Before diving into this, you should know about a tragic event in 2006.
When I was eighteen, my life turned dark. I became a vampire, and my existence spiraled into a relentless struggle against my darkest urges. That year, I started an internship with my parents in a lab, working on forensic studies of an unknown substance—possibly a new drug or cure. The excitement of contributing to such groundbreaking research filled me with purpose. My relationship with my parents had always been close, and they had planned this internship for me for years.
On the day of the human trials, chaos erupted. The facility was under siege. Labs were destroyed. Corpses were everywhere. Blood splattered the walls. Limbs torn apart. Lifeless eyes stared into the void. The metallic scent of blood hung heavy in the air. The morbid stench of death and decay lingered in the halls. I remember seeing my mom's headless body, grotesquely sprawled among the wreckage.
The sight shattered something inside me.
My dad told me to take a vial and run. He warned me not to drink it—it hadn't been tested. I ran like an animal being hunted. I left the lab, crossed the street, and ducked into an abandoned building. Behind me, I heard my dad screaming my name. I couldn't reach him. Whatever was chasing me... it was close. Something inside me told me to drink the vial.
So I did.
It tasted like death.
Almost instantly, a searing pain erupted in my throat. My body began to shut down as the liquid traveled through me. The deeper it sank, the more it drowned my senses, numbing my fear and remorse. Darkness swallowed everything. My heartbeat slowed... slower... and slower.
When it stopped, I realized I was dead.
Then something else kicked in.
A metallic taste flooded my mouth. Whatever it was began coursing through me. I saw images—glimpses of my life at first, then flashes of the present. My father's face. Eyes wide with fear and desperation. He ran from me.
The last thing I saw and heard was a scream and a sentence:
"You are not my son."
When I came to my senses, I was holding his lifeless body.
His neck was mangled, torn open by my teeth. His head barely clung to his body. Blood was everywhere—soaking his clothes, staining my hands, dripping from my mouth. The warm, sticky fluid clung to my skin—a grotesque reminder.
I looked into his eyes. Wide. Glassy. Staring into nothing. I could feel the last remnants of his life force inside me. A sickeningly sweet satisfaction buzzed in my veins.
That was when it hit me.
I had drained him.
And somewhere deep inside, I had enjoyed it.
The realization shattered me.
The taste of his blood lingered on my tongue, and for some messed-up reason, it tasted amazing. The tears on my face mixed with the blood and made me feel like I was trapped in some Tim Burton fairy tale turned nightmare.
I was no longer who I used to be.
I was a predator.
An abomination.
If I still had a soul, it was drowned in darkness.
Then the thing chasing me appeared. An older man with a buzz cut. He dragged me into a shed and told me about vampires—about their hunger, their weaknesses.
And how I was one messed-up vampire.
I hated myself. Was there any humanity left? Or was it just the sick aftertaste of the life I used to have?
The answer seemed obvious.
There was only one way out.
As the first light of dawn crept through the windows, I waited. The moment he got distracted, I ran. I ran straight outside.
I wanted to die.
I stepped into the sunlight, expecting it to burn like knives, to reduce me to ash.
I dropped to my knees.
This was it—my end.
But nothing happened.
The sun rose, and I didn't burn. My body refused the release I so desperately craved.
The man found me standing there, staring at the sky, cursing it.
He dragged me back inside. Tattoos that looked like sigils protected his skin. The sunlight didn't touch him.
"Why the hell didn't I burn?" I asked, my voice a broken whisper.
He didn't answer. Just looked at me like I was something worse than him. He raised a stake.
I closed my eyes. "Get it over with."
But he never did.
Instead, a blur of motion. A punch through his back. A spray of blood. A savage twist. A heart ripped out.
Standing behind him was a woman.
Short, dark purple hair styled messily. Piercing bluish eyes. Pale as death.
She crushed his heart with a wooden knuckle duster stained with blood.
"Come with me if you want to live again," she said, half joking, half serious—like some twisted Schwarzenegger.
Her name was Victoria Rossi.
I call her Vic.
She became my sister. She brought me into her coven.
The Rossi Coven.
It was small—just two sisters: Vic and Selene.
Selene Rossi, the matriarch, turned during the French Revolution. She has blonde hair, high cheekbones, and icy blue eyes. Distant, kind, and powerful, Selene is the glue that holds us together, even when Vic and I push her limits.
They took care of me.
They helped me crawl out of my grief.
And over time...
They became my family.