L'angelo De Parma: Vampyre

One

When you wake up in the middle of the night, gasping from a nightmare, it was me you were dreaming about.

I doubt you have ever heard the name “L’angelo da Parma”, or likewise any tale concerning me. I am a recluse—a shadow—by all means now non-existent. My name is spoken amongst few—by those that also hide in shadows while longing for light, by those that have been feared and persecuted since the dawn of time. It is said by those that have claimed the name death far before their time, by those that look upon the valley of shadow while standing inside of it, and by those that mourn their forgotten pasts and are helplessly forced into new beginnings. There is nothing so powerful, nor pitiful, as these creatures. With my story, I will tell theirs. With my story, I break the forced submission and chains, and let the dawn finally break upon us.

I do not think that ever the most brilliant of men could put my life into words. Shakespeare, Dante, Milton—they would be speechless, and no sooner begin my neglected tale then declare it madness and set down their pens. I have remained alone, bearing this story as a cross for many years. It is only now that I long to throw it down onto the umbrageous ground. I long for freedom—to again walk among mankind as an equal, without the title of master or slave. I long for release from the past; I desire for new beginnings.

And so, I will tell my story, without inaccuracies, divine opinion, or superstition. It is simply the story of my life; I see no need for exaggerations.

One would think that people would find such a story horrifying, but man is a hypocritical race, and those I tell it to always find it entertaining. Because of this, my goal is not to focus entirely on the course of my life as one would an autobiography, but on the things that affected it and made it what it was. People will still manage to find amusement in it—how can they not? It exposes the true sinners of God, and tells the truths of human cruelty. Nothing is more diverting to mankind than its own madness.

I am a vampire; you should know this before I go any further. I am still at the lingering youth of four centuries, born into death during the time music first made its impressions on mortals. I would not say to you that I am evil, just as I would not say to you that I am pure. I do not kill because I lust for it. I do not kill for the pleasure of seeing a life slip away under my hands. I do not kill for the same reasons that some many humans kill for. I kill for life; creating death is a necessity to me. If I saw you today in the street—the chances are I would not harm or even notice you. I do not focus my attention on people anymore.

Do not misunderstand my words by thinking I dislike humans. There are a few I enjoy spending my time with, though the majority of humans tend to disgust me. Drug dealers, alcohol addicts, criminals, and prostitutes—those who endanger others with their own sinful habits—when I must kill, they are my targets.

Children are entirely different, however. I have only killed a child once in my life, and the day I did I became a monster. I remember it clearly, the life drained from his eyes as blood passed through my greedy lips. As a villain, I let him fall lifelessly onto the cobblestone road, and as a demon, I left him there to rot. That was the day I completely lost my innocence, and from that moment onward the thing I stole from become an object of jealously.

Past my jealously, I have a deep love for children. To me, they are like angels, and worthy of nothing less then admiration. They are pure, for the years of sin have yet to befall them. They know nothing of the world, and yet they know everything. Mortals are like shallow puddles and as they move throughout life their childish wisdom evaporates. I cannot tell how many nights I have sat beside a window, longing to again be a child. It is hard to believe that I too was once one; it was so very long ago.

I have taken the time to read about humanity’s view on vampires, searching for the reason they in the past have hated us. I purchased many books dating back to the thirteenth century, made of tattered leather that disintegrated as the slightest touch, and studied them page-by-page. I have dug through countless library shelves of Italy, France, Germany and Romania, reading anything I could find. At night, I have slipped into the dark chambers containing the Vatican’s long forgotten books, and feasted my eyes on their nonsense. After years of fruitless searching, one morning as I lay in bed, it dawned upon me that I had wasted hundred and fifty years trying to understand something that humans themselves could never comprehend. They could have never explained why they hated us. Their ignorance of the matter should have been clear in the beginning. They make us out to be monsters, demons, and apprentices of the devil. They speak of us being weakened by garlic, crucifixes, and holy water. They believe we have no appearances in mirrors, and that we burn if we step out into the welcoming rays of the sun. And yet, even if faced with death, they could never explain why they think these things of us, much less why they hated us.

I understand now that it is in my hands to truly explain vampires, both from the past and of the present.

Many humans do not want to believe in my story, much less live with knowing it. It frightens them. Perhaps it mankind’s way of dealing with what it should not know and what should never have been in the first place. You, I expect, have already been charmed by my words. I implore you to accept your fate, trust, and listen to me. You have all the time in the world.

My life in the human world was never easy. It was a stretch to even call it a life. Life to me was like a forbidden fruit, far too high among the branches of the tree to reach. My survival was dependent upon the mercy of others, and I only received the spoiled fruits that fell into my hands.

During my childhood, I was a pauper on the streets of Castelnovo, Italy, and begged for the little goods I received. I can remember very little of my parents, which as a child was heartbreaking to accept. At night I dreamt of those tall, shadowed figures that revealed themselves like apparitions in a forgotten graveyard, and called out to them, only to receive silence as my reply. Should I have even thought of why they abandoned me? Should I have cared who they were? No, no, I should not have. Yet such a burden was impossible, for every human on this earth thinks the most of and longs for the very thing that he cannot have.

When I stop and look back on my childhood, I am truly amazed I survived. Italy in the late sixteenth century was nothing like the common world. Few ever spared me any food or goods. Most would pass me, wrapped in their long coats and laced with their jewelry, and think of me as nothing more then a filthy rodent. I ate when I could. I wore what I could find. When I was sick, I clung to life on my own. I am certain that my survival was a fluke that God overlooked.

Disease was common in Italy. The streets were littered with garbage, and many times plagues befell the city, often killing a forth of the population. I was at an advantage toward this, for as I was never in a household, I was never living with the disease bearers—the rats, nor was any disease passed to me through humans. Even the rats did not live in my condition, and fled to the households!

The spring and summer were a time of leisure for me, and I often fared well. Upon the coming of winter famine often struck, and at times even the wealthy went hungry. At times I would linger at the homes of the starving aristocrats simply so that I could watch their solid oak coffins be taken out and dragged to the cemetery by two black horses. To see them being pulled to their graves in such a fashion filled me with a morbid sense of delight, for while they would soon lay rotting under earth, I would continue living.

The child beggars were the worst off of all classes, for we were seen as scoundrels of bastard blood. We were chased from of the marketplaces whenever we entered, for we had a well known reputation of being thieves. Of course, stealing was a sin necessary for survival, and those that did not steal and waited for bits of crust perished.

There was only a single sense of joy in life, of such minute worth was my joy it amuses me now to think I ever valued it. My pride was knowing. Knowing what day it was—what year—what season—knowing how to simply survive! Knowing brought me great pleasure, no matter how trivial the knowledge really was. I was a child then, and never had been offered the fruits of education. What could one expect?

There was a specific even in my life that doomed me to become one of the damned. I am certain, as a child, if I knew of the terrible fate that awaited me, I would have avoided the man who was responsible. How deceiving was that devil, whose eyes were brighter then the infernos of the sun. The man’s horses had brought the carriage to stop a few feet away from me, and the door opened, letting out a warm burst out air. He gazed down at me like a father would—with kind reassurance and adoration. He was an aristocrat—a class that had a habit of hating and ignoring my kind, and so it much be understandable when his compassionate eyes met with mine I was taken aback. The devil, seated comfortably in his carriage, outstretched a silk clothed arm to me and smiled, revealing a set of decayed teeth.

“Come child, you look cold. Why do not you come with me? I have many chores at my house you could work at.” The man spoke in a soft diminuendo, and his eyes pierced me like daggers.

It had been days since I last ate, and the man’s fat cheeks and my own disoriented thoughts convinced me to accept his offer. As I stepped into his wood carriage the sweet sound of children laughing reached my ears. I turned to look to see a brother and sister, hand in hand, dressed in expensive furs, chasing one another down the white roads. They turned a corner and disappeared forever into shadow.

The man and I did not speak in the carriage ride to his home. Already a feeling of anxiety had overcome me, followed with a despair I had never felt. I did not know my fate—if I had I doubt I would have so quietly allow him to take me. I longed to be with the laughing children on the road, and to experience the innocent bliss of childhood. Instead, of all things, a simple mortal would rape me of my rights. A mortal, who in thirty years times would be in his grave, would steal a life from a child that would live forever.

It was my own fault—I had sold my soul to the devil—and he had sold it to a vampire. I had no one to blame but myself.

During the carriage ride I recalled all the memories of my past, and found them to be melancholy. There was nothing—nothing but sadness, despair, and suffering. The cold winter months followed by the artificial bliss of summer… The temporary relief of eating a slice of bread, only to be again filled with hunger hours later…

With a sudden jolt that frightened me, the carriage halted. There was an unfathomable desire in me to please the man, and so I acted first, stepping out of the carriage and hold the door open from him as if he were my king. He stepped out with what seemed an adopted sense of dignity, and already a born hatred took root within my heart.

The man walked through the snow with leather boot that were trimmed with fur, as I followed behind him barefoot. How I envied him—and what loathing it baited. I wondered why God had destined me to such a horrid fate as to lie on the streets starving, while he gave a single man such excess so that he may live in unneeded luxury.

His home was to me a mansion; it was two stories, and had a Gothic style tower that cast an ominous shadow upon us. Surrounding its façade was a large space perfect for gardening. With imagination, one could see the delightful colors of foreign flowers, more spacious then garden of Eden. Intricate fountains and statues of cherubs displayed themselves, and grinned at you with an amused look in their eyes. Their short wings were raised upward, beholding the sky.

I wondered if this man had any children, and with a child’s eagerness imagined sitting on the floor with them, as my friends. I imagined being allowed play with toys, and laugh in unison with them. I thought of brushing my little hands over the wood walls, which were rich with scent of new chestnut.

Reality returned to me, and the little bit of childhood I clung onto left me for eternity. It was as if a farm horse had suddenly realized it indeed was not a steed, nor could it ever be one.

The man led me into his home through two great doors, twice as tall as me, and I was immediately greeted with the scent of rosemary. The walls were of fine wood, and lined with candles that lit the room in a florescent glow. Great white columns rose from the floor and supposed the wide roof. I had never seen such things before, and no longer did I linger in sadness of not having a childhood.

Oh, yes, his house was magnificent, and every bit of what I imagined it to be. I could not believe that a king himself would live better. However, the kindness the devil had shown to me soon wore away. It was as if a demon overtook the man—worse then Lucifer and more vengeful then Gabriel. I became dizzy, and sought refuge against one of the cold walls. I heard the click of the door being bolted, and the fat man glanced at me. At a slow pace, through with great deviancy, he made his way toward me.

As I felt the chill of his shadow, I closed my eyes and prayed. He took me by the collar of my ragged shirt and slammed me into the wall, letting his fist come into my face. A warm stream of blood spurt forth from my nose...

“You are mine, stray boy. You have come to me with the desire to no longer thirst and hunger, and with stupid folly. Foolish boy, do you not know to never make pacts with the devil? Now you must pay for you sins.”

The man sounded like the devil himself, and I was inclined to believe him! I remembered the rumors that circled the streets of witches possessed by the devil, and of the devil coming in human, and a deep fear roused in my heart. I began to cry. The man ordered me to stop, and to my dismay I found it impossible. My sobs became only more erratic, and I collapsed dizzily into his arms. I closed my eyes, and allowed him to drag me.

I was soon lifted from my feet, and the man heaved me down into a place I first believe to be hell. My skin burned from what I thought was red flame, and I let out a terrible scream. Only when I realized that my arms were covered in blood did I understand I was still on earth—a worse hell then the inferno.

My eyes soon adjusted, and I found myself in a wine cellar. The dampness filled my lungs, and I struggled for breath. The door to my salvation had been shut, and I was concealed alone in this tomb.

I became terrified at the prospect of dying in such a horrid place. I held my hands to my nose to stop the dripping blood, which had mixed with the dirt beneath me to form a black flour. My eyes strayed, and I found I was not alone in this hell. There were others that were damned, also. Across the cellar were several other boys curled amongst one another. Their eyes were dim against the light that penetrated through small cracks of the ceiling. Their ribs were visible beneath their meatless skin. I am to this day unsure how long those poor souls had been confined in such a hell.

I had no strength to lift myself and crawl toward them to seek comfort. All will for life had left me. I decided that I would not let myself cry, for I had really lost nothing. What did it matter if I died? I never had a life to begin with.

As a corpse, I closed my eyes.\

Chapter Two

It is hard to say how long exactly I was in that hell. My life had become an eternal night, and trapped in such perpetual darkness I lost sense of time. I would sleep constantly, dreaming of the sun, and the sky, and the clouds. I imagined the wind stroking my hair, and ice biting at my numb cheeks, paling my face so that my blood vessels shown like water flowing through a river delta. I dreamt of the things that I had taken for granted in the past; the things I now so helplessly missed. These thoughts helped me become accustomed to my torture, and I stopped longing for the daylight. My mind coped with my new circumstances just as it had with very other hardship I was forced to face.

I did not weep in a monotone chorus as the other boys did, but instead gazed into nothingness as they cried, as if in hope for a sudden death. It is true—as I said before—people long most for what they cannot have. In this dark cellar the only thing I could do to quench my longing was to imagine, and to hope.

I came to my realization soon after my imprisonment that I would eventually die in this cellar. The few that gave up their ghost each day made the cruel fact obvious. Yet their deaths were not a damnation, but a blessing. Why should they have wanted to grow up in misery? It was better to die young and imprisoned, then to die a beggar on the streets, completely visible but forgotten. If in a sort of peace, death is like falling into a great sleep in the arms of an angel, who wraps you in silk and carries you to heaven… But there was no peace, and I was assured that my angel would carry me to heaven naked.

When I was a child, this angel of death had promised me in a dream that it would soon come. It promised me that I had to only wait a little longer before I began my real life in death. I know this angel was far too vivid to be a fabrication of a dream; it was sent from God as a guardian to comfort me in my despair. And yet, as an innocent being, I could not yet fathom what this angel truly meant. I thought of heaven and of God. I thought of frolicking through vast meadows filled with every fruit the mouth could crave. I never thought these fruits would come at another’s expense.

After what seemed like eternity, the cellar door opened, allowing a small stream of light to diffuse through the room. The boys had all lifted their eyes and fidgeted—all except I—who had long stopped admiring light. When they had again become still, several slices of stale bread were thrown down into the hands of my starving comrades. My mouth had watered at the thought of food, and with the last of my strength I got to my knees and crawled to where it was being offered. The angel of death’s hands clutched at my ankles and retarded my pace, and the cellar door again shut. The boys ate their pieces greedily, feeding their famished bodies, and I watched as my last source of food went through cracked and bleeding lips.

I was now certain of my immediate death; my body was far too weak now to fight for food.

I pulled myself to a corner and collapsed against the wall. As I rested, letting the water that perspired between the stone’s cracks bond to my skin, a hand fell upon my shoulder. I shook, fearing it to be the hand of death…and no sooner ceased fearing altogether. I thought of the hand as an old friend. Death embraced me, provoked me, seduced me… My lips trembled and warm tears slipped from my eyes. This was my end, I thought.

A welcoming texture pressed itself against my lips, and I believed it to be a trick of the angel’s, who taunted me in my last moments. I opened my eyes so that I may lay eyes upon its face, and instead saw nothing but seemingly palpable darkness. The texture further pressed upon my lips and in a dying man’s desperation I parted them. The angel set a piece of bread into my mouth, and after realizing the benevolent offering of the angel, I accepted it.

The bread brought me no peace in my final moments. I wanted more of the taste. The feeling of hopelessness and despair that shackled me to life worsened.

Another piece of bread was pressed to my lips, and now I made no attempt at taking it. This bread was stale and tasteless, bearing no good other than supporting life. It did not matter if I were hungry anymore. The only reason man ever quenched his hunger is for life. I still would face the same fate, with or without hunger.

“Take me.” I pled the angel. “Why do you not take me?”

The angel took my face into its warm hands and gently kissed my forehead.

“You have to stay alive.” The angel whispered into my ear. “Do not die.”

I let out a cry of despair, being able to find no words to express my emotions. My body sank forward into its arms. The angel allowed my chin to rest on his shoulder, and this embrace soothed me. I stopped crying and began to pray.

“Can you hear me? Are you dead?”

The soft voice of the angel brought back a memory that had been forgotten for years. A calming image of a past Christmas returned to me, and brought peace to my mind. I was again at the footsteps of a cathedral, staring up at a sculpted angel, whose wings were lightly laced with snow. The angel was crying. I was unsure if it was crying for me perhaps, or some other forgotten pauper. The snow surrounding her eyes melted as if a heat radiated from them, and two sweet tears traveled down her cheeks.

For a moment I was at peace. I could now die.

“I do not know. Am I dying?”

The angel did not respond, but wrapped his arms around my neck, and pulled me to his chest. His hands were fine, and lacked the roughness of a beggar’s. It was then that I came to the understanding it was no celestial being holding me, but one of the boys confined in the same hell as I.

There were no more words exchanged between us, and I fell asleep in his arms.

My angel—the savior that had fed me bread, and convinced me to live, seemed to have divine intelligence. He would tell me what time of day it was and when a day had passed, when all the other boys, including I, were completely incapable of keeping time. I could do nothing but believe him, for would afterwards prove it by showing me a minute crack in the stone wall were one could see daylight penetrate though.

Because of him, I knew that it was exactly five days before the door leading to the outside again opened. Things were not as they were before; the air was stale, as if with a sense of impending doom. Death. We all sensed it; so many of us were going to die. I was frightened, and searched for my angel in desperation, but found he was no longer beside me. Death would come to me while I was alone.

I watched with anticipation as a large ramp fell from the level above, landing but a foot away from me. As if driven by an inborn instinct, the prisoners made their way to the ramp and one by one crawled up it. I had lain there immobilized, for there was no further strength within me to rise. No good could be done in returning to the upper world anyway; it would only bring me more pain. I hoped that I would be taken as dead, like the two other boys, who had passed away during the night and been pushed to the far side of the room, and left in peace.

However, my angel no longer protected me, and so God never heard my wishes. As soon as I had closed my eyes, a hand from above took hold of my hair, and proceeded to drag me up the ramp in this fashion. When a clump of hair would finally give way and fall out, the cruel hand would grab yet another. I was powerless to escape the agony it inflicted on me and remained limp, letting the torments of hell punish me.

Upon reaching the polished floors of the familiar world I had left, I recognized my torturer, the devil, and stared up at him in a sort of hate only a dying man could have. He looked different now—I no longer saw any kindness in his eyes, instead they were cold, reminding me of fire and brimstone. It was as if his heart had been completely overcome with evil during my absence. He gave me a wicked, satisfied sort of smile, and kicked me in my side. The force of it nudged me so that I only stopped at the feet of a man I never had laid eyes on before.

I only glanced up for a second at this man, for what I saw brought me great envy. He was dressed even more exquisitely than the cruel person that locked me away—wearing a garment of stitched gold and silver. On his fingers he wore many jewels—the jewels that one could only buy from foreign markets, and at the cost of a peasant’s life salary. His face was wonderfully pale, without a single mar upon it. His eyes were of a deep green, and lips were the most astonishing feature of all. They were a beautiful shade of red, like that of roses in bloom. His mouth was closed as though he was completely content, and his eyes scanned me without curiosity.

By just looking at him, I grew to hate him. This frightened me, for I knew I was so close to death. I could not risk such a terrible sin such as envy before passing, for I would go directly to hell. He was like the snake that baited Adam to sin, and would eventually convince me into damning myself.

Such misery I could not stand any longer. The dreadful longing for things I would never have finally became unbearable. My death was coming. I felt it as the blood drained from my injuries onto the floor. I felt it in every gasp I took—in the heavy sensation crushing my chest. Now I could finally die, and better, at the feet of a snake whose temptation I had resisted.

“I need three of your strongest.” The man spoke, and then staring down at me added, “Boy, move. You are bleeding on my shoe.”

I did not respond to his command. Death would come soon enough, and the blood would cease to flow. The man let out a gentle sigh when I did not react, and he nudged me with his foot.

“What is wrong with this boy? Why doesn’t he move?”

I twitched and my eyes once again opened. His figure had become nothing more then distinction between light and shadow.

“Death is at his heels. He was star-crossed from the beginning, my friend. It is a shame—you should have come sooner. He was beautiful. Not now—but if you study his face you can see the inner beauty.”

My captor let another kick into my side and I gave a small grunt.

“Get up! Do not die in front of him!”

My torturer continued to scream commands at me, commands that he knew I could not obey, but nevertheless loved to give them. As a stream of blood came from my mouth, he stopped, seeing there was no further reason to torment me. My body no longer could detect feeling. I glanced up at him, wondering why he had not the mercy to end my life. He did not care of my suffering, and had already turned away and was forcing white tunics on the three chosen boys.

The tall man that I envied continued to stare down at me and his eyes began to burn. Underneath those eyes delirium overtook my mind, and I began to hallucinate. Before me I saw a white cat, with eyes the color of emeralds. When I reached out to touch it, I found my hand went through its body, and it disappeared as quickly as it had come.

Shaking from fear, I grabbed hold of the man’s ankles and clung to them. How better to justify my actions then the fact he was the last person I beg for an end to my suffering. It was at his feet that I allowed myself to cry for the first time since my imprisonment. Once more, and for the last time, I was a child. Children are children because they do not understand why life must be the way it is—that is why they are innocent. Once more, I was innocent.

The man ignored me, and continued to talk with my torturer.

“How much would you charge for the boy?” He asked, motioning with his hands down to me.

“I could request same as the others.”

“He is dying. Look at him. Do you expect me to pay such a price for a boy like this? I would do better to take one off the street.”

“Look at his face. He is the sweetest-eyes here. His beautiful eyes should raise his worth double. I would charge that if he was not as lame.”

“I see nothing beautiful in his eyes. I see no beauty in him. He has barely any hair left.”

“Then you are blind, sir! Besides, if he has no beauty, surely you can raise him to health and he can labor for you where no one will see him. Most would have already been dead; he has survived the streets, and my cell. Certainly he is strong…”

I no longer listened to their words, which had become a sort of altercation. I had realized that the man’s shoe before was made of leather, and began to chew the tip off it. When the man noticed what I was doing, he stopped in mid sentence, and looked down to me in an expression curiosity, before tearing his shoe away.

I hated him. Surly he knew I was starving; he knew my suffering…

It was as if he had read my mind.

“End his misery, dealer. Look at him… He is a disgrace. It is as simple as a twist of the neck.”

“You must pay me to kill him.”

The man knelt beside, and as my angel of death, took my tiny neck into his arms. I looked up into his flawless face, and reacted in a way I never thought I would; I was frightened—terrified. My heart began to pulse, and my blood rushed. Gently, as a criminal does on the scaffold, I began to cry.

It is hard to accept the fact one is no longer worthy of life, even when one is suspicious. Perhaps the man was right—I was a disgrace. This same fate would have befallen me on the streets, for it was inevitable. I was a beggar and nothing more.

“Boy, do not cry. This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” The man asked my softly.

I wept only harder now, and the tears fell down my cheeks. The angel that had promised me death had never come. This was not he. I would be in no angel’s arms; I would have no silk. I would go directly to hell and burn forever.

In a single swift movement the man pulled me to my feet. His arms wrapped around my body and pulled me against his chest. A scream escaped my lips.

My torturer became livid.

“Stop tormenting him like that. Will you kill him or not? You are toying with him.”

“Be silent. All you care about is your money.” The man gazed down at me, and with a sort of frightening charm whispered, “I will buy your life for half the price, and nothing more.”

“He remains at the full price, regardless of condition,” Called out my torturer.

“Dealer, I will take this boy home to die so that he may in peace. Either I buy him for half, or his body rots in your basement without any benefit to you.”

“What if you save him? What if he becomes your child, your slave? Then I am cheated!”

I shook. The thought of being a slave frightened me much more then death. I prayed for the man’s mercy to kill me. I did not care what would become of my body or soul anymore. I just wanted peace.

“That will not happen.”

I am unsure what gesture or look was exchanged between them, but the deal was finalized for half. The slave dealer, with a sour expression on his face, had forced a white tunic over my head as he had done to the others. I remembered how he had hit me, and took joy in knowing that I could not be beaten now that I was another’s property.

As if he had one desire of vengeance, he had pushed me toward my new master and I had helplessly fallen onto the floor. My new master said nothing, but knelt down and took me into his arms, motioning for the other three slaves to come forward. Before leaving he paid the man in gold coins.

As we left the house, he looked down at me. There was almost a hint of compassion in his expression. As we went outside I began to shake; my thin tunic did nothing to protect me from the cold. I considered then to beg him for death, but knew it would come soon enough.

The man leaned close to my ear and whispered in a solemn voice, “Just a little longer. Live for me—just a little. I’m going to save you.”

In his arms, I sank into unconsciousness.

When I again understood what was happening to me, I was being laid out upon a sofa. It was as if my mind was separate from my body, and that everything happening was not of the present, but of the past. I wondered if it was because I was on the verge of death, and if that was what everyone felt as they sank into death.

Before me was a mirror, its frame plated in golden carvings. The image it reflected back at me was horrid, and at first I refused to believe it was I. It was the eyes of death that stared back at me; I was nothing more then a corpse, and horribly ugly. Perhaps I was once the sweetest-eyed of the slaves, but my beauty was no more.

The cushions sank, and my body was gently eased up. The man—the man I was now a slave to—sat before me, he holding a piece of bread.

At first, I did not understand it was meant for me. In five days that I had been locked away my view on the world changed dramatically. I simply considered he was taunting me, and I refused to react and amuse him. He continued to bring the bread closer to my lips, promising me it was all right. I looked at him, at the bread, then at him again, becoming nauseated with hunger. The torture I knew was working, and I let out a scream of despair that brought visible sorrow to his face.

I would not let this man prolong my suffering. In my eyes, he was evil. He was no better than the man that locked me away. I struggled to get away from him, finally allowing myself to fall limp.

“You think that I am just going to let you die, do you not?” The man asked, his voice rising in a crescendo of anger. “You think I am going to allow you to wither away here in my arms. You are dying. I can see it in your eyes—they are becoming dimmer. So why do you not eat? You were once very beautiful, you know that, do you not? I can see past this ugly skin of yours! The beauty is gone now, and I am going to bring it back to you. Ah, I see it in your eyes now. A look of wanting. It is all right—eat. The other slaves have eaten—they had feasted, as have I. Why should not you?”

Again, my body felt astral. I stared down at the man’s hand, so nicely formed and moist with expensive creams and oils. How I longed that I was his child, raised by him, his blood. I would have known happiness. I would have at least once tasted love.

“Boy! Did you not hear me? Eat!”

Once more, I looked up at him. This time he must have not seen wanting in my eyes, but fear. His eyes softened.

“Why do you do this—you make me suffer? Why fight the claws of death?” I asked him gently.

Tears of happiness came to my eyes as I looked at him. He was beautiful. There was not a single fault in him. My hate fell away. He was giving me peace. I would die this way, for certain, looking in his precious face. No one else in the world would have this luxury.

Yes, I knew the face of the Gods. I knew something which others did not.

“I do this because you are beautiful. Very beautiful. Not only your face, but also you soul. You are innocent. Someone like you should not die. Eat.”

My head shook slightly, trying to show disagreement with him. I realized then that I could not disagree with this man. He was now my master, and had total power over me. He wanted me to live. What else could I do but obey?

Chapter Three

For five days I was engaged in a constant struggle between life and death. I could not even escape it in sleep, for I remember seeing a light several times in my dreams. I would draw nearer and nearer to this mysterious light, until I could finally feel its warmth upon my lips and was blinded by its formidable brightness. Always, before I could be completely overtaken by this light, I was jerked violently away by an unseen hand, back into the chilled arms of life.

It was not just this repeated vision I had in my sleep; I dreamt as I never did before. They were the sort of dreams that are imagined with such vividness, that when one awakens, one cannot fathom the ideal it was only a fabrication of the mind. There is one dream in particular I can reminisce—it was about my mother. Though I had never before been able to recall what she looked like, it was as if a forlorn image of her face was suddenly remembered. For the first time I laid eyes upon her sweet smile and her rosy cheeks. I gazed into blue eyes that would forever haunt my thoughts. My fingers fondled her silky blonde hair, and I took the long strands and kissed them, savoring every moment of our touch. And yet, even with such amazing brilliance, when I woke I was forced to realize it was nothing more then a dream.

My new master would occasionally wake me from these dreams with a gentle dab of a wet rag upon my face. In a soft voice, he would tell me it was time that I ate, and almost threateningly, he would add that if I did not eat I would face death. I could not resist the hunger that tortured my stomach and weakened my body, nor could I resist his wishes. I would nod in approval and he would briefly allow a small smile to spread across his face.

With shaking hands he would take me into his arms, exercising such caution one would believe that I was a porcelain doll. After parting my lips, he would press a cup of water to them, telling me in a soft voice to drink it all. When I finished drinking he fed me small apple slices and bits of cheese, sometimes rewarding me with a slice of cold ham. I would look up at him during this in loving admiration, studying his milky face and warm eyes. My new master was a peculiar man, and one could sense the oddity around him. A suppressed fear gripped my soul whenever he was about me, and no amount of kindness could rid it. Even in the very beginning I knew that my master was not entirely human; I should have taken caution to this.

When I woke the fifth day it was by my own will and not by his gentle hands. I saw the room I was in like I had never seen it before; it was illuminated with light pouring in through a stained-glass window. It was the sun, and its light shown down upon me in deep colors of violets and magentas. The sunlight to me was like a long lost friend and I rejoiced, spreading my arms and embracing it. Even as a beggar, I had never truly seen it—I had never truly taken it in. It had been there, if anything as an annoyance. Now that I was alive I could finally come to appreciate it.

The rich textures of silk sheets brushed against my body and the warmth radiated through my body. Even with all these convincing sensations of the mind, I still wondered if I was truly alive. I could only convince myself when I looked at my hand; I saw it was still not the smooth skin of a youthful boy’s, but was dried and cracked, lacking all beauty. I gazed up into the familiar mirror and saw that my face, though it had regained some life, still resembled death.

I knew I could not be dead. The God I knew would never be so cruel to a boy as to give him such a terrible form to live out eternity in heaven with. I had been told that in heaven, you look as you did in the prime of your life, and I knew that once before I had indeed been beautiful. I had once glowed with the life of a summer flower; I once had the skin of a nymph. Once, many years ago; God would give me this form. Only the disobedient are made to look like heathens in death, and they go to hell.

It was impossible I could have gone to hell, so I knew I must have been living.

I would have gone to hell for my jealously if the man had not saved me. When he showed me kindness my envy repented. Yes, the man had saved me both from a life of eternal night and a life of tortuous fire. With this realization a strange desire possessed me—I wanted to see the man that had shown such kindness to me. I rose from the bed with shaking legs and went in search for the awkward man.

I had never seen such a home before, not even my imagination. A mansion of such size I considered to be impossible, and yet my new master proved me wrong. How can I describe it? It was like heaven itself, which spans on forever, room after room, door after door, until your knees grow weak. His home was lavished luxury; the floors were of Italy’s finest tile, and the windows were made of brightly color strained glass. The roof, masterfully painted with biblical scenes, was supported by great marble pillars, of which took many steps to travel the circumference. The rooms were lined with expensive furniture of all sorts, and on each table there was a vase full of fresh flowers.

I ran though the house like an excited child searching for him. I was easily distracted, and found something in each room that brought me paralyzing delight. In one room, there were small openings of stained glass in the walls and roof, and were lined in such a way it created a walkway of light on the floor. Another room was filled with carved statues, the largest one, of an angel, was at the least seven feet tall. Another room was filled with dozens of lit candles, and I watched them for many minutes as they slowly melted away.

It was when I came to a great hallway when I slowed, for I found that each step I took reverberated endlessly. The doors leading for the halls seemed to provide me with infinitive choices, and for a moment I doubted I would ever find the man. Surely I would sooner become lost in such a maze of chambers, just as a man would in the catacombs underneath the city in the simple search for somewhere to sleep. God knows how anyone would find a lost boy in such a great mansion—even a man as awkward as he.

From one of the cracked doors came a sweet noise—a noise I had never heard before. Any remaining fears I had were completely overwhelmed, and I continued toward this door, which was more decorative then the others, with carvings of angels on the front. As I neared, the beautiful sound rose in a crescendo of effort, and then disappeared into silence. The angels on the door seemed to grin at me.

I glanced timidly into the room and saw my new master. He was standing in the center of a wide stage, dressed as elegantly as he was when our eyes first met. A red robe now covered him and it collected in a mass of excess fabric at his feet. His dark hair traveled past his shoulders, ending at his mid-back, and was tied with a long golden ribbon. This man did not seem to resemble the man I first saw—there was nothing of his appearance to lead one astray, but I could sense a sort of inner-disruption within him. There was a battle between good and evil—the minions of Satan and God’s angels were fighting in a final apocalypse.

My master stood very quiet, very still. He did not turn toward me at first, but rather allowed me to look upon him as if he enjoyed my gaze, and craved as if it were nectar. A strange expression had covered his face—one that I will never forget, no matter how many crazed and delirious looks I see on contorted faces. It seemed to be of deviant nature at first glance, but after being studied, one could see it was a hybrid of kindness.

My eyes followed the intricate pattern of his sleeves down to his milk-white hands, and saw that they held the neck of a violin. I had seen a violin before in my life on the streets, but my eyes had gone right past it. The violinist, a gypsy whose age had caused his skin to leather and darken, had made a mockery of the instrument. The bow flew up and down as if he were attacking the delicate object; the instrument shrieked at each blow. On the streets people played instruments as if they were toys. The performers had been taught by their fathers, and those fathers had been instructed by their own fathers, and so on until infinity. Through the generations the true art had been deluded, and in the end man forgot how to truly play.

My master’s playing was different; it was as if he had been taught at the beginning of time. The sound that he made was greater then the music of the organ or the singing of the choirs at churches. It was crisper then the bite of any winter wind, and purer then freshly fallen snow. It was indescribable; to this day I cannot find words to glorify his playing.

“You are awake.” My master said finally, his voice chillingly solemn. He set his violin on a chair to his side and continued to stare into nothingness. He pulled at his selves and straightened them, smoothing the silk over his long arms. His very actions suggested that one of two things—of a man ready to face his death, or of a man not prepared to take one himself.

“Come here to me.” He whispered.

His voice was so soft that I was hesitant to believe he really had said anything. In frustration, perhaps annoyance, he motioned for me to approach with hand, keeping his green eyes transfixed upon a vacant wall.

This bothered me. I wanted to scream at him—to cry out, “My master, look at me! Am I hideous, is that why you won’t look at me?” Only I did not. It would have been a futile attempt to get him to look at me, for at this time I was still looking at man that never let himself be controlled by others.

I remained motionless and scanned the room’s interior myself. On the walls hung great paintings of angels and heaven, and of demons and hell. In the far back, behind the stage, were two stained-glass windows, covered partially with a row of dark curtain. The colored light from the windows illuminated the floor around my master in a red halo. The stage that he stood upon was made of polished wood and decorated with carved ivory.

“Come.” My master repeated. His voice had become colder.

As I approached the stage I shook. The feeling of dread became stronger when I neared him. The demons were winning, and my angels seemed to fall about, wingless and wailing.

My master’s attention broke suddenly from the vacant wall. He turned toward me, glanced sharply down, and knelt onto his knees. His arms reached down and took me underneath my underarms, hoisting me up onto the stage beside him. I clung to the folds of his robes and he pulled me up into his arms.

My master finally looked into my eyes and as I gazed into his I was overcome with sadness for they seemed so endlessly dark. It was as if they were voids, containing nothing but emptiness and lacking all desire. They reminded me of my own eyes when I had looked into the mirror—the eyes of someone without the will of life. I could not but help wonder what he possibly had to despond about, living in such luxury and freedom.

He said nothing as I sat in his lap, but remained still for many minutes, allowing his eyes to return and stare at the vacant wall. A great frustration overcame me, and I demanded to know why he did so. There was no anger at me for my cockiness—he smiled.

“I am thinking of what to decorate the wall with, child.”

I knew he was lying by the look of his eyes. I knew even in the beginning when he was trying to deceive me; a latent look of guilt would surface from deep within him. How terrible of a liar Verardo always was.

The man took my face gently and tilted it so I looked up at his face. The traces of guilt had disappeared from his eyes on the onset of a new discussion, and were replaced with a loving glow.

“You know you are mine now, do you not?” He asked in a soft whisper. “Do you understand this yet?”

The tone of his voice had changed; he now spoke in a masterful tone of dominance and assuredness.

“I have known that from the beginning.” I replied.

A smile again spread across his face, and for a moment a small glint of pleasure lit his eyes. His hand moved to my neck and pulled down the fabric of my shirt, exposing the warm skin of my throat. As he stroked it he chuckled softly, and soon this chuckling developed into soft laughter. A great fear overtook me and I trembled.

“You are so tense. Do I frighten you? Oh, I cannot blame you.” The man paused, taking one of my shaking hands. “I have a present for you.”

He reached into his robe, and withdrew a small bundle of lace, tied with a golden thread. The bundle reminded me of the trimmings the wives of aristocrats wore on their dresses, but this was of a darker color. The man placed his present in my hand, and I watched as his eyes again filled with joy; he had already found great love in pleasing me. I pulled at the thread until the lace came undone, and whereas every normal child would have been in delight at his first present, I was not at all excited.

He had given me a doll. As a child I had always wanted a doll of my own, for I saw many of the other children playing with them, even the underprivileged. The difference between these underprivileged children and myself was that they had parents to make them dolls out of rags and hay, while I had no one to delight me with such things. Of course, one would expect that I would now be delighted. This was no doll of rags; I could tell that the doll was expensive simply by looking at it, and knew it would have taken a skilled craftsman days to complete. The face of it looked oriental and was painted white, with rosy cheeks and small red lips. Its hair was not that of horse, but true human hair.

My master’s intention was to delight me with this doll and in doing so win my affection so I would love him. He desperately needed my attention to escape his own loneliness, and would have spent any amount of money on me. I am certain, had I loved the doll, he would have continued each day to parade me with gifts.

I did not show any excitement over the doll. It was not became I was aware of his motives; I was too ignorant for that. It was because the last bit of the child in me died while I was in the slave dealer’s wine cellar. Only children take appreciation toward expensive dolls, or to rags stuffed hay, or to someone that has the nerve to try and delight you with these things. I was past this now, and the innocence was gone.

“You do not like it?” My master asked tensely as I pressed it back into his cold hands. He was quiet. Finally, he let the toy fall to the floor and shatter; it had no value to him either.

“Oh, child, I do understand. I only thought a toy such as this one could make you happy. Now what can I possibly get you, if not toys? Your eyes look darker then they did before.”

I remembered the sweet sound that had drawn me to his room. The sound he had made was something one could not refuse—it was like the sirens that had tempted Ulysses. I pulled away from his chest and pointed toward the violin, which sat on a low stool beside us.

“Will you play that for me?”

My master grinned. He took the violin up by its carved neck and held it so I could see it. The candles reflected their light from its strings and they shimmed tauntingly.

“Little boy, you enjoy my playing, do you?”

I did not respond. I was overcome with admiration for his instrument. My eyes had never seen something so perfectly flawless as the wood that made his violin. Its wood was a deep red hue, and seemed to radiate light.

“Go ahead—touch it. It will not harm you.”

My hand reached out and plucked one of the strings. It let out a beautiful harmonic ring, and I cried in joy. As the excitement faded, I came to realize that true magnificence of the music the man had made.

“See, I knew there would be something I enjoy about you. The others could care less of this violin.” The man bent down and kissed my cheek. “Tell me your name, child. You’ve kept me ignorant.”

I stared at him for many seconds without replying. The innocence was gone, but the ignorance was ripe. I knew, though not completely, there was something about his eyes—the way I looked into them—I knew they were something I loved, or would learn to love. And yet, when I looked deeper, I knew they were not human, but it was ignorance that made me not truly recognize it.

The man repeated his question softly. It was an embarrassing question; I had no name. Children beggars never needed names and never had them. A sickness of paranoia overtook me, and I became nauseated thinking that he did not know I was a beggar. A fear surfaced—if he knew the truth, I was certain, he would abandon me. As a beggar I would return to the streets and die.

I pulled at the long strands of my hair and cried. The dark sadness again returned to my master’s eyes. He again took me into his arms and kissed my head, cradling my cheeks in his trembling hands.

“Why must you cry, child? I did not mean for the question to hurt you. You must stop worrying over such trivial things, or you will die of stress. I know you do not have a name. I wanted to give you a chance to name yourself. Here, child, I will give you one—L’angelo. It is a magnificent name, and it fits you perfectly, do not you agree?”

The last two tears fell from my eyes as he stroked my face with his fingertips. “L’angelo” he had repeated, as if he were savoring the sound of the name. His hands felt like that of a dead man’s.

“I am going to bring you to the others.” He said finally, standing up with me in his arms. “You have regained your strength and are expected to do chores just as they are. I will give you an easy one since you are still weak.”

He carried me through the long, dark hallways into yet another room, with a high ceiling and walls the color of a dying rose. From the ceiling hung a chandelier lined with unlit candles, which had been in long neglect, and so was overtaken with dust. He set me carefully down on my knees, and supported me so that I did not fall forward. He then motioned to the other side of the room to a large barrel of water and a pile of rags.

“I want you to clean the floor and the halls that lead from it. The others are already at work in the other rooms. This room itself should take you all day, so do not worry of the other rooms. There is a cathedral very far away, and ever hour its bells ring. You may break each time you hear them—but, they are soft, child, be quiet.”

He touched my head lightly before he turned to leave. There are few details I remember of this moment in my life, though I can recall that I could not hear his footsteps upon on the marble floor as he left. Before he exited the door, however, he had stopped and said a final thing to me.

“I have purchased you from a very cruel man, L’angelo, and saved you from certain death. As you laid in my bed dying, most masters would have ended your life and slit your throat. I woke you from your rest not with the sting of a blade, but with food passing through you lips. Do not disappoint me L’angelo, and ever let your body lose its will. You belong to me now, and I will not let you die.”

With those words he was gone, and for many minutes I sat there, paralyzed with a feeling of unexplainable dread. I finally stood and went to the barrel of water, staring into its darkness as a man would examine his soul. I took the rag and dipped it into the barrel, continuing to reach into it until my sleeves were wet to the shoulders. I was half-expecting to find some rare treasure at the bottom of it, though I never did reach the end.

I brought the rag to the floor and began to tediously clean it. When I had agreed to work for the man that had imprisoned me, I had agreed to work with the idea that my freedom would still be mine. With my new master, my freedom was gone, and though he treated me fairly, I was no longer the commander of my own life. Ah, it is a riddle—which is better? Being a slave and having your life forcefully owned by another, or being a beggar and having your freedom because no one ever wanted to own you?

The thought of no longer being free disheartened me and I broke out into loud sobs. I stood, letting the rag fall to the floor, and buried my face into my hands. The thought of the bitter cold and starvation became suddenly appealing, for even though I would die young, I would die with at least my freedom.

The sobbing caused me to become dizzy, and I collapsed to the floor in faintness. The spell itself was cruel, for I woke from it moments after I fell, with the blood from my nose and my elbows still fresh and running. I attempted to stand and sank back down; there was no strength left.

Through much effort I dragged myself to a corner behind one of the massive pillars and began to pray. I prayed not for life, or for my freedom, but prayed that my master would overlook my hiding place.

My master would be angry with me for showing such weakness, for showing such deliberate disobedience. He would beat me, and I would die from his blows. Something as trivial as standing and falling again would have ended my life; my heart would finally stop.

I did not need the man’s blows, for I was dying here. The terrible weakness came over me, and I felt myself falling into what seemed like a deep sleep. A mortal’s fear took grip, and I screamed out in terror. At least the man’s words had not gone unheeded—I did have the will to live.

There was a dark shadow before me, and the sensation of moving air upon my cheek. My heart raced with fear, and I finally fainted, expecting to wake to Satan before me in Hell.

Chapter Four

How quiet the night seemed at my new home. Rest here was a startling contrast to the attempt man made at sleeping on the streets. In my master’s home there was no foreign noise, no shouts from drunken men or clatter of horses’ hooves upon cobblestone. All was silent and nothing stirred.

When I awoke from my spell I was in my masters’ arms, still unable to lift my head or speak. We sat upon an elegant bed covered with a golden quilt and lined with several feather pillows. How I longed to lay down upon those pillows and fall into an unending sleep. However, I knew that with this master my dream would never prosper. He needed me far more then I needed him. Perhaps it was company—entertainment—attachment—an assurance that even when death is all that is perceived life still flourished elsewhere. Perhaps it was a part of each of these things that made him keep me captive.

My weakness was overbearing, and I submitted myself fully to it, lying still as if I was dead. My tongue rolled around my mouth as I thought about water, and of the full barrel that had once been before me, now forever lost. My master must have sensed my desire, for he attempted to ease me. A cup of water was pressed to my lips, and his soft voice commanded me to drink. I did so without complaint, and the sweet nectar filled my mouth. Oh, but it did not stop my thirst. Regardless of what amounts of water Verardo gave me, I accepted he would never be able to quench what he had taken.

I was still far too incoherent to speak to him, being half in his world and half in my own. My master himself started a conversation, bending down to my ear so that he would only have to whisper.

“L’angelo, you fainted when you saw me. Do I still frighten you?”

He lifted my chin so that I looked him in the eye. His face was illuminated only by the two candles at his side, making it part light and part shadow.

“You should not be afraid of me. Why would I do anything to hurt you? I like you, my child. I enjoy your company. It has been a long time for me.”

Looking into his eyes I saw the kindness of his soul with it I saw the desire for friendship, the desire for life. Though his words seemed to be of both a happy and sad tone, the unmistakable kindness in them domineered. Already I was falling in a sort of love with him. Verardo saw this, and his eyes widened with joy.

“I have not even told you my name. I am certain you are curious! Little L’angelo, my name is Verardo.”

It was the first time I heard his name, and yet I did not even pay heed to it. I was distracted by what he was doing. He had taken firm hold of my small wrist and brought it up toward his parted lips with a devilish look in his eyes. There was no struggle I could have attempted to stop what he planned to do; Verardo did as he pleased, and if anyone attempted to stop him they were eliminated.

There was a small prick of pain, and blood gushed from a freshly opened vein. I had little time to see the red river leave my body, for he immediately pressed his lips tightly around the wound and drank. I let out a soft cry and tried to pull away, no sooner finding it was futile. There was nothing to do other then to wait in fear and disarray.

When Verardo stopped he himself let out a cry of panic and leapt from the bed. He left the room in the state of a madman, slamming the door behind him and locking it from the outside. I was ignorant, in a state of shock, delirious from the loss of blood. I held onto my wrist until the blood stopped, and then rest my head against the feathered pillows and slept.

Months passed and Verardo grew even more attached to me, and I to him. The cold winter blossomed into a sweet spring, and when I woke in the morning I could hear the chirping of birds. I slept at Verardo’s side at night, curled to his side for warmth, and in the morning he was the first thing I laid eyes on. And such a wonderful site my master was to wake to! Those eyes, which had once been dull and lonely, were now filled with life.

As time passed, I grew to live off of the life in his eyes. If for some reason a day he was sad, my will to live would crumble, and my energy would drain from my body. I would feel as if I were dying, and become very sick. When my master would find me in my condition, he would become angry, with no in particular reason, and put me to bed with a opiate. No amount of rest could improve my condition; the only cure was his happiness, that unmistakable glint in the pupils of his eyes that glimmered when he was himself content.

One might say I had been brainwashed, however no one living today is in the position to make such a bold statement. After so many years of living without anyone caring of your existence, the prospect of someone depending solely upon you for company was overwhelmingly like an addiction. And the truly ironic thing was we depended upon each other, and if either of us had fallen, the other would have soon crumbled. He was my shelter, and I was his life.

I never understood that my loving master was a vampire until I saw him kill a man with my own eyes. The subtle hints, the drinking of blood from my wrist—I was far to put them together and form a conclusion. Verardo waited for me patiently, allowing more and more clues to come into my reach, until finally he grew bored and let me witness a bloodbath in person.

I must admit, I am suspicious Verardo simply did it in front of me so that I would be frightened. There were many other easier ways of exposing the truth to me, and yet he chose this way. It all could have very well been a test of my loyalty to me. If so, he must have found my reaction strange. I found the killing so violent, so clean, and so entirely merciless that it was invigorating to watch. I felt pleasure! Awe! And after this, I knew that pure, sin free, beautiful boy that had been bought by Verardo was no more. Only he frightened me. When he let the lifeless man fall to the ground, his glazed-over eyes open staring into nothingness and his tongue lolled loosely out of his mouth, with crimson blood dripping from his neck, I believed that I was his next victim.

It was strange. I felt such amazement upon watching the life of another slip away, but I did not want to die myself.

............to be continued.