August 25th, 1899- Romania

‘Vacation’ would have been a word unheard of in my vocabulary. But I needed to get away. The memories lingering in Rouen only heightened my grief. The riverbank where Julia and I had flown a kite, the café where I took her to lunch, the bench where she suggested that we ‘get serious’. Without shame, I admit that my eyes tear up when my mind conjures her face. It’s terrible feeling so vulnerable to my emotions. Even Paris made me surrender to them; we had talked of taking a trip there. In basic words- I couldn’t stay in France anymore.

I figured I would have to go somewhere far away; I didn’t want the option of going back home available. Romania was perfect. It was gorgeous scenery and was a random enough pick. Before I had thought to leave the country, my mind was swimming in alcohol. I was numb enough not to pay attention too much around me; I would concentrate on one thing and that would start a whole string on unimportant, but distracting questions and conclusions. This process kept my blurred thoughts away from the open wound burning like acid in my chest- but most of all, it kept my thoughts away from her.

The dark period after her death was undoubtedly my all time low point. I whored myself around just to spend the earnings on some hard liquor. It is not an exaggeration when I say that I was drowning my misery in alcohol. It is terribly cliché, but how else is one supposed to cope with the death of their lover? There was no doubt that I missed her, craved her, needed her. Nothing could slake that- not the drink, not the nightly trysts, not even the move to Romania.

In my mindset, running away could ease the sorrow throbbing within my being. I hitched a carriage, which took me all the way to Strasbourg. From there, I switched onto a long-term carriage to Mangalia. All my fellow passengers were destined for Bucharest. When they learned of my intended stop, most of them blanched and began to whisper amongst themselves. My brows creased. Was there something wrong with the city? I had read that it was a favorable spot to relax and slow down. The scenery was supposedly decent, with the shore of the Black Sea, the Lake of Mangalia, and the forest of Comorova. There was absolutely no reason why I would be the subject of gossip just for going there.

Brows still puckered, I asked them if there was something amiss. Most of the passengers shook their heads and turned away, busying themselves with something small, their gazes flitting everywhere but at me. One woman, an old sack of wrinkles with vacant eyes and thinning hair, leaned forward and gripped my forearm. The strength in her cold fingers surprised me and I pulled back slightly. Her voice blew out of her pursed lips like a dry piece of paper fluttering in the wind.

“Soyez prudents, jeune garçon. Mangalia peut tuer toi.”

I coughed as her stench reached my nostrils. With a last, tight squeeze for emphasis, she let go of my arm and resumed her tuneless humming. The warning certainly made me swallow hard. Rubbing my arm, my stare drifted out the window. Would I be in danger? What ominous secrets did Romania hold for me? Her raspy voice entered my head again, setting the hairs on the back of my neck on end.

Be careful, young boy. Mangalia will destroy you.

September 2nd, 1899

There was no escaping, no way to rid myself of the pain. I realize now that it was foolish to even think I could hide. Now, more than ever, her memory consumes me. Grief-stricken and vulnerable, it devours me; my every thought squandered by the receding image of her face, of the pain that contorted her face, the sight of her still and cold in my arms. Every second. Every fucking moment. Every breath I take seems unnecessary and never ending. It’s all too redundant. Everything is too fucking pointless. I guess you could call these my final words- a little note explaining why. The “memoir”, as I will call it, is at an end and I do not intend to return.

September 6th, 1899

Since I am writing this now, it is assumed that my attempt failed. And my current situation is far worse than before. Four evenings ago, I will admit that I had every intention of killing myself, and I doubt I made that vague in the last entry. Not much effort was put into formulating a method. Guns were never appealing to me and seemed too messy. Hanging myself was out of the question, for a noose is a risky thing; if I didn’t fall hard enough, my neck wouldn’t break which meant I would be left to suffocate, all the while writhing in agony. Hurling myself off a building would produce a mangled corpse upon impact, and drowning is supposedly extremely painful, contrary to its name of the “most peaceful death”. Obviously, my only option was bleeding to death.

It seemed simple enough. I stalked the streets, scanning for an inconspicuous alleyway to cower in. Knife firmly grasped in my pocket, I slinked into the shadows behind an abandoned building. Like a reoccurring nightmare, Julia’s face flashed through my vision, the wind whispering her name through the alley. Shuddering, I unsheathed the blade and sunk to the ground, flush against the wall. Oddly, my fingers were steady as I rolled my jacket up to my elbows. I was definitely fearful, no doubt, but I just didn’t care enough to back out.

The handle was bulky and foreign in my hand. I focused my gaze on a large crack in the wall opposite me and numbly moved towards my wrist. The kiss of metal was startlingly cold on my sensitive skin, but all my thoughts were wiped clean by then. Mind blank, I applied more pressure, wincing when the edge pierced my flesh. Grimacing, I made long, deep strokes up my arm. I was aware of the sting and the warm liquid pooling on my palm, don’t get me wrong, but all I distinctly remember was that the fault on the bricks resembled a star.

My eyelids felt heavy and my mind swam. All the while I prayed to God that I would faint and pass away while unconscious. Lazily, my gaze drifted to the work I made of my arm. My thought process was too slow to realize that there were seven gashes running from the inside of my elbow to my wrist, from which oozed scarlet blood. I undoubtedly looked like a murder scene, blood sprinkled on my slacks and smearing my arm in horror. My eyes returned to the sky and the knife slipped from my hand onto the dirt. Searching the stars to ensure a pleasant final glimpse, I leaned my head against the building as my eyelids slid shut.

Except for the fact that I write this now, one would assume that I died peacefully after passing out, but I will assure you that my death was much worse than the previous. I was found. But who, or shall I say “what”, found me that fateful not was not a mere person taking a stroll. It sought me out, detecting the stench of blood on the breeze. What happened in that alleyway, I cannot tell you, for I do not know myself, but I woke up. I was haphazardly strewn across a bed, a rather extravagant bed, with bandages on my arm and fresh cuts on my neck.

Those days weren’t as superstitious as the centuries before, but my reaction was the same as any other in the same position. My mind screamed Vampyre. Fingering the wounds on my skin, my pulse quickened. Sweat started to bead on my brow as my eyes darted around the room. Where, in God’s name, was I? Briefly, it flickered through my mind how I survived my “suicide”. But I put that aside and tried not to wonder about such things because my brain was throbbing with a headache.

Angered that I lived, and confused about what happened, I pulled myself into a sitting position. It would’ve made me an idiot to stay, I knew that, but my goal wasn’t staying alive, was it? Eyes flashing in resentment, I made a move to stand. This was not the best idea. The moment I was on my feet, the room spun and blurred out of focus. With a hand on my forehead, I flopped backwards. Sighing in frustration, I let my glance scan the room once again.

A dark mahogany chiffarobe stood against the wall opposite the door, a floral pattern carved around the wood panels. A full body mirror, with a cherry wood frame crafted to look like ivy hung a few feet away from the chiffarobe. A beautiful cello and violin were propped up in a corner next to an overly extravagant black marble fireplace. A large portrait of a stiff looking family hung above the mantle, maroon drapes bordering it. The overall color of the room was dark red and brown, giving it a warm and expensive feeling. The blood red satin sheets of the bed and velvet pillowcases offset the theme a bit, though. Inhaling, I detected a vanilla scent in the air.

On a small night table next to my head was a tray of fruit and wine. A little note sat atop a vine of crisp looking grapes. Eyebrows quirking, I lifted it off and opened its folds. I read the delicate calligraphy with confusion.

Turn Around.

Silently, I obeyed the note. The wailing of a violin rang through the room, and I jumped slightly, my eyes widening as they looked for the source. My attention flickered to the corner of the room where the string instruments stood no longer. The sad melody was coming from the doorway. A figure, their back to me, was standing there, halfway in the room. I watched the tip of the bow pierce the air quicker with each measure, the fierce undulations of the song increasing pace. I gaped at the figure, knowing how fast their fingers must be moving in order to produce such an otherworldly sound. It ended abruptly with a final screeching note and then silence. The ringing of the climax still lingered in the air.

Slowly, with feline-like grace, the person turned towards me. Straight black tresses flowed to their waist. Despite his obvious youth though, there was a thick white streak within his hair. His form matched mine- slim, but well built- except for the bulge of larger muscles. With dark features and a cold glare, the man was like a statue carved by gods. His eyes, unnaturally silver, stood out from the rest of his sharp features. I stared into his gaze, immersing myself in pain and fear. And emptiness. I felt no pity in his eyes.

A faint smile curved on the man’s lips. “You see much, Lord D’Artagnan.” He blinked, ceasing my exploration. I shifted my attention elsewhere, feeling a chill run over my shoulders. “But for now, I suggest that you keep you observations to a minimum. I assume you have already noticed that your situation is…complicated.”

He licked his lips over the last word, chuckling darkly. His voice was heavy with a Romanian accent, making him sound like a deep toned villain from children’s stories.

I merely narrowed my eyes at him, waiting for any elaboration. Taking a commanding stance, he strode forward with the violin clutched behind his back. When he reached the foot of the bed, he drew himself up to his full height, peering down at me with alien eyes. His feet hadn’t made a sound on the stone floor.

Unexpectedly, he swept into a low bow. “You have the honor of meeting me.” He looked up, grinning haughtily. “I am Ciprian Neculai, Lord and violator of this household.”

I nodded curtly. He waited for a moment and I frowned. Pompous bastard. “I am D’Artagnan Aiton of France.”

“I know,” he replied in a bored tone.

My brow rose in question. “And how might you, sir,” I hissed over my words, “come to acquire that information. I don’t recall giving my name out beforehand.”

This man was reminding me of my father. Snotty, smart, good-looking, and all aware of it too. He acted like he knew everything and the old man used to push me out of the way just because I didn’t understand the world by the age of ten. This man, Ciprian, seemed to be just that type- ready to strike you down if you slipped up. People like that used their “knowledge” against you. So far, I did not like him at all.

He placed his instrument delicately at the foot of the bed and slowly walked around the bedpost, trailing his finger along the satin sheets.

“My friend,” his lips curled over every syllable and he rolled the ‘r’ dramatically. His silent advancement made me uneasy. “You are in a predicament, aren’t you? No doubt one that needs quite a lot of explaining. Shall I reveal the grand secret now or start from the very top?”

“Does the top involve me?”

“Not quite. You come in at the end, more or less.”

“In that case, spare me the details. Right now, I want to know who the hell you are and what you want with me.”

He grinned wolfishly, his face becoming a large amount of glimmering teeth surrounded by a sneer. There was something wrong with those teeth… “Very well. I’m a vampire. Surely you’ve discerned that much already. And even if you haven’t, then you’ll be able to figure out what I want with you.”

“That was blunt, to say the least.” My voice shook. Even as I tried to keep my wits, I felt the color drain from my face and my hand clasped over the marks on my neck.

He threw his head back and laughed. It bounced around the room. Once again, his teeth caught the light. They were longer…sharper…

“My dear boy. You are utterly scared out of your wits aren’t you? Ha! At least you are not a fool then.” His stance changed then. He took on the look or a shark ready to attack. His pupils dilated and his mouth shaped a snarl. “Pity…”

The raspy word barely reached my ears before I was thrown back against the headboard. The room spun for a moment but as soon as I regained my senses, something clamped onto my neck. All I remember is pain. And distant screaming. It wasn’t until my throat was hoarse that I realized it was I yelling. After what seemed like a lifetime, he sat up, blood- my blood- trickling down his chin. He simply looked at me, rolled his eyes, and went to dip his head again.

“Why?!” I flailed against his grip. He paused for a moment, but didn’t move away. My sentenced were broken with ragged breaths, but I started rambling. “If you were planning …to kill me anyway…why save me? Why…didn’t you just get…get it over with in the alley?”

I shut my mouth when he sucked on my throat more. No bother in screaming this time.

“It’s simple. You were there and so easily eaten. But by that time you were a bit cold. So I nursed you back to health. Now here you are… fresh and warm.”

I felt bile rise in the back of my throat and I swallowed heavily. “You’re fucking sick.” My words were weak.

Yet another time, he pulled back. Wiping away the mess with a handkerchief from his pocket, he glared down at me with amusement in his eyes. “You didn’t have to tell me that. I’m sick. I’m sick of everything. I’m thinking that it’s time for something new in my life.” Inhumanely fast, his face was by my ear. “I am going to let you live. If living is what you call it.”

I moaned and turned my head away. Something hot and sticky poured onto my lips. When it reached my tongue, I felt an odd sensation in my limbs. My fingers twitched. My palate craved the strange sweetness and of its own accord, my mouth sought the source of the liquid. Heat seared my insides as I drank more and more. I didn’t want to stop nor did I plan to. My body felt powerful.

The flow was wrenched away from me and I opened my eyes to find Ciprian snickering and cradling his wrist. Without warning, a wave of sickness rolled over me. I groaned as pain gripped my gut. Curling up, I felt my body cringe and convulse. I tumbled over the side of the bed.

“I am a cruel and selfish creature, D’Artagnan. But don’t worry. If I don’t enjoy your company, I’ll simply kill you off.”