I woke up from a deep lethargy, emerging from the clutches of a dream that seemed to have imprisoned me for centuries.
And let me be clear from the beginning: when I say that as I opened my eyes, my spirit emerged from the lethargy with the delicacy befitting those beings who have savored a lavish and prolonged rest, I am not expressing a fraudulent rhetorical figure.
The darkness that enveloped me had been as real as the beating of my own heart, but now I faced the unsettling doubt of whether I still remained a living entity.
As my mind clung to reality, the persistent pain that accompanied me from the stupor only intensified within my consciousness.
It was a pain so tangible, so visceral, that it was impossible to deny its existence.
The echoes of those dark torments resounded in every fiber of my being, reminding me that my existence was a tangled web of mysteries and horrors.
I must admit, without any hesitation, that I am a vampire.
My condition, with all its sinister and supernatural implications, is undeniably real.
I am a creature of the night, condemned to eternity and sustained by the existence of the living.
But my memory, that fragile thread connecting my present to a distant past, fades into the deepest shadows.
The memories of my life before being cast into this castle of condemnation dissipate like morning mists, leaving me in the twilight of uncertainty.
It is said that this castle was once the home of an ancient aristocrat, a man who abandoned his domains in the face of the relentless changes of time and the evolution of society.
The fluctuations of progress left him behind, turned into a faded echo in the dusty corridors of history.
But what happened to that man, whether he found his final destiny or simply faded into the shadows, is a mystery that remains unanswered.
The castle now lies in silence, its gray and crumbling walls concealing secrets that only the whispers of the night wind can glimpse.
It is astonishing how time and isolation have woven their web around this place.
The inhabitants of nearby villages, enveloped in the veil of collective amnesia, have completely forgotten the existence of this sinister stronghold.
The castle is far from any vestige of civilization, lost in a barren and forgotten land.
Its modest size and remote location suggest that it may have been conceived for a darker and more sinister purpose, destined to fade from the memory of those who dared to know it.
I, a prisoner in this cursed castle, find myself trapped in a sinister dance of intertwined destinies.
Throughout endless centuries, I have succumbed to the insatiable need to spill human blood to sustain myself.
My existence has been stalked by those who have tried to end my life, but in their desperate pursuit, they have only sealed their own fate and left their loved ones abandoned to their luck.
I cannot blame them, their struggle was based on protecting their own and achieving a victory that, deep down, seemed to be nothing but a chimera.
Even I am unaware of the path to my own annihilation.
I have tried every imaginable method, or at least almost all.
The vampiric power that consumes me is unchanging and seemingly indestructible.
However, there are vulnerabilities that can inflict harm or weaken me, such as contact with silver or other specific variables.
I have even experienced abstinence, relinquishing the intake of blood in the hope of succumbing to starvation, but I have only managed to weaken myself slightly, without achieving the desired final outcome.
It is not that I need to feed, but rather that my nature is subject to an indomitable and unknown compulsion to me.
Although I have exhausted all possibilities to end my existence, the vampiric dominion remains inexorable and dominant.
I find no satisfaction in animal blood, as it does not provide me with what I "need," and its taste resembles earth on my palate.
For a long time, I have indulged in the vileness of reaping human lives and satisfying my hunger with their blood and flesh.
I care not for the life of any other creature, not even that of animals.
I admit, without pride, to have even annihilated entire herds in my insatiable voracity.
My actions have been the direct and indirect cause of the death of many, for by depriving them of supplies and means to survive, I have condemned them to a agonizing death by starvation.
Fruits, vegetables, and other foods lack flavor to me; they only taste of decay, and I can only satiate my appetite with human beings.
Human blood has become an exquisite delicacy, and for eons, I have roamed different nations, killing and devouring people, regardless of whether they were alive or dead, consuming them without disdain.
Though I can nourish myself with corpses, they must be incredibly fresh, and even then, their taste does not come close to that of a living human.
Countless times, I have consumed them while they were still alive and conscious, tearing them apart with my limbs and abominably abusing my superiority.
There is no reason for pride in this.
My count of victims amounts to thousands, including soldiers who attempted to hunt me down, failing miserably and succumbing to their own demise.
During a life filled with others' suffering, there came a false self-reproach, that moment when an insignificant event triggered a radical metamorphosis.
It is astonishing how something so minute can completely alter our existence and compel us to ponder our past actions.
Although, in reality, that event was not as insignificant as it seemed.
It was the final impact needed to shatter an already tarnished glass, unleashing a whirlwind of madness and disguised desolation in the guise of a tiny execution, with the power to derail the entire being.
But before reaching that point, a series of events unfolded, the magnitude and details of which do not matter.
Each of them carries a different weight on our shoulders.
However, for me, that notion has faded.
It has lost its primordial essence.
Now, I find myself immersed in a perpetual state of wandering, where words flow aimlessly, dragged by the whirlwind of my mind.
Sanity has abandoned its abode, and I have become a senseless specter.
I wonder to what extent one needs to be mentally unbalanced and if common sense is truly beneficial.
In this castle, my eternal prison, I occasionally engage in conversations with its owner, a proud and reserved man who radiates an overwhelming presence without needing to be physically imposing or possess a severe voice.
That's how aristocrats are, a social class that holds the dark secrets of their circles, even if they remain hidden among their members.
The lord of the castle has two young children who wander and play in its immense hallways, rooms, and, of course, the garden.
It is almost inevitable to cross paths with them if one ventures into the premises.
These children are being educated by their older brother, a man approaching adulthood.
In the castle, they call him the "elder brother."
He teaches them the duties and responsibilities that come with belonging to the high aristocracy.
I am unaware of what those duties are, as I have never been part of the aristocracy or had any connection to it.
Nor have I witnessed the obligations to which they are subjected.
I observe them from afar, a mere solitary spectator on the fringes of their world, while the veil of darkness slowly extends over my being.
Despite constant reprimands, it is undeniable that there is an implicit value in his words.
Like the son of an unrelenting father, he is trapped in the need to keep his distance and diligently fulfill the expectations of his progenitor, his family, and, of course, society at large.
His self-imposed demand is evident.
I have also heard whispers about an engagement.
His betrothed, with breathtaking beauty and noble lineage, stands as a trophy to behold.
He appears to agree, but who can say what lurks in the depths of another's mind.
As for the mother, I barely know that she wanders from place to place, unmoved by the well-being of her own lineage.
This is one of the main complaints of the elderly aristocrat when our conversations turn dark, which, from my perspective, results in a macabre irony, for I doubt he does not emulate such behavior, fluctuating from one corner to another and neglecting his own.
But it is not my place, a mere spectator, to point out such paradoxes.
The aged man always murmurs that his consort is a true burden, a stigma that tarnishes his reputation and brings him countless problems.
He has not revealed in detail what kind of problems, and I, respectful of his mystery, have not insisted on knowing the specifics.
He maintains his reserve, or at least that is what the facade he projects to society demands.
Despite everything, in his moments of confidenc, he declares love for his wife.
However, these words are just that, mere words, and the sincerity of such statements fades into the nebula of uncertainty.
He always takes pride in his offspring, envisioning in him a promise of future glories.
It pleases me to hear it, for his son is a tormented being in desperate search of paternal approval.
But that happiness is not often displayed on his features, as his father claims that he does not make such comments to bolster his current efforts, but with the intention of demanding even more from him.
Furthermore, he proclaims that his other descendants will be as magnificent as he is, although in reality, he has no clue how to relate to or even minimally interact with them, as he considers himself past the stage of pursuing ceaselessly wandering infants from one side to another.
It conveyed the impression that perhaps his wife experiences similar sensations to his own in relation to their younger children.
The dynamics between his eldest son and his wife seem veiled in something convoluted, at least that is what can be glimpsed at first sight.
It is surprising that this elderly man reserves his trust exclusively for me, being the only one with whom he allows genuine dialogue.
However, I regret not knowing his name, which adds a nuance of distortion to our coexistence.
My curiosity to unravel the mysteries of this family grows exponentially, as they seem immersed in a detachment both from my own reality and among themselves.
Nevertheless, I must confess that I am limited in my ability to acquire more information about them.
It is important to emphasize that this perception I have may be merely the product of one of my recurring hallucinations, as has happened on previous occasions.
Despite that, I consider it plausible that in the near future, new experiences and encounters will unfold, awaiting to be unveiled.
However, just as I was immersed in this recapitulation, a disturbing interruption made itself known in the form of stealthy footsteps approaching.
How could it be possible?
There is no one else occupying this space, apart from myself.
Could it be another hallucination playing with my perception?
Undoubtedly, this hypothesis stands as the most plausible.
But before I had time to react appropriately, someone knocked on the door.
A tremulous female voice asked from the other side, "Hello?"
Strangely, that voice seemed to evoke the young woman from my previous dreams, although I sensed a different nuance in her tone, which unsettled me.
Unable to articulate a response to the surprise that overwhelmed me, I chose silence.
The person on the other side of the door attempted to get a glimpse inside, opening it slightly, and upon perceiving nothing out of the ordinary, timidly ventured to enter.
I remained motionless in the corner of the room, observing attentively and awaiting the next turn of events.
The situation grew increasingly enigmatic and unsettling, yet I compelled myself to maintain composure and proceed with caution.
Who could this person be, and what could their intentions be?
And above all, how had they managed to reach here?
A lingering intuition indicated that the answers would soon be revealed.
And then, with steady and determined steps, the enigmatic figure crossed the threshold of the door, fully entering the room...
At the door, venturing fully inside...
Or rather, did she enter a melodrama?
She, a white rose in bloom, delicate and proud,
Oh, yes, a delicate rose, how original!
Her snowy strands gracefully waving in the wind,
Adorning her black eyes, shimmering stars,
Shimmering stars! I'm about to faint with excitement.
Nose and lips traced by a divine brush,
Divine brush... they surely sell that paint at the bazaar.
Her kimono, a dance of black and white,
Someone call the ballet dancers!
A whirlwind of contrasts and hues,
A kaleidoscope of colors for our enraptured eyes.
Her silhouette outlined in shadows and profiles,
I love it when shadows create portraits, how clever!
Her wooden sandals, their sound so subtle.
Be careful with those sandals, you'll wake everyone up.
Though her attire may be tattered,
Oh, yes, those luxurious high-fashion rags!
Her grace and elegance radiate,
Like the sun on the horizon of sunsets,
Does anyone know if sunsets are in fashion this year?
Her cheerful countenance, restless and joyful,
I wonder what funny joke she just heard.
She exudes an inexhaustible inner strength.
Inner strength! She must be friends with the Jedi.
Her presence is a poem in motion,
Oh, yes, this poem is moving so much, I'm getting dizzy.
A corporeal and profound work of art,
Enchanting with her sweetness and beauty,
Enchanting, sweetness, beauty... seems like someone abused the thesaurus.
Inspiring us to find our own light.
Of course, why not!