Mirror, Mirror not on the wall

Who would have thought that being unable to see myself would be the thing I would hate most about being a vampire. That staring into the blank screen of my computer as my game loaded would give me crippling depression, that getting my hair cut without being able to see my hair get cut would be such an anxiety-inducing task, that staring into my girlfriends’ eyes as we made love and not being able to see my reflection in them would make our lovemaking so bland.

It was not always the case though. My obsession with my looks started in 1729. I was living in a small town called Leiden in the Dutch republic. I had already been converted for 76 years but never had the urge to look at myself. That is until I had met her.

 I remember the cold winter night like it was yesterday. The taste of the fresh warm blood I had just drained of a poor soul in the fields was still lingering in my mouth. The moon was out in its full silvery glory, I could feel the slight tingle as its light gently caressed my skin, cracking it up as it regenerated a second later. I was lying under a tree outside of a public bath house; the warmth radiating from inside felt great in the cool weather.

I smelt her before I saw her, the freshness around her as she left the bathhouse, so unlike any another woman I encountered, I clearly remember the changing emotions that went through her face, from slight surprise to fear to abhor till she finally screeched her throat out. I can still feel the soft punches of women —who ran out of the bath after hearing her screams—plummeting me into the ground, after that everything is a blur, I remember scrambling out from under them, running through the empty streets, my clothes torn off, I remember tasting my own blood for the first time, feeling pain for the first time.

That night sleep escaped me for the first time in years, I tossed around in my coffin the entire day, thinking what could have possibly gone wrong, I was dejected, never in my life had I been romantically rejected, I wanted to go out there and suck her dry, wring out all that beauty out of her face. How could she reject me? What was wrong with me? That’s when I realized I didn’t know. It had been years since I had seen my face, maybe I had changed.

Next night, I went into the town looking for an artist; I spotted one leaving his studio, a roll of canvas slung over his shoulder. I set him up in the cemetery basement which I had been using as my hideout spot, and sat myself opposite him, a flask full of blood by side, so I don’t suck him dry in a burst of hunger. He worked long and hard at it. When he finally presented the portrait to me, I couldn’t believe my eyes, I didn’t know what it was, was it the upcoming dawn which was dimming my senses or was it actually my looks, but in that basement under the flickering light of the lantern I had witnessed divinity. Face of an angel chiseled to perfection, eyes the shade of the sun during a solar eclipse(not that I had seen it in years), skin still young and full of life like I hadn’t aged a second in all these years. Now looking back, it made her absurd reaction even more questionable. How could she be abhorred by such beauty?

In the years that followed the portrait became my mirror, I carried it everywhere I went, taped inside every coffin I slept in, it was a reminder of my everlasting youth, a consolation for my rejections, it gave me strength, told me I was above it, that the fault was not mine it was them.

Years passed. It was 1911; I was in the city of Ulaanbaatar in Mongolia. Staying in a vampire colony disguised as a tribal settlement. It was a scorching summer morning; I was sleeping in a horse stable on a bed made of grass and mud instead of my usual place in the camp when a fire broke out. 137 vampires toasted in a matter of seconds. And with them went my coffin, my portrait still taped on the inside, turned to dust.

There was no way I was going to get it back. That artist must have been dead for years. I had to find an artist who could paint me a new one. But it wasn’t easy. The country was spread out far and wide with long stretches of empty land, travelling was very difficult.

Finally, after months, my search came to an end. I was passing by the town of Baruun-urt on my way to Korea when I stumbled upon a travelling artist. He was a landscape artist and refused to paint my portrait initially, but being tied in the back of my caravan for two days without food somehow changed his mind. He went at it for two entire weeks, working under the moonlight at night and sleeping tied up during the day. But, when he was finished, I was shocked.

The picture was nothing like me; it had a long bony neck, flat nose , dried out cheek bones and bulging eyes. I should have listened to the guy and waited longer than lay my eyes on such an abomination. Still, I carried it around, hoping that somewhere I could get it redone. Something was always better than nothing.

Years passed, it was 1992; I was traveling on a container ship from south Korea to Japan when it was hit by a typhoon, flooding over the little coffin in which I rested, and there went my 2^nd portrait, this one lasting much lesser than the first one.

But, the good thing was there was no shortage of artists in Japan. Every second person I met could draw. I was staying in the town of Osaka, and there was a really popular artist staying close by, his books selling millions of copies worldwide. One night as he was out on his balcony having a smoke, I picked him up. The more I talked to the guy the more guilty I felt for picking him up, he was the most polite person I had ever met, asking for my thoughts as he drew, asking me about my history, said he was working on a book about vampires, and asked me if I minded if he used me as a model for a character, of course I said I would love that.

If only his painting were as good as his manners. It was nowhere near what I had imagined, eyes occupying half of the face, irises as big as my nose, shining with stars, smile as wide as the burrows on my forehead, and face cut at inhuman angles.

That’s when I realized the pointlessness of my whole belief, about how subjective beauty is, but I also realized my helpless need for validation. That no matter what, I needed a closure on it, and that was never going to happen without a mirror . Until that happened I would somehow keep collecting this portraits as a means to curb this innate desire.