A Dead Heart Still Aches

I turn the corner, missing my reflection in the glass of the retail store but still staring, as if I can convince my pale skin to paint a shadow in the window; but even my reflection fears the person I’ve morphed into. Yet, I yearn to see a familiar face, even if it’s just my own.

I’m not sure how the lines on my skin have set in, I don’t know if my new hair colour matches my lifeless complexion, I don’t know if my lips hold their pigmentation as they did when I was a teen; my identity has gotten lost in translation. I have not made eye-contact with the woman I’ve grown into since I was cursed. Some may consider me lucky, never aging, living comfortably knowing I’ll remain beautiful; but they would soon find beauty seems to easily fade into isolation.  

My feet have left footprints on the dirt of this earth for almost 300 years yet, I am a mystery, even to myself. Authors have spent a lifetime describing me in their horror novels, and in-between the dusty pages of their fiction is where I find my harsh reality. Their characterization, although gruesome, disappoints me in the fact that, they’re never wrong. Fantasy lovers would argue on my behalf, believing the artist to have written me to be evil but it seems I’d be the one holding the pen. I am my own worst enemy. My kind has written our own narration, humans are not to blame for the blood that has turned my hands crimson. My ancestors stained the palms of my hands for me. Before I was born, God knew the true colour my hands would inevitably turn. Even if I have not killed, I still feel the weight of the lives taken before me, and for this I wear mittens to hide the truths that run along the short lifeline on the inside of my hand.  

Yes, vampires' hands were stained before me and will remain stained for the generations that follow me, that is our curse. The pain of knowing that murder lays in my foundation will always pain me more than the sting of fangs in my gums; it is arguably more agonizing than out living my loved ones. However, that might be an unpopular opinion, maybe one only I am burdened with. Regardless of the sickening descriptions of my kind, I am grateful for these authors theories on my species.

It is the only way I’ve come to know myself. 

 When I was first turned, I was left alone, abandoned and forced to relearn life in the edges of darkness, companionless. So, I’d sneak into the library late at night, desperate to live life, but unable to do so. I started to live vicariously through literature. I was able to fall in love, take trips to foreign countries, become a mother and understand the depths of human emotion all because I read. I lived in ways I couldn't as a vampire at that time, or ever in some cases.

So, I do not hate the authors who have damned my reputation, because those same authors also gifted me a life that was stolen from me. I owe them, if anything.  

I realize suddenly that I have been mindlessly staring at my absent reflection for some time now, and I must appear quite odd to the strangers that pass me by. I begin to walk down the path in front of me. It is a busy night in New York, I mean, New York is quite busy regularly but especially during Christmas week. I lower my head, avoiding eye contact with those who walk alongside me. I am afraid if they catch a glimpse of my eyes, they might end up seeing what I’ve so carefully hidden beneath the brown of my irises. Suddenly, all at once I am vaguely aware of the hollowness in my chest, it seems that would be the only company I have this holiday season. That, and the jealousy I seem to cloak myself in.  

How odd, for an immortal creature to envy the mortal, to crave a life that was almost mine. After all this time carrying around a still heart in my chest, I am always surprised at just how much it’s still able to ache.  

I turn a corner, heading towards my apartment, my feet quickening in competition with how fast the temperature around me seems to be decreasing. I shove my hands into my pockets and push through the crowd. I am almost to my apartment complex, I can see it out of the corner of my eye when abruptly I run into someone, solid enough to knock me backwards onto the ice sidewalk. But she is also warm, smelling of vanilla and cigarette smoke. I look up, still dazed, seeing two of the person whose extended her arm towards me, reaching for my calloused hands to pull me up. 

“Oh my gosh I’m so sorry!” her hands, soft and angelic against the roughness of my fingertips, grip mine with ease. I’ve always feared I might hurt anyone whose skin is unluckily enough to brush against mine, but she holds them as if it’s the easiest thing she’s ever had to do. My cheeks warm, and I’m not sure if she can notice the blush on my dead skin or if that's another luxury, I don’t have the privilege of.   

I am on my feet now, inches away from her face because of the quick manor I was pulled up in. Her eyes are the deepest shade of blue, not similar to the ocean in the slightest, more so the embodiment of the sky on a bright spring day. She has a speck, in between her iris and pupil, a dot of green, the colour of nature. An insignificant feature to anyone else, but to me it’s enough to make a gasp slip my lips.  

I know those eyes. 

 These pair may have not seen me before, but I have seen them. I have loved them, studied them and memorized them. A lifetime ago, they were my wife's. If it’s possible at all, I swear I feel my heart skip a beat. 

“I truly didn’t see you there, love. I’ve got gift shopping on my mind. Are you alright?” Her voice is thick with a country accent, even now her voice finds me, across the nation. I can smell the coffee on her breath, and I take a step back regaining my composure.

Nevertheless, I can’t help but stare, admiring the face that bears a striking resemblance to the only women I’ve ever truly loved, but more importantly, connected with – over the course of my haunting of the earth. I should’ve known they were related from the kindness in the palm of her hands when she pulled me up.

“Yes, I am quite well now.” The words come out slowly and I’m worried they don’t make much sense. The woman furrows her brows, but her lips curl into smirk.  

It is like staring at a ghost. Her auburn hair falls just to the crepe of her neck, and I watch her tuck it behind her ear. The freckles that scatter her face are almost identical to the constellations on my late wife’s face, the same ones I traced as she slept; the only time I wasn’t afraid of the destruction in the veins of my hands is when they caressed my loves face. She loved me so well I almost believed myself to be good; to be worthy of something more than a life as a nightwalker.  In her presence, I was healed. 

“Do I remind you of someone-” she starts, confused.

I cut her off mid-sentence. I know my next words will stun her, but they are pooling at the edge of my mouth, begging to roll off my tongue. Who am I to deny them? 

“You have your grandmothers' eyes. You are blessed, to resemble her so much.” The thought comes out rushed, but I know she heard what I said because her mouth falls open ever so slightly. I know her grandmother is dead, I held her hand as she took her last breath in our cabin in Georgia, but her granddaughter doesn’t know who I am. Her grandmother and I lived a very quiet, independent life. There’s not much room for a vampire and her mortal wife in the family tree. 

Instead of spewing the questions I can see her brain mustering up, she takes a breath, erasing her surprise, “Thank you.” 

This interaction has gone on for longer than I’m comfortable with, it’s never easy coming face to face with your past. I guess it’s true what Steve Nicks sung in Silver Springs: you’ll never get away from the sound of the woman who loves you. I turn on my heels and start to walk away in embarrassment. 

 I hear a small voice speak out over my shoulder. I don’t turn around when the sentence leaves her pink lips, I don’t even look back. I know better. But I know her words will rattle around in my brain until the day someone drives a stake through my heart.  

“You must have really loved her, to look at me that way.”