"There is no greater grief than, in misery,

to recall happier times."

-Dante Alighieri

The sybarite sun has ceased to ogle my world with his radiance. And with my mistress the moon as my last romance, thus I write. Understand that it was not my decision that had rendered it so. And since my mortal death it has not been a choice for me and perhaps shall never be henceforth. Even my faithful moon I was forced to adore for I only ever loved the moon when I fell besotted. And once upon a time in my wretched life, I really had both master and mistress at my side. These I shall explain to you as we proceed.

For I am a drinker of blood.

I am not in any way acquainted with those romantic libertines of New Orleans and I doubt that they even know of my existence. I neither abhor nor extol these beings. I regard them with utmost admiration and respect nevertheless, and that has led me to my seat in this humble shack with only my moon and some golden candelabra for companionship. They have inspired me to write about my creation, my endeavors, and my land. Ah, my lovely homeland, I shall make them see your moribund beauty.

Enough of that, the night is young and let us pray its omniscience aids my struggling memory. I was christened Felipe Sanchez Bustamante. No, not the coarse fuh-lee-pay as is the way with the western tongue but merely Felipe. Alluring as a cobra's pas de deux. Smooth as the pearl of my orient sea. I came into this world on June the 18th 1876, which would make me a mere fledgling compared to those ancients you may have encountered in your vast pursuits of knowledge or amusement. I was conceived and subsequently raised in the wonderful province Batangas in the northern Philippines. A land of oscillating palm trees, splendid waterfronts and lovely ladies. Pardon my impudence, if that's what you dub it to be. I simply could not restrain myself! And there is surely neither malice nor perfidy in my words. I rarely ever sojourn there these days, preferring the bustling streets of Metro Manila with its ravishing nightlife, dauntless miscreants, and the people's inherent distaste for superstition—an aspect that serves best to my advantage. Long gone are the days of the lurking vampira; the detestable mangkukulam, a cursed beldam;and the deplorable aswang or manananggal who thirsts for blood and craves for the unborn babe with such ravenous fervor and fishes them out with tongues that would force a chameleon to shame. And they said we were damned because we were beautiful! The tales are older than I am and I have no desire whatsoever to possess more knowledge of them and whence they came. I am at leisure in that city of light. Besides, I am too much in love with my people to ever do them harm. For as wise men say "You reap what you sow" they shan't be expecting trouble of my doing. They were so good to me when I lived.

We all have stories to tell do we not? No, I have not seen our Lord in all his glory. I shall regard that day with utmost revulsion. My unappeased depredation has mayhap eroded my sanctity and soiled my ivory garments scarlet. But if the words by one of golden tress prove to transcend deceit, my heavenly father's nemesis shall be my ultimate redeemer. I have, thankfully, not seen a soul either and I shall surely be rendered speechless and utterly terrified should I endure such a spectacle. I am in no need however of some metaphysical phenomenon to detest my very being, my means of nourishment above all. Come what may, I hold steadfast to my belief.

I must take a moment to reflect upon the words of my beloved master long lost to my inhospitable embrace. "We rule, but we rule discreetly. We kill, but we kill with compassion. We love, but follow not our hearts." That probably differentiates me from my brothers in the blood. I could never for the life of me make another as I am purely out of beauty and the love that comes astride it. You see; my sense easily overcomes my passion. I cannot begin to imagine my disgust at the act for I consider this breed of immortality to be more a baneful curse than a virtuous blessing. I shall not make a beloved some vestige of his or her former self that consumes human blood for sustenance and satiation! I perfectly agree with the words of one Vittorio di Raniari when he so gracefully stated, "I am not happy. Don't think so. I wouldn't write a book to tell you that a vampire was happy." How can one deny the veracity of that? It surely tugs at the hem of my imagination. And I tell you, a blood drinker is only truly happy when he is in love and loved in return—as all humans are. My belief is that we never cease to be human in our own little way. I have certainly fallen prey to the many sorrows of life and beyond. Though I am only little more than a century in age, they come copiously for one so lonely.

"Why not walk out under the sun and end it all?" you might ask. Well, I am not that intrepid either. I fear that which I fail to comprehend and I know so much already. And I certainly don't know what will become of me when I die. Though the idea has tempted me on numerous occasions, I choose to walk in the way of imminence and clarity rather than venture through the path of uncertainty all forlorn. Though keep in mind, I wasn't always as I was and that probably contributes to the somber reality that my life has indeed become very boring. I wish I could say otherwise, but I am bound to be as honest as can be.

But woe, the present does not tarry in the past. I shall waste little more of your time with my incessant ramblings. My tale awaits you, one rife with prejudice, perdition, and deceit. Since I was raised in a former colony, which was, in my human lifetime, a colony still, I have adapted a rather timid demeanor with a raging inferno barely contained by my servile façade. My character has hardly changed through the years but I have somehow managed to restrain my emotions all the more as the years flew by somewhat like the swift summer breeze.

Speaking of the breeze, its shrill serenades have led me to the conclusion that I have become the culprit of its impatience. Yes, I must hurry. I must begin. Unhindered by abundant displays, I shall speak to you of tropic climes and, much to my chagrin, humid country gales. I never delighted in them, and no matter how hard I strive they come to harry me without fail. I shall speak to you of the fragrance of the gumamela flower and the brilliantly hued corollas of the santan. Let me tell you of a cathedral's grotesque, unruly spires and how they flayed the sky with a people's faith and tell you of things that were once and shall forever be no more.

And more importantly, allow me to tell you of myself.

Disclaimer: Vittorio di Raniari and the vampires of New Orleans belong to Anne Rice. Everything hence and hitherto shall be either mine or based on fact.