A Note From A Dead Man's Hands.

Chapter 2

I don’t know how to start this. I see people on films using their note to apologise to their loved ones, explain why they’re taking their own life and tell their parents that they love them, maybe even say it’s not their fault. But, in my case, that’s not true. I don’t love my parents and it is their fault. But this isn’t a film, this is reality, and in the films they only have a single sheet of paper. I have a book.

It was my parents fault. All of it. Not that they’d care if they saw this. Because I was born of two clans I am different. My right eye is red, from my Mother’s side the Libitina Clan, my left eye is violet, from my Father’s side the Arbitianon Clan. When I was born I was a disgrace. They didn’t want me, so they threw me to the street. The lucky orphans die. I, unfortunately, managed to get by drinking the blood of anything I could catch. Rats, cats, dogs, and owls mostly. One time there was a that rogue werewolf that thought I’d make a good chew toy. I drank from him for ten seconds, then left him to bleed to death in the alley, his blood mixing with the rain, just because I could. I should have let him kill me.

What’s that face for? That grimace? I’m a vampire what do you expect? I don’t live on magical fairy dust. Trust me, I’ve tried that, it tastes awful. What? Did I not tell you I was a vampire? Well I am. I’ve had to deal with it and now so do you. Either way in my world there are no foster families and no orphanages. You either live or you die. I’d hope for the latter.

You’ve not been subtle enough have you? If that thing in the corner of your eye, your Watcher, is gone it means they’ve seen what you’re reading and they’ve gone to tell your Decider. Game Over for you. Now you may be thinking that you’re clever. Maybe you’ve got your back to a corner so they can’t read over your shoulder? Ha. Wrong. They’re in the walls. They’re everywhere. If you get a telepath they’re in your head all the time and you never stood a chance. Unlucky for you. But back to my childhood.

To sum it up it was terrible. I killed. I starved. I hid. I fought. I stole. I was alone. I knew what I had to do, thanks to the tattoo on my wrist, but I refused. The way I saw it was that you Human’s never did anything for me so why should I help one of you? You have to admit. My logic is sound.

Then, sometime after my eighteenth year, I met Ellen. Now, unfortunately, my kind remember everything from the moment they’re born to the moment they die. So, unfortunately, I remember Ellen. I was wandering the Earth plane when I first saw her. Her blonde hair bouncing around her knees. Her pink eyes dominating her face. Her pale skin reflecting the sun in a way that made her appear flawless. That black and purple choker that she always wore, with the little jewel that would change with her mood. Everything. I remember her. I was in love from the first moment I saw her.

Since I had no Human to protect I decided to initiate myself upon her. At first I followed her but she was too good for that. Within a mile she had led me into an alley where she spun on her heels, sprung up in the air, somersaulted over me and landed with the grace and ease of a cat. When I turned to face her I found her grinning at me with a gun pointed straight at my head. That beautifully crafted ebony gun. I still have it here with me. It’s hand grip gleaming in the light with its little white rose carved into the wood. The gun’s name was Lillian. It was her pride. Her joy. I could see why. She had demanded an explanation for my stalking and I couldn’t give one. She laughed at my stupidity and told me to walk with her. I did as she said, hopelessly in love.

She told me her name and guessed straight away I wasn’t Human. She wasn’t either. She was a vampire from my Mothers’ Clan. When I had asked about her eye colour, pink being a strange colour for a vampire, she mentioned something about a mutation and changed subject. I didn’t press the subject but I liked her even more. She was different. Unique. At some point in our walked she turned and held out her hand, explaining that it was time for us to depart. She was a Decider. I noticed the tattoo when reaching for her hand. That meant she was dangerous. I almost didn’t notice the number thirteen tattooed onto my companions wrist, below the Hourglass, in Roman Numerals. Almost. But I reached for her hand and pulled it towards me to get a closer look, enquiring about what it is and why it was there. Ellen didn’t take kindly to this question and ripped her hand away from me, covering it with her sleeve. I didn’t ask anymore. I never did find out about that tattoo…