This story is mature due to graphic descriptions of gore. No judgement if that isn't for you :)

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"Listen to them, the children of the night. What music they make!" 

- Dracula, Bram Stoker

When they were a child, Danya wanted to open a restaurant that only served grilled cheese, scrambled eggs & cheddar sandwiches, and strawberry smoothie shakes.

They now wondered what that little kid would say if they saw them now.

Danya ripped out the man's throat with their shocking white fangs, shaking their head like a rabid dog and smashing the body into the wall like a rag doll. Another launched themselves behind them and Danya threw their head back. Gore splattered against their hair as the head exploded from the immense force. The taste of blood sent their body in a higher frenzy as they grabbed the now limp arms and swung the body around, crashing it into the next attacker before swiping long nails over their face––shredding skin like precious silk into tattered ribbons.

They hated how much they loved this, how much their organs sung with every swing and veins throbbed deliciously with every kill and shriek of agony––it was painfully addicting. The child inside Danya weeped.

They shot their head up in the dim, crusted-honey light, then jumped, reaching their hands up before clasping them on the swinging chandelier. Old, yellowed crystal tumbled, shrieking as it crashed to the floor like glittering snow. Danya wrapped their legs around a neck, twisting it quickly before it snapped. They released the copper bars and dropped in a swirl of elegant black and midnight promises. It was a slaughter, a beautiful dance of homicidal mania and the tango of blood. The scents filled their nose and wracked their senses, the sight of red splattered across the walls looked magical and heavenly. It sparkled with such unearthly luminescence it made them feel drunk.

This is Danya. A non-binary vampire with murderous urges and a knack for cooking.

Formerly-vegetarian.

They feasted upon torn organs and shredded tendons, the bones sweet as a candy delight. Blood was ambrosia, the drug of the gods. Danya lived for blood, the thought of a life without it locked in iron and stone and wood six feet beneath the frozen ground terrified them more than death––more than anything. Years after slaughtering their entire family, every now and then the vampire would feel a tinge of regret, rotten green and sour, watery candy, but it would immediately be flushed as their sumptuous taste overloaded Danya's senses.

Danya was aware they may be a little mad. One had to be when the silence of corpses and their slow loss of breath was their only comfort...

I encourage you to applaud them for their self-awareness. You see, my job here is to ensure Danya's transition is completely smooth. My corporation needs no rough ends.

Allow me to introduce myself.

Danya lunged across the slick floorboards, letting out a screeching, inhuman roar, causing the lights to flicker in dangerous, alarming ways.

You may call me Brad. I am the...CEO, if you wish, of this company. Although I may not be the founder, my work is its very foundation.

I have been monitoring Danya Ubyivovk for a month now, cramped in a small golden nugget of space at the back of their mind. A vampire's brain is interesting, yet predictable, especially in the midst of a blood frenzy. Currently, my hands urge to smoke a pipe and take off a little of Danya's high. How wonderful it is to be a young vampire, only a century off that world-changing bite.

To better understand what I do, I must take you back in time, to about three thousand years ago.

No one really knows where exactly the vampire originated first. The most common belief is the Croatian tale of Jure Grando, who came back to life after sixteen years being buried, and proceeded to haunt his small town and ex-wife with death and terror. The villagers tried again and again to pierce his heart with hawthorn, but the skin would not break. When they dug up his grave, the corpse was smiling, and only when they sawed off his head did he begin to scream. In fact, there's a bar in Croatia meant to revive his legend.

But that story is bogus, bubkis, absolute crap. Although I admire Jure's sick humour, vampires have been around for far longer than that. It's only around that time did we begin to get smart.

Yes, we came from those little vampire bats. We evolved, just like you delicious humans. And so did our skill.

For the first thousand years, we were college dropouts rotting in our parents basements. We lived in caves, tucked in the comfort of black; sleeping day and night and hunting rarely with our strange, arched claws and boney features. Our population gradually increased with every new, starved bite. In our darkness, we hungered.

The next thousand, we were sloppy yet confident. We were sexy. We killed, maimed, drunk, smoked, and cackled in the flames. With every vampire staked through the heart, burned, decapitated, whipped, dismembered, drowned, and deflated (we don't talk about Serbia and Germany), there were two more running into the forest for our damned lives. But we learned. We understood the power of fear and the whisper of a good story. It could turn the best of people into cold-blooded murderers.

I love when that happens.

And so, we encouraged the tales. We stoked its hearth 'til it was a wild beast, keeping children's toes far away from the edges of their bed and reminding those who ventured out into the night to always look twice. We became the trickle of unease down your spine, the scream of terror as darkness moved, and the cry of a full moon, hanging like the promise of pure suffering.

I must correct you here. I do not seek revenge. Do not look down upon us with pity and fear, blame our actions on a horrible childhood and terrible trauma––because it's not that. It's not that at all.

We enjoy this. If I had to choose, I would choose this path over and over and over again because my, is it delightful.

And that brings us back to the main point: what I do.

For so long I have directed all of our efforts. We have orchestrated wars, mass destruction, nuclear explosions and political unrest, all to feed our aching stomachs and, let's face it, greed. But do not call us the monsters we are just yet, because a tale is but a few, well-orchestrated words. One must listen to the tale, let it rot and fester in their brain, and let it bring out their true, evil, selfish selves. For one to become evil, one must already have it within.

And why am I in Danya's brain, you ask? First of all, because I am Danya's brain. I am all of the vampire's brains, both literally and figuratively. As soon as Danya received that tasty bite, I became Danya. Like a cancerous cell tucked in their body, always watching, always nudging in all the right directions. It is how this successful corporation ensures it does not revert back to its messy roots. An insurance, perhaps.

The reason I am here is because little Danya has been having dreams and doubts. And we can't have that. After a month of dipping in and out of their mind, I've finally found the little rat.

The thing squeals when it sees me, turning and sprinting away. I laugh, beside them in a second, gripping the collar of their shirt and tossing them onto the white, linoleum floor of Danya's mind. "Please," the tiny thing begs, "please." And then they peel open a tile beneath them and throw themselves within. I growl, racing right after them.

When I land, it's on red and white tiles, sparkling from a recent wash. It's a small room, quaint, with paintings of the ocean on the walls and circular tables and booths supporting porcelain plates and teacups. The windows letting in buttery light flicker as my anger surges.

There!

I burst forward and glass rains everywhere as I crash into a small, silver kitchen. My iron-tipped fangs draw blood from the swell of my bottom lip. "Hide all you want," I whisper beneath my breath as I slow my heartbeat with a blink. The action causes my sight to narrow, colours to dull and sweeten as I stalk my prey.

The sound of a fearful whimper and I'm there, shoving them against a fridge, denting the metal until it's fully caving around the child. The steel screams with a terrible whine. "Please," Danya's inner child, face streaked with tears and hope, begs once again.

Somewhere far away, out of the depths of thought, a flicker. A hesitance of a boot-clad step before yet another ruthless kill. My rage is now on fire, sending plumes of venomous ash and smoke wafting out of the restaurant as heat peels off my skin.

"Pl––"

The neck snaps.

And the job is done.

Danya continues their reaping.

That was a hell of a story. And now that you know, I suggest keeping your toes away from the edge of your bed, and looking twice when you venture at night. Hang garlic over the doorway, say your prayers, keep close to your family.

I'll find you anyway. This is the life of the vampires, after all.