"Blood Sin" by Matthew T. Summers

Darien Fitzgerald woke up slowly, his whole body fighting the effort it took to move beyond the confines of restful sleep.  Finally, after what seemed to be an eternity, the crust around the edges of his eyes broke, and light made its way into his mind.  Groaning, he pushed himself back off of the desk he’d been sleeping against and shook his head to clear the cobwebs out.

He couldn’t remember the prior night.  He remembered going to his chambers, and studying for the next day… he remembered the man on the news talking about how the last time the serial killer had stuck had been months, and everyone was starting to relax… he remembered going to his supply of blood, and realizing that he had forgotten to restock it…

“Oh no.”  Resigned, Darien held his hands in the air and studied them.  The very tips of his left hand’s fingers were tinged with a brownish-red substance that he knew quite well.  Oh, how he hated the cursed sight of it.  He sighed, shaking his head again, this time in disgust. 

It had happened again.  The need had come, and Darien had fed.  He knew what he was, what he would forever be, and would eventually die as.  Darien Fitzgerald was a vampire, though not a vampire in the sense that Hollywood and history have made them out to be, oh no. 

There are many, many falsehoods about vampires, more and more of which Darien realized on a daily basis.  Darien groggily got to his feet and faced the mirror.  His reflection peered shakily back at him, revealing another matting of the dark red substance on his chin and lips; also, in effect, disproving at least one falsehood of vampirism.  The man in the mirror had blond hair, rather unkempt from the night’s activities; tall and waifish in his stance, though his inner strength could pull through when the need came; his blue eyes, bleary from the complete lack of sleep beforehand, glared accusingly back at him.

Darien tore his gaze away; he could not face what he had become, not now, not ever.  Weary down to his very soul, he moved to the area of the large room he was in that contained a sink and washed his face and hands.  Next, a change of clothes, to attempt a scene of normalcy and tranquility, in order to better forget the effects of the change.

For vampires could walk during the day, and often did.  Another fallacy spread by his brethren, Darien mused, as he walked past the expansive bookcase and opened a long closet.   Another was their need for blood.  Though the need, when it came, was irresistible, there was usually a long period of time between feedings.  During the lull, he had discovered that he could extend the quiet period if he kept a small, minimal supply of the life nectar hidden away, and sipped at it on occasion.  Sometimes, he had found he could go nearly three months without slipping into the need again, and each time it seemed that the periods grew longer still.  It was only a matter of time before he could potentially wean himself from the hated need, though he doubted he’d ever be truly free of the curse.

In the areas between his feedings, he had discovered the only boon to this curse that he appreciated.  He required neither food nor drink, and could easily go days without laying his head down to rest.  And a coffin was not required, though Hollywood liked to glamorize that aspect especially; a simple bed did fine, though his thoughts drifted to his past, when his bed was larger and warmer…  His thoughts were interrupted, however, when a knock came at the door.

A bald man dressed in parishioner’s robes entered and bowed slightly to Darien.  “Father Fitzgerald, I just came to remind you that the sermon starts in fifteen minutes.  I came earlier, but you were slumbering, so I did not wake you.

Father Fitzgerald finished fastening his robe, sliding the white of the collar around until it was even and comfortable.  “My thanks, Father Donovan.  I’m afraid that I had a long night last night, so the extra sleep was appreciated.  I’ll be there in five minutes.”

“As you wish, Father.”  Father Donovan bowed low again before turning and leaving the study chambers.   The church bells sounded, calling the parishioners to the sermon that he was to lead.  To bless away sins, knowing full well his own sins trumped any they could even think of…

Father Fitzgerald, vampire, finished putting on his religious cowls and turned to face the mirror again.  Vampires cannot enter the church… yet another fallacy, he mused as he picked up the good book and left the room.