Deep Six’ed

A/N: Hey. Long time no see, yes? Lots has gone on at this point in my life. That said, I hope (with the addition of this) you can forgive my unofficial hiatus. I have also posted this same story on my account (under Tarantina) on It was posted there because it was inspired by a picture I found on that site ( Prisoner of the memories by yen lan). This is my second attempt at vampire literature. There will be no third, so enjoy.

(P.S. I in no way “own” this. The likeness of this character I describe is derived from that very image, and that image is copy written to yen lan. So, if you wanna plagerize, you will deal with her. Since yen’s an artist, I can bet yen is 10 times more bitchy about plagerism than I am.)

Chapter One

SIX FEET UNDER

I am a true prisoner to memories. Bad or good, any and everything I’ve done or gone through, I remember. Sitting six feet under in a coffin helps. It was all I had to think about. All that I had in my head to keep me from going insane in there. A few years of pictures depicting your life flashing in your head holds you prisoner.

Me being in that coffin six feet under was my fault entirely. It was a stupid move, but not one I did not outlive. The hint I will give you is my true age. One hundred seventeen.

I did not want my immortality to be known. I did not want the secrets of my survival to be spread. It was the eighteen hundreds: I would be burned alive and though immortal, I would not survive that.

However, the worst of the things that drove me to fake my own death was Laurel. He was the man I loved. He was also the man that would not love me if my truth was known. Why?

He was an evangelist. The son of two witch hunters. The missionary who almost saved me.

Almost.

As I said “loved”. Semi consciously, no matter how I may talk or think about this situation, I will never forgive him for what he did not do.

He did not save me from Hansel. He did not strike back. He was not there.

He did not truly love me.

And six feet under, it was the most repetitive thought in my mind. What he could have done. What he should have done. What should have never happened. What I should have never became.

It wasn’t too difficult for me to fake my own death. At the time, I was undergoing mortal death. Unlike most it was silent, peaceful, as my soul momentarily left me and my body deceased. It was only common sense for someone to see me and assume I was wholly dead. I was laying there on the ground, a wildly stricken look on my face, gone. As I thought of how wild the thought of my transition would seem and how outcast I would have become, I chose to go along with the ceremony of the dead, without saying a word, hardly breathing.

There was only one thing that kept me from spending eternity buried and pouting about my life.

That was my thirst. The thirst for blood. It wasn’t as bad at first as it was over time. As a vampire, that is the one and only pain you will feel, vis a vis a dead body. When you can only feel one pain, it eats at you. Especially when it’s the only thing that is constantly there , the one thing you can focus on when you have nothing going on in your head. And considering the thought of wasting away an eternity like that was the only reason I escaped my grave. Edna Vespucci will no longer rest in peace.