My name is Darcy Lewis and I'm a vampire, well technically that's the closest thing I can call myself. Okay, that might be an exaggeration. You see I've always been this way, different. I'm a quirk of nature, God's own personal joke, the jockstrap of life that keeps smacking into your face for no reason other than it can.
I was born in 1658 in England, the daughter of a farmer, and as those of you with internet and a pair of Wikipedia hands will know, this was a good time to exist. Sorry, sarcasm doesn't work well on paper. I was born a few years after the English Civil War and being from Plymouth didn't help matters much. I was born during the last year of Richard Cromwell's rule and also enjoyed the Second Commonwealth of England and some other random stuff I can't remember. Seriously, I was an infant all I did was eat, poop and sleep.
Although, I remember my father congratulating me when I was 10 for my divine resilience. I never fell sick, even after the plague that killed my mother and brother the previous year. I stayed by their bedside, feeling stronger, while they lay dying. This was my body doing what it did best - fighting while casually throwing the V at it.
My father hoped I would marry a good husband and live a good life. By the time puberty hit, he took to having a sharpened cutlass and pitchfork ready. Also, the loaded musket he pilfered from a dead solider years ago, didn't hurt. He also taught me how to fight. He always used to say "Just because you're pretty, doesn't mean you shouldn't be able to thoroughly thwack a tosser in the bullocks." I miss him, I'll never really know how he still held onto the farm or how he knew all the points to kill a man with little effort. I've a funny feeling father might have had more to him than met the eye.
Sadly, he died when I was 23, with all his secrets, he never remarried and strangely never really bothered about the Lewis line dying with me. Little did he know that his last gift would keep his line intact.
By 25, I still retained my father's farm, through the aid of his friend, who posed as my uncle, to keep the crazies in check. But, I was young and restless, I used my gifts to get anywhere, anything and everywhere. Well, this was Plymouth in the 17th century, what exactly did you expect me to do? Become a nun, invent the Cornish Pasty? By 26, I was a single mother for a week, my baby wasn't as strong as I was and Uncle stayed with me. I let myself grieve and mourned my son, Daniel Eric Lewis. Of course, I can laugh now, centuries later that he could have been named Daniel Day-Lewis.
Eventually, I sold my land to Uncle, he let me live in it and even provided me a fair wage, which was unheard of at the time. I sensibly saved and hid it well, since I planned to eventually leave Plymouth. By 28, I noticed I still looked 21, unlike my peers who looked 40. Look, 17th century England's hardships made the current world order's problems look like a petulant child.
By 30, I had to leave Plymouth since Uncle had married an 18 year old, who thought I was encroaching her territory, the girl was funny that way. Plus, she did start the rumour I was a witch, who was sucking the life out her husband. I think she meant that both literally and figuratively. It had nothing to do with the fact he was pushing 60 or that I was Wonder Woman before Wonder Woman existed.
I moved to Exeter, where my youthful looks unwittingly helped me pass as 18. I did miss Uncle and those good old boys of the Royal Navy, but a girl can still enjoy herself, this time I was more sensible and deterred the sounds of little feet as best I could. Again, my body saved me from unwanted ailments and kept getting stronger, whenever something new tried to invade my body.
Yes, I've glossed over the Glorious Revolution and the Bill of Rights. Look it wasn't fun, I lost a friend or two, change needed to happen in Britain, it doesn't mean I get to dwell on these amazing changes and the direct effect they had on me. So, I'm allowed to forget, I'm almost 4 centuries old and it's my story.