Letters

Dear Amanda,

Despite the time we spent together, I feel as though I know little of you and you know even less about who I really am. I am referring to the man I was centuries ago, before I became a vampire in 1757.
I was born into the minor aristocracy in a place called Meudon, France in the outskirts of Paris. It was rural and I must admit I loved the country life; riding horses, walking with my dogs, fishing, wandering in the woods and feeling the sun on my face. Michel was my neighbor and best friend since childhood. I was in love with his sister and hoped to marry her one day. All I ever wanted was to be a father and live on the land that gave birth to me.
I am passionate by nature and I cannot live without art, music, literature and solitude. I am a deeply spiritual man though not a religious one. I am private yet honest and I hate hypocrisy. What do I miss about being mortal you ask me? I miss French food, a good bottle of wine, silence, the innocence of mortals, daylight. I sometimes crave my mother's rabbit stew, though I cannot remember her face.
I have fought hard to be more than a bloodsucking monster with no sense of propriety. I hate this age - it lacks romance and depth. You have a kind heart and a keen mind. You are cultured, with a sense of humor and morality, and a passionate, womanly soul. You would be a great mistress yet a miserable wife. Tis' a pity we had not met under other circumstances. Please remember, all men are not gentle and all vampires are not monsters. It is sometimes difficult to discern the difference, yet you have never judged me, despite the warnings. For that Amanda, I will be forever grateful.

Until we meet again,
Christian