A Lost Tale:
Disclaimer: Do you know what? I'm not Lisa Jane Smith! Yeah, weird, ain't it? But because of that, I can't say I own the themes (although LJS really stole them from me – she did! *earnest expression*) but all characters in this story are MINE!! But, you know, the various lyrics are not mine….
Author's Note: Lovely little story of mine. It's the not so classic bad-boy-falls-for-bad-girl-who-then-get-chased-by-badder-people. Cool, eh? But please won't you help me by reviewing so I can make it even better! Oh, do, please, please?
Enjoy:
A Lost Tale:
Prologue:
I sigh, a little one escaping from me. I seldom sigh; to me it's a sign of weakness. To me a lot of things are signs of weaknesses.
Who am I?
Your worst nightmare. A monster. Cruel. Inhuman. Some even have used the word Evil, though I dont think so. You have no idea of true Evil. Humans throw that word far too easily around. You, my dear readers, would die from shock if you ever laid your eyes on true Evil. Your heart would speed up, the blood would pound in your ears, and then you would just stop, mind and heart as one.
Why am I telling you this?
I dont know. But my tale has come to an end, and I feel a certain need to get this tale of my chest. It has become tiresome, carrying it around. I have lived far and wide, and for a very long time. I am tired, but it's a content sort of tiredness. Yes, I use the word 'content' and not 'happy'. I dont know what the word means, though I think this comes close, very close and maybe someday soon will turn into happiness.
My tale?
You're impatient, dear reader, and that was the humans' first mistake, was it not? It is how we came into existence. Humans are like children; spoilt, impatient, always wanting what is not good for them, not meant for them. Except that time, that fatal time, you went a bit further than wanting, did you not?
Oh not you personally, but your ancestor. The one whose blood runs trough your veins also.
You do not understand.
It is okay. That is another mistake the humans make; they do not understand. And often, what they do not understand, they pretend it does not exist, does not matter. The third mistake. And I could go on, into tonight and tomorrow, and the day after and the day after, for years and years to come, counting up the innumerable different mistakes you humans are so good at making.
You are looking confused, my dear readers.
It is okay. I was just testing you, anyway. It does not matter whether you understand or not, for you will never be able to retell this tale to another living soul. You look scared, my dear reader. Don't be. Dying is not so bad; it's the not waking up part that is. Of course, I wouldn't know as I did wake up. Yes, that's right; I'm not human. You should have listened to your intuitions when you came into this room; they were right. You have changed your question now, my dear reader.
What am I?
Let me ask you a question now, my dear reader, and see how well you answer. Will I kill you? Oh no, not yet. First I must tell this tale, and get it off my chest. Like I said, I'm tired. Tired of this saga, which has become a bit of a legend, has it not? No, you would not know, would you? You *could* not know. Even if it was laid out in front of you, or poured into your mind telepathically, you would still not know. It is okay, it is not your fault.
Whose fault it is?
I do not know. Maybe your ancestors, maybe your mother's, maybe your children's. Yes, the future can affect what has happened. Strange thought, is it not? But then, I am strange, am I not my dear readers? Yes, you are thinking that, I can see it in your face, and better yet, I can sense it in your movements, as you nervously run a hand through your hair. Yes, you are nervous, and your fear is becoming more noticeable. Maybe I should get on with my tale, before you run off on me. Not that you would get far, I could catch the fastest horse without breaking a sweat.
My question?
Ah, yes. Something that will finally bring us to my tale, and allay your nervousness, though it will—certainly—increase your fear.
What do you know of vampires?
Bram Stoker's "Dracula" comes to your mind, dear reader, and you laugh a little, confused. Bram Stoker, a magnificent writer, great imagination. Though not even he would have enough imagination to visualize what I will tell you. I'm getting of the subject, where was I?
Oh yes, vampires.
To you, they cannot walk in sunlight, fear garlic and the crucifix and wood kills them. One out of four, my dear reader. You look confused again. Let me ask you another question.
Do you *believe* in vampires?
No? They do not exist? They are just fairytales?
Well, I have bad news for you.
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