Life sucks! At least that’s what I used to say..when I was human. But in my newfound life, I’ve come to realize that life does suck; for them. My name is Mikala Patrice Wittmore, I am 134 years old; A female African American Vampire living in the deep south of the great United States of America.
Born in 1887; a great-granddaughter of a slave girl. Though I lacked the conviction of chains and shackles; I was not shielded from the hate and disgust due to my melanin complexion. Glaring eyes, spatted remarks, and venomous curses were the melodies of my nightmares; grinding me down like fertilizer only to spread my misfortunes to raise their crops of supremacy.
By 1916, I had reached adulthood and decided to seek work and refuge in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. I found my “calling” as a washer-girl; cleaning soiled sheets and dirty pillows of the wretched souls at Baker Hills Asylum. One cold night on the 5th of November; After cleaning out the washtub, I was called to the bedside of a Mr. Jacques Pompri complaining of an ailment that I could not cure.
I offered a hand only to lose my mortality in return. I watched in horror as the frail man before I impaled my throat with sharp jagged fangs; the pain seething into my body.
The last thing I remembered was the taste of copper in the back of my throat, the sweet smell of burning embers, and the flickering wax candle near the bedside.
I awoke face down on the wooden floor. I choked back a gasp; shuffling across the vintage wood and finding my footing. There was no trace of Jacques; only the bloody remnants on my sternum, convincing me that what had happened last night was real.
I washed up quickly; burning my soiled blouse intothe slow-burning furnace in the basement. I kept quiet to not bring any attention to myself. I was lucky to be in such a place; given the fact that I was a young negro woman in a position that they would gladly give to a beautiful white female with class and education.
It took five days for the hunger to start; I craved sustenance but food sickened me. The water tasted like metal; the sun pierced my eyes and the sounds of pulsing veins flooded my ears like a storm on the raging sea. I tried so hard to cling to my humanity; however, I was not strong enough.
Eventually, the thirst became unbearable; on June 15, I succumbed. My first victim was a son of a former slave owner; who liked me when I passed him at the market; buying flowers for a dying patient. He followed me down a narrow alleyway; peering back to make sure there would be no witnesses of his violation.
The taste of him was nectarous; like a cold glass of iced tea on a hot summer day. I drank myself drunk until that pumping sound ceased to exist. I placed him against the wall and covered his dismayed expression with his hat. I walked away from the ordeal; unscathed and better than ever. I left the flowers by the entrance of the asylum but I never returned. I had a few years' worths of savings and a place to go. I paid homage to my Gula heritage by voyaging to the Carolinas and settling in the good ole city of Charleston.
I paid 300 dollars to purchase an old cottage that was said to have been a witch house a long time ago. With a little work, blackened curtains, and a few more tweaks; my home wascomplete. The house was in the middle of the woods. No one dared to venture near my home due to its backstory. The people around were very superstitious; some still today.
Although I was free and serene in my new home; the color of my skin still labeled me a threat; an inferior being compared to those of a fairer shade.
To the women, I was a lesser creature while men saw me as an object of carnal fantasy; a toy to play with in secret, away from their wives and trusting comrades.
Their disapproval of my existence fueled me with rage but their stupidity amused the monster inside of me; inducing my hunger to unbelievable heights. Each one tasted even better than the last. The hate in their blood was like an elixir; one which I could never tire of. It was easy to go about killing in the 1900s; but like all good things, they must end. As time went by, I soon needed to find another way to indulge in my predatory desires
By 1978, I decided to go to night school and become a phlebotomist; drawing blood all night long in lonely hospitals and clinics. Although I wouldn’t call it indulging; however, it was a better humane approach to my selective diet. But as we all know; everybody slips up from time to time.
One night while I was snacking on a late midnight sample of a Mr. Johnny Fortwire; a rumored member of the Ku Klux klan, I witnessed something very ugly. There were three vibrant, drunk caucasian girls hounding a young black med student who was walking home. They broke her glasses and spat in her face. Quivering with fear, she kneeled to retrieve them only for her face to meet the heel of one of the girl’splatform shoes.
The rushing sound in my ears, which I hadn’t heard for over a decade, deafened me. My throat was dry as if I had swallowed a bucket of sand. My pupils expanded and my glimmering white fangs protruded through my gums. Before I knew it, I indulged. Diet be damned, I say. It all happened so quickly, that my head spun. I was on a high and it felt like lightning coursing through my veins. During my euphoria, the young med student must have run off in horror because when I came to, she was gone. I often wonder what became of her.
As many more years went by, I started to notice the hate that once permeated the air, soon tapered off. All I detected was more peace and coexistence. It seemed to last for a good while. My hunger ached but I paid it no mind. I regressed to my original diet; clinics, hospitals, and blood banks were my fridges.
In the middle of 2020, as I sat on my porch, enjoying the croaks and howls of the night, my nose began to twitch. The familiar scent crept into my nostrils like a rat scavenging for food. I watched the media, and listened to the radio; stunned that it was back. The hate, the disapproval, the torture; it was all back. But this time, it was in everyone; not just one select group.
It was free for all; a buffet if you will.
And I’ve never been so hungry.
Born in 1887; a great-granddaughter of a slave girl. Though I lacked the conviction of chains and shackles; I was not shielded from the hate and disgust due to my melanin complexion. Glaring eyes, spatted remarks, and venomous curses were the melodies of my nightmares; grinding me down like fertilizer only to spread my misfortunes to raise their crops of supremacy.
By 1916, I had reached adulthood and decided to seek work and refuge in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. I found my “calling” as a washer-girl; cleaning soiled sheets and dirty pillows of the wretched souls at Baker Hills Asylum. One cold night on the 5th of November; After cleaning out the washtub, I was called to the bedside of a Mr. Jacques Pompri complaining of an ailment that I could not cure.
I offered a hand only to lose my mortality in return. I watched in horror as the frail man before I impaled my throat with sharp jagged fangs; the pain seething into my body.
The last thing I remembered was the taste of copper in the back of my throat, the sweet smell of burning embers, and the flickering wax candle near the bedside.
I awoke face down on the wooden floor. I choked back a gasp; shuffling across the vintage wood and finding my footing. There was no trace of Jacques; only the bloody remnants on my sternum, convincing me that what had happened last night was real.
I washed up quickly; burning my soiled blouse intothe slow-burning furnace in the basement. I kept quiet to not bring any attention to myself. I was lucky to be in such a place; given the fact that I was a young negro woman in a position that they would gladly give to a beautiful white female with class and education.
It took five days for the hunger to start; I craved sustenance but food sickened me. The water tasted like metal; the sun pierced my eyes and the sounds of pulsing veins flooded my ears like a storm on the raging sea. I tried so hard to cling to my humanity; however, I was not strong enough.
Eventually, the thirst became unbearable; on June 15, I succumbed. My first victim was a son of a former slave owner; who liked me when I passed him at the market; buying flowers for a dying patient. He followed me down a narrow alleyway; peering back to make sure there would be no witnesses of his violation.
The taste of him was nectarous; like a cold glass of iced tea on a hot summer day. I drank myself drunk until that pumping sound ceased to exist. I placed him against the wall and covered his dismayed expression with his hat. I walked away from the ordeal; unscathed and better than ever. I left the flowers by the entrance of the asylum but I never returned. I had a few years' worths of savings and a place to go. I paid homage to my Gula heritage by voyaging to the Carolinas and settling in the good ole city of Charleston.
I paid 300 dollars to purchase an old cottage that was said to have been a witch house a long time ago. With a little work, blackened curtains, and a few more tweaks; my home wascomplete. The house was in the middle of the woods. No one dared to venture near my home due to its backstory. The people around were very superstitious; some still today.
Although I was free and serene in my new home; the color of my skin still labeled me a threat; an inferior being compared to those of a fairer shade.
To the women, I was a lesser creature while men saw me as an object of carnal fantasy; a toy to play with in secret, away from their wives and trusting comrades.
Their disapproval of my existence fueled me with rage but their stupidity amused the monster inside of me; inducing my hunger to unbelievable heights. Each one tasted even better than the last. The hate in their blood was like an elixir; one which I could never tire of. It was easy to go about killing in the 1900s; but like all good things, they must end. As time went by, I soon needed to find another way to indulge in my predatory desires
By 1978, I decided to go to night school and become a phlebotomist; drawing blood all night long in lonely hospitals and clinics. Although I wouldn’t call it indulging; however, it was a better humane approach to my selective diet. But as we all know; everybody slips up from time to time.
One night while I was snacking on a late midnight sample of a Mr. Johnny Fortwire; a rumored member of the Ku Klux klan, I witnessed something very ugly. There were three vibrant, drunk caucasian girls hounding a young black med student who was walking home. They broke her glasses and spat in her face. Quivering with fear, she kneeled to retrieve them only for her face to meet the heel of one of the girl’splatform shoes.
The rushing sound in my ears, which I hadn’t heard for over a decade, deafened me. My throat was dry as if I had swallowed a bucket of sand. My pupils expanded and my glimmering white fangs protruded through my gums. Before I knew it, I indulged. Diet be damned, I say. It all happened so quickly, that my head spun. I was on a high and it felt like lightning coursing through my veins. During my euphoria, the young med student must have run off in horror because when I came to, she was gone. I often wonder what became of her.
As many more years went by, I started to notice the hate that once permeated the air, soon tapered off. All I detected was more peace and coexistence. It seemed to last for a good while. My hunger ached but I paid it no mind. I regressed to my original diet; clinics, hospitals, and blood banks were my fridges.
In the middle of 2020, as I sat on my porch, enjoying the croaks and howls of the night, my nose began to twitch. The familiar scent crept into my nostrils like a rat scavenging for food. I watched the media, and listened to the radio; stunned that it was back. The hate, the disapproval, the torture; it was all back. But this time, it was in everyone; not just one select group.
It was free for all; a buffet if you will.
And I’ve never been so hungry.
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