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Lorenzo wrailed in the darkness, smashing his arms against the thick, unforgiving, oak walls. The casket was small , designed for a corpse, yet 'hardened' for a monster. He kicked his feet. He rammed his head against the lid...but nothing. He cried. He begged. He cursed. He gagged. Blood dripped down from his forehead. He could smell that and fought to grab it with his tongue, as it trickled down his face. How warm, how rich, how salty and hot. It quieted him for a few dozen heartbeats. Is this hell? Is this it? Would he go on, sealed within a ghastly tomb, with only his own blood to drink forever? But then the panic exploded again. He raked his fingernails along the inside of the lid. He pulled and ripped and tore the dead remnants of his skin away from his body, shredding his clothing to get at it all. Then he struggled, kicking it down near his feet, trying to escape the dead, fetid smell.
But there was hope, wasn't there? He would suffocate? His lungs would burst and it would be over! Sweet death, oblivion. Anything but this. How much air could a coffin contain? He did not know. How long had he been burried? He could not tell. He gulped the air. He ate it. He drew it in and forced it out. Time went by. Heartbeats passed, but nothing. No burning. No weakness...No change. A vampire needs no air. His body is preserved simply because some 'force' wants it that way. Breath comes out of habit. It is comforting, yet not in the least bit necessary. Even the blood wasn't a necessity. True, it could be unbearably compelling, though it isn't the drinking of the blood, but the taking of a life. All those fables you hear about vampires surviving on squirrels and rabbits and little Bambis are just that...fables, lies, wishfull thinking. They make me sick. There's a reason people call them 'life-eaters.' There's a reason for that.
So Lorenzo embraced the dark. He was blind to all but his dreams, visions of his family, his home, his face. He felt his face. Why? Who knows? He was beyond thought. Maybe the 'force' sustaining him decreed it. But his finger tips slowly discovered the fangs. How smooth. How sharp. How needle-like....And then he knew...He remembered. He felt the Englishman and he wept. Maybe 'they' punished vampires like this? Maybe he was right? Maybe he'd never get out. He began to cry. Not as before. Not as a human, but as a vampire.
Now, it happened that there was another in the land, a female, similarly afflicted. And she heard his call and ran to him. Throwing herself down onto the hard packed earth, she began to dig. Her talons tore into the dirt. Her teeth bit into it. Her manic tears burned through it. She fought on like a demon, for in all actuality, that is what she was. Her low, deep growls penetrated right through him and he answered in kind. Kadeema was coming. And the sweet, feral freedom of the night would be his...
But there was hope, wasn't there? He would suffocate? His lungs would burst and it would be over! Sweet death, oblivion. Anything but this. How much air could a coffin contain? He did not know. How long had he been burried? He could not tell. He gulped the air. He ate it. He drew it in and forced it out. Time went by. Heartbeats passed, but nothing. No burning. No weakness...No change. A vampire needs no air. His body is preserved simply because some 'force' wants it that way. Breath comes out of habit. It is comforting, yet not in the least bit necessary. Even the blood wasn't a necessity. True, it could be unbearably compelling, though it isn't the drinking of the blood, but the taking of a life. All those fables you hear about vampires surviving on squirrels and rabbits and little Bambis are just that...fables, lies, wishfull thinking. They make me sick. There's a reason people call them 'life-eaters.' There's a reason for that.
So Lorenzo embraced the dark. He was blind to all but his dreams, visions of his family, his home, his face. He felt his face. Why? Who knows? He was beyond thought. Maybe the 'force' sustaining him decreed it. But his finger tips slowly discovered the fangs. How smooth. How sharp. How needle-like....And then he knew...He remembered. He felt the Englishman and he wept. Maybe 'they' punished vampires like this? Maybe he was right? Maybe he'd never get out. He began to cry. Not as before. Not as a human, but as a vampire.
Now, it happened that there was another in the land, a female, similarly afflicted. And she heard his call and ran to him. Throwing herself down onto the hard packed earth, she began to dig. Her talons tore into the dirt. Her teeth bit into it. Her manic tears burned through it. She fought on like a demon, for in all actuality, that is what she was. Her low, deep growls penetrated right through him and he answered in kind. Kadeema was coming. And the sweet, feral freedom of the night would be his...
