Everyday Vampire

Let me just get it outta the way—I’m a vampire. According to vampire scientists, I simply have a disease. But vampirism could never be publicly classified as one, as the real world would freak out about our existence. It affects the longevity of life, metabolism, healing speed, and skin pigment. No extra-long teeth. No super speed. And (I can’t believe I have to say this) no sparkling. I rent a house in Old Town. The nice part. The part that’s been gentrified. My house used to be an upstairs and downstairs apartment. When I rented it, I decided I didn’t want to deal with a roommate. Too many questions. The basement is a nice, temporary storage for food. Before I dump the person in the river, that is. My hope in writing all this down is that you can at least understand where I’m coming from. Understand why I do the things I do, say what I say. Kill the people I kill. When you’re a vampire, you have to kill if you want to live—though I use the term loosely. One debate between vampires is choosing who to kill. A homeless guy is just as satisfying as a happily married mother of four. Some vamps go for the tragedy. Me? I go for the ones that won’t be missed. Besides the moral issues surrounding killing Karen the suburban housewife, I don’t want to get caught. You wouldn’t believe the stories about what happens to vamps that get pinched. The federal government gets involved and, big mystery, the vamp disappears. It’s easier to stay hidden when you follow the rules. But I wasn’t the first one to come up with them. The first I know of? My sire. The one who turned me. And the one I fell in love with.