These posers make me sick. The fake fangs. The excessive amounts of black cloth, leather, and chains (or minimal amounts, on the women among them). The pathetic obsession with death. The bloodplay. They run around claiming to represent some vampire “subculture”. In reality, they’ve just wrecked their minds on that hack Rice’s books and too much roleplaying.

They even have a nice, cozy myth they bandy about: that the curse of Cain was vampirism. They claim him as the father of all vampires. There are even serious essays about vampiric motifs in Cain’s story.

Like I said, they make me sick. And the real vampires are almost as sickening. Would it have been so damn hard for them to have just died? But no, they had to fight, and if they fought me off well enough, if they clung to life long enough, my curse took hold in them.

Stupid humans. They screw everything up, even themselves. Even Eden.

I’ve taken to eating the posers. How dare they make a mockery of me? How dare they amuse themselves with my pain? None of them ever looked up from where they’d fallen in a field, only to find their brother standing over them with a bloody staff. None of them ever watched their blood etch patterns into the dust as they died. None of them ever listened to their brother lie to God Himself about their fate.

None of them died while God Himself stood nearby. He heard my very blood cry out to Him from the ground, but all He did was yell at my brother.

So I punished him myself. Too bad I’d forgotten about Cain’s mark, and the promise God had made to him…

Sevenfold vengeance, indeed.