(Published 'The Bloody Quill' 1999)
In these hard, awkward days in your distant future when a Vampyre cannot even get a decent drink, my plight brings tears of a pink cast to my eyes and faint quiver of the upper lip upon my toothsome fangs.
It's the Black Drought that did it. I cannot bring myself to syphon up just any blood unless I know where my subjects have been. Creatures from the ancient past, such as yourselves, are no use to the likes of me. Too much of the bad blood, if you see what I mean.
My suffering is becoming so piquant, I'm having to find other means of sustaining my undead soul ... this soul which is the Way Station of the mutated veinwork of my carnal body. Only in Vampyres can the logic of Nature really be seen for what it is; only on being born an Undead, can one truly follow the uncharted mazes of God's work.
Anyway, enough of philosophy?back to my urgent theme, the plight of my kind in your unreachable future.
You may well ask: why is the wasting away of a Vampyre deprived of its external blood sources not as bad as that of you unfortunate victims of the Black Drought?
Well, we vampyres (note the spelling) know full well why.
Ours is an infinite wasting-away whilst yours is finite.
Let me lay it on the line: in periods of Cosmic Menopause, we can, at least, like a parthenogenetic camel, as it were, survive upon recycled blood. Perhaps I should give you a lesson in the biology of the Undead. Blood in, blood out. That's our catchphrase. Most food that you used to consume turned dark brown on exit. On the other hand, blood that we imbibe stays bright red, as pure as the day it was pumped by the young supple hearts whence it came. But, until these post-Drought days, it has always been deemed crudely cheating and almost unchristian amongst we Nosferatu Fraternity to recycle blood. But when needs must...
#
I'm in terrible trouble. Aeons have now gone by, since I last wrote to you. And still no supply of fresh blood. What I have left is growing pinker and pinker like paraffin the more I use it.
As even the tiniest moments of time pass, I am sure my bowels are growing their own teeth between the various byways of the intestines. Even the most unlikely inner and outer orifices of my body seem to be cutting a molar or two. It may be in my mind, but my innards are so desperate they are moving about like creatures within me, searching for the nooks and crannies where real blood - my original birthright as a mortal - is secretly hoarded.
Am I to experience a real death for the first time? I feel my own bifurcating bones suckling gently upon the slowly emptying sump within my innermost reaches, the last refuge and sanctuary for my own blood from the thirsting jaws of you ancient creatures within me.
