Please, kill me.

I believe that I have never been really young. I was too bent on the books to enjoy my life and my youth. My exuberance was limited to the joys of culture, when I discovered a particularly interesting text or when I was chosen to speak in public about my favorite subjects, anthropology and philosophy. My greatest transgression was the passion for the esoteric texts that I cultivated in secret from the other students, not because I feared their judgment, but because I wanted it to remain a reserved pleasure. And so, even in my free time, I was studying. This made me a real nerd and I never suspected that inside me lurked a fearless warrior.

I met Carmilla outside the public library in Berkeley on an autumn evening, the sun had set, it was raining and I had no umbrella. I could run up to the campus, I did not care about wet clothes, but I was afraid that the water would filter through into my shoulder bag, moistening my precious notes and handouts which I had been studying all day. I sheltered under a canopy waiting for the rain to ease off, the space was tight I was desperately attempting to keep safe and dry. I barely saw that threadlike figure walking towards me, but I had the impression that she had identified me from afar. As she approached, my body grew heavier and I leaned with all my weight on the wall behind me.

The hair on my arms straightened under my shirt and my heart began to throb faster. The reason was simple: she was beautiful and her dark eyes were fixed on me. She wore a hat that hid her head, but her straight hair fell softly to her mid back. She was almost as tall as me, her face was thin, with two sculpted cheekbones enlivened by a bright pink blush in contrast with her pale skin. It was the first time ever that a woman so attractive approached me. I had heard the stories of the amorous experiences of my friends and I recognized the symptoms of excitement in me that only such a woman has the power to provoke. I appealed to my gray cells not to abandon me to irrational impulses but I already felt lucidity slip away from me like water flowing on my clothes. When she spoke, I was already lost.

"Hello! I see you're in trouble. Do you want a ride? "

She smiled, pointing to the umbrella over her head, big enough to fit another person. I was used to speaking in front of crowds of students and professors with critical attitude, ready to challenge any linguistic imprecision, but I was not ready for her smile. The words stuck in my throat, I stammered for the first time in my life.

"I d-don't wanna d-disturb you, thank you."

She spread her smile, it's fascinating effect sinking deeper into me and took my by the arm.

"No trouble. If you want, I can walk you to the campus."

It was a rhetorical question, more like a statement. For two seconds I asked myself how she knew that I lived at the campus, and then I remembered that I wore sweatpants with the name of the university. I took position at her side without hesitation; it wasn't possible to refuse any kind of proposal from a voice like that. It was not only melodious, it was an angelic choir, unlike any other sound I'd ever heard and its power instantly shredded my will.

She held out a slender hand, wrapped in a stylish macramé glove, which reminded me of ancient times.

"My name is Carmilla Cross, you are ...?"

I smoothed my right hand on my chest in an attempt to dry it and gently squeezed hers. The contact brought a long shudder that coursed through my spine like a stream of iced water. I was angry with myself for not being able to control emotions. Where was my resolve? Come on, a little bit of dignity. I inflated my chest to summon the requisite unflustered tone.

"Christopher Evans."

"Very pleased. What are you studying?"

When somebody asked this question to me, I usually began a monologue recounting in detail my course of studies, more often than not punctuated by the yawns of my interlocutor. On that occasion I simply answered: