Photography Challenge Day 6: flowers
Is it wrong that this image makes me sad?
These are the flowers in my front yard; wildflowers, vast and overgrown. They themselves are beautiful. I often admire them in my window, watch them sway in the breeze. But this morning, I saw a human—no one I know or have seen before, so they caught my attention—stoop down in the early light of morning and smell the flowers. The human smiled.
And something in my pulled tight.
I’ve always been a vampire. I was born of two vampires; my heart has never beat. Most of my coven envied me for that; they though it blessing. For all that they enjoyed being vampires and they loved our coven, they missed the little things about being human. Feeling your heart pound in your chest at the sight of a crush; cloud gazing in the morning, the sun warming your skin; going to taste wine or eat world-renowned dishes at a restaurant.
But they should not envy me for something I’ve never known. My ignorance isn’t bliss. I’ve never known what it’s like to do these things. I have no memories of the sun on my skin, or the smell of flowers in the light of morning. The elder vampires speak, sometimes, of the taste of blood, of the heady rush of sating that primal thirst, and relating it to the delicate undertones of wines or complex dishes; with nothing to compare it to, to me, it just tastes like copper. Maybe that’s because I don’t drink from donors. Plasma packs for me, thanks. But with no other standard, I doubt that I’d find that rush in live donors anyhow.
Everyone marvels at the born vampire—the undead who never lived.
It’s not a marvel. It’s as much a marvel as someone who wraps themselves in darkness, but has never seen light.