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“The setting sun always marks the close of mankind’s day: parents tenderly putting their children to bed, ensuring their little heads find solace on soft pillows; people hurrying home from work amid the bustling evening traffic. The mundane world shuts its weary eyes, mirroring the fading ball of flame as it gracefully dances out of existence, soon replaced by a better one.
“Finally, they could lay their heads down, savoring a moment when their ordinary lives temporarily cease to exist—drifting away even for those few hours in which they are dead to the world.
“However, we are always dead to the world. While their lives pause within that brief window, our realm stirs with some semblance of life. Vampires, Darklings, Werewolves, Witches, and terrors beyond imagination—we prepare to commence our enigmatic dance, donning our masks of life, despite many of us being quite literally… dead.
“We thrive in darkness, tormented by the sun’s detestable rays that deny us true coexistence (although some attempt and tragically fail). Nevertheless, we scurry about our supernatural lives while the mortal realm slumbers. And those who dare to play with monsters soon learn the rules of our world: finding their truest fears come to fruition whenever that floating piss-stain vanishes beyond the horizon.
“We aren’t entirely different from you—not completely. We, too, endure tediously mundane jobs, attempt and stumble in relationships, pay homage to our kings and queens, or defy them by hurling flaming bottles through their windows, and fighting wars in the streets and even across oceans. We share similarities, you and I, and I always yearn to bridge the gap between mortal and monster—to understand you, to be one with you, even as my world burns.
“I extend my clawed talon to grasp at any frail human hand that dares reach out to mine, though they often meet gruesome ends, whether by my doing or... others. Still, I try and continue to try.
“But this story isn’t about the present. As you have expressed your curiosity, it delves into the past, when I became what I am. When I was taken... when I leaped away from the brilliant, blazing rays of light and allowed darkness to embrace me like a newborn babe.
“When he found me.
“So, shall we commence? Or shall we linger here, gazing at each other from opposite ends of this fireplace, rain pouring outside as I swirl my favorite… apple juice… in my chalice while you savor your wine?
The gentleman across the way gestures for Jack to continue.
“That’s what I thought. Growls can wait. It’s story time now.
“I believe the best way to embark is always at the beginning. If I approach you from the middle, you won’t grasp the chaotic whirlwind that has been my undead
existence or how I arrived at this mystical place where I now rest my crown. We shall commence from my conception— the day I was born into darkness.
“The year was 2012. Surprised? I’m not some ancient unholy creature sent by a dark goddess to conquer the world. At that time, I was merely a young man, striving to find my path in a world that had failed me as much as I had failed it. I was human, like many others, yet I never felt like I belonged with them. Always the outcast or the pariah in a society that deemed my talents pointless and foolish. So, I buried them deep within, diverting my focus from my aspirations to fulfill the one thing that mattered to me more than my art: taking care of my dear little sister, Chloe.”
“Wake up, Jamey, it’s time for another day,” my sister’s melodious voice sang, rousing me from my deep sleep. Her choppy black hair concealed smiling green eyes as piercing rays burst through the bedroom window.
Items I had spent my life collecting sparkled in the mid-morning gleam, like treasures from a sunken pirate wreck. There were my dice, used in the games I played with my few friends, their ten to twenty-sided faces ready for the thrilling combat rounds we enjoyed during our long evening hours. There was the loose cash and coins earned from my job at a local restaurant, where my acting aspirations made me a true cliche. And then there was the silver pendant—a gift from my late mother—adorned with twin dragons embracing a garnet heart, offering eternal comfort and love.
“Songbird... are we seriously doing this?” I groaned, too familiar with my sister’s habit of pulling me from my sheets like a cartoon princess coaxing small animals to join her crusade of disrupting my peaceful rest.
Her slender fingers danced their way to my forehead, and with one cruel motion, she abruptly ended all of my comfort, as if she were suddenly an evil villain instead…
Flick.
“CHLOE!” I snapped, not realizing my loss of composure would cause damage. “Fuck.” I cursed under my breath, regretting my outburst at once.
Those tears of my little Songbird were an instant downer. She could have held an entire building hostage, destroyed my beloved journal, or smashed my guitar against the wall, and her tears would still win any battle they faced. She was like a miniature nuclear weapon, unstoppable by any regime.
Taking a deep breath, I closed my eyes and prepared myself to apologize. “Chloe,” I started, “thank you for waking me. I should probably start the day—”
I began to free myself from the prison of fabric, stretching both arms toward her. She allowed me to pull her into a firm embrace, burying her face in my chest, and muffling her short cries so that only I could hear them.
My poor Songbird, my vulnerable sister. She acted more like a child than an adult, easily upset by the smallest of things.
She had experienced so much pain, and it was my duty to shield her from as much as I could. Most of the time, she remained strong in the face of adversity, but with me, she broke down the hardest. Leaning forward, I pressed my forehead against hers before releasing her just enough to see the damage I had caused.
Her disheveled hair and red, puffy eyes revealed the aftermath of her tears, and her sniffles persisted. It pained me to see her like this, especially knowing I
was the reason for it.
“James—” she started.
“Chloe, I’m sorry. I’ll get out of bed—” I interrupted, beginning to lift myself from the mattress.
“James!” she repeated, her tone firmer than usual.
“What?” I stopped short.
The small girl raised her hand and pointed at the clock. “Your shift started three hours ago. You overslept!”
My heart leaped from my chest as I jolted out of bed.
“Shit—shit—shit—horse ass—” I vomited a string of curses while rushing to gather my things, my honey-colored gaze falling across the phone I coveted. One in the afternoon. “Shit!”
I never took day shifts. It was a code—an oath I proclaimed to myself when I became a server. Evening hours were when most tips were dished, when the more interesting and affluent patrons frequented, and the whole restaurant was much less... dead.
However, I had recently agreed to an extra shift out of desperation. Money was tight; my father had lost his job and was on disability, my brother was a selfish drug dealer, and my sister... her skills lie elsewhere. No excuses— I was on thin ice and risked so much when I agreed to take that shift. Obviously, I wasn’t the best at time management, but I tried. Thank God for Chloe.
Uniform? Check.
Wallet? Check.
Phone? Check.
No time to shower. No time to wave at my father. Just out, out, OUT!
I ran to the door, my feet skittering on the tiled floor as my work shoes struggled to find traction. I almost careened into the hallway wall from panic.
Just as I was about to clear the opening and leap from the porch steps, a hand grabbed my wrist.
“James!” Chloe's voice came again.
Before I could wrench free from her grip, she embraced me with her little arms, bestowing upon me the warmest hug I might ever receive.
“Good luck!”
I barely looked back, and even now I wish I had stopped and taken my time—absorbed every last ounce of warmth and human emotion from her. It would be one of the last times I would ever feel such a sensation again. Oh, how I wish I drowned in those eyes, enveloped the girl in a tight hug, and lavished her with the praise she so desperately needed.
Alas, I was tunnel-visioned. Even so, I had the right to be absent-minded then. Life truly was difficult.
At twenty-six years old, I was running on foot through the suburbs because I was late to a dead-end job that I hated. I was without transportation because my brother had totaled the only family car. I was living in my parent’s house as the sole financial provider. And most tragically, I was forced to ignore my talents and dreams.
On wheels, the trip to the restaurant would have taken five minutes, but by foot? Forget it. Twenty-five minutes later, I arrived at the doors of my employment—the job I desperately needed and was on my last legs of keeping.
Fuck.
I cursed and prayed in my mind that I wouldn’t find Bryant working the day shift. I had forgotten to check who would be on the floor with me when I agreed to this schedule. Sure as shit, as the doors opened, Bryant stood on the blue and gold carpet looking smug. The swinging glass door caught me at the back and knocked me forward, closer to the doom I couldn’t escape.
Not today, anyway.
Please, let me keep this job, I begged in the sanctum of my mind, the one place I found true comfort from the tyranny of the world.
"Donovan. Are you fucking kidding me?" Bryant’s eyes drooped halfway, as though I were a blinding ray of brilliance, but let’s be honest... it was the glaring light of my failures searing into his retinas instead.
Just another blunder added to my list.
Bryant encircled me, and I braced myself for a scolding, but this time, he only
placed a hand on my shoulder.
“You know, I should be furious with you for leaving me alone with all these tables, but I secretly wanted you to mess up just so I could see what happens.” His words stung, his sharp tongue stabbing behind his wicked simper. “Thanks for the show.”
Oh no. Oh god . What did that mean?
My mind raced with possibilities. Was there a camera recording this? Would my late arrival be shown to my manager? Or worse...
As I entered the moderately busy restaurant, my abject terror materialized in the form of Shelly, the owner, waiting for me near the kitchen. Her arms were folded. Her eyes were daggers.
She had held a grudge against me ever since she made inappropriate advances toward me during the Christmas party. Of course, I had politely turned her down because she simply wasn’t my type. Since then, she had been eagerly waiting for me to fail at every turn, as I usually did.
I shuffled further into the restaurant and there it was—the smile. She never smiled at me. At that moment, I knew. My legs turned to jelly as the distance closed.
“Jimmy,” she sighed.
I despised it when she called me that, her cheeks bouncing around her apple-shaped face as she prepared to scold me with apparent delight. “Let’s go to the back. We need to have a conversation, you and I.”
Once we were within her office—a safe distance away from customers—her tirade rained hell upon my shoulders. It included everything under the sun while she attempted to maintain a work-appropriate tone.
I pleaded. I begged. I mentioned how I was the sole legitimate breadwinner in my family. I even brought up my father’s poor condition. None of it could assuage Shelly from the torrent of anger and bitterness she unleashed, as if she had bottled it up since that Christmas party. When her words finally burst from her, it felt like a bomb exploding near my head, the piercing whistle ringing in my ears.
Another lost job to add
to the pile. My world crumbled.
“Didn’t you hear me? You’re fired. Leave. We expect you to return your uniform within the week, or we’ll bill you for it.”
Shelly smiled through her rage. She relished this. Of course, she did. Another man had rejected her advances, but this time she had the power to punish him. Yet, even in my dismay, I couldn’t deny the truth... I was frequently late and often uncooperative. Damn it. What could I do? I had no car. Instead of working the shift, I had desperately pleaded for, I was condemned to walk all the way back home, my pride crushed as my blistered feet still throbbed from the first trek.
Upon returning to the small house, I glanced at the clock: Ten minutes til three. I had wasted the entire day running to the restaurant and dejectedly walking back. Not only had I slept away the day and lost my job, but I also squandered the rest of my time drowning in self-loathing.
As the day rapidly faded, I made the only choice available to me—I plunged my face into the large pillow resting at the head of my bed.
I was a failure.
I needed to find another job; wait tables at a different restaurant, or take up another meaningless labor position. Hell, I could even go back to working with Brad and become the muscle for his damn drug deals—not that I wanted to—just saying that I could. Nevertheless, I knew deep down that still, I would fail. There was only one thing I excelled at…
Lying completely prone against the weighty comforter that provided me solace in that house, a place I no longer desired to be, I stretched out my hand to retrieve my oldest and dearest companion—my leather-bound journal.
With nimble fingers, I flipped open the pages, each corner caressing the pads where my unique fingerprints gave away my identity. I turned to my favorite poem:
π ππΈπ»π΅π πππͺπ
In time and space I find you
Floating, untouched, imperfect
A symbol of chaos and tranquility
In this place we see one another
And I am forever changed
In this place you found me
Shattered, discarded, perfection
A symbol of bliss and mystery
In this place we are blind
To the world and what pain it brings
Here we are equal
Here we are trapped
A place between expectations
Where dreams go to die
And here is where I keep you.
Here is where you know me.
Beyond is meaningless,
This is all that matters.
I remembered writing it in a fit of passion, without a face or name in my mind’s eye. The idea was to love someone so deeply that we could transcend space and time, finding each other in our own isolated plane that we created. Just imagine having the power to create something out of nothing and to bring the person you love most to live out eternity away from those who wished to harm you. What an incredible idea. What a captivating fantasy.
What a joke.
Such a reality didn’t exist. I wrote these romantic poems about eternal love, but deep down, I knew I would never find it. No matter where I looked, the outcome was always the same: Failure.
I had made attempts to love, going on dates on and off for years, taking on the trauma of others, and even enduring painful experiences with certain individuals who shall remain unnamed. But still, regardless of the pain and the way my experiences unfolded, I wrote with fervor, like a demon on helium, cackling away as the fumes of my own flames filled the room with a unique smoke that only belonged to me.
It didn’t matter if others might never read my poems. They were mine.
Chloe had always tried to persuade me to publish or find someone who would appreciate my art for what it was, but my preferred career choice was acting. Poetry simply flowed from me every time I closed my eyes. I wanted to strive for excellence in something, rather than just throwing words on a page and hoping they would resonate.
Or maybe I was simply a snob. Yes, that was it. I arrogantly disregarded everyone’s advice, including even my own.
I buried my face in my journal, and before I knew it, I had fallen into a deep sleep. Back in the darkness where I felt most at home, there was no dreadful father, no unsatisfactory boss, not even my doting sister. Just me. Alone. My nose in a book, my body returning to the stillness of death where I belonged. ...
