The Empty Mirror
Chapter 2: Bread, cheese and wine
After a diffuse and disturbing period, which I can barely quantify, a disturbing disturbance manifests itself. A subtle whisper, a fleeting echo, seeps into the abyss of silence. A female voice, barely audible, emerges from the folds of darkness, intoning unintelligible words. Suddenly, the voice transforms into a cry, a lamentation that wavers between melancholy and haunting charm.
My instincts sharpen and I rise hastily, thirsty to discover the source of this singular sobbing. It seems to emanate from afar, shrouded in a haze of unfathomable mystery. The veil that hitherto obscured my vision seems to vanish, though before my eyes catch the slightest glimpse, I am confronted with the cruel reality of my empty sockets. Eyes, once witnesses to the world, have been snatched away by the voracity of eternal night. My fingers, in a state of bewilderment, explore my face, only to find a viscous, metallic liquid evaporating rapidly. Blood, silent witness to my desolation. The abyss where my eyes used to dwell lies. Anguish takes hold of me.
Although my vampiric regeneration is supposed to be more impetuous and efficient, it is unable to restore what has been lost. An unbearable pain, piercing and constant, spreads through my surrounding muscles and bones. I feel the crushing pressure in the place that once housed my eyes. Disorientation and vulnerability take over, dragging me into the abyss of despair.
Suddenly, the same voice that has accompanied me is present once more, whispering clearly in a low tone: "You have been saved". Its pronunciation seems to change subtly. Saved? Me? A whirlwind of questions assails my mind, but before I can articulate an answer, the creak of an ancient wooden door slowly opening breaks the silence. A dazzling light slips through the shadows, defying my lack of eyes...
Finally, I have awoken from my long, deep sleep. Oppressive darkness envelops the room as my mind struggles to adapt to the reality around me…
I awoke from a deep slumber, emerging from the hooves of a sleep that seemed to have imprisoned me for centuries. And let me be clear at the outset: when I say that upon opening my eyes, my spirit emerged from lethargy with the delicacy of those who have savoured a prolonged and opulent repose, I am not expressing a fraudulent rhetorical meaning. The darkness that enveloped me had been as real as the beating of my own heart, but now I was faced with the disturbing doubt as to whether I was still a living entity.
As my mind clung to reality, the nagging pain that had accompanied me from the slumber became even more entrenched in my consciousness. It was a pain so tangible, so visceral, that it was impossible to deny its existence. The echoes of those dark torments resonated in every fibre of my being, reminding me that my existence was a twisted tangle of mysteries and horrors.
I must admit, without hesitation, that I am a vampire. My condition, with all its sinister and supernatural implications, is undeniably real. I am a creature of the night, a being condemned to eternity and nourished by the existence of the living. But my memory, that fragile thread that connects my present to a distant past, fades into the deepest shadows. Memories of my life before I was cast into this castle of doom fade like morning mists, leaving me in the gloom of uncertainty.
It is said that this castle was once the home of an old aristocrat, a man who abandoned his domain in the face of the relentless changes of time and the evolution of society. The vagaries of progress left him behind, a faded echo in the dusty corridors of history. But what happened to the man, whether he met his final fate or simply faded into the shadows, is a mystery that remains unanswered. The castle now lies silent, its grey, crumbling walls concealing secrets that only the whispering of the night wind can glimpse.
It is amazing how time and isolation have woven their web around this place. The inhabitants of the nearby villages, shrouded in the veil of collective amnesia, have completely forgotten the existence of this sinister bastion. The castle is far from any vestige of civilisation, lost in a forgotten wasteland. Its modest size and remote location suggest that it may have been conceived for a darker and more sinister purpose, destined to disappear from the memory of those who dared to know it.
I, a prisoner in this cursed castle, find myself trapped in a sinister dance of intertwined destinies. Over endless centuries, I have succumbed to the insatiable need to spill human blood for nourishment. My existence has been haunted by those who have sought to end my life, but in their desperate quest they have only sealed their fate and left their loved ones abandoned to their fate. I cannot blame them, their fight was about protecting their own and gaining a victory that, in the end, seemed to be only a pipe dream.
Even I do not know the way to my own annihilation. I have tried every method imaginable, or at least almost every method. The vampiric power that consumes me is immutable and seems indestructible. However, there are vulnerabilities that can inflict harm or weaken me, such as contact with silver or other variables in particular. I have even experimented with abstinence, forgoing the ingestion of blood in the hope of succumbing to starvation, but I have only managed to weaken myself slightly, without achieving the desired end result.
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It is not that I need to feed, but that my nature is subject to an indomitable compulsion unknown to me.
Though I have exhausted all possibilities to end my existence, the vampiric dominance remains inexorable and dominant. I find no satisfaction in animal blood, for it lacks what it demands and its taste resembles dung on my palate. For a long time, I have indulged in the vileness of cutting down human lives and satiating my hunger with their blood and flesh. I do not care for the life of any other creature, not even that of animals. I admit without pride that I have even annihilated entire herds in my insatiable voracity.
My actions have been the direct and indirect cause of the death of thousands, for by depriving them of supplies and means of subsistence, I have condemned them to an agonising death by starvation. Fruits, vegetables and other foods are tasteless to me, tasting only of decay, and I can only satisfy my appetite with human beings. Human blood has become an exquisite delicacy, and for eons I have wandered through different nations, killing and devouring people, and regardless of whether they were alive or dead I ate them without disdain. While I can feed on corpses, they must be incredibly fresh, and yet their taste is nowhere near that of a living human.
On countless occasions, I have consumed them while they were still alive and conscious, tearing them apart with my limbs and abusing my superiority in abominable ways. There is no cause for pride in this. My tally of victims is in the thousands, including soldiers who tried to hunt me down, but to no avail, falling to their own doom.
During a life filled with the suffering of others, there came a false self-reproach, that moment when an insignificant event triggered a radical metamorphosis. It is amazing how something so small can completely alter our existence and force us to reflect on our past actions. But in reality, the event was not as insignificant as it appeared. The final impact needed to shatter an already tarnished glass, to unleash a maelstrom of madness and desolation disguised as a tiny execution with the command to unleash the whole.
But before reaching that point, a series of events took place, the magnitude and details of which do not matter. Each of them carries a different weight on our shoulders. For me, however, that notion has faded. It has lost its primordial essence.
Now, I am immersed in a perpetual state of rambling, where words flow aimlessly, swept along by the whirlwind of my mind. Sanity has left its abode and I have become a spectre without common sense. I wonder to what extent it is required to be mentally unbalanced and whether common sense is truly beneficial.
In this castle, my eternal prison, I occasionally engage in conversation with its owner, a proud and reserved man who exudes an overwhelming presence without needing to be physically imposing or possess a stern voice. Such are the aristocrats, a social class that masters the dark secrets of its circles, even if they are kept hidden among its members. The lord of the castle has two small children who wander and play in its vast corridors, its rooms and, of course, its garden. It is almost inevitable to come across them if one ventures into the grounds. These little ones are being trained by their older brother, a man approaching adulthood. In the castle, they call him the big brother. He teaches them the duties and responsibilities of belonging to the high aristocracy.
I do not know what these duties are, as I have never been part of the aristocracy nor have I ever been associated with it. Nor have I witnessed the obligations to which they are subjected. I watch them from afar, a mere lonely spectator on the fringes of their world, as the veil of darkness slowly spreads over my being.
Despite the constant reprimands, there is undeniably an implicit courage in their words. Like the child of an implacable father, he is caught up in the need to keep his distance and comply exhaustively with the expectations of his parent, his family and, of course, society at large. His self-reinforcing demands are evident.
I have also heard whispers of an engagement. His betrothed, of awe-inspiring beauty and noble lineage, stands like a trophy in his gaze. He appears to agree, but who can tell what lurks in the abysses of another's mind.
As for the mother, I hardly know that she wanders from place to place unmoved by the welfare of her own lineage. This is one of the elderly aristocrat's chief complaints when our talks turn dark, which, from my perspective, is a macabre irony, for I doubt he does not emulate such behaviour, fluctuating from one corner to another and neglecting his own. But it is not for me, a mere spectator, to point out such paradoxes.
The long-lived man always whispers that his consort is a real liability, a stigma that sullies his reputation and causes him innumerable problems. He has not revealed in detail what kind of trouble, and I, respectful of his mystery, have not insisted on knowing the details. He maintains his reserve, or at least the façade he projects to society demands it.
Nevertheless, in his moments of confidence, he declares his love for his wife. However, these words are just that, mere words, and the sincerity of such statements vanishes in the haze of uncertainty. He is always proud of his offspring, seeing in him a promise of future glories. I am pleased to hear it, for his son is a tormented being in desperate search of paternal approval.
But that happiness does not often show in his features, as his father claims that he does not offer such comments in order to boost his current efforts, but with the intention of demanding even more from him. Moreover, he proclaims that his other offspring will be as magnificent as he is, although in reality he is completely unaware of how to relate or interact with them at all, as he believes he is past the stage of chasing after infants who wander endlessly from place to place.
He conveyed to me the impression that perhaps his wife experiences similar feelings to his own in relation to his younger children. The dynamic between his eldest son and his wife seems to be somewhat convoluted, at least that is what is apparent at first glance.
It is surprising that this old man reserves his trust exclusively for me, being the only one with whom he allows himself to have a genuine dialogue. I regret, however, that I do not know his name, which adds a tinge of misrepresentation to our coexistence.
My curiosity to unravel the mysteries of this family is growing exponentially, as they seem to be as detached from my own reality as they are from each other. However, I must confess that I am limited in my ability to acquire more information about them.
It is important to stress that this perception I have could be merely the fruit of one of my recurrent hallucinations, as has happened on previous occasions. Nevertheless, I consider it plausible that in the near future new experiences will unfold and await to be unveiled.