December 31, 1699 - Venice

     Laughter echoes in the alleys. The smell of rum fills the air, reminding me of a time so long ago. A time when the turn of a century was something special, not just another day, another year, another cry in the night. When I was human, my father welcomed the New Year passed out on the dirt floor of our home. I watched as he vomited on himself in his slumber and promised myself that I would never be like him. I guess I kept that resolution.

     Leaning against a building, I distract myself from the loneliness my curse brings and choose my meal carefully. Not that one, he’s much too drunk. He won’t scream the way I want him to. Not her. She has her arm looped around a man that sees nothing but her face. Finally, I see my prey. Round and pompous, a rich glutton shoves his way through the crowd. I smile to myself. This may actually be a happy New Year after all.  

March 14, 1915 - Fargo

     The luxury of air filling your lungs may not be necessary for all species but every creature craves it. Every ounce of every being yearns to taste the freshness of the air as it sweeps over its tongue and expands its chest, relieving the pressure inside. And as I lie at the bottom of this frigid riverbed, deep away from the penetrating rays of the sun, I wonder how many more times in my life I will suffer holding my breath for an entire day. How many times must I let the air in my lungs grow stale and unsatisfactory?

     Regardless of how much I think of it, I have no answer. As the sun sets and darkness takes its grip on the sky, I swim to the surface and emerge, dripping wet and knowing one answer. Those werewolves that chased me here will not have to wonder when they will stop breathing cause they are about to find out. 

August 15, 1573 - Sitia

     Some would call me a monster and maybe they're right. After all, I did slaughter an intolerant group of misguided humans just to save a vampire from a burning house. They tried to destroy her family and managed to murder her mate. Heartbroken and sullen, she had sat down next to his ashes, waiting for the flames to consume her. 

     But the fire did not take her, I did. I pulled her from the house, knowing the number of humans that would die for her to live and accepting that price. And now, as I hold her in my arms, letting her tears soak my shirt, I console her and am reminded: Those who are so bigoted are the real monsters here.

May 15, 1623 - Madrid

     I saw them approaching long before they reached our property, saw their torches gleaming in the night. Stupid humans, always attacking us in the dark, as though the fire makes them more threatening. It doesn’t. We waited in the trees until they crowded around our house then rushed across the yard from behind. The first man I came to died quickly as I twisted his head until it faced me. The second, not so quickly, as I slashed his throat with my claws.

     By the time the rest of the humans noticed me, a pile of bodies was forming at my feet. Their eyes grew wide, they screamed as though we were demons and they scattered like scared little children. Not all of them made it off the property before we sank our fangs into them, tore the flesh from their faces, or crushed their skulls into dust. When silence finds me again and the night grows calm, I look around at the masses of humans covered in blood lying on our yard and think: pathetic.