What drove the comrades of my homelands to dwell in the uselessness of ignorance? They hid, fearing what they could not face, what they assumed would steal their innocence and God forbid their faith.

Taking blood is not a vile act, or the evil which you describe, but an achievement: gaining the power of the unattainable waters of life, washing away the weaknesses of the human body, but not the supposed impurity attached when the body must house a soul: rage, guilt, regret, sorrow, pain. Those pawns allow themselves to be moved without mercy from one sacrifice to the other. That is when not a person stands without a condescending word to preach to the oh-so sinful minds that surround.

Sadly, however righteous I may wish to be, it is hypocrisy which triumphs. It is ultimately my own fallacies in addition with those of my peers which caused my reputation’s flourish and livelihood’s demise, but it was the utterances of malicious and skewed truths meant to further penetrate a wound infected which inspired a throbbing need for the autonomy of my own existence, something apart from my submergence in the monster. I have always known of its existence, the driving force of a single thought in a sea of desperation. Who can protest, willingly choose exile over acceptance? Yet after their corruption has been burned who is to say another idea will not invite raging lunacy along for the ride, to breed uproar in actions, rather than influence, as my ordeal so caused.

Not long did it take for my space to be filled, my name purposely omitted, as often happens within the forsaken circle, but as with my ever-lasting condition, life must continue, as always it will. However, with my realization of the world I denied myself in futility, untainted perception has been lost, its ability to maintain utopia burnt in my acceptance of knowledge. Swung open is the door of possibilities, the possibilities for the highs of life to blow away and become subject to cruel reality.

My apologies, that was dramatic, I know. I am sure you have no intention of reading my scribbled ramblings any further without the promise of the elaboration, an explanation. You want the story; you want more than these vague inklings into what happened. I admit, I have a tendency to be slightly distant from my writings, but I do not intent for it to be that way now, and I will avoid it, or rather, I will try.

It is just I remember those moments, standing over him, thinking very clearly of his relatives, the line of fathers blurring to create the same face before my eyes. I remember thinking how satisfying it would be to leave him there trying to survive on his ignorance, abandoning him with nothing but his disgusted notions by the red fountains of youth that run so freely. I remember trying to suppress the elation of the fact that eventually hundreds of years of life would blur into one, like mine have: a blood red reminiscence, and everything on this page seems to be becomes a scene from the film, scrolling before my eyes. I know the dialog and can tell you their movements, but when my face appears it is not me. Of that I can assure you.

I am sorry. I am adding exaggeration where none is needed, and this is far more drawn out than I had predicted it would be. If I was in your position, I would demand to read from the beginning. You will not, but as I said, I would, if that’s any consolation. And I’m sure it is.