dispatch3

As a race, or species, or whatever we are, we had been given a wonderful gift. Immortality.. You would think it was a great blessing, but we too are driven by human emotions, and at that, some of the more base ones. On discussing this with some of the older immortals, I had come to the conclusion that we are no different to mortals, in many ways. We all waste our lives. The eternal years would begin to weigh on us, after a while. We can't stay in any one place too long, without people questioning why we do not seem to have aged; why our lifestyle is different to the norm. Thus, any grandiose thoughts of devoting a lifetime to doing good is out of the question. We can't endure sunlight, so half our time is spent being hidden away inside. We can't become too well known, because again the question would arise about the lack of aging.

Humans have been studied and it has been found that a certain amount of sunlight is important to their mental health. Many are the times that I long to feel the warmth of the sun on my face. Is this why some of us go mad? An interesting thought.

We are driven by our need for human blood. It is an addiction of the worst kind but we cannot survive without it. This hunger, this thirst, means that we prey on humans. Make no mistake about any relationship we may have with a mortal. No matter how close a friend or companion, if I were locked in a room for any time with them, I would be hungry for their blood. And if denied for too long, I would eventually be forced to take it. I must feed, I crave the blood. If I cared enough, I could use the power of my mind to make you believe that you wanted to give it, and you would feel unbearable pleasure in the act, but it would still be taking, a rape of your being.

When Armand left me, as of course he did, I had to fend for myself. I had wanted this existance more than anything, and my mortal body was all but destroyed. Armand made me need him, made me desire him and what he was and then gave me the Gift. Then he left me with an existance that meant nothing to me alone. A sadness called to me then. An ache for the denied fire of the sun, an urge to hold my face up to the sky and feel its rays caress my skin with burning fingers, an overwhelming wish to fall deep into oblivion and live no more. Sins and the guilt of sins would fall away. Hunger would have no hold and self would be no more. All that would exist would be the peace, the oblivion and the cleansing fire of a rising sun.

Something kept me from that brink of the final death. Was it fear of what would come after, if anything? I don't think so. Fear of the pain? What could be more painful than the darkness of my soul? Somehow, in the black thoughts that spun through my mind, there was a small spark of hope. And that tiny spark is what prevented me from seeking the dawn. So thus I wandered alone, seldom remaining long in one place. On the rare occasion that I sensed another of my kind, I avoided any contact. I roamed the world, fancying myself as the Jack Kerouac of the vampires.

During this nomadic time, I perfected the psychological wall around my emotions.. self-protection against my yearnings for Armand. I felt little, except the hunger and the satiation of it. Other than that, there was nothing. Always, I killed my prey, unconcerned about attempting the *little drink*. At first, the selection was indiscriminate..Who ever had the misfortune to be near when I hunted, but as the years slowly passed, I became a little more selective, seeking the dregs of society. Their blood was just as hot and thick as any others, and yet I was not destroying anyone that I thought might be or become a productive member of society. After all, if humanity no longer existed, on what would I feed?

Cities all began to look the same. Perhaps there was a difference in smells or the gabble of a foreign language, but apart from that, they were merely a hunting ground and a refuge from the sun. I existed for the sweet delirium of the blood.

Finally, I returned to New Orleans, a city of excesses, where anything can be found, for a price. The patina of its colorful history had always spoken to my heart, kindling an unreasonable passion. Had I lived here before, in some distant previous life? Streets were wonderously familiar the first time I set foot on them.

I moved into a small house, in a neglected part of the city. The house itself was sturdily built, with even a small balcony off the single upstairs bedroom. My first day there, I slept in the pantry. To the reader, that may seem amusing, but it was the only place dark enough, and as the door opened inward, I slept with my back against it. When the sun finally set, I left my new dwelling to search the nearby shops for the neccessities to make myself comfortable. Passing the grimey window of a shop set on the corner, I noticed a large bundle of deep crimson velvet. Retracing my steps, I entered the store to the sound of a clunking bell, attached to the door handle. A small, wizened man came through a curtain that probably hid the living area, as the sour smell of cabbage wafted out behind him. As he approached, rubbing his hands on a dirty cloth, I pointed to the velvet mound. "How much for that?" He looked surprised.. "The drapes? Oh very fine velvet, sir, but I must tell you in all honesty, that they came from a funeral home. Some people are superstitious about things like that. But I'm asking $20.00." The hesitancy as he gave a price told me I could easily get them for less, but my time was limited. Without haggling, I handed him a crisp new $20. bill, picked up the bundle of velvet and went to leave. As I did, I spied an old roll top desk, almost invisible beneath books and pieces of tattered lace. Before I left, I had purchased the desk, an old but comfortable leather chair, several odd candlesticks, which looked like they may be brass beneath the green patina, and a dining table, which I was certain was mahogany, beneath the thick coat of brown paint. Arranging to have everything delivered the following night, I returned home to hang the heavy drapes.