What the bloody hell am I doing here again?

            Moonlight reflects off the snow, and a glowing, bluish hue brightens the darkness around me.  It is closing in on dawn, and I�m definitely not where I�m supposed to be.  It�s my birthday, after all.  I should be out, drinking my fill, getting ready for a kip next to the old stereo once the sun peeks over the horizon.

            But no.

            Instead, I waffle around this empty graveyard, pissed yet again, surrounded by nothing but leafless trees and lifeless air.  I hover over a familiar, engraved gray marble stone.  I glance at the etchings, so wanting to just get the hell out of there, but I cannot.  My legs are frozen.  The evasive part of me says it�s only the liquor, that if I just teeter a bit and close my eyes, the feeling will pass.  But I know otherwise.  It�s her.  Simply reading her name causes that tingling sensation to cover me from arse to elbows again.  The guilt wraps its sticky, wet fingers around my insides, and I gag like I�m about to lose my lunch.  The gamut of emotion finally ends with a deep and wrenching sorrow.  I give in to it.  My knees hit the snow, and I sob openly.

            I miss her so much.

#

             The date was 24 December, 1993.  I stalked the annual Christmas party at Northeastern University in Boston the way I always had - not lurking in shadows, but standing out in the forefront for all to see.  The most refined and charming character in the room.  Or at least I used to be.  The supreme confidence I�d built up over the years began to shilly-shally.  The glitz and glamour of the �80s had melted away a few years earlier, clearing a path for a darker, more brooding attitude.  Whereas many others of my ilk enjoyed this new shift in culture, I loathed it.  But they tended to possess an appreciation for the dark and grimy aspects of life I do not.  I might not have been the oldest or strongest of my kind, but I�d like to think you wouldn�t find one more debonair.

            The change in women struck me worst of all.  I missed the smooth skin, which gleamed beneath skimpy clothing, and the wild hair.  Most of all, however, I longed for the sense that caution was to be viewed with blatant disregard.  To see females now, moping about with straightened, greasy locks and baggy pants, displaying enough body mutilation to make a Dinkan tribesman blush, filled me with a pungent sense of loss.  If my charisma, the one aspect which set me apart from the others, were to become trivial, what would become of me?  Just another player in the game, reduced to a primitive form of hunt and kill.

            But that all changed the minute she entered the room.

            She looked like a cherub.  A head of wavy, bright red hair framed the most angelic face I�d ever seen.  Her light skin held just enough pink shading as to not seem pale.  A pointed, virtually upturned nose rested beneath the most brilliant pair of green eyes.  The long turquoise dress clinging to her body glittered with sequins, creating a field of bright energy that made her the center of the universe.  Her visage called out to me, pulled me in closer.  Elegance beyond totty, that much I knew.

            I approached her as she sat at the bar.  The crowd, both men and women, congregated in the area around her.  None spoke with her - in fact, it seemed like none knew she existed.  Yet they gathered round her and the man on her arm just the same, as if sucked in by some desirable, licentious gravity.

            She laughed as I stood behind her, and that sound remains the sweetest, purest noise I�ve ever heard.  I tapped her on the shoulder, and she turned her head.  Her smile seemed to make the room brighter, and for a brief moment, I felt human.

            �Hello,� I said, purposely emphasizing my accent.  (Through seventy or so years in the old colonies, I�d learned that clich�s exist for a reason.  American women can�t get enough of a young man with a British accent.)

            �Hi,� she replied.  Her shoulders slumped and her chin drew back in a shy gesture, but those dazzling emerald eyes never left my face.  We stood there, staring at each other without moving, until the atmosphere became uncomfortable.

            I stuck my hand out.  �Bollocks,� I said, laughing.  �That was odd.�

            �Yeah, it was,� she said, and accepted my greeting.

            �Sorry �bout the awkward silence, love.  Just a tad captivated, I guess.  I�m Edwin.  Edwin Christmas.�

            �Cool name.  Like the holiday?�

            �That�s right.�  I raised my hands to the sky in mock worship.  �The day of our Lord�s birth!� I shouted, and then lowered my voice to normal levels as I looked into those eyes again.  �And yours truly, as well.�

            She laughed.  Oh, how much I loved that sound.  �Pleased to make your acquaintance,� she said, sounding very proper indeed.  �I�m Tiffany Benson.�

            How perfect.  �Well, Tiffany Benson, It is well beyond nice to meet you.�

            �Same here, Eddie.�

            I waved my hand, still smiling.  �Please, love, don�t call me that.�
            �Why?�
            �I hate that name.  Edwin is dignified.  Eddie seems so�so�not sure, really.  Makes me sound like a git, I think.�

            I shook my head, stepped back, and chuckled nervously.  Despite my graceful presentation, I could be quite crude at times.  But Tiffany didn�t seem to notice.  She simply smiled back, nodding in approval.

            Another voice rose above the clatter.  �Babe, who�s that?� the young man beside her asked.  He possessed a youthful and dark face - not very attractive at all - with a head of unkempt, curly hair.  A single coil drooped in front of his eyes like a misplaced slinky.  A hint of jealousy tickled my throat.  No way this chap deserved to be in the presence of such a precious creature.

            �Oh, this is Edwin,� said Tiffany.  �Edwin, this is Bobby Douglass.�

            �G�day, mate,� the boy said with a sly grin.

            �I�m not Australian,� I told him.  I didn�t realize he�d been listening to us the whole time.

            �Oh shit, Eddie,� he said with a wink.  �What�s the diff?�

            Americans.

#

             I was born on the morning of 25 December, 1806, in the town of Stoke-On-Trent, England.  (Well, that�s a bit revisionist of me.  Stoke-On-Trent wasn�t formed until 1910, when a few neighbouring townships, including Stoke and Burslem, joined together to form the pottery capital of Britain.)  My birth name had been Edwin Alexander Vyse, yet because of that special morning, my uncle Andrew dubbed me Edwin Christmas, a moniker I carried with me ever since.  But that�s not the only reason that date holds a special place in my heart.

            For it�s the date of my death and rebirth, as well.

            It happened at my family�s Holiday gathering in 1822.  Father had just been promoted to foreman at the Wedgewood factory, and it promised to be the most fantastic Holiday season ever.  Family and friends arrived from as far away as London and Middlesbrough to celebrate.  Our small home swelled  with well-wishers, and my father basked in the glory of finally achieving some sort of success in life.

            Little did he know, his celebration would carry a hefty price.

            At around eleven o�clock, I wandered outside.  The sounds of raucous partygoers, drunk on Courage, seeped through the thin wooden walls.  I laid down on the snowy ground and stared into the crisp, clear night sky.  My mind drifted.  I felt so excited for my future.  At eighteen, thanks to my father�s promotion, I could finally attend University.  I loved to paint since the time I was five, and it became my one true passion.  Everything, from the faint sweeping sound of a brush against fabric to the nauseating scent of turpentine-filled cups, filled me with a sense of purpose, of belonging.  I dreamed of becoming the next Francisco Goya, and looked forward to spending four years locked in a studio at Oxford, creating my future masterpieces.

            �What are you doing out here all alone, Sonny Jim?� a man�s voice asked from behind me.  Rattled from my daydream, I shot up and stared in the direction of a sinister, man-shaped shadow which lurked in front of a nearby row of trees.

            �Who�s there?� I asked.

            The specter did not answer.  It swept in closer through the darkness, as if walking on air.  I grew nervous.  �Leave me alone,� I said, although without much conviction.

            �That I will not do,� the figure said, and revealed itself in the moonlight.

            �Mister Jansen?� I asked.  The man�s features resembled those of my father�s old boss, who�d been on hiatus for the past year, presumably due to opium addiction.  But something about him seemed changed, twisted.  As he drew closer, his characteristics came clear.  His nose crinkled up, much like a gorilla�s, and the bones in his forehead jutted out, forming a shelf over a pair of yellow, menacing eyes.  And from the front of his mouth protruded a pair of long, cat-like fangs.  He resembled more animal than human.

            I turned to run away, but he proved too quick.  He pushed me flat on the ground.  An aggressive hand grasped my hair and yanked my head to the side.  I tried to scream, but no words would come.  Something pierced the flesh of my neck, and I felt a pair of wet lips on my skin, sucking and smacking like a long-lost lover.  A cry built up in me, a silent scream - I do not want to die!  But something inside me knew it was too late for pleas.

            My body gave in, close to death, and the assault stopped.  I garnered enough strength to open my eyes and glance upward.  The thing that had been Mister Jansen stood over me, grinning.  Thin streams of my life�s fluid, black in the moonlight, tricked down its chin.

            �Well, boy, this is the fun part,� he said.

            I couldn�t reply.  I�d become an observer to my own life.

            The creature leaned over and stared at me, a wicked smirk on its lips.  Those lips then parted, and a long, glimmering tongue slithered out.  It danced above me, swaying to and fro like a serpent.  My fear reached its apex, and despite my weakness, I opened my mouth to scream.  Before a sound could emerge, the tendril found its way in.  I felt it snake its way down my gullet, choking me.  The most intense pain I�ve ever felt overtook me, and everything went black.

            I awoke some time later, the sun barely visible above the horizon.  I put my hand up to cover my eyes, feeling very weak.  My flesh itched, and steam rose from my exposed skin.  Then, the steam turned to smoke.  As quickly as my tired legs could carry me, I ran to the cover of the surrounding woods, weeping in terror and confusion.  I�d been changed, become something other than what I�d been, and I felt so hungry.

            That night, under the cover of sweet darkness, I ventured home.  The great hunger, too much for me to bear, guided my actions.

            Needless to say, not a member of my family saw another sunrise. 

#

            I stood in front of a large bay window, feeling sorry for myself as I stared into the cold Boston evening.  The party raged below; enthusiastic laugher and depressing music bringing forth a perverted variety of holiday cheer.  I longed for the old days, when I could have my pick of the litter.  I seemed outdated now, a museum relic.  My stomach grumbled and my pride wilted as I pondered the night�s prospects.  It can be depressing at times to be so young and yet so, so old.

            Something I have to get used to, I thought.  After all, come the stroke of midnight, I would be a fourteen years shy of two hundred.

            �What�re you looking at?� the sweet, singsong voice asked.

            I swung around, startled, so wrapped up in my fretfulness I hadn�t heard the footsteps.  There she stood in all her splendor.  Miss Tiffany Benson, bejeweled and radiant, holding a glass of wine in her hand, unafraid.

            �Well?� she asked, her lips creased in a coy and playful half-grin.

            �So sorry,� I said.  �You caught me by surprise.�
            �So I see.�

            I pointed out the window.  �I�ve been watching the hubbub outside.  Or lack thereof.  It�s comforting, in a way, to see everything so calm.  Like the world has come to a halt, just for us.�
            �I know,� she said with a smile.

            �So, where is the dog-faced boy?� I asked.  Jealousy, a sensation I hadn�t felt in a very long time, crept into my tone.  �He�s most likely lost without his owner.�
            Tiffany laughed.  �Bobby?� she said.  �I�m sure he�s around here somewhere, avoiding women�s studies majors like the plague.�
            �You�re not with him?�
            �A hundred ways of no.  We�re in the same psyche class, and he asked if I had a date to the party.  I didn�t, and he seemed so pathetic when he asked, so I said I�d go with him.  I�m very charitable that way.�

            My spirits lifted.  �Is that so?  Is there anyone else?  A lucky man back home you�ll go running for?�
            �Nope.  Nada.  Nothing.  Single as single can be.  Why so curious, Edwin?�  Her hand traced a line from my lips to neck.  �You like me or something?�
            I grunted, trying to sound uninterested, but couldn�t pull it off.  �What makes you think that?�

            �I don�t know,� she replied.  �That hint of envy in your voice maybe.  Or possibly I just like you and hope you feel the same.�
            �Come again?�

            �Oh, come on Edwin.  You�ve been hovering up here all night.  Don�t tell me you haven�t been watching me.  �Cause I�ve been watching you.�

            I couldn�t answer her.  For the second time in my life, I couldn�t find the words.

            Tiffany shook her head.  �Doesn�t matter.  You don�t want to talk, that�s fine.  I�ll go downstairs and join the party.�

            She turned around, but I could see her hesitate.  I cursed my dithering and touched her arm�s bare flesh.  A swell of bright pink rushed to her cheeks.

            �Wait,� I said.  �My apologies, love.  Would you like to leave?  With myself?�

            She turned around to face me again, and her smile appeared larger than life.
            �Edwin, I thought you�d never ask.  I have to get my coat.�
            We left the party and walked for hours, until the sky turned from black to navy blue to a deep orange.  Never once did our lips stop moving.  I told her an edited version of my history, of my love of painting and appreciation for the finer aspects of life.  I spoke of the famous Stoke oatcakes, (yes, I kept up with happenings in the homeland.  Can�t be a Brit without knowing what�s happening in the Queen�s country, after all.) how these large, flat breakfast delights had been banned from football matches in recent years due to their innate ability to harden when left out, forming the world�s largest edible throwing disks.  Tiffany told me all about growing up in Wisconsin, being homesick, the uncertain future of an English major in the �real world�, and the trials and tribulations of being an attractive young woman in the frenetic chase-and-catch mentality of collegiate life.  We were totally rapt with each other, hanging on every word, as if missing one phrase would wipe out all spoken between us.

            It was only when I felt dawn�s burning creep up on me that I told her I had to leave.  We said our pleasantries, and she gave me a kiss on the cheek.  I told her I would keep in touch, and we went our separate ways.  I strolled through back alleys, blocked from the sun by closely packed buildings, and hummed.

            Never once, during the whole encounter, did I feel hungry. 

#

            I left Europe in 1917, amid the chaos of World War I.  England had become much too perilous for me, as well as trivial.  With splitting time between my love of the game and running from angry, torch-carrying mobs, I longed for a place I could start fresh, a place where old traditions didn�t have such a hammer-lock on the public psyche.  America, with its promises of freedom and a loner�s attitude, was the answer.  So I did the unthinkable - at least for me.  I hitched a ride on an Atlantic-bound cargo freighter, slept in the ship�s grimy bowels, and fed off nasty little rodents for the two weeks journey.

            All I could think was, this bloody place better be worth it.

            And in many ways, it couldn�t have turned out better.

            I wandered across the continent, feeding off the wealthy and stealing their lives.  I�d been every man imaginable - from a dignitary in South Carolina, to an avant-garde artist in New Mexico, to a theatre owner in Oregon named Rupert.  Being a demon and living the posh lifestyle father had long strived for were the only things I truly loved.  I lusted for blood, and had a soft spot for whimsical torment.  In short, I perfected what it meant to be utterly evil - taking absolute joy in the total deconstruction of the human condition.

            Yet this did not mean I was happy.  No matter how many I killed, no matter how many lives I ruined, I never felt complete.  It seemed as if a piece of me had long ago been scythed away, with every waking moment afterwards spent trying to reclaim it.  I racked my brain for an answer, for any solution that could take that longing away.

            None ever came. 

#

            The year after meeting Tiffany flew by like none before.  I felt the darkness in me drift away, as if I were slowly awakening from a long, inconceivable nightmare.  My lust for blood dissolved, and a serene sense of comfort took its place.

            For the first time since my reincarnation, I lived like a man.  My yearning to play the game disappeared, and I survived on lesser miscreants and butcher-shop throwaways.  I spent virtually every night in her company.  We ate at fancy restaurants, took in a picture every now and again, and talked through all hours of the night.  We grew close, to the point where I couldn�t imagine living in the presence of anyone else.  For the first time in my lives, I took in the physical love of a woman, not out of hunger or pain, but to become one with that person.  She fascinated me, made me feel so wonderful that I never wanted to leave.  I stayed as long as I could, often times risking exposure to sunlight, and she never once questioned my motives.  It seemed Tiffany trusted me as completely as I�d grown to trust her, and it was out of that respect and admiration that true love sprang.  I didn�t need her to tell me so.  I could deduce it from the ways she looked at me, from the captivated intensity of her gaze and the purity of her smile.  She became mine, and I became hers.  Lovers, in each and every sense of the word.

            Before I knew it, Christmas was upon us again.  I had so much to celebrate.  A year ago, on that very date, we first met.  I wanted to make it special, but the pressure of the unspoken weighed heavy on me.  I made my decision.  I would tell her my true nature, reveal to her the monster I was.  It would be my gift to her, my offering of love.

            We arrived at the party a little past nine.  The time would come in only three short hours.  Tiffany looked splendid, as usual, in a long, flowing black dress, with a cut running from ankle to thigh, exposing her seductive flesh.  She wore a relic I�d given her - a sparkling emerald, the color of her eyes, which dangled from a chain of gold.  My mother�s necklace, the only item I took from home after devouring them all.  At the time, I didn�t know why it seemed important to take.  Now, however, I finally understood.  The piece accentuated the beauty of the only woman I would ever love.

            We danced most of the night while the band played jazz.  An older black woman stood center stage, singing in low, soulful tones.  Her voice enveloped us in a blanket of subtle, tender melodies.  Despite being surrounded by partygoers, we felt like the only people there.  I�d never been happier.

            �Edwin,� Tiffany whispered into my ear.

            I pulled away slightly, and gave her a shy smile.  �Yes, love?�

            �Happy anniversary, sweetie.�

            �Happy anniversary to you, as well.�

            She stroked my cheek.  �I want to go upstairs for a moment.  Come with?�
            �Why?�
            �I need to be alone with you for a bit.�

            We walked up the balcony steps and entered a high-arching glass observatory.  The clatter of the party downstairs became a fait rumble when the door closed.  We were alone, standing solitary beneath the beautiful cover of the stars above.  I felt nervous.  The time had come to say my piece.

            �Edwin,� she began, but I hushed her.

            �Not yet,� I said.  �There�s something I have to tell you.�

            Tiffany fell silent and stared in my eyes with such intensity as I spoke.  �I have to be honest with you,� I said.  �I love you so much, so completely.  I�ve never felt this way before, so I have no choice in this.  I must come clean.  It is imperative.  I must let you know what I truly am.�

            �What�re you talking about, Edwin?� she asked.  Concern crossed her normally blithe expression.

            �I am not a man, love.  I�m a monster, a demon.  I have been for a very long time.  This face you see is a fa�ade.  A mask that hides my true nature.�

            I breathed in deep and let the change take over.  I felt the skin on my face tighten as the magics departed.  When I opened my eyes, Tiffany still stood in front of me, her hand covering her mouth.

            �This is me,� I said, �what I truly am.  I apologize.�

            She started laughing.  I stepped back, confused, as she walked toward me.

            �What are you doing?� I asked.  I couldn�t hold back the fear her reaction caused.

            �Oh, honey, don�t worry,� she replied.  �I�m not afraid.  Never have been.  I�m just surprised it took you this long to tell me.  I was starting to think you never would.�

            �You�you knew?�
            �Come on, Edwin.  I�m not stupid.  I�ve known for a long time now.  Think about it.  I�m never with you in the daytime.  You�re always disappearing, and whenever you spend the night at my apartment, you cuddle in the far corner, away from the window.  Your skin�s so cold.  I�ve never met anyone whose body temperature never gets above room temperature.   It�s pretty obvious.�  She turned for a moment, as if carefully pondering her next word.  �Plus,� she continued, �I�ve followed you.  I�ve seen what you do out behind the meat market.�

            �Oh.�

            �I�m not worried.  I know.  You�ve never shown me any ill will, never tried to hurt me in any way.  I�m in love with you, Edwin.  I want to be with you.  That�s why I wanted to come up here.�
            �Why?�
            �It�s our anniversary, silly.  From this moment on, I want us to be one.  Forever.�

            I understood, no matter how much I didn�t want to.  �No,� I said.   �I can�t.�

            Her voice turned affectionate.  �Yes, you can.�

            �But��
            �But nothing, Edwin.  It can�t be any other way.  I want to spend my life with you.  I can�t stand the thought of growing old while you still have your youth.  What kind of life would that be?�

            �I�� I began, but couldn�t say another word.  I didn�t know what else to say.

            Tiffany embraced my devil�s form.  She brought her bare neck close to my lips and beckoned me to feed.

            �Please, Edwin,� she whispered, �please make me your bride.�

            My mouth opened, tentatively.  I heard the blood coursing through her veins and smelled the sweet, sweaty aroma rising from her pores.  Without another thought, I bit down.  Her life�s blood poured into my mouth and I sucked it down, spellbound by her essence.  I�d never tasted anyone so sweet, so pure.  It felt like I was feeding for the very first time.  The demon within me took over, and I heard Tiffany moan - a sound that combined pain and pleasure in a delicate, unguarded vibrato.

            Her body went limp, and I laid her on the floor.  I stood over her and watched as her eyes glimmered in the starlight.  Tears formed and trickled down her cheeks, further highlighting her brilliance.  She nodded weakly, and I bent down.

            I started to open my mouth, but stopped.  In that moment of hesitation, I saw a vision of the future.  I would change her, make her one of me.  But she would become a monster.  The brightness of her being would disappear with her soul.  The old Tiffany would die, bringing forth a new creature.  One which possessed her likeness and memory, but little else.  A beast hiding behind the disguise of her beauty, a shell of the woman I loved.

            I couldn�t do it.

            �I�m sorry,� I whispered into her ear, and stepped away.  Tiffany�s eyes widened in horror, pleading with me not to leave.  I crumbled in the corner and watched as her life drifted away.  She gasped for breath, her vocal chords creating soft whimpering sounds.  Her chest heaved sporadically in a futile attempt to snatch life from the surrounding air.  Her eyes never left me, and no matter how much horror I felt in their gaze, I could not look away.  She stared at me with such sadness, such a sense of betrayal, while her lips mouthed, �Why?� in silence.  The radiant energy surrounding her faded as the animation in those beautiful eyes flickered out.  I hung my head, and for the first time since my rebirth, I cried.  The tears flowed long and hard, and I made no attempt to stop them.

            A few minutes later, with one final, gasping plea, the love of my life died.  I sat comatose and watched her lifeless body, my mind repeating over and over again how it was all my fault.  No words had ever been closer to truth.  Yet another precious creature, robbed of existence by one who�d promised to enlighten it.

 #

             It�s been exactly thirteen years since that day.  I�m two hundred now, a creature whose time has long passed.  An empty husk of the being I�d once been.  I can�t feed any longer, at least not the way I used to.  It seems my conscience has returned, if not my soul.  Both the gift and curse Tiffany gave me, my price for taking her life.

            I wonder if she�s somewhere better now, drifting high above the clouds, happy and content.  I wonder if I�ll ever see her again on that other plane.  With all I�ve done, the possibility doesn�t seem likely.  But if there is a God, and He is forgiving, then maybe, just maybe, there is a chance.

            I look up from Tiffany�s gravestone.  On the horizon, the sun peeks its head over the mountains.  Christmas morning yet again.  The day of the Lord�s birth, my birth, my death, her death.  My time of atonement has arrived, the moment I rinse my sins from this world.

            I begin to watch my first sunrise in almost two centuries, ready to wallow in its brilliance and burn away.  I think of her face, so pure and full of life, as my eyes begin to itch.  The blood running through my veins boils and steam rises  from my pores.  I imagine her face, looking down on me with such disappointment, such frustration.  I try to will it away, yet it persists.

            �It can�t end like this.�

            I turn and walk to the surrounding woods, as I�ve done on this date for the past 13 years, and sit down behind a large oak.  The image in my head smiles.  There is no redemption in the taking of one�s own life.  It is the easy way out, and just as damnable as taking her life in the first place.  That much I realize.  As far as payments go, death cannot carry its weight in Sterling.

            So I wander deeper into the forest, searching for shelter until night comes yet again.  I will sit and ponder my actions, my future.  Another year has passed, and still, I have no answers.  I can only hope that someday I will.  I owe her that much.

The End