The thing about Rasheen Perpetua is this: as much as he has enjoyed life as a human, he desires his new life as a vampire most.

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Despite the newfound revisions of his daily life, like craving meat and blood, and not getting tired or needing sleep, Rasheen is still very much the same person overall. Yes, he's an immortal, blood-thirsty, creature-of-the-night-style vampire and all, but he thinks of himself as a remodeled version; Rasheen Perpetua 2.0: The Vampire Edition, or someone of the like. Honestly, everything has been relatively the same in his eyes.

Everything but those things that have to do with vampire subjects, such as hiding the vampires-are-real secret and keeping the Covent protected at all costs, that is.

See, Rasheen is still a university student studying environmental science and human geography, sleeping in a dorm room with his best mate, practicing endurance for cross country, and running the frozen yogurt shop at odd intervals throughout the day.

And while things have taken a while to be accustomed to – for example: not snickering during lessons because he knows so much more now, not strolling around campus or working with the lights on during the midnight hours, forcing breaks while running as to not be singled out, and not commenting on how tasty someone smells when they're quite the distance away – he thinks he's handling himself quite alright. There have been some struggles, yes, but he's Rasheen Perpetua, and he's the master of success in all things to be hidden.

Still, though, as cheery as life has been – and trust him, it has been quite grand – there are moments in which he reminisces over who he was pre-bite. Granted, he hasn't changed internally, but he can only help but think that now there is an added factor to him, an extra zest that may or may not be good. However much he believes in that, though, he knows he's more complex than just good or bad, hero or villain; but, again, there are factions within him that believe he's truly done a ninety degree turn in one direction.

Good or bad, hero or villain, the turn is there and his moral compass has been slightly skewed.

Slightly, in its small degree of change, shouldn't concern anyone, though, especially not someone as grandeur him, yet it bothers him either way. He doesn't like this slight turn as it's still a turn. Because...since when has he begun to think it's okay to suck a human dry of their blood, if he has always been a loyal vegetarian and overall good person? Since when has he begun to think it's okay to be so cocky because he knows things others don't, if he has always been so humble in studies? Since when has he been someone so ignorant of someone else's needs, if he has always been generous toward everyone though he may not like them or agree with them in the slightest? Since when has been so restless, if he has always had ways of getting rid of said energy and running if nothing works? Since when has he been a person to comment how nice or even delicious a person looks and smells, if he has always been a feminist against all forms of cat-calling?

Since when? Since when has he thought or acted upon such whims?

Since when? Someone please tell me when!

So, maybe becoming a vampire has affected him in more than one way – which is one more than he'd like to admit. Maybe it has; and maybe it's his beginning, or maybe it's his downfall. Who knows? Who truly knows, except for the voice inside himself, his conscious muttering little things to keep the storm alight, but the rages within at bay before release?

When, how, why?

I need to know when, and how, and why! Someone, please, tell me!

When: since the beginning.

How: it has been called change.

Why: and it just is.

Because...since the beginning it has been called change, and it just is.

It just is, in the same way Rasheen is questioning himself ruefully.

Rasheen, he's always been one to forgive, he really has. He has always thought that there is no need for rancor, for grudges, for angst – no matter if it is against the self or anyone else. But now? It's hard letting go of his past, it really is. But even then, he has to remember himself as a mirror's reflection in order to access said past; not as a portrait of the boy he's always thought and perceived himself to be, but as a true reflection of inner-thought and inner-vice, of inner-self.

Who was I before?

He was a boy – simple as that. Though, there are some things that could add more to him as a person.

He was a boy who loved the earth.

Yes, he loved the earth and hoped to protect it as much as he could, even if he took little steps. He became vegetarian because of this love; he attempted being vegan because of this. He advocated for all of his family and friends to eliminate all their eating of meat, and if they couldn't, to at least cut back sometimes.

He was a boy who loved the earth and all of its inhabitants.

Yes, he loved everyone, and this even included despicable, right-winged, conservative Republicans – wait, no. That's the first lie. He just barely tolerated them, but there were a few that he met in his life that he actually ended up liking, despite their views on immigration and climate change. He may have not agreed with them, but they latched on to his heart anyway.

He was a boy who loved running.

Yes, he loved running despite the excruciating practices that would leave him sore for days. He was rejuvenated as the sweat rolled down his forehead, as his heart beat fast and true though he couldn't actually hear it, and as his coach yelled something along the lines of "you better fucking win, Perpetua!" He enjoyed the glorious victories after a race, and even took joy in bitter defeats too.

He was a boy who loved running away and never looking back.

Yes, he loved midnight adventures that would leave him lost and alone in a stranger's yard, tried to hush his laughter as he snuck around, and attempted to not get caught. He felt joy in getting busted sometimes, though, but he felt alive in his legs pulsing and pushing and beating, propelled him forward to emerge on the other side. Small travels with others, though, iced the cake with the most altering of frosts ever made.

In total, he loved his earth and his people and his pass time and his delinquency; he loved it all.

And maybe that's the second lie, because he still loves all of those things, and he's sure he will never get tired of any of that as he continues living but doesn't age. He knows, he really does; he's confident that these joys will be the things to never change, no matter how much he and his moral compass do. Because all those things are more immortal than he is, more time-bending and time-defining than his existence will ever be.

It's the simple things in life, it really is.

But, still.

There are still mores.

Still more are other things, stuff he knows can and will change with the smallest shifts.

His inner-peace feels wrong: there is the guilt inside him that feels as thick as an Odysseus-remake's guile and honeyed words; his head spins with remorse of things he hasn't committed, but has thought to act upon; his soul feels as it has no rhythm, no beat, no song, no falsetto, and no steady liability of recognition and self-remembrance.

He can't get up: he is laying his head against his pillow, and his body rests on his bed's comforter; his eyes are spinning with what-ifs and his mind is drowning in sights he could have manipulated; he feels as if he is swimming in lukewarm water, and there is nothing but shallowness to all directions, yet he takes a tiny step forward and gets submerged.

His hands and feet are weaker than before: he has never been weak, but now he struggles; he's up and alert, yet his weight becomes over-bearing and his fingers twitch without scare; his ears are ringing and he doesn't even have his aid on; falling is a possibility, but so is crumbling.

He can't see anymore: and he thought hearing was and is problem; he feels mute, though he can speak; he is blind in a room where there is much too light, all of it sunny and warm and embracing and kind and benevolent; he blinks only to find more filtered dust in his vicinity; he does it once more and becomes clear-sighted; he sees the future and it's anything but light.

Darkness is becoming: no, it is coming; it's not approaching for him, but because of him; the absence wants to swallow him whole the way it has for ages in the past, will continue to do so as people commit sins as equally as transgressions; his hand reaches for the switch, and he flips it on, and there is more blindness; however, he can see something bigger than the room he lives in.

Yet he is there – wherever there is, and whoever he is.

He doesn't take any of it back: he won't, he really won't; all of these things have made him, helped create him into the person or creature he is; mortal or immortal, it has happened and the thing within him continues to grow into itself and him.

There's nothing he regrets: that's false – this is the third and final lie, because he regrets many things; he regrets the things he's done to people, the things he's done because of people; he regrets blood-absence and blood-shed; but most of all, he regrets all of this self-recognized disgust flowing within him, and he won't acknowledge it any longer.

He still shouts: like an scared child during a storm; like the sound a mother makes once she's lost the thing she carried within her for months; like a little girl, discovering she likes girls, and praying it away; like a boy who finds out the reason his parents are divorcing; but most of all, like a newly freed-bird's first natural tweeting chirp.

He still breaths: he can swim, and drowning in shallow water has never been an option; he's a runner, and taking oxygen in has always been the best gratification, even besides a victory; his lungs expand and contract with every intake, and each new round feels like an ignorant person's bliss

He still bleeds: the pieces of broken glass penetrate his skin and cut him open, and the crimson liquid erupts like lava from a volcano; the thing pulses within him, and his heart urges for a cease to its life; alcohol stings him like venom does to those who have just broken down; it is a sign that he's still alive, still breathing, still Rasheen; and if he is still alive, it also means another thing.

He's still awake: his inner-peace is restored to what it was; he can get up from the floor and the fall; his hands and feet are strong, and so is he; his eyes are bright; darkness is filtered out of his eye-sight, out of his mind; he's there no longer, he's somewhere else; he doesn't take anything back; he regrets nothing; he shouts with joy and something else; and that something is the delight of breath and the act of breathing; the blood is finally drying.

He's not haunting; he's not haunted – he isn't.

He is here – wherever here is, and whoever he is.

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The thing about Rasheen Perpetua is this: as much as he has enjoyed life as a vampire, he desires his old life as a human most.