They say that the eyes are the window to the soul.

What happens when you can’t look into your own eyes? What does that say about your soul?

You might say, look in a mirror. I would, but I’m a vampire.

Society paints us as tortured souls. Maybe we have some animalistic drive to hunt and devoid young women. Or we have a sexual impulse that is so fierce that we cannot contain ourselves and need to taste blood to feel any satisfaction.

I know for myself that isn’t the case. A tortured soul, yes, but not for those reasons. I have no sense of identity.

Vampires can live for thousands of years. All of our connects with mortals end with their deaths, whether by plague, war, or old age. The foundations, the establishments, the institutions that we once knew fade away into obscurity. The things that we enjoyed once become distant memories to all.

My family died during the Black Plague. My best friends went to fight in the two world wars. My greatest love stabbed me in the heart. Not betrayal, but a literal stabbing. She didn’t take the news of my true nature well.

What do I have to fall back on? On what do I draw an identity? No family, no friends, no lover.

You may think a job, or your vampire history. Sure that would give you an identity.

What job can I preform? What role in this modern society will hire a pale faced man, for the hours of midnight to four am? Because after that time, the sun may rise. I will not work myself to death, or die coming off the job.

The history of vampires is so steeped in death and violence there is no joy or beauty there. It is a history of sides, vampire or other. You are either for us or against us. Universal seclusion or death. What identity can I find there? Any religion? The same result. Death or seclusion.

All the things, all the places that a human would draw identity from I lack. Even the most basis, a personal appearance.

I have no reflection. I have no idea what I look like now. I know I am pale by the shade of my hands. But what it has done to my face, I’ll never know.

What does my hair look like? Do my eyes still shine brilliant blue? Do my dimples still show prominently when I laugh?

I don’t know. I may never know.

Without an identity, without a way to look at who I am, I fear that my soul is nothing more than a memory. A remanence of a time long gone by, now a flake of what I am.

That is not a traditional scary story. But when you actually delve into the idea that a person could roam the earth for thousands of years without an identity, without knowing who they are…well, that is scary on a completely different level.

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