand what he was and what he could be. That had driven him to run away. Away from his father and his mother, away from his lineage and ancestry, away from her cold dead body.
His father? No, no. His father, that was a different story.
There had been women, even men, who he had met along his journey, who perhaps he had cared for. Like the sweet and gentle Doris with her whip and blonde hair in braids. Whether they had been fellow hunters, villagers, or victims of the moments his bloodlust had become too much, it didn't matter. They were nothing but faces in memory, no real emotions attached, except for maybe fondness.
There had been a vampire also, but that had not been love. Lust and loneliness, perhaps, but not love.
He still bore a scar from her on his chest.
Then there had been Leila.
He still remembered her warmth against him when she had ridden with him away from the spaceship receding into the sky, the scent of her hair, the pulsing of the veins on her neck. It would be lying to say he didn't want her. She had been nice, almost amusing. He had enjoyed riding with her; a part of him wishing the ride would last for a while more.
She had smirked at him when she had left, telling him "So long" and finally placing her hand on his arm, feeling his muscles beneath, then moving to his hand, touching the cold flesh with her fingers. Had she been disgusted? He thought not, she had looked melancholy.
Love? No, too strong. Companionship? Too simple.
He had liked her. He had called her a friend.
Then that was what she was.
He had had too few of those.
So he had never loved anyone. All those he knew who loved ended tragically. Father and mother. Meier and Charlotte. Death was the inevitable end of love.
Did he love himself?
Carmilla loved herself, and she had been disgusting.
Was he lonely?
Always.