Tasting Death (ManxMan)

Chapter One

Lately I've become bored, seriously bored.

Nothing amuses me anymore, reading, partying, working, meditation, ripping throats out of drunk homeless people, yoga. Everything is just boring.

I try to put more effort into things, but it's just so hard. I have plenty of time, endless in fact, but nothing seems to captivate my attention anymore. I suppose after living for centuries, you just get tired of doing the same old thing. Wait for the sun to rise, go to work, go home, wait for the sun to set, go out, kill a few people, go back home and repeat it all over again. It's just so mundane.

I blame humans, they're so pointless. I guess when you know you're going to die someday, you can just live or become my feed.

They're also so lucky; they know they can die. I'm jealous. Who doesn't want to die? When you've lived for as long as I have, the idea of death is great. I love it. I fantasise ways I can die, it's what gets me off at three in the morning. But nothing matters anyway as I can't die. Literally.

I'm a vampire by the way. A full blooded, ancient, depressed vampire with the name of Wilfred. Wilfred Milton. The surname I gave to myself years ago when we suddenly needed them, I took from a man who kept my sheets warm and my lust sedated. But never mind, not important.

I tried killing myself multiple times, but I just came back to life, all healed like nothing ever happened. What's the point of trying to kill oneself then? Just for fun?

I went through a stage back in the mid-nineteenth century where I tried to end myself after getting into a dark slump and thinking my life had no purpose. It really doesn't. At the time, I think there was some war over drugs, but frankly, I don't remember. I was smoking said drug. It's all hazy, and I think I went on a murder spree and killed a bunch of people, but even that gave me no satisfaction. In the end, after exploring all the possible ways to die whilst high as a kite, I never did.

Sorry. I realise this is a depressing topic.

I've been trying to stay positive but it's hard, I guess I just don't care anymore. I suppose you're wondering where I'm going with this, but honestly, I don't even know myself. I'm just tolerating my own company in this dodgy run-down pub, drinking a glass of whiskey and drowning in my own depressing thoughts.

Oh, and I'm talking to you as well. I guess that counts for something.

"You gonna have another one?" Why bother asking me, I'm sitting alone at the bar, drinking whiskey at three o'clock in the afternoon on a Tuesday. Of course, I'll be having another one.

I look to my right, there's an older man sitting next to me with a spotted stained tall pint in front of him, the white frothy remains of beer coats the bottom of the glass, his green eyes watching me through a pair of thinly framed glasses. I take one look at him and I just know I'm going to kill him tonight. Why not have another drink with your victim? But he can pay.

"Yeah, go on then." I got nothing else to do. Might as well spend my endless amount of time with old drunk people in this crappy town. What joy.

He signals the bartender and orders two more drinks. I take a look around the empty pub. It was small and narrow, with the bar filled to the brim with bottles of wine and mixers on one side, and small round tables lined up against the wall on the other. It was a standard English pub, with brown accents, an old fashioned red carpet with stained beige swirls, and a display of local paintings on the green painted walls.

"I've seen you here a few times, you look pretty young to be here at this time of day." His voice carried a slightly irritating cockney twang. See this is another reason why I kill people, they just start talking to me and in the end, I give up caring about what they have to say. I kill them so I don't have to listen anymore.