[Vyvian Blackthorne]

This is a story a wrote that was never published. My writing is not shown widely, but I think it wouldn't hurt to share my own work.

Vamp Love
SHE waits for her victims to come present. The beautiful cemeteries’ cold mist filled the spot on her pale face. She wishes not to kill; but more to love. She cannot love, for what she is a specimen of human off spring-yet to be discovered by the technology unknown. Behind the tree in the graveyard she waits, and finally, she spots a boy. The boy was about the age in his mid teens, approaching adulthood; he visits his father’s grave in mourning. Alcoholism killed him, and he continues to weep, so many people do not understand him. She watches, clad in black as he is, but she had the feeling at first sight that he was different. Yes he, visiting his fathers fameless grave. It had been there for years. How she knows this, she reads the blood of humans with her mind, yet not the same as tasting the delicious blood.
Oh no, this was something she needed to live.
She felt for this certain boy, for he was not afraid to face the darkness and embrace it. Of course, not evil, but just the side everyone has that is understanding, passionate and appreciative for such morbid yet truth-ful things. He wore, how beautiful he was, make-up on his face. Pale face and lipsticks with partially smudged eyes; he was a galore of beauty and truth. Yet he faced his melancholy problems and confronted his father, who lies before him in a fateful grave.
“Father,” he said. “We were always close, I felt, we were always close and we were always together. I brought you flowers for your grave. They’re grey, but I know you would’ve liked them.”
His father was a man that may have been rough, yet he was kind and loving underneath. It was that side, that understanding side he wished mostly to get out of him. During the end of his life, they tried to stay close to each other-his father being supportive of his interests and all-the boy rejoiced him greatly for this. He was, of course, alone and single. With his lucks and charms he never made it well and even when he tried to socialize with those that shared qualities as himself-he never had the true guts to confront them to make an everlasting relationship.
Overall, he was fine at where he was, though he still had his lusts, and his moments. Now the woman, who continued to stay behind a twisted tree, watched him finish his monologue to his father, shedding tears that drip like blood-slowly but majestically.
He got up from his position with the flowers he held on the grave, he walked away and yet she followed this boy, this man to which she lusted.
The cemeteries beauty stayed with the fog, she needed a victim yet she did not find this boy to be so, he was young and clever. He was dark and different, he was not someone who cared about fitting and conforming into society; all he did was be himself. This is something she loved in him. She saw that he stood out from the rest, not afraid to be himself. Perhaps there were others that shared qualities like him-but there were! I how she wished to embrace them all!
Yet this was her first encounter with this beautiful boy, she fled toward into the beautiful darkness ready to feel her love. Her heart ached, it told her to jump on the boy, and oh she wished to. She stayed close behind-to find out who this boy was.
He began to speak. “Why am I alone? I wish there were more people like me in this fucking community. There’s no one like me here because all they really rely on is unrealistic and arrogant positive thinking. It’s sick...” he said, remarking with a tear. She agreed.
Trotting again he walked into the streets, ignoring the cars and the people who shunned him. He knew how horrible and misunderstanding the society was, how he had to hide what he truly embraced and act what they called ‘normal’. What is normal? Nothing’s normal! He thought again and again as he passed the streets. Two small children stopped in the grey mist and stared. They licked luscious ice cream snobbery, perhaps they were youthful. Seeing this man overwhelmed them. He was dressed beautifully in a poet’s shirt and black. “Wow, who is that?” One asked to the other.
“He’s weird,” the other remarked, then with a snobby and spoiled attitude she said, “I bet he had to rob someone’s grave to get them-since he’s POOR! P-O-O-R!”
How insignificant today’s children were. They were taught what they thought was RIGHT and WRONG (as they labeled so rudely as FACTS-when they were clearly theories) only being brainwashed and isolated from individuals who disagree with society’s immoral ways.
The boy turned his head, a tear dropped yet they shed no sympathy. His partially spiked hair began to feel wet as the rain poured. The mother of the children appeared, grabbing both of them by the groin (resulting in them shrieking) and pulling them into the fog. He knew they didn’t mean it; it wasn’t them speaking but the thoughts of their hateful and mean-spirited parents. This was something that was clearly wrong with people-just people in general. The mysterious and beautiful mistress of darkness followed him even in the streets (without being noticed) lusting for him more and more.
She imagined her with him. How sensual the romance would be. They would touch; her breasts would be embraced by a youth among so many beautifully understanding people. She would with him eternally, not intentionally wanting him to become the supernatural and yet unique creature she is but just be with him forever, in love immortality. Death is a sweet thing, yet his soul shall roam again in another body. Embracing death, her fantasies ended; and she realized that she must go speak to the one she loved now.
She hid behind another, darker tree, but no more would she bottle her recent emotions up. She wanted to start slow with him, to know him, to love him, to feel him and his pain (though she already clearly knew through telekinesis). She was clearly behind him now, in the deeper streets and entering a valley. No one would stop her, not even if her heart had told her to for this was her function. How he did not know that someone was attracted to him, and though it was only for moments had she fallen in love with him-it was like years for her century-old heart.
The alley became deeper and thinner. The boy took a deep breath, she knew something was wrong. She sprung up into the top of the surrounding buildings and watched him fall to the ground in mourning. He wept briefly, not wanting society, this scummy, horrid society, to see him weep. He did not care what others thought-yet with so much tension and discrimination-those scars would never be removed.
He wiped his tears and went back up, continuing to walk in the alley. There she continually stalked, on top of the building-how she wished to love him! As she was ready to not feast on his blood, but of his heart, she realized something.
If she flew down, she’d die.
They could not fly, they could jump higher than any man could to reach the stars, yet they could not fly. She remembered what her father (and sometimes lover) had explained to her.
If we, the creatures of the night, flew down from such a height-not only would there be impact but exposure to our veins...attempting flight is simply foolish for us.
That short speech ran through her head. She could not catch him in time for as she realized this-he had disappeared. No longer was this boy, this mysterious boy, this different and beautifully darker boy would she see again. So many feelings she had for him, yet so many he would never know. He would continue living the way he does, as she would, but she would go on living knowing that this was her only chance at love. How many feelings she briefly felt were never to be known by a mortal as he-but to an eternal dark mistress like her. She stayed on top of the old and abandoned building (two words to describe her) until night fell. Then she slept, with tears of blood and water drooling down her retina.

That was more than two thousand years ago. The protagonist in the story is clearly I-and the supporting role is clearly the boy. The boy who had the courage to be different and be himself-something I wished all mortals valued. They do not deserve to live, but there are some beautiful people in that world who are forced to suffer society’s intolerant ways. I remain in my lair, thinking of the boy and how I could have loved him. I still imagine life with him, and then once I do it is hard for me to get out of such fantasies. My emotions for him will never be known, and once I, the Vamp, become a deceased soul, many will forget who I was-for all I knew had perished. So I write my story, telling you every detail and only dream that it will be said, told, and embraced amongst the world.