Gothic Roots

A reading from.

Personal Diary: 23rd of November 1816

It has never been the rising from the coffin, the cramped, wooden interior, nor even the ignominy of it all that rankles, but rather the shame. Shame tears at me every single evening as it has for uncharted years in this abandoned death.

A fellow denizen of the subtle space between dusk and death once claimed it our heritage that dooms us. “It is our Gothic Roots,” he grumbled through unsavoury slurps of some young virgin’s neck. I hated the term Gothic Roots for it sounded far grander than the actuality of it all. When he repeated said claim, wagging his finger in an incessant fashion, I angered. He did not do it again. He did not do anything again.

Now, I have but one vice if one discounts the hunt for blood that which maintains my existence, one reason for not tearing out my own heart and having done with it once and for all: The moon. The moon is my solace. The moon provides succour to a lost and lonely soul. I salivate at the thought of its milky-white perfection, its porcelain allure. I blame my celestial desire on my Gothic Roots. Damn! I promised I’d never say it, but there you go. It just slipped out, sprung from my lips like a fang to a jugular. Hey-ho!

After reading this you may be confused to my motives for writing it. Why place such a thing in my own diary when I know it all too well? You are reading it, are you not? You are sat in your luxurious chair fluctuating between pity and hate, wobbling between belief and despair. This is my wish for you to have one last crumb of comfort. So, I shall let you in on a little secret, one between just you and I. This is my only entry. I read it every night as I have for over two hundred years. I offer it to my victims so they might understand me better, understand their impending death. One might call it an elegant distraction.

You see, I’m also a hypocrite — all vampires are — I moan and groan, plead and confess, shimmy from exultation to regret, but it always boils down to this salient fact: I’m going to rip out your heart and drain every drop of blood. Now, if i could just have my book back, I’m feeling a tad peckish and I have a moon to observe…

Hold still.

Hold still.


7 thoughts on “Gothic Roots”

  1. Very Anne Rice of you, Richard. Thanks for reminding me of a WIP written in the middle of the night. A similar interior dialogue by the Prince of Incubi. Totally forgot about it.

      1. When I write in my sleep is the worst. Usually I file it in what I think of as a “dummy-proof” manner., In a way I know I will stumble across it.

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