Dearest Annalove,

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic


My first indication that there was a problem with my 200-year long marriage occurred when my wife neglected to give me a good night kiss.

Submitted: June 29, 2018

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Submitted: June 29, 2018

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My first indication that there was a problem with my 200-year long marriage occurred when my wife neglected to give me a good night kiss.

 

For two centuries, upon every eve, I would receive a peck from my lovely wife, Annalove, shortly before retiring to our coffins. A small matter to a mortal, perhaps, as their minds are sluggish and forgetful, yet to a vampire, who's mind is a prowess in memory, the instance could be considered treason. Rigid following of traditions is considered a facet of vampire culture, meta as it is. Without structure, the typical vampiric household may descend into chaos, as we are very peculiar creatures. For Annalove to stray from such a tradition, she may as well have cast our relationship into hell. But as I am merciful and trusting, I offered her the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps she had found herself dizzied by a glass of intoxicated blood, and simply could not stay within conscious realm long enough to indulge in customs.

 

If that were the case, I would have forgiven her immediately, with barely a stray thought of shame for my mistrust. Immortals tend not to dwell on feelings of regret, spare few instances. However, this sudden conundrum which appeared before me did, unexpectedly and resignedly, offer symptoms of ruefulness. The naïveté side of my mind, the small yet relentlessly mortal side, wishes I had never bothered to investigate. That I would remain in a metaphorical shadow, blinded by the utter beauty of my wife. But the hardened, obtrusive and possessive part of my mind, my immortal part, demanded that I seek answers and bring forth catch. To my own dismay, I obliged my immortality's misgivings.

 

My wife, who's concentration and care rivaled my own, had grown distracted. During waking hours of day (we had adjusted into diurnal patterns), I found her gaze listless, her mind elsewhere. Upon my initiating of conversation, she would give small start before relaxing into a smile. Her responses were far away, telling her lack of focus. She grew distant. I grew frustrated. This was not the Annalove I married. She did not again forget to kiss me goodnight, yet her.. elsewhereness showed in other places. Simple things. Misplacement of belongings. Wrong ingredients poured into potions. Her not remembering to feed our thralls, resulting in sickness and fever among them. It was bestowed upon myself to nurse them back to health. As the weeks went by, so did my faith. I had taken to subtle mourning, the slow withdrawal of my wife leaving me a feeling of illness. I could not take it. Finally, after a whole moon had passed, I decided to follow her. Until then, we had formed a pact of trust, obedience, and a respect that we were privy of our own doings. In my despair, I fractured it.

 

My discovery shattered my heart. I was consumed with despondency, and suddenly I was experiencing my transformation all over again. The raw agony of becoming death among the living, yet forced to walk the bare earth with unholy bones. It burned, and burned. I was the same husk from two centuries ago.

 

Annalove had taken a mortal lover. She had become weary of our tradition, our immortal domesticity, and searched the outside world for a solution to her boredom. To her gain and my deepest misfortune, she found catch.

 

The name and appearance of the lover does not matter. The only item of relevance is the way my fangs sunk into their flesh as they writhed over my wife's body. Oh, how the air filled with shrieking, and the cloth they lay upon stained with blood. I basked in the ecstasy of mortal skin tearing beneath my teeth, and immortal skin cold and slick beneath my encompassing hands. When Annalove lay trapped under the body of her beloved, I extricated myself, ruffled my cloak, and flew out of an open window and into the night sky.


© Copyright 2019 Faroh. All rights reserved.

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