My creator

January 1, 2009

I was thirteen years old when it happened. I don’t remember very much of anything that occurred in my life before I met her, before I was turned. Everything prior became a blur and my life would never be the same again now that I had this passion, this insatiable thirst for life. I became a vampire.

I didn’t fit in with anybody at school. The one person who I wanted to be my friend didn’t really want to be mine. I felt like I scared her and everyone else at school away. I was confused because I didn’t know why people made fun of me, why there was always hushed laughter in the crowds of boys when I was around. Was I ugly? Was I stupid? Was I a lesbian? But she took me in, she accepted me, she told me who I was and to be proud. She recreated me into something I felt was beautiful, however isolated from others I became.

I can hardly remember her face, but I remember how it felt to be in her presence. To be with her was to be in awe of her, to be her student, to be her child, to be her slave. She was my mother during that tender age when girls look to them for guidance. All I saw were her piercing eyes, her puckish smile, her perfect body, her purple red hair and pale skin. She had an ageless aura and an intoxicating voice, a way with words that entranced me and was all I knew of truth.

Like I said, she created me. I remember lying in her room and being in another world. A burlesque, beautiful world, painted with dark color and the blood of others. Shapes shifted and we sailed across the sky like smoke through sunlight. We felt nothing but beauty and bliss, and pain became pleasure. Her blood was the sweetest drug.

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