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Vampinore: VII - Lily

Updated on December 26, 2014



We all have to battle them someday. I’ve heard stories of those who have faced their demons for several years, even decades. Imagine doing that for several millennia.

That splinter one cannot remove, for it is deeper than the stones at the bottom of a cold, ocean trench – it always finds a nerve to antagonize. Even when that nerve is devoid of feeling, the splinter will find another victim – another nerve to drain of its energy. A splinter so buried, one would have to remove limbs to cut it off completely, for it has woven itself throughout all one’s body.

Some splinters can be ignored. Some can work their way out. Some are put there by others. Some are because of one’s own lack of attention. Even after the wood has withered away, their memory remains as a painful reminder, a scar in forever time.

Every night I’ve watched from afar as one man battle his demons – Victor. His demons are his past, or what are to become his past, his preconceptions of this world. One becomes incapable of taking in the sights of one’s surroundings when the blinders have been removed. Victor is a man just as driven – a man who seeks knowledge in places no one dares to go. He has nothing to lose, because he has built nothing for himself. He’s a perfect candidate for my Scribe. Victor is driven, as am I.

Night after night for the last six sunsets, he has brought forth his own subconscious to fight out in the open. Through projectile shouts of anger to the bombardment of tears onto the floor, he refused to give in. Something inside him knew that this was his path.


I cannot let him, but it is his decisions, his choices, that will define the outcome of all of this. The turn of the Great Wheel has begun, and our time to rise has commenced. Beyond the corpses that have been buried in ice, sea, and dirt . . . beyond the cities that have turned to dust or sunken beneath nature’s wrath, my memories have lived on. Like those demonic splinters, they leave scars in places I don’t mind, but places I’m afraid to show.

I remember the time, the place, that moment when I chose to move from one life to the next. So many centuries ago, I couldn’t explain to any common person, for the concept of time would absolutely shatter their base psyche and bring about a collapse in their natural biological status. Even to my own blockade of degeneration through time, I couldn’t grasp that feeling of the importance of precious time on this red Earth. Time, to me, is infinite and infinitely painful.

Love is forbidden in our existence. Love is fleeting, but never forgetful. As time places such scars that can never heal, love can leave such scars behind. They grow from just mere flaws on one’s skin, to infections in one’s mind. Those infections, like a rabid dog, change one over one’s time. To an affectionate that one would contentedly trot up to, one could find oneself snarling, lips pulled back and saliva slowly dripping down the chin as one’s growl reverberates through nature’s echo of endlessness. Madness is now the love one once knew. A symptom one carries like the disease of the sexual organs, there’s no reason, but plenty of rhyme to pass around in hopes that the masses will comprehend such a tragedy we illiterate in books and poems and sonnets. Love always leads to death. For even in death, love can’t save the ones one . . .

. . . wishes to save, because one can’t save oneself. Death takes love away, but can’t take the self away. Maybe that is what “Hell” these cretins speak of is to our kind. Death isn’t impossible, but very improbable to the vampires of this world. There are the few that know of us and how to handle us. Praised be the passing of the ages and the negligence of the remaining devote that possess the knowledge on how to stop what is to become – the Unveiling.

Only one such of a vermin, of a vile pestilence, of a repugnant and revolting non-living satire, a walking irony to the ends of his time, possesses not only the knowledge, but is enthralled with the bitter rapaciousness to keep our breaths from exhaling our blasphemies. This abomination of all nations is the one defiance from humanity truly succeeding and developing beyond the ashes and into the stars.

Ashes to ashes and dust unto dust; pleasure is pain when the sex turns to lust. The lust this world greeds upon is nothing but dust to the universe, and pain to the psyche. Disgusted I am and have been for so very long. Perhaps it is this disgust that turns this sweet fruit so bitter.

I have hopes that Victor sees what I see, but those hope I shall not give up so easily. I see him now, mind-weary and enervated. He sits back in his chair, looking up into the ceiling. As I step from the shadows into his life, his breath full of questions exhales into the air.

“Vampires,” he said, “are supposed to be from some plane of darkness. Where do they really come from?”

Of This Soil

And not of any other,” I replied. “This illusion is one of many. Much like that infatuation you have built up for me.”

“What infatuation?” he asked.

“Your eyes give you away,” I said. “Never let anyone else see such a weakness.”

Victor turned in what I assume was both an embarrassment and an attempt to bury such feelings his delusional mind has developed. It wasn’t too long before he returned with a stare of reassurance and focus.

“What other illusions do you speak of?” Victor asked.

“Almost everything you knew, up until the moment we met, you must now consider an illusion,” I replied. “History, science, religion, politics, and even yourself, you must think of them as all part of a grander fiction created and molded around the primordial instincts of survival to hide what was and what will be again.”

“It’s just so hard to forget it all,” he said. “However, I feel it’s just as easy to accept the alternative. Ever since I was younger, I felt things never added up. Almost everything I was told always seemed incomplete. Much like the presents under the tree were from Santa or the boogeyman under my bed that would get me if I dared get out of bed at night; it all felt like a facade. One time, when I was nine, I was in Catholic school, and I was being taught about the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah. I asked the priest, ‘If God so loves, then why did he do something so hateful?’ He said to me, ‘My child, God’s love comes in many forms.’ Then he left the room and wouldn’t speak with me anymore. Growing up I couldn’t come to believe that love comes in such violence. That isn’t love. That’s refusing to be responsible for your creation.”

“Love can be violent, but it can still be love,” I said.

“How?” he asked. “Love is everything against pain.”

“When the one you love dies before your eyes, and the pain swells within your heart,” I replied. “Does this mean your love for that person is extinguished?”

“No,” he said. “I don’t . . .”

My fangs extend in midst of his selfish, novice response.

“Don’t you dare speak of which you do not know!” I shouted.

Echoing through the stillness of his now reverberating apartment, my stone glare met with his look of trepidation. It’s the same look I saw etched into his face that first night. Realizing that I might cause further discomfort and less focus on the task, I motion for Victor to stand.


To his feet, at first with a tremble, then with more calm as he began to exhale the anxiety from his lungs, Victor stood before my presence listening and awaiting my command.

“Victor Kauffman, in the time of Aquarius and under her reign of light, I offer you the seat at my left hand as I lift you to my right, a seat that will remain yours until the passing of my consciousness or revoking of my words. Your past incinerated and your future enlightened, your will is mine and mine alone, for your will shall be aligned with mine, and we aligned with the stars. Victor Kauffman, do you accept to abandon and renounce your preconceptions of your world? Or do you wish to return to your realm and never be granted this accord once more?”

His head lowers as he absorbs the meaning in each word. His limbs shiver with by the passing seconds, for which I’m sure feels like to him a century, and to myself a millennia. The question has been asked. The accord presented. In that pause in time, Victor is quick to raise his gaze toward mine. His posture is concrete and heartbeat slowed.

Sternly, he spoke, “I, Victor Kauffman, accept your accord to the fullest.”

“In the reign of Aquarius, I augment your awareness and bind your will with mine. By your blood and my words, you are now my Scribe,” I said.

Victor slowly kneels down on his right knee and leans his head to the left. His eyes close slowly in sync with his long-drawn inhale. Both of his fists clench tightly in expectation of what was to come. Calmly leaning into his exposed flesh-encased veins, I bring my lips barely touching from his neck to his ear.

“I’m not going to bite you, silly,” I said. “So you can stand up.”

“You’re not going to take my blood,” he said with a look of astonishment.


“We are not, and demons we aren’t either,” I said. “Your first vampire secret: there is no God and there is no Devil. On this planet there are some angels, but many demons. Some demons have the purpose of creating misery without reason. Some demons have the purpose of creating misery for their own or another demon’s reason.”

“Which demons are the worst?” he asked.

“That’s a very good question, my newly appointed Scribe,” I replied. “Demons without reason are simple and easily maintained. The ones with reason, however, they pose a threat unimaginable. Unlike demons of chaos, they are demons of control and will do what is necessary to maintain that control, no matter the cost.”

“Such as a dictator?” he asked.

“Dictators are just angry children,” I said. “Take away their toys and tantrums are unleashed. They are easily maintained, not far from demons without reason.”

“Then what kind of people in this world are demons with reason?” he asked.

“The ones around you that you can’t see,” I said. “For they make themselves unknown to your sense, until they need to strike and you happen to be in the way; like the rodent digging through the dirt into its burrow, you are as simple and inconsequential as a pebble it brushes aside.”

“With those demons lurking beyond our senses, does that make you one of the angels?” he asked.

Laughingly, I almost couldn’t answer such a question. Vampires are angels? Now if the world could be that simple.

“There are angels out there, but I’m far removed from such a notion, my dear Scribe,” I said with a giggle. “At this present time, enough knowledge has been bestowed upon you. It is from here we move to find the last of our kind. The Unveiling is upon us.”

“What’s the Unveiling?” he asked, as expected.

“When you stare up into the stars, how far can you see?” I inquisitively returned. “Even when you see that far, do you know exactly what you are looking at?”

“Not without aid and education,” he quickly answered.

“There’s your answer,” I said smiling back. “Being my Scribe, you will soon find your own aid and education. We must depart soon before the next sun.”

“What about my apartment and the bills . . .” he started to ask.

“That is my business now, so no worries,” I reassured him. “Your will is with mine, and you will be taken care of. Now we must hasten. She’s usually not one to loiter in a busy city for too long.”

“Who?” he asked.

“Another vampire and an old friend of mine,” I said. “She, too, has a Scribe. Honored by his devote and excellent work, she tailored her name after his.”

“What’s her name?” he asked.

With a deep breath, while drawing a grin of fond memories and the aching desire to see her again, I said, “Nikita. Her name is Nikita Tesla.”


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