Vampire Life

         Paintings and photographs from every era of development in the history of the respective forms of art and documentation lined the walls of the apartment. Some contained her image and others merely showed the spirit in which she viewed the subject that she wanted to capture. Though these pieces were a mere representative of the body of works that existed in greater amounts elsewhere, they were selected with care to tell the story of her humble beginnings to the mastery of the skills that took several lifetimes to achieve.

         Picture frames contained newspaper clippings from different eras and in various languages. Some were written by others regarding her work. Others were actually written by her during one of her latest lifetimes when a career in journalism seemed to suit her tastes and the photographs were merely a contribution to the work of the male pseudonym she used in the more misogynistic era of the newspaper's history.

         Derek ran his hand along the shelves that housed her books. From century-old first edition manuscripts to more recent vintages, they ranged in subject and style from genuine literary treasures to trashy best sellers.

         "Some of those are mine." Her pathetic voice practically screeched out, breaking the silence of the barely lit room.

         The stench in the room spoke of a body that had begun to fail long before the mind. Upon entering the apartment, many of the would-be caretakers she had hired would always grimace at the smell. They would comment on the clutter and how she needed to get rid of some "stuff". They certainly never longingly looked at the books as though lost in a time and place they had never seen, but wanted to be a part of.

         Standing at five feet, the boy was barely finished with the early half of his twenties, a little overweight, stocky and unsure of himself, with glasses that kept slipping from his brown eyes. His therapist had suggested he do some volunteer work. That getting some human contact with people outside of his work environment would make him feel more alive again. Not content to work with large groups of people, Derek found an ad in the paper.

         At the end of her very long life, Isibelle‘s body had begun to show signs of decay. It started slowly, just a year before. Her once long and vibrantly black hair was now so faded as to appear as a ghost. Her skin, once smooth as marble and softer than goose down was cracked and fragile. Her strength failed her and she was confined to the bed for much of the day, resulting in some fairly embarrassing occurrences that contributed to the tapestry of unpleasant odors now hanging in the air.

         If Derek was uncomfortable he showed no signs of it. When his eyes popped out of his head at the sight of the signed copy of The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe, she fell in love with him.

         “Others were written by the descendants of my many children.”

         Derek came to her side, his face alight with indignity.

         “And none of those descendants could find the time to be with you?” He asked.

         She managed a weak smile, no longer able to chuckle at his anger on her behalf. He gently took her hand.

         “Most of them believe I am dead, Derek,” she reminded him. “It’s easier to let them go on believing this, just as it will be for you when you accept the gift.”

         Derek looked up at some of her photos. The ones where she clearly hadn’t been shy about people knowing she didn’t age a day between her 1800’s daguerreotype and the very last digital photo of her at her very last book signing almost three years ago. Granted, there were some obvious changes in styles and appearances, but there was no mistaking the curve of her nose and the penetrating glare of her eyes. In some photos, she even bore the caste mark she had received during her five century long stay in India.

         “You really won’t be around?” He asked. The pain in his eyes was sincere. “What if I screw up? What if I do something wrong?”

         Isibelle smiled. From the pain in her eyes, Derek could tell it wouldn’t last much longer.

         “Then you will have 2100 years to figure it out.” She said. Her breathing became more labored. “Don’t think I got it right the first time. I was as nervous as you and made many mistakes that could well have cost me my long life. What you don’t read in the books I have written you will have to figure out for yourself.”

         The next few moments were a blur.