Have you ever just gotten sick of living?

I don't mean in the yucky, depressing, woe-is-me, I-have-nothing-left-to-live-for kind of way. No, I mean, have you ever woken up, stared at the ceiling real long and hard, and just thought, 'You know what? I'm over it'?

Because I've never.

You'd think that, for the number of years that I've walked on this ball of floating rock, I'd be like one of those old dried-up hippie geezers down in the catacombs "fasting for inner peace". But I see every day as a new opportunity. The world is ever-changing and never boring. Not a century goes by without some kind of major disaster—usually brought upon by humans themselves—threatening to destroy the world as we know it. It's hilarious, really.

Oh, don't turn your nose up on me like that. When was the last time you watched one of those instant karma compilations on YouTube without wheezing like a dying seal? We all have our guilty pleasures, except I'm not guilty about mine whatsoever.

You, humans, think that being on top of the food chain (which you're not, by the way) gives you every right to treat this teeny insignificant floating ball of rock like your own playground. And it's always been the same; from the fall of the Romans to the rise of an angry art school reject with a funny moustache, to whatever the fuck is going on now, you've killed each other by the millions. And for what? For one dude to sit on top of the world and claim it as his own? Newsflash, buddy: y'all can't even agree on pizza toppings.

Say what you want about my kind, but at least we stick together, you feel me? Yeah, I want to rip some of their heads off—one particular head especially—sometimes, but our tenets haven't been broken in millennia for a reason. It's true that we've committed many of what your latest iteration of morality calls 'murders', but it's nowhere near your death toll. Even if we adjust for the population difference.

Don't get me wrong, it's not that I hate humanity. I actually think some of you are pretty cool. (Hell, I used to be one of you.) But, just like you love to watch Karen get arrested after calling the police on an innocent person of colour, I also like to observe karmic retribution. So don't call the kettle black, please and thank you very much.

Or don't listen to me and just do what you want. I can't really tell you what to do unless I want to, and right now I don't particularly care. A girl just wants to live her undead immortal life in peace. Speaking of which...

"Happy Twenty-Two-Hundredth you old whore!"

Aeneas struts into my living room with about ten shopping bags on each forearm. His short platinum hair is decorated with narrow Prada sunglasses, and his thin but muscular body is waxed clean and spray-tanned bronze. He's wearing denim booty shorts and a sheer black sleeveless shirt cropped to just below his pierced belly button.

"Like you're not pushing two millennia yourself," I say and kiss him on each cheek.

He puts a hand to his mouth in mock offence and turns his back to me. "Does this ass look like it's two millennia to you?"

"Yes, I believe Hadrian would've tapped it."

"What makes you think he hasn't?"

"You wouldn't shut up about it for at least five centuries if he had."

"Bitch!" He turns back around "I'd never shut up about it."

He flips imaginary hair with a manicured hand and heads up my stairs.

This latest iteration of my best friend is very fun, not gonna lie. Remember when I said some humans are pretty cool? RuPaul is top of that list—if only for his show getting Aeneas to finally put on a wig.

"Bitch, are you coming?" he calls from the top of the stairs.

I roll my eyes and speed past him. In the blink of an eye, I'm at the door to my walk-in closet.

"You're too slow," I say as he pops up before me a second later.

"You expect me to run in these, Lucretia?" he gestures to his Louboutins.

"You just did, didn't you?"

"Only because it's your birthday, bitch."

He throws the shopping bags onto the couch and begins rummaging through them.

"Will I regret asking what's in this?" I open a bag with my finger and peek inside. Just some makeup.

"Stuff for the show tonight," he produces a long red sparkling dress with a slit up to its hip and holds it before him, "I'm thinking a Jessica Rabbit-type look."

"Very modern of you," I say, "I think it can work."

"Me? Girl, do I look like I can fit into this tiny thing?"

I shrug. "I've seen you fit in tinier."

He laughs, showing his perfect white teeth.

"True. But no," he tosses the dress to me, "it's yours."

"Me?" I echo as I catch the sequined fabric. It rustles beneath my fingers.

"You already have the hair," Aeneas points out.

"But..." I spread it out in my hands and watch the light dance on its small sequins, "it's sparkly."

"It's Jean Paul Gaultier."

My eyebrows fly up as I clutch it to my breast. "You're gonna have to tear it off of my mummified body."

"I know," He snaps his fingers. "Garcon!"

A very well-built man in a tuxedo walks into my closet. He has gorgeous tanned skin, light brown sun-bleached hair, and eyes like the ocean. One of his wrists is bound in a bloody bandage, and he carries a tray with two champagne flutes filled with cherry red liquid.

"You compelled my butler?" I cross my arms. "Again?"

Aeneas shrugs as he takes the flutes. "You can always give him vervain if you don't like it."

"Or maybe you can get your own manservant," I put my elbow on my butler's shoulder and shake my head at him. "Honestly, this guy..."

"I have plenty of my own," he says as he offers me a flute.

"Then why don't you bring them?" I take it.

"Because you'll take them all, bitch. As if I don't know you."

"I won't take them all," I glance towards the doorway and see one of my girls disappear into the bathroom on the left. I get a glimpse of her honey blonde curls and my bloody bite mark on her ass cheek. "You know I like to switch it up."

"Mmhm, now shut your ass up and drink."

I do. Metal, salt, and alcohol penetrate my taste buds. I swirl the bubbly drink in my mouth, savouring the taste of dry grapes which slowly blooms inside it.

"That's amazing, Aeneas," I say as I take another sip, "you've finally perfected it. How'd you do it?"

"You know how I let the blood sit and age with the wine for a bit?"

I nod.

"It turns out I was going about it all wrong. The trick is to get them drunk on one of my wines, then mix that blood with whichever wine of mine I choose, then age that in a sealed barrel for carbonation, et voila!"

"Huh, whattaya know, you've outdone yourself," I sip again. "And who and what is this, if I may ask?"

"Remember Roberto?"

"The cute Argentinian painter?" I widen my eyes as I take yet another delicious drink. "Oh, fuck, he's everything I thought he would be."

"Fed him my Shiraz, aged him in—"

"Wait, don't tell me—" I hold up my finger and sip again, swirling the blood and wine in my mouth as I try to discern the flavours. "Malbec."

"Gold star for you, bitch," he toasts, "and that's why I'm naming it Lucretia."

I feel my eyebrows climb high and my eyes widen. Not many things surprise me anymore, especially not pleasantly, but I tell you Aeneas just has a way of getting right into my cold dead heart like nobody else can.

"Are you gonna make me fucking cry?" I ask him.

"For the last time, Lucretia, you haven't had that ability in over two millennia. Why do you—"

He's cut off by my embrace.

"Thank you," I say as he wraps his arms around me, "for everything."

"Happy Birthday," I hear the smile in his voice. "Now get off of me and let me get dressed, you hoe."

Shaking my head, I let him go and open a window to let the sunlight in. I've seen many depictions of our kind over the years. Dracula, Lestat, that constipated sparkling fairy in Twilight, you name it. Funny thing is, they all have a thing with sunlight, one way or another. I have no fucking clue where that comes from because that's never been the case. Neither can wood kill us. If I had a dime for every time some idiot vampire hunter tried to stab one of us with a wooden stake, only to be shortened a head, I'd buy the fucking Buckingham Palace itself.

What's that? You want to know how you can actually kill us? Nice try. The most I'll give you—because it's insanely rare since we almost brought it to extinction—is a specific species in the vervain genus. It's enough to weaken us somewhat and block our compulsions, but you won't kill us with it. Sorry to burst your bubble.

"What are you standing there for?" he stands in an elegant emerald green gown and presses his fists to his waist. "Get dressed, cunt! I wanna see you in this thing and we're gonna be late!"

"Fine," I roll my eyes and strip as he begins putting his makeup on. "What made you go for this dress anyway?"

"I told you, you have the red hair for it," he says, "I'm appalled we didn't do it in the eighties."

"That's because you were in your Madonna era," I say as I shimmy into the tight-knit gown, "remember the triangle boobs?"

"Cone bra! And that was in April '90 for your late-onset dementia ass."

"Well excuse me, fucking Library of Alexandria."

"Me? Bitch, you were alive when it wasn't yet a pile of burnt rubble."

I roll my eyes as I pull the dress up. Whatever, he wins this one.

"A little help?" I turn my back to him and hear a clatter of makeup brushes hit the vanity.

"You're gonna look so hot," he says as he zips me up. When I turn back around, he looks me over and smiles in satisfaction. "Nailed it, as always."

He's blocked out his eyebrows and put on foundation and a wig cap. I know he'll paint on a work of art later, but he always looks like an unfinished mannequin to me in this state. Stepping aside, he lets me walk up to a mirror.

Jessica Rabbit is spot on. The strapless gown hugs my body just perfectly, making my waist look almost as tiny as it did in Victorian corsets. The slit on my right leg goes up almost to my hip, and the heart-shaped neckline pushes my boobs beautifully. It pairs very well with my long red hair, truly all I have left to do is wear the purple gloves.

"Please tell me you don't have the purple gloves," I turn to my best friend, "I'm not doing a... what do they call it now? Cosplay at my birthday."

"Honestly, I debated getting some. But I figured you wouldn't approve." He smiles. "Well?"

I return his smile and look back at my reflection. "I love it."

"Of course you do. I picked it."

My eyes might as well stay glued to the back of my head whenever I'm around him, since all I do is roll them there.

"Will there be any humans there?" I ask as I turn and look at my side profile in the mirror.

"Nope. But basically all the tribes we know will be. It's not every day one of us turns your age."

One thing I don't understand is why we have buttholes. For humans, I get it, I used mine all the time when I was one. Now, though? All it's good for is experimental sex and involuntary clenches when I'm uncomfortable. Like right now, for instance.

"Oh," Aeneas says, "was that not obvious?"

"No, it makes sense." I take a deep breath, even though I don't need to, "Do you think she'll be there?"

"I don't know," He shrugs. "I don't know what goes on in the mind of Miss Cuntralia."

Like the useless thing that it is, my butthole clenches harder for no apparent reason other than that I'm getting more and more pissed as the seconds go on.

"She's been there every other time," I say under my breath. "What's one more rodeo?"

"Hey," he zooms towards me, makeup completed, and takes my hands in his. "Forget her, okay? This is your day. You're going to walk in there in your Gaultier dress like a fucking bombshell, you'll have everyone there bowing at your feet to earn your favour, and you're gonna have a fucking amazing time. Whether Aurora Beatrix is there or not, you'll fucking kill it."

Aurora Beatrix. The fucking bane of my existence. Ever since we were newturns, she's been stealing my spotlight. Over twenty-two fucking centuries later and she still doesn't just shove off. I'm in half a mind to tell you how to kill us just so one of you can get to her. I'd do it myself, but tenets and all.

"You're right," I breathe needlessly, "you're right. Fuck her, I'm not letting her ruin my night."

"Hell yeah you're not!" he spins me and plops me down on the chair he just vacated. "Now sit still, I need to make you look less... well, dead."

But as he works, my mind spins circles around Aurora Beatrix. Would she really be there? What will she try and do to undermine me this time? Who will she pit against me? What is she going to wear?

And why the fuck does the mere mention of her name send my mind in a fucking spiral?