As uncomfortable as physical pain is, it doesn’t hold a candle to the unrelenting torture that is my regular, monotonous, daily life. Each one a soiled monument to everything I can never be. I get to watch people clinging to their loved ones. I get to see parents and their kids in parks, movie theatres, even in hospitals. I am envious of their petty issues. I can only dream of what they call their worst.
With every glance into normality, I feel a deeper plummet into the depressing abyss of this nightmare I bathe in. Every day refuses to end. Every week is the longest year I’ve had to suffer through. The seeping sludge of hours and minutes toils laboriously to crawl me through another cycle of the sun, absent of mercy despite all I do to gain at least some kind of peace in this failed life I feign. Yet, year after year I sink deeper into the pages of hell’s notes. Another conquest in the greatest book of comedy the devil’s ever written.
I’m 47 years old now, which is quite young considering I’ll never die. That means that I have been a fat, blind vampire with a squeaking voice and absolutely no hope for 34 years. Not a single day of it has been enjoyable.
I had convinced myself that the whole thing was a joke. Thanks to the fact that I was a bumbling butterball with no friends and nothing but comics and games to keep me from suicide, I had plenty of outside torture to allow me to forget the whole vampire ritual thing for the next couple years.
When I began high school I was less confident than even I had assumed. I was that short, fat dumpy kid that looks like he should be really smart because he has nothing else going for him. I looked like I was 13, which can happen I guess. Unless you still look 13 when you’re a senior, like I did.
My mom took me to a doctor, who found nothing wrong with me. He made no mention of vampire physique or immortality. His best guess was a slightly malfunctioning pituitary gland and that it will clear up naturally. To assist in my speedy recovery from awkward displacement, I was placed on a steady diet of everything you never want to eat as a theoretically growing teenager. Food: my love. I don’t need to tell you how wonderful life is when the last joy you have left is stripped from you.
The excruciating span of high school movement was spent absolutely devoid of happiness, compassion, or even the slightest sense of humanity from anyone at all. That was nothing compared to the endless rampage of ridicule I was blessed with after high school.
You can imagine my enthusiasm for higher academics after so many years of cruelty and embarrassment. My parents treated me like a kid and did nothing to encourage me in any walk of life. If you can believe it, they tried to ground me about two months ago because I asked them to pick up some liquor.