Death Is Long

Submitted anonymously from the United States

edited by Robert Fenhagen

Headline from ‘the New York Star of June 6th, 2010 

Reported sightings of television reporter Cynthia Beekman have dwindled since the pretty 34-year-old Beekman disappeared two weeks ago.  According to sources near to the investigation, her last interview was with a supposed vampire.
The only physical evidence of foul play is a small, ruined tape recorder found in Central Park on the day after her reported disappearance.  (A.P.E news services)                                          

 ”Who am I, what am I, who are my friends?”

My, my, you certainly are an inquisitive one. Ah, yes, so inquisitive, so young, so, how can I sat this without sounding crass, so lovely?

Let me see, I am older than you, yet, younger than eternity, how is that? Does that answer your questions?

Ah,…what am I?

That is—how do they say—that is the rub; I think that is the problem might be a more understandable statement. 

Who am I, what am I? I think I will answer those…

A few days ago, oh, I suppose in the 70’s or 80’s—that’s 1970’s, 1980’s, I seduced a woman, and made her our own– one of us, in other words. Yes, yes, she became a vampire, yes.

She was lovely—long, statuesque, and after our coupling—ravenous—only taking time to introduce me to, among other things, some of the music of that period.  I detested the infernal caterwauling that was so popular, but one group of young men intrigued me. 

They went under the guise of being a song band, a rock and roll band; they called themselves the Rolling Stones.

One of the pieces that she insisted that I listen to (as she gently stroked my face) was a recording of a live performance that Rolling Stones had played.

It was called, oh; I always get this confused; I think it was ‘Get Your Yo-Yo’s out’; one might think it a child’s song, no?

I remember hearing an audience member scream out, “Paint it black, paint it black, you devils!”

No, I am not the devil—no.  That personage, I assure you is not me. 

So, at that point, a composition of theirs was performed. 

Sympathy for the Devil was the song’s name.

I will not forget the words that they sang.

“Let me please introduce myself, I’m a man of wealth and taste.”

I immediately understood that these young men were not of this world—your world.

They sang of having sympathy for the devil, and expounded on the protagonist (who I took as Satan) as introducing himself as a man of taste.  I loved it, for I am indeed also a man of taste, but my taste is color of Valentine’s Day cards, of rubies, of internal rivers—my taste is for blood, and I am particular in the women, who offer theirs’.

I love all women, but I am particularly fond of those who are terrified of me, yet, possess a carnal yearning for something different from what their lives present.

These boys, or should I say, men of this noisy, song group were voracious gluttons of female flesh, as am I, but I do not settle for only external titillation of the flesh, I desire more; I desire to own her body, soul, and mind; I desire to own her completely.

    Of course, that would not appeal to you—a self-assured professional reporter, no, that would not appeal to you.  Despite the horridness of our subject matter, I must tell you that your hair style is lovely.  Did you create it for this interview?

I adore the way a beautiful woman can add just a sprinkling of highlight to her hair, beautiful, beautiful, in your case, I might add, and make her even more desirable.

I am old, but I am not dead, now am I?

After listening to this band of vampires (of this, I am quite certain, for behind the guise of this recital, I am sure that there was blood on their minds), I decided to experiment as I hunted, and copulated (excuse me if my way of copulating is a foreign affair to you), I decided to dissect her female parts to see if there might be a subtle difference in texture and taste.  Do not wrinkle that lovely nose of yours; I am an old man.

It was a dirty blonde girl of eighteen, who bled so profusely that it caused the constables to come–I barely escaped by disappearing.  Ach, what a nightmare, as you Americans say.

I ripped her too much; I made an error.  Are we not all prone to making an error once in a while?

Tell me, what error have you made?

You have no need to blush.

    She died, lives, and I whispered away unnoticed and unscathed—the sound of the night–one of my favorite guises.

Most of the stories that I see about, we vampires, are romanticized non-sense—telling wild tales of wild orgies and a psychotic lust for blood, with much biting and blood drinking.

     For me, the ideal copulation is first, my awareness of someone, someone, who is beautiful on the outside, and also remarkable on the inside, and, then the interest, and then the initial contact, and then, lastly, the seduction.  Then time.

It is a funny thing, but I do not ever remember being interviewed before—at least, not by a woman such as you.

    Of course, much of the time that I have lived was bereft of television– they, as I, was ‘unavailable’.
  For many of my kinds, it is not that way; for many of the; for many, it is simply the quenching of the thirst. Perhaps I have a bit more self-control, but I need to be with a woman in more ways than one.  You understand, my lovely one?

I’ve pondered how best to describe what blood looks like to me.  After watching a television show with a blonde creature, I realized that your society has a need to portray the consumption of blood, with near carnal abandon; to not only drink it, but to bathe in it, yes?

Is that part of your preoccupation with violent images, perhaps?

I question how your so-called society will survive, with a steady diet of violent images, while forcing throngs of people into cities.  Does it not make sense that there will be trouble?

You smile; I do not.

    I was born in Europe many, many years ago, but I feel that my life began once I had been seduced.

I use the word ‘seduced’, because it was in Europe when I was approached and converted.

   As a child, I was poor—very, very poor; I was basically a street urchin, but one night, I felt a presence.

   If I had not been so tired from trying to scrap together a bit of anything, I might have reacted more violently, but I remember being in that blissful time between awareness and being fully asleep.   For a reason, I do not understand, I felt very happy, and I was aware that I was being gently stroked –mostly on my face and hair, but later lower on my neck and shoulders.  It felt wonderful.

    After a while, I felt warmth on my neck, and whatever it was, putting part of itself into my neck.  It entered me.

I do not dwell on that period, because since then, I have obviously thrived, and my more recent existence is what I consider my true existence, but I can tell you that as a child, as I was entered, I experienced my first climax.

Do not allow my words to make you blush.   Surely, a beautiful woman such as you understands the profound experience of one’s first climax.  You smile, but you know, don’t you?

Do you think that an older man such as myself should be calmer about the physical acts? More circumspect in the things that I say?

Ah, I am older than you are, but all that does is make me is a more discerning and refined lover, does it not?

You blush again, but, after all, what is a blush, but a physiological reaction to embarrassment, reflected in blood?

    You have a lovely smile, so why aren’t you smiling now?  Your eyes widen; I can see the tiny blue capillaries in them.  Please, relax,  do not take me too seriously; I am an ancient man, with a penchant for lovely women such as you, that is all.

Tell me, where did you grow up? Here in the United States?

Ah, I am not the interviewer, but the interviewee.  I see.

As I have mentioned, I grew up very poor– in Europe.

It does not matter where specifically, suffice that my childhood was spent on a ruined street that was located by a fish market, and I will allow you one detail.  Nothing in this world smells as awful as rotting fish; in fact, a rotting human is a lark.

You would never understand, but watching fat, disgusting, ruddy-faced humans slice a flopping fish, with its intestines falling out of the poor thing is a sight that I am happy to say that you will never experience, and one that I am doomed to remember on a visceral, cellular level.  That is a horror, not I.

I should tell you that I have never been in love before, oh, I have been infatuated; I have been be-witched and almost beaten by your sex; in other words, I have loved you to the best of my ability, which, sadly, was occasionally not what was needed. 

I know it is utterly boring for a potential suitor to expand on his or her past affairs, but as you are here to interview me, I assume, about me, I will give you a few anecdotes about my past.  This is rather fun, actually; I get to talk about me, and, for me, what could be a more interesting subject?  Oh, admit it, you could tell me a thing or two about yourself without too much pain, n’est-ce-pas?

Ah, you know a bit of the language of love.  See, I knew it.

I am embarrassed to tell you some of my exploits, as it reveals my  years, but, suffice to say, if I had not been so lonely, I would say that I have enjoyed a varied, and expansive vie d’amour—is that how one says it?

Thank you, I’m glad for us that you understand. 

Years ago, I had traveled to Paris, and then London to seek my fortune.  I realized that then, and , again to a greater degree, after  I came to America.

I was in Paris when I met Micheline.

I had been strolling through a park at dusk when I spotted a girl walking a large dog.

The young lady was about your height and weight, I would guess, and had this monstrous black dog leased, but, alas, the dog was walking her, not the other way around as it should be.  I was drawn by her fair skin and beautiful hair, and, as I have mentioned, by her physique, which mimicked yours.  I do know that you know how devilishly attractive you are, come, as you walk into a room, you instantly understand that both men and women’s eyes are on you.

Micheline was like that also.

As she was walked by this great beast, both men and women offered to help her, to assist her, to make an impression, to gain her grace, I suppose, but she politely refused, and continued to be walked by this great black dog—some type of great wolf-hound, I imagine.

I watched her from the top of a small hill, and had watched a group of children play until their governess gathered them up to leave.

At that point, I stood up, and dressed in the fashion of the day, I looked quite good (by the way, you must agree that Parisian fashion outshines all others), but knew that I must approach her, whatever way I looked.  She would have no problem attracting attention, even if she were not the lovely young woman.  Her silken clothes spoke of wealth and privilege.  She wore the most beautiful long, brown dress, with filigreed, yellow material along the bottom.

You see, I had fallen in love with her in that Spartan bit of time.

The love, the love—that was the thing that I feared the most after  having been   seduced into my world; I was afraid that I had sacrificed any ability to love in order that I survive, for one cannot be in love with the woman, who one must kill in order to survive.  You follow? 

Yes, I was in love with Micheline Sargeault.  Smitten.

“Pardon, Mademoiselle’ said I, “it appears that this fine animal has a mind of…his own as far as your walking with him.” 

“Yes, he is a task, but he is a wonderful protector against strangers.”  At that point, she smiled at me and a lovelier smile I never have seen again—until this afternoon, when I met you.

“Well, if that is the case, please allow me to have a small talk with him, so that we may no longer be strangers; alright?”

“She blushed ever so slightly, not as much as you have, but it was there.  A gentle rush of lifeblood to the face.

“If you think it would help, I suppose that you could try.” She replied.  I smiled at her, and kneeled next to the dog, taking his massive head in my hands, and whispering in his ear.

  Of course, I cannot tell you what I said, but suffice to say, he walked next to my leg from that point on.  He was a fine fellow, right up until the moment I was forced to cut his throat.

Ah, that upsets you; I am truly sorry.  I will only say that she became mine in two days, and one night, and her great dog tried to keep her in her present life—to no avail, sadly for the dog.

I found out that she was the daughter of a wealthy banker.  Her seduction eventually caused my departure from Paris, but enough of me.

Well, one more.

    Sometime later, I was seducing a hippie girl in Central Park, here in New York. 

I can still remember her squeaky voice—oh, it used to drive me insane, but she was attractive, I must say.

My heavens, if one is to believe what they say about hippies, you know, the smoking marijuana, they should have blood pressures lower than most, am I correct? 

I ended up with so much blood in my mouth that I all but gagged; have you ever drunk something too fast, and you gag? 

She was very pretty, but the contrast of yellow hair, and red did not seem to agree with the birds in the trees, the green grass on the ground, the man-made lake, the paddle-boats; it was all splendidly relaxing and peaceful until I pierced her aorta. One my teeth entered, there was no more peace.  She was incredible violent until the climax.  I barely could listen to the birds anymore.  I was so upset; she was thrashing, and a park policeman galloped to us, but I had gone.

Living for as long as I have, has its drawbacks’— finding a woman to love is difficult, if not impossible as a tainted one, but turning into a wisp of air in an emergency is a very nice trait.  You are also interested in my friends, I think?

I do not remember having a friend; I have others, only ‘others’.

Would it be rude for me to ask you if you have ever been with an older man? 

All right, I won’t ‘flip the script’ as you say; I will tell you about my wealth.

I do not know how much I am worth; I know that I have more than enough money to do exactly what I need, and want to do.  I live well, and hope to love well—long into the future.

Have you ever considered never growing older? Never having looser skin, never developing a wrinkle, never? 

All right, as a vampire, I cannot feel empathy; I cannot feel love; it haunts me.

Yes, it is like being a sociopath; yes; are you happy now?

I ask you; would a sociopath feel for all the unfortunates, who scrap out an existence in slum dwellings just over there?

Would a sociopath make a conscious decision not to prey on those unfortunates?

I have.

Look across the park at the soaring buildings of New York City.

How many of them have successful, intelligent human beings within; how many of them have been desperate beaten, hurt, and debased  Debased, humiliated, without being aware that anything is amiss.  Slumlords collecting pennies from them, ah, it makes me sick.

I ask you, my lovely Cynthia, would an evil man feel so acutely for the downtrodden?

I would not suppose to ‘beep my own horn’, as I have heard here in America, but I am different.

I bleed when they bleed, yes, a supposed vampire feels.

I feel for you, Cyndi.

Where would you like to go?  London?

I think not.  My infatuation with England ended with six inches of wood.

They are barbarians underneath—the people of England are, please excuse the expression, pigs.

Shall we go for a walk?

    I would enjoy having a walk with a woman, such as you.

    If I told that to all of the girls, that would take centuries—I’m just kidding you.

I feel as if I was put on Earth to show the good in evil, does that make sense?

It is true that I have caused death, but my intention was far beyond my immediate gratification (as I’ve heard people say), but, rather, to exactly explore what love means. 

I overheard a funny thing a few years ago:

Love does never have to say you’re gory.   

I will not hurt you in anyway—I can promise you.

Ah, there; a horse-drawn carriage—that is a charming part of central Park; how romantic and safe is that? 

After you…

Let me just pay the gentleman.

I was discussing the weather with him, and he let me stroke his horse.  I told the horse to trot slowly

I would enjoy a nice ride around the pond, but then maybe we can find someplace else–maybe the horse will know the way… 

I love to see you smile, Cyndi.

Death Is Long

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