Sterling

Chapter 5

Luther Sterling's journal

Unknown date

Dear reader, I am not sure how you have come across my journal, but if you care to know my story, look no further than the following pages. For a while I tinkered with the idea of putting my personal information into writing, but I realized that if I do not, then the history that I am a part of will die with me.

This is page 1 of my book, the beginning. So I will start from the beginning by providing a few basic details about myself.

I was born Luther Adam Sterling to Adam and Selene Sterling in 1753 Scotland. I was raised in the countryside and I believe that the first forty or so years of my life were the happiest I have ever had. My parents owned a farm and traded crops for money. There were a few fruitless seasons, but for the most part, we lived comfortably. I worked during the day and attended school at night. My life was busy, but so wholesome. I enjoyed every bit of it, even the work (farm labor is much easier when two of the three people in your household are not human). I was raised as a Christian and attended Sunday school with my friends until I was old enough for the regular service. At this point, there was nothing unordinary about my life.

At the time, being a "supernatural" race such as myself was considerably less taboo. My mother herself was a vampire, so when I was born I was not a surprise to my parents. Most of my human friends knew of my nature, and I rarely felt threatened or unsafe in public. I cannot speak for the rest of the world, but in my town there was no tolerance for any discrimination. Most people knew that the Sterlings were vampires. None of my grandparents had an issue with my parents' marriage. It was just the way things were. I was in love with life.

Assuming you are a human reading this, allow me to pause to explain a bit about the difference between humans and vampires. Contrary to popular belief, we do indeed age. The aging process simply occurs at a much slower rate than that of a human. So by the time I was 20 years old, I was still considered grade school age, and did not appear to be a "teenager" until I was about 35. There is no specific age that marks a transition to adulthood, since the aging process is a bit different for each person. I considered myself an adult when I turned 65. If your eyebrow is raised at this point, I should mention that years do pass much more quickly when each one accounts for such a small percentage of your life.

The joy lasted a good while, but began declining as I became more and more familiar with grief and loss. Many of my school friends had passed on. My father died when he was about 50 in human years. I loved my mother, but I wish that she had explained to me the difference between the life spans of my father and I. I did not understand why he had to pass when she and I had so much time ahead of us. When she finally spoke with me about it, I became guilt-stricken. I stayed that way for a while. That feeling has never truly left me.

My happiness came to a halt in 1823 when my mother was murdered in town on her way to Sunday service. I had stayed home that day, having been horribly ill with what I now assume were seasonal allergies (which are especially rough when your house is surrounded by nature). I found out what had happened when Owen, the silversmith, came pounding on my door telling me I had to flee town. Being a shapeshifter himself (side note: think your modern "werewolf", but Owen in particular was part bear), he knew that we were both in danger, so we left together that night. I do not know what became of the house and farm I had grown up in so happily.

I will not document the rest of my life in great detail, as that is not important. I stayed with Owen for a few decades and he became like a father to me. I loved him and admired him greatly. We moved often, and I lived in a new country every 10 years. I moved to the United States as the Civil War was ending (side note: I was in the theater when President Lincoln was shot. That was the first and last play I ever attended.). Owen went missing while we were on the run in England. I simply turned around and he was gone. I never saw him again, and I know deep down that he was killed.