S. L. Juers
After more than two centuries, the man felt he had endured enough. Born Rudolph Sonthofen and transformed into a vampire at a young age, he adapted to the limitations of his bizarre being. But, his prolonged life was filled with loss, grief, frustration, and deceit. No longer did this cursed person feel it worthwhile to survive. No longer did he want to pass the endless nights hopeless and alone. No longer did he want to be immortal among mortals.
Having outlived all who knew him, this vampire recounts his life in a suicide letter which he signs anonymously “Eternally Yours.”
S.L. Juers had no idea that his first job in a library would be foreshadowing of his future. It was years later, while in the military, that he became aware of the importance of his Writing. He would compose letters to friends and family that were as entertaining as they were informative. He discovered his ability as a storyteller.
Since then, S.L. Juers strives to craft his tales in such a way that any who happen upon them will feel better for the experience.
He still visits libraries for research, to seek quiet as he writes, and, sometimes, just to walk among the rows of volumes of those who have accomplished what he is compelled to do.
Then, there came my most dreaded fear. It was one autumn eve. The air was not yet crisp with the breath of winter. But, in its coolness, chimneys smoked with fireplaces ablaze. A similar smoldering filled my veins. I was struggling with a month of blood famine. I couldn’t think, and I felt nothing, but the tingling of my sensitive flesh. Sitting in the parlor, Martha waited for me to excuse myself and go in search of a donor. In an effort to prevent discovery, I was resisting my temptation until the lateness of night, when only creatures in need would be outdoors. I endured the suffering, my body sweating with pain. I knew relief was going to be had soon. The strain made my chest rigid. It was comparable to holding my breath, as if submerged at some great depth. Martha talked to me of trivia, trying to keep me mentally distracted. It might have worked, except for a disturbance outside.
I could hear the approaching clanging of a bell. All at once, the night sounds erupted with hollering voices and the cries of frightened horses. There was a golden flash coming through the window glass, exposed only so I could view the multitude of stars. There was a fire eating through the house next door. Pump wagons and volunteers were gathering to battle the blaze. Meanwhile, my own internal fire was raging. I felt trapped. I couldn’t leave the house with all those people to witness. Flames quickly jumped across the fallen leaves and spread the inferno in all directions. I paced, trying to subdue the fury inside, while the one outside came threateningly toward my home. Martha knew I was in panic and asked why.
“Fire,” I said. “There is a damn fire next door, and I can’t leave the house. There are too many people.”
Saliva coated my tongue, and my fangs demanded a meal. I was hurting so bad from my addiction, listening to my heart expanding and contracting at a runner’s rate. I needed relief. I needed blood. It had to be now.
I was going to chance it. There was no other way. I had to leave the house, and I hoped that none of the crowd would take notice of me. I left the parlor and walked down the hallway to the wooden door, which was the only barrier between me and outside. As I reached for the knob, there came a rapping.
“Mr. Fuller,” a voice from the other side of the door yelled. “Mr. Fuller, are you in there. Please, Mr. Fuller. There is a fire, and we think you should evacuate.”
I snarled at my breath’s volume, not wanting to be heard, but needing to express the myriad of emotions swelling in me. Martha came to the doorway of the parlor and asked what was happening. In sarcastic frustration, I told her.
“They want us to evacuate. That would be very pretty, me letting this beast out into a crowd.”
The knocking was repeated, as Martha made a decision for both of us.
“Take me,” she surrendered. “If you must take, let it be me.”
I cried; self hatred manifesting in my soul. I didn’t want to spill a drop of her sweet blood, but I could not help myself. I needed to accept the sacrifice, if I was to continue living. I flew to the woman, thankful I was masked by her blindness. If she could have seen, I might not have been able to do the much needed task. I came behind Martha and gently stroked away the hair that had been dropped and combed in readiness for bed. My fingertips brushed her throat, detecting the pulsating jugular which would be my salvation. Bending close, the light fragrance of scented soap danced in my nostrils. My lips caressed her nape. I listened to her breath quicken. There was going to be tenderness in this taking. I endured the anguish of resisting a harsh tearing of flesh. I kissed her neck softly. She offered no fight to my advancing attack. Squeezing my eyelids closed, and feeling tears tracing over my face, I whispered, “Thank you.” My lips made contact, again, on her neck. They flattened and spread to allow my teeth an unobstructed path. With a stinging bite, I was drawing her life from the throbbing vein. At the second of penetration, I felt Martha’s body tense, but she was trustingly composed while I took her essence.
