I’m slowly bringing over post’s that I made on my old blog [which was on livejournal.com] and I found this excerpt of a first person novella that I was creating using a character with my name.
I’ve dated this post the same as when I first posted this excerpt. I’m not sure if I like it, but it was my first attempt at a first person POV.
I don’t breathe. I’ve not needed to breathe in over eight hundred years. And yet when I need to, when the guise of life is pulled on, I will force my chest to rise and fall, allow my long dead lungs to fill with unnecessary oxygen. It’s quite amusing how many people don’t notice the fact that I never breathe, that I don’t lack for air. You would think that one, maybe two, would comment on the fact that I sit so stoically, so statuesque, at my desk at all times. Mayhaps they are just too set in their ways, to fearful of my wrath that they don’t even gossip in the hallways lest it reach my ears.
I have no family to speak of, no one who would notice anything odd about me. No one to comment on how out of place I am in the world. Even now with so many differing ideologies and ethnicities, I would still seem odd. I see myself as a freak of nature. As hurtful as that would sound to other people, I am not human and I’m not entirely positive if I truly was human to begin with. Even at the time in which I did need to breathe to survive, that point in my life was a very long time ago. So long I cannot remember most of it. What I do remember of it is menial specs of information that could be about anyone.
I was born in Ireland in the 12th century (that I’m sure not everyone can claim) to a poor family who worked long and hard hours for a wealthy land owner. I could have been any poor little Irish girl living in squalor, working to help her family survive. I don’t connect with anything about my human past. My mother and father’s faces elude me and I cannot recall their names. My own human name is something I left long ago. Vivienne was the name my Sire had bestowed upon me. Where ‘Crow’ came from is a sordid and complex story that I never like to ponder.
For many centuries I have had to change my lifestyle, my residence, my appearance and have no choice but to succumb to the necessity of having many an alias. Some people may think it a charmed and mysteriously intriguing life to live, but I am sure they know not of the necessary arrangements of changing their entire life’s history five or six times over. In order to keep my ‘condition’ secret, it has been crucial for me to do so.
It has been my goal over the century or so to experience everything life has to offer. To journey across every country, work in every industry, speak every language, and yes spend time with as many different humans as possible (if this includes intimate liaisons then so be it).
As I sit at the giant mahogany desk that takes up the spine of my office, backing up against a wall of windows, my mind wonders to the fact that I am now living a life that would seem mundane to those of my kind. Even boring. And yes there are more of me out there, many many more. I may not be like most of them, as my Sire has told me a few thousand times in the years we were together, “Vivienne, you are a strange and intriguing creature, one I’ve not come across before.” His words, not mine. There is no hard and fast rule as to how to live the life you are given, especially not for my kind. But there are guidelines that we adhere to, so that we fit in and move among the herd easily. I buck against all and every guideline. With relish and glee.
Every fifteen minutes or so I am disrupted from my reverie by another employee quieting about a new publication, my assistant double checking an appointment, problems best left for a maintenance worker, nearly everything seems to be coming through my cedar double doors. As those doors close for the hundredth time and I’m left once more alone, I find myself realizing I’ve chosen wood for the doors once again. Glass seems to be the height of fashion for an executive office these days, but old habits of privacy die hard around me. Usually they die bloody and screaming.
I’m working, but not very hard. Which is strange for me, the workaholic female of the twenty first century. I’ve never been one to slack off while at my office, to let the lure of daydreaming pull me away from the stack of work that inevitably sits on the left hand corner of my desk every day. But today is different. Things have changed rather quickly and left me decidedly rattled. Something to which I’m unaccustomed. I am in control of my life and everything that affects my life.
Aiden. He is what has changed in my life. Or to be more politically correct, his finding out about me has changed things. To him I am like any other woman. Breathing, bleeding and warm. Unfortunately I am none of those things.
I am a Vampyre. An eight hundred and thirty-four year old Vampyre born (or born again) in Marseilles, France in 1225. And up until three weeks ago, nobody except my Sire knew of this fact. But now, because of unforeseen events, Aiden, the man I am in love with, has found out. What he will do with the information, or who he will tell, is something that I cannot figure out. So far he has done nothing but ignore me. Hopefully this is the worst that will happen. The Vampyre community would surely condemn me if they were ever to find out I had betrayed our kind.
Bedding a human and letting them find out my secret without turning them. For shame.
I’d love to hear feedback on it. And no I haven’t done anymore then what I’ve posted.