I'm a vampire, but not the faggy, goes-out-in-sun kind that you are. Nor was my trancention as romantic and . . . clean . . . as yours.
I was turned much by accident, thanks to the failure of another vampire. It was an ordinary, lower class vampire, recently turned if I had to guess. He had the ill luck of targeting me on one the days that I was carrying a weapon. At his strength and experience he should have been feeding on the elderly, weaker members of society, but I suppose the power had gotten to him, and he wanted something fresher.
I was 19 at the time, walking home from a night at the pub, in October of 1958. I wasn't very social at that age, and had just come back from drinking alone so I wasn't really in the highest of spirits. Craving attention of any kind, I was easy prey. He was standing at the edge of an alley, and caught my attention by way of a simple request; asking if I had a light. He looked like any other 20 year-old punk of the day, making him my peer, and a candidate for a possible friendship. I lit a match and held my arm out to light the cigarette between his teeth. I noticed the fangs but didn't say anything about it. People of that day were polite like that.
He held out his hand by way of introduction, "I'm ted." I reached for his hand but before my name escaped my lips he grabbed me and threw me further into the alley. His strength was incredible. I flew 20 or 30 feet before landing and rolling to a stop. He closed the distance before I could scramble to my feet, and lifted me off the ground with one arm. He slammed me into the wall and hissed menacingly. Seizing the opportunity I delivered a swift kick to his jaw, stunning him as he recoiled and growled. I pulled a switchblade from my pocket and drove it into his chest, forcing it deep into his ribcage and slashing bladewise as I ripped it back out. Blood flowed and sprayed from the wound, and he fell back against the wall.
Not wanting any more trouble, I turned and broke for the street. I hadn't gotten ten feet when a cold hand wrapped around my neck and dragged me back. I tried to wheel around for another attack but he knocked the blade from my hand. It fell to the ground as he drove his fangs into my neck. I quickly became delirious as the blood drained from my head. I knew I would die, right then, but I didn't care. I was seized by a sudden surge of spite, making me determined to take him with me. I launched my hand up and into his eyes, forcing them deep into his eye sockets, pushing as hard as I could. As the jelly squished around my fingers his bite weakened and I tore myself out of it, ripping chunks of my own flesh out as he reeled back in pain, covering his face with his hands and screaming, parts of my neck still lodged between his fangs. I wouldn't let it end there though. I was loosing blood fast, and had only moments remaining before i lost consciousness. I snatched up my knife and hacked away at my crumpled adversary. I ripped out every organ I knew of, stabbed him through the temples, and sawed through his neck. I was running on a rage and a bloodlust the likes of which I'd never felt before. When his body was finally finished, reduced to a bleeding pile of gore, I collapsed into it, welcoming rest and the overwhelming smell of fresh blood.
I awoke 4 hours later, delirious and nauseated, but alive. I felt stronger. I stumbled home uninterrupted under the cover of darkness, and with a higher sense of my surroundings.
My wounds from that night were healed by the time the sun rose, but the lust for blood and violence, the rage, has never left me.
