The vampire Jonathon, also known as Tomas speaks -
I took three lives tonight. Each in their own way most deserving of death. But that doesn't mean I enjoyed doing it. The 'Burden' is like that. We do it because we have to. The blood does supply a certain energy. When that kicks in it all seems worth it and I want to do it again... but then I remember that means taking a life... the most final act in creation... and I hesitate. How much easier it would be if I did not. I think too much. That's what it is. The problem is, thinking and vampirism do not mix. Ours, on the outside at least, seems to be a 'life' of passion and sensation and abandonment. Some experience that, yet not as many as you'd imagine.
I think about their children. I think about the spouse and all the little family things spread about the house. Who will walk the puppy? And who will lock the door? For once I dim the house lights, it is forever more..... the first few bars of a power ballad there... But this isn't Broadway. This is real life.
You know, there's not much in the way of a final confrontation. I slip in while they sleep. Vampires make no sound. Bed partners slumber on. Perhaps a dog might raise its head, yet they soon grasp the inevitability of the situation and go back to sleep. If little children happen to pad in, I sooth them and send them back to sleep as only night-folk can... They know I mean them no harm. My victims are almost always people of exceptional means. At least the ones with families are... big prescription drug barons... 'black widow' second wives... The young ones are usually well taken care of should mama or papa go 'whoops.'... Replacement parents are everywhere and sometimes they get a pony... one of those super expensive Hungarian varieties with the long flowing manes and feathered fetlocks... Is 'fetlocks' the right word? English equine terms still elude me. The Arabic, or Andalucian comes more natural. My mortal years in the Caliphate of Cordoba and all. Rite of Spain Jews, such as my people, used Arabic too for all save liturgical terms. for that we used a Hebrew - Aramaic patois.
Serial killers aren't rich, but we kill them anyway...
Tonight, from a big lawyer adept at milking the estates of wealthy, old widows, I got an antique emerald dinner ring surrounded by ten point diamonds. He filched it from the somewhat demented dowager a day or two before. Found it on the sink in her powder room, next to her teeth. Not the 'good' set, the casual ones.
The husband of the next one woke up, switched on a small lamp and said -- Did you just do some kind of voo-doo crap to my wife?.... I nodded... He nodded back.. We watched her ignite into the cold blue flame and disappear. Her two little yappy dogs jumped into the bed to lick up the grease.. After perhaps five or six heartbeats I said -- And now permit me to take my leave... He got out of bed, naked, save for a big Rolex, and mumbled -- Wait. Wait. Wait. I want you to have this.... and gave me a beautiful, framed seventeenth century Persian miniature right off the wall..... I sublimated up through the ceiling, onto the townhouse roof and 'flew' away. The aura around our bodies when we sublimate infuses our clothing and anything we hold close, thus the valuable painting was unharmed..... God knows if he got back into the greasy bed or not, although his side was still quite clean.
Then I sublimated into a small chapel to pray, as I usually do after my kills. Save for the Eternal Light it was dark. I prayed for the souls of all humanity. Yet should that prayer be answered, what purpose would I have?
I went back to our townhouse... All was quiet. The ghost of the little polio victim was gone.... Edith and everyone else, even all the night-folk were already in their places, for first light was near.
I put out the lights (not too many... just enough to cut the gloom) and retired to my place.
Sleep well, oh best beloveds...
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