Yesterday, I became a vampire. There is no twist on the word, I'm afraid; the traditional stereotypes define me quite accurately.
I cannot recall what engendered this change, but I have a sudden, expected urge to imbibe large volumes of blood.
I have sharp canines that are disconcertingly white, flashing brightly when I admire them in the mirror. They should allow me easy access to my victims' carotid.
There is no sense in resisting my now natural instinct, right? I'm sure you would agree. I should embrace my new form. Obviously.
I make my way down the hallway, taking a second to study my pasty, bleached skin in the mirror. I enter the bedroom down the hall.
Queasiness reigns after my first feasting. I throw open the door to the adjoining bathroom. I hit the light switch and instinct directs me to my medication sitting behind the mirror.
I quickly slammed the medicine cabinet shut.
The blood staining the walls reflected in the mirror did not scare me. Neither did the taste of iron on my tongue, nor my clothes imbued with the blood of my wife and child.
I glanced at my reflection in the mirror. Not even realization could scare me anymore. My average, unremarkable teeth winked at me as I raised my eyes to meet the darkness on my tanned face.
The piercing, unforgiving gaze of psychosis stared back.