01
May
10

The Modern Vampire


*** DISCLAIMER – THIS BLOG IS FICTION AND THE AUTHOR IS NOT LIABLE FOR THE ACTION OF ANYONE WHO PERSISTS IN THINKING IT IS NOT FICTION ***

I suppose I should introduce myself.  I am Marguerite Morris and I am a vampire.

I am writing this column because I am sick of hearing about vampires wracked with guilt over the lives they have taken and the blood they have drunk.

We’re vampires.  We drink blood and take lives.  Get over it and if you can’t I can introduce you to a stake.  Wooden, if you want to be traditional.

I am chronologically 32 years old.  It’s a nice age, with a hint of old enough to know better but young enough not to care.

My real age is 500 years old.  It’s always been 500 years old and anyone who’s known me longer knows not to ask.

I live in a Victorian semi, which unfortunately has no cellar, so the coffin is up in the attic, with the skylight blocked out.

It’s so easy to hide these days, with the lack of communities. I’ve lived in Portsmouth for more than thirty years and my neighbours don’t even know my name.

I enjoy living here because so many people don’t like garlic.  In England you can ask for garlic to be taken out of your meal and not arouse suspicion.

This is one of the reasons for a large vampire community in England and another reason is the illegal immigrants.

When one of them disappears their friends and relatives can’t go to the police and as long as no-one is careless when disposing of a body everything is fine.

It’s a nice life living here.  We vampires are, by and large, not supposed to exist and as long as we don’t exist everyone gets on fine.  Just as I like it.

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