I was an amateur writer who wrote short stories and essays for magazines that no one knew existed. I was 21, ambitious, and naive. That is until my sire, Cornelius, found me. I stayed late that night at the tiny bookstore I worked at. It was more like a hole in the wall actually, among other holes in the wall, along a small practically abandoned side street. I’m surprised anyone even found the place.
I was writing another trés boring essay when he appeared. He was tall, mysterious, gorgeous, and pale. Shit was he pale. I wanted to ask him if he needed to take a seat for a while or offer to take him to the nearest tanning salon. But I didn’t, I couldn’t. I felt so in awe of him all I could do was listen to his beautiful voice as he offered me his preposition.
He told me he’d been watching me for weeks. Apparently, I was at first going to be a midnight snack but he became intrigued with me, with my beauty and he wanted me to join him, his kind. So instead of becoming dinner I chose immortality. What the hell, I was ballsy and his life sounded more fascinating than mine. Life truly did get fascinating after that night, or should I say afterlife. I had so many new, different, erotic experiences. I had to write them down. So that’s exactly what I did.
My experiences went from pages scattered on a desk to print in local magazines to novels on the best selling shelves of huge chain bookstores. Mortals loved my books. My fellow vamps and elders though, well, they looked down on them. They constantly tell me that I should be more discrete. I’m putting the whole race in danger by revealing secrets in my work. I tell them Mortals are ignorant. They think it’s fictional, like every other piece of trash they pick up and read. They insist someone will discover us through my books. Yet they continue to let me publish them.
But any threat made to us, any hint of discovery, and it’s my head. That’s what they tell me anyway. I’m not scared.