My name is Vivian

My name is Vivian. I was born in France in 1968. I died in 1994. I lived with my parents until I went to college in Paris.

We changed addresses on average, sometimes every other month, sneaking out at night like fugitives from a crime scene. I hated this moving from place to place. My father was sick for as long as I can remember. He couldn't be in the sun, so his room was always dark and gloomy.

My mother loved me very much. I was the apple of her eye. Before college, I never went to a real school. My mother always said that private lessons were much better for me because we traveled so often. I had no friends, nor did my parents. The only person my parents kept in touch with was my Uncle Paul. He was my best and only friend until I was 22, and he still is.

I studied philosophy in Paris. It wasn't easy to make friends because my mother taught me to distrust people. After a year, however, I found a kindred spirit. Her name was Helen and she was at the same university as me, majoring in German Studies. We moved in together. Helen taught me to see the world from a completely different perspective than I had before. She showed me around Parisian pubs and discos. She introduced me to new people. Those were the best moments of my life. Crazy ideas, fleeting romances, and great loves. Of course, I visited my parents during all the long holidays and breaks from teaching.

When I passed my last exam on July 9th, I was so proud of myself. I remember walking the streets of Paris then, planning my future. I was more certain than ever. When I returned to my apartment that evening, I shouted through the door to Helen that life was beautiful. I flung it open and saw Uncle Paul. He was pale (as always), and his expression bore no signs of good. He said my parents were dead—both of them.

I cried for a long time, but when I stopped, Paul began telling me unbelievable stories. I learned that my father was a vampire. Paul told me of my father's great love for my mortal mother. That because of my birth, his Clan had cursed him and foretold his death. That his old enemy, Mirty, had been following him for a long time and that he had killed him. I wanted revenge.

There was only one way I could equal him. I knew Paul would never willingly give it to me. So I went to the kitchen, still shocked by what I had heard, I pulled out a knife and slit my wrists. Paul immediately rushed into the kitchen, unsure what to do. He hesitated for a moment. Then he put his mouth to my hand and drank a few drops of blood. He bit his hand and poured his blood on my lips. I don't remember what happened next...

After some time, I was able to drag a chosen person to a quiet place and brutally kill them. Of course, over time, it became easier to kill others, but I still have great reservations about it and only do it when I truly need it. Paul taught me everything about vampires and their weaknesses. He helped me find Mirti and figured out how I could get revenge. (Of course, the only option was death for death.) I finally took action. Seducing him wasn't easy, but I succeeded. When I invited him to Paul's apartment, he was delighted with me. And I felt pure hatred for him, flowing from my heart.

I killed him by stabbing him in the heart.

I then took to the streets in uncontrollable rage and frenzy, killing everyone I encountered. As I lunged at the fifth person in the row, I heard a familiar scream. It turned out to be Helena. She had fainted and was lying in my arms. That's when I came to my senses. I dropped her off at her apartment and moved to the outskirts of Paris. I still

live here today. I've isolated myself from people. Sometimes you can find me in small Parisian pubs, which remind me of the old days. Paul sometimes visits me, and sometimes I follow Helen and watch her grow old, loving life. I envy her.

The vampires in the Clan haven't learned of my secret yet... And they never will. I'll make sure of that.