Louise A Vampire's Story (Completed/Editing)

Chapter One (Re-Edited)

You are probably wondering who I am.

But this is no story that you are reading. This is my life.

My very life is in your hands right now.

You may laugh about it, maybe even think of it as a joke, but to me, this is no joke, for what I have gone through, what I have witnessed in my so ever prolonged life, is something that I could never even joke about no matter how much I'd wish to.

For you see, I am a vampire, an immortal being that cannot die, who must drink the blood of the living so I may live another sunless night.

Go ahead, roll your eyes, think to yourself, "Oh no, another story about vampires. It's overdone and boring to the point of being less than the ground I'm walking on." Whether this is what you are genuinely thinking or not, it does not matter. I cannot read your mind for this book, so I can only guess what you may be thinking right now.

If this story does not interest you, then ignore it and head on your merry way as if this book never existed.

But if this story does interest you, if you are wondering how I, as an undead being not wanting to keep living yet keep drinking human blood, then I shall tell you.

It was not by my choice.

I was forced by a man, a man who I, at the young age of seventeen, believed to be an angel. Yet, in reality, it makes me regret my foolishness and the idiotic fear of not wanting to die the same way my mother had. But I am getting far too ahead of myself. Allow me to go back a bit and start over.

My name is Louise Bellerose. My life and un-life begins in France.

I was born in 1854 to an average wealthy home of a banker family—my mother, Eleanor and my father, Jonathan, and an older brother Arthur. Growing up, I loved to run along the tall grass that grew around our small mansion, playing hide and seek with some of the workers while my mother watched closely from a distance. My father would then come down and pick me up to see if we small humans could reach up and touch the stars that glittered like diamonds in the ink-black sky during the night if I still played.

My parents, how I loved them so, my father with chestnut hair and dark blue eyes, with tall, lean stature, spectacles resting on the bridge of his nose as he always kept a pocket watch in his vest breast pocket that my mother gave to him as their first-anniversary gift. He loved it so, just as much as he loved his family.

But then, a few years later, in 1862, when I was only eight years old, my father came down with a strange sickness, I begged for my father to get better, alongside my mother, who tried everything with the many doctors that came and went but it was all with little prevail. In the crisp season of October, with the leaves having still its many-coloured leaves in the trees that surrounded our home, my beloved father, who seemed to be able to overcome anything that stood in his path, died in the late eve of the night.

I remember how my mother cried openly over the loss of her husband, my brother refusing to cry, for he was now the man of the house, but even at a young age of fifteen, I could still see how his thin yet broad shoulders shook with grief as he held back his tears that demanded release.

I recall that all of the mirrors were covered in black silk, even in my bedroom. I could not understand its meaning at such an age and tried to pull the silk off, only to be stopped by large graceful hands. My eyes followed those hands to its owner of a man with dark hair that was the colour of ebony, which rested loosely around his broad shoulders. His eyes were a dark chocolate colour that seemed to fill a person with warmth by merely staring at them. Even while keeling down to be more at my level, I could tell that this man was very tall, a towering giant that could undoubtedly crush my fragile body as if it were nothing more than the glass China dolls that rested upon my tall dresser.