Confessions of a Dead Girl

[[ Vivacious Vamps - Assignment one - The story how how you were turned. ]]

Dear Diary,
I'm a vampire. I have no idea how this happened. I have no idea how this COULD have happened. Saturday was my birthday. I was alive, diary. It was my eightenth birthday and the world was big and full of possibility. Katelyn has snagged one of her older sister's friends ID's (who just so happens to look like me), and she and Mel were determined to sneak me into Club Seven. I had been DYING to go there, diary. It was one of the few clubs in Manhattan I had never managed to get into.
I spent all day getting ready - a silly little girl, fussing over my hair and makeup, trying desperately to look older. I spent hours obsessing over what shoes to wear with what dress, what bag I would carry, should I wear pink or black or silver or - it all seems so pointless now. Had I known it was the last day I'd be alive - truly alive - I'd have spent them doing something meaningful. If I'd known it was the last birthday where I'd get older in more than ceremony, I'd have spent more time thanking my mom for the beautiful pink cake rather than rushing to blow out the candles so I could shove down a few bites and get out the door. Had I known my heart would never beat again, I would have savored the love pouring through our brightly lit yellow kitchen... but I didn't. Because I didn't know it was the night I was going to die.


The bouncer barely glanced at my ID as he stepped aside and ushered us in. I stifled the urge to jump up and down and thrust my fist into the air in triumph. I GOT IN. Mel shot me a victorious glance as she pushed her blonde hair out of her face. The night was magic, pulsing all around me as I drank and danced, and drank and danced some more. The music throbbed in the dimly lit brick building. Looking back, that club was nothing special. Brick walls, dirty concrete floors, loud music - a bar just like any other bar. But I'd been turned away at the door so many times that those bricks could have been made of pure gold, the shot glasses exquisite diamonds.

I don't even know what time it was. All I remember is that I was craving a cigarette and fresh air like a drug. I don't know why I didn't ask one of my friends to go with me. I don't know why I stepped into that dark, dirty, New York City back alley by myself. But I did - a stupid girl making stupid decisions.
I leaned against the exterior brick, breathing in deep breaths and enjoying my cigarette; the dull, bass hum of the music from inside lulling me into a deep state of calm. I should have went back inside. I've replayed that memory in my head so many times that the edges are worn down, each and every time cursing myself for pulling out that second cigarette.


That's where everything get's fuzzy - like a part of my memory has been erased. Psychologists say the brain shuts down in order to protect us from things we'd be better off not remembering. Trust me, I'd be better off remembering. I can't say the same for him.

I don't know what he looks like. He was blonde. And beautiful. But it stops there. I know nothing else of him. I have vague memories, bits and pieces more like out of focus snapshots or split-second freeze frames.

I remember the concrete walls of his loft. The wet floors littered with trash and beer bottles. The blood-stained mattress where I died. His wrist in my mouth. My blood and his. Laying there in a dazed stupor, content to feel nothing for the rest of my life than the high that was his blood.



Then I woke up in the parking garage remembering NOTHING. My jaws hurt with a pressure I'd never felt before - throbbing, searing pain above my canine teeth, like something was trying to claw it's was out of my gum line. It was, but I didn't know that at the time.

Slowly, week by week, month by month, I'm piecing these snapshots together... and when I remember his face, I can promise one thing, diary. He'll meet the true death.