№ 1
Vampirism does interesting things to the mind — alters it, inflicts egoism and challenges the very morals and foundations upon which our basic characteristics stand. Vampires exist as mere ghosts of their former selves, twisted by desire and need to adapt. It isn't so much a matter of 'if', so much as 'when'.
Even the purest of heart fall off the bandwagon at some point, and no matter how much their conscience may attempt to intervene, the regard for human life begins to slip away. Holding onto that part of yourself is like trying to capture smoke with your bare hands.
Some, like myself, choose to be entirely frank with themselves. If there is a hell, I will someday be cast into it. Until such time, I will continue to live out my horrible, immoral existence and switch off my humanity as I see fit when the going gets too rough.
Another pro tip: coming to terms with your likely impending doom is a must. Whoever sired you likely told you that you will live for all eternity. That was a lie. You will not live for all eternity because there simply is no such thing. Eternity is subjective— a measure of immeasurable time used as a descriptor for what the actual messsage is; a shrug. Some eternities are longer than others. Some are dull, uneventful; while others are bright and full of life before they are snuffed out like a firework's explosion.
Vamipirism simply lends you stolen time. There is an end, it just won't be dictated by the dissintegration of your body.
Unfortunately, my eternity is not of the 'razzle-dazzle', explosion of colour variety. It features myself: the apathetic nutjob in my most riveting chapter yet— staring at the wall of a bleak cell with small interruptions every once in a while.
I stopped feeling physical pain after the first fifty years of my captivity and regular vivisections, your body experiences a breaking point after a certain amount of time, even as a vampire. That's what makes the nervous system so terribly poetic— it's a organ system designed to detect stimuli affecting the body, disrupting its usual functions. It detects pain as a result of foreign influence, as a way of alarming the body and (hopefully) preventing further interactions. The beauty of having an ever-lasting, insta-healing wonder body, is that it repairs itself over and over and over. So when it keeps feeling the same sensation, the alarm becomes less and less, well, alarming. And since a body ravaged by vampirism is already odd as it is, one more oddity makes itself at home.
It's still uncomfortable— I can still feel his scalpel penetrate my skin, but I no longer feel the stigma behind it. Well, that could also be explained by my 'turned-off' humanity I suppose. I never finished med-school, what do I know.
About five years ago, Enzo joined me in my bleak little eternity. He started out almost effervescent. Well, as effervescent as a war-torn soldier with no family or actual life to return to can be.
He was so scared. I used to stir in the middle of the night and hear his sobs of pain, as he relived his own history in his mind, on top of the new horrors the Augustine's ever-so-generously offered him.
It wasn't until day six of his captivity that I finally spoke. I remember the sound of my voice as it rang out through the heavy air, husky and low due to decades of disuse. I was at first simply amazed that I could even replicate proper speech patterns— a lot can change in fifty years. "Do you feel it."
There was silence from the cell next to me, only the sound of the slight shuffle of his shirt against the wall he laid on uncomfortable. "What am I meant to feel?"
"Anything. What drives you. What compells you to live, to fight and to conquer. Your crutch even in your final hour."
He was silent for a few moments more before I heard the sound of his head inclining, and his mumbled "…I am not certain."
I scoffed at his short-sightedness. "I'm not asking for the bloody meaning of life for god's sake. I am simply asking you to find what keeps you going and to hold onto it. If you wish to survive that'll be your saving grace."
There was an interesting edge to his voice when he answered, "Oh? And what would yours be then?"
It was my turn to sit in silent contemplation for a few moments. "I haven't one."
The waiting scoff was utterly predictable. "You expect me to follow the advice of a hypocrite."
"I expect you to find it in yourself to hold onto who you are until you escape. There is no escape for me. I have no saving grace because I will never have an escape. Nor anything to escape to." I had failed her, the singular reason for my continued existence, and then failed her once more when I lost him to his apathy. I had a mission, and I savagely defected from it in a fatal moment of weakness. I deserve every bit of torture I come to here. Even if I can no longer experience its full effects with my conscience so throughly buried. But how does one articulate that to a damaged soul in search of his own saving grace? So when he responded seconds later with a question asking my story, I remained silent. What has passed has passed.
The years dragged on in silence, at least on my part. Enzo would speak aloud to me, reiterating his hopes, dreams and past in millions of different ways. He spoke simply to remain speaking, even if he was never dignified with an answer.I came to believe that at some point he stopped searching for any. Enzo spoke to me because I had no choice but to listen. And listen, I did.
At some point (when exactly, I have no measure), my vivsections became less frequent as Whitmore decided my unresponsive nature was boring. He still had his weekly sessions with me, of course, but he took to Enzo far more frequently, evidently enjoying ripping apart a loud victim. As far as my humanity-ridden pile of bones was concerned, his torture didn't affect me in the slightest. There was no room for care or compassion within apathy.
The light was just starting to filter through the barred windows of my cell of the early morning when Enzo and I were met with the 'ever-so-charming' dulcet tone of Dr. Whitmore, accompanied by apparently, his latest slab of vamp meat.
The door to my cell clanged as the newcomer was shoved within, collapsing to the floor as Whitmore locked the cage and strode off without another word. He never was a talker. I guess we have that in common.
I couldn't get a proper look at the newcomer from where I sat, but at the same time I was reluctant to move. Drawing unnecessary attention to myself before absolutely necessary was not part of my gameplan.
The man groaned from his heap on the disgusting floor, in obvious agony. She could sense Enzo perking up as he took into account his new 'brother in arms'. Pathetic. My remorseless brain uttered.
"Welcome. Dr. Whitmore never gets tired of watching us vampire heal, but he gives us one glass of blood per day, just enough to keep us alive. Pick yourself up, soldier." It appeared Enzo was going to make friends. Insanity enjoys company, it seems.
The brit offered his hand in greeting to the other man, who reluctantly shook it while trying to calm his quivering limbs. It was then the man's face turned in my direction. "And she is?"
Enzo snorted, with a hint of derision. "Couldn't tell you. She's only spoken a few words to me, and certainly not during this era."
The newcomer continued to study me, and I simply sat in waiting as he combed over my features in curiousity. A few moments later he grew bored with my motionless form and turned back to Enzo to properly introduce himself. "Damon."
My eyes glinted with recognition, in spite of their inattention. It appears I may have ran across Damon Salvatore, from what I'd heard of him. He certainly exemplified his description well enough.
I could be wrong of course, but something tells me I wasn't. My sister had spoken of what she had heard of Stephan's wayward brother offhand, when she was trying to lure me under her 'Mother Theresa" wing. She hadn't personally met him but she worried what would happen to Stephen if he was ever hurt, if he was ever tempted to go back into 'ripper' mode. With that in consideration, keeping Damon from harm… maybe he was my ticket.
It was then the very beginnings of a plan began to formulate in my mind. A devious grin stretched across my face, lost in the darkness.
It had been days since Damon's introduction to the 'loving' accomadations I have graced for the last fifty-five or so years, and he was beginning to wear thin. I've managed to delay his weekly torture sessions by offering myself up instead, but even then I'm simply delaying the inevitable. He'd just returned from his own vivisection, one that no amount of begging or spite could spare him from. He lays a trembling heap on the cell floor, attempting to regain his breath and muscle mass. I would almost feel sorry for him, if I was capable. Sadly (or rather, not so sadly), that was not the case and his pain brought no rousing emotions to the forefront of my mind, so here we sit in monotony. A radio crackles on the table opposite, probably left by Whitmore to taunt us about the lives we don't have the ability to live. Enzo coughed from his cell, probably out of habit rather than physical need. Human habits are interesting things, especially when they carry over into our second lives.
"You much of a sports fan Damon?" Ah, small talk. Yet another interestingly human frivolity.
Damon doesn't respond, doesn't even turn a head in his direction. Energy must be sparse.
"No. Neither am I. Any other interests- fine wines, travels, cars?" Ugh, please no. Let's keep the chit chat to a minimum, okay? Still no one answers. Although I'm probably the only one who flat out refuses to.
"I'm partial to Jaguars myself, convertibles, the kind you take on a Sunday drive to impress a pretty girl. Ever done that?"
Damon found it in himself to actually answer this time, "Once or twice." Not from the way I hear it.
"Oh, come now. Got to be more than that."
A faint smile crossed his lips, "Well, the girl I was trying to impress was more of-" gasp "-a horse and carriage type girl." I'd heard of her. Carolyn or Catelyn or something. From what I'd heard of Stephan's relationship with his brother because of her, she sounded like a right bitch. It never ceases to astound me how easily men fall for the fly traps. No one ever goes for the kind, sensible one. The stable one. Hell, I'm not one to be pointing fingers, I'm not exactly stellar myself.
"Never met another one like her." Oh, that's what they all say.
"Well, fair enough."
"What about you?" There was silence for a few beats, until I realized he was talking to me.
I hesitated, wondering if I should just keep my silence before breaking. "Not for centuries."
Enzo tutted his tongue in annoyance. Damon's attention stayed fixed on my corner. "Are you mute or something?"
"Seeing as I am fully capable of articulating, I believe evidence supports the contrary."
"So you're just a frigid bitch then."
"If you wish, sure." Try as I may, I could feel a smirk curl the ends of my mouth in treason.