Memoirs of A Vampire: A Background

Author's Note: The idea came to me while it was raining. I was on a bus, heading back to my home province after completing an undergraduate assessment exam for university. As I gazed out of the window, a vision formed in my mind—a hunter, a vampire in pursuit of their prey. Their intent was not to kill, but rather to proposition "clean" humans to become their blood donors. It was the late '90s, and the world was still grappling with the aftermath of the AIDS epidemic. For this particular, discerning vampire, locating a human with untainted blood proved to be a formidable challenge. Ultimately, they settled on a human male who was drowning his sorrows at a bar, having recently been left heartbroken by a high school sweetheart.

The vampire chose this heartbroken human male, who wore his heart openly on his sleeve. Little did our vampire friend know that there was more to this stranger than met the eye. Even the human male himself had no inkling of how crucial he would become in the vampire's plans someday. Their names would be Karmila and Gabriel, inspired by vampire name conventions and the name of an anchor whose flyers I had seen on the bus.

However, before Karmila and Gabriel's intertwined story could be revealed, I needed to establish a background and motivation for Karmila. This is why her memoirs were written. She would recall, in great detail, how her current life came to be because she wanted to bore her therapist to tears.

***

I was never meant to write a memoir, to recount decades of my life as if composing a last will and testament. Such thoughts never crossed my mind, especially since the last time I reminisced, I had no direct descendants. Even if I did, I am not foolish enough to bequeath my earthly possessions to those half-witted inbreeds.

However, I was compelled to undertake this endeavor, strongly urged by my maker. I never considered myself a writer, nor did I have any intention of pursuing such a vocation. Now, the reason for my writing stems from a forced diagnosis by a quack. They claim I harbor deep-seated anger that must be released in a non-destructive manner, or it will consume me from within. I contend that they have no understanding of what they speak.

While I may lack a licensed psychologist's credentials, I have lived long enough to realize that my anger towards individuals from my past (and present) will have no impact on my general environment. Nevertheless, as I find myself with ample spare time, and I begrudgingly admit that a touch of introspection may be beneficial:

I sat down to pen this on a particularly gloomy day, September 15, 1983. If the quack insists on reading this, as I am certain they will, I wager they will deride it, labeling it a poorly structured work of fiction, or perhaps something equally absurd, like my having replaced significant events with metaphors to conceal my grief or anger.

In the unlikely event that I decide to publish this, I may profit from it. Yet again, this was not a path I had ever intended to tread. My wealth, amassed through wise investments and global business ventures, renders me impervious to the allure of attention. Perhaps, then, this is simply an exercise in writing, a preparation for the day I may encounter the Higher Source.

For the sake of posterity, I have consulted numerous journals that have accompanied me through the years. I commenced journaling at the tender age of eight, though I have long since lost those early volumes. The most recent I managed to preserve dates back to my writing at the age of twelve, nearly thirteen, in a journal I acquired in Barcelona.

The initial entry serves as an introduction to my life, a means for future historians to identify the owner of the book. It's curious how life often unfolds differently than anticipated—I never departed when I expected to.

All my writings were originally penned in Spanish, as I gradually mastered the language in lieu of my native Tagalog. I have now translated them into English, as I prefer certain nuances to be lost in translation. Please pardon any lack of coherence in my writings. My reflections on the events and people recorded on the yellowed pages of my journals are guided by the prejudices I held then and still carry with me.

To my psychiatrist,

Your opinion of me shall remain unchanged, as shall mine of you. You once said to me, "WRITING WILL HELP YOU MAKE PEACE WITH YOUR PAST. LET GO AND FORGIVE, NOT FOR THEM, BUT FOR YOUR OWN SAKE." In response, I offer you this:

Ex pede Herculem

**

ONE

Dear reader,

It's hard not to notice the little things when you're immortal. Like the way a person chews with their mouth open, allowing bits of food to disgustingly fall from their mouth. Or when a baby annoyingly cries in the distance, breaking your train of thought, and all you want to do is shake some sense into its mother for not doing a better job of soothing her child.

Everyday things tend to annoy me now that I'm older, and I haven't even reached the menopausal stage of my human lifespan. As I type this half-formed introduction for my memoir, my mind flits back to the time when I was nothing more than a silly human girl.

If not for Sandro, my maker, my savior... perhaps I would have reincarnated by now, into another silly human being or some other lowly creature. My entire lifespan as a 'vampire' was nothing compared to his nearly six millennia of existence. He taught me everything I know and everything I have yet to discover. Without this thing called immortality coursing through my veins, I would never have become as worldly as I am now.

When I was alive and human, my life was different. Different in a bad way; a kind of boring 'different'. There truly was nothing in store for me in an era dominated by colonizers. There was nothing for women in that era. We were either treated as cretins (or forced to act like one to please the intruders), or we spent our time at home looking pretty or performing domestic arts to please our husbands. It was even worse for Indio women, who not only endured mistreatment but also led a lowly life marked by lack of education.

I was fortunate to have been born into a well-to-do family, at least until they arranged my marriage to a distant relative in the name of preserving family wealth.

This is my inaugural work, markedly distinct from the countless diaries I've penned over the years. Rest assured, I'll be extracting pages from my old journals and modifying them to weave into the narrative of my memoir. I apologize for not crafting a more proper introduction; I find myself somewhat lazy, and the people outside the coffee shop where I currently reside are immensely distracting. Nonetheless, I hope you will glean wisdom from my experiences and be captivated by the stories I shall recount. They are a part of the extraordinary life I have led.

To you, young mortal,

May you lead a long life and not squander the regrettably short one you've been granted. It's highly improbable that you'll reach my age, still blessed with sharp wit, cunning, and good looks. Take care of the vessel that houses your immortal soul, for even though I still possess one, I cannot meet death in the manner you will.

Sincerely,

Karmila Mercedes Lazaro

**

I was born on His holy day, May 5th, 1867, in a modest house where my mother was residing in the province of Mina de Oro. I have no recollection of the place, as we moved shortly after my birth. My mother was the granddaughter of a Spanish Governor in the area, affording us the privileges that came with being born mestiza. My great-grandfather was highly respected due to his lineage as the son of a Governor. He had fallen in love with a "lowly Indio", as they referred to the natives in those days. To be fair, my great-grandmother owned vast lands and was the daughter of a Datu. Suffice it to say, I hailed from a royal bloodline, even before Felipe II's colonialists arrived in the archipelago.

Had a twist of fate not intervened on my path toward an impending arranged marriage, I might have been reincarnated multiple times. Life during the Spanish colonial era was challenging, even for a mestiza like myself. Greater expectations rested on our shoulders because we were considered superior to Indios - we were practically the aristocracy, the Principalía. Similar to Rizal (Pepe) and his contemporaries, I too was an "ilustrado," sent to Europe at a young age with the hope of contributing to the independence of the Philippine Islands from Spain. My European studies were brief; I spent ten years there and returned to the Philippines before my impending marriage and twenty-third birthday. I began my studies in Madrid in 1880 but studied at home until I was ready to attend university.

Several individuals profoundly influenced my worldview during my time in Europe. Jose Rizal, known as Pepe within his circles; Antonio Luna, a passionate Ilocano who earned my admiration and respect during our brief acquaintance; and Nellie Boustead, the woman who had the attention of my former colleagues.

Pepe and I might have become great friends, but his penchant for flirtation and the use of his masculine charm even among his societal equals could be unnerving. He wasn't even exceptionally handsome. To be fair, in those times, education and wealth mattered more than looks; class was paramount. While Pepe was undoubtedly charming, as charming as the Bard of Avon himself, as contemporary history reveals, he was also a womanizer. I frowned upon intermarriage, as did my family until recent times, as they were progressive thinkers. Pepe courted his cousin Leonor Rivera, and when he couldn't win her over, he pursued another Leonor.

Honestly, my friends and I would jest about it, suggesting that if he muttered "Leonor" in his sleep, none of the girls would raise an eyebrow. He had another Leonor just in case someone intercepted the letters he sent to both women, so as not to seem like a complete scoundrel. Pepe composed poems, dedicated stories, essays, and penned flattering letters for his women.

Aside from a party incident where he and Antonio nearly came to blows, I only heard from Pepe again when his books were published. He was always eager to please. "Noli Me Tangere" and "El Filibusterismo" weren't particularly pro-Filipino or pro-Spanish; they were more love stories, with Crisostomo and Maria Clara taking center stage rather than the second-class citizens who epitomized "indio" life back then. I still don't comprehend why the Spaniards loathed Pepe for telling the truth, or why the Indios celebrated his books. It's ironic, for Pepe's personal opinions about "indios" and Spaniards ultimately contributed to his untimely demise.

Antonio, also known as Taga-Ilog and, in later years, mockingly as "Artikulo Uno," or in a derogatory play on his name, "Lunatiko," was genuinely passionate. I never used nicknames for him, as he shared the same name as my grandfather. Despite the criticisms he faced due to his temperament, Antonio was one of the most authentic individuals I've encountered. He knew when to apologize when he was in the wrong and even offered an apology to Rizal when he behaved erratically under the influence.

One aspect of Antonio Luna that I admired was his unwavering determination when times got tough. Rizal, in his final days, submitted to the Spanish government, and there were rumors that perhaps in a final attempt to save his own life, he authored letters condemning his own reckless actions. I wouldn't put it past him. The strong male characters he championed in his books - those qualities and individuals - were who he aspired to become but was too fearful to embrace. To me, this defined his brand of nationalism.

Antonio Luna, on the other hand, while possibly taking measures to safeguard himself, wisely chose his battles and stood by his convictions. I especially commend his actions during the treachery of America and Spain in Paris. Antonio recognized that the end of an era was near following Pepe's death, and the tensions between Spanish and American naval bases were apparent. During his exile, I only heard that Antonio studied military science and guerrilla warfare, which ultimately made him the most competent general the American forces ever faced.

Lastly, Nellie Boustead. I adore her intellect and beauty, and I hold her in high esteem. I crossed paths with her several times in Paris and London; she was truly exceptional. Unfortunately, Nelly was the catalyst for the nearly disastrous altercation between the two aforementioned heroes before they could fulfill their roles in liberating the beleaguered Philippine islands.

Due to my gift, I foresaw this coming. I won't pass judgment on her, for she cannot defend herself any longer. However, I must acknowledge that Nelly relished the attention. Had Antonio not perceived Nelly as leading him on and subsequently approached Pepe behind his back to be closer to him, Antonio would not have insulted her at the Madrid party. This love triangle didn't make Antonio temperamental; it highlighted his frustration that, even though he and Pepe were friends, the latter couldn't keep his hands to himself. To Antonio, Rizal was a "frenemy." Antonio was perturbed that even his own brother trusted Pepe more than him, and the love triangle only added fuel to the fire.

While I believe Nelly possessed a genuinely kind heart, I'm relieved she didn't marry either of these men. As I foresaw, her marriage to either would have resulted in tragedy. The Filipino people would have been left without a strong example to inspire an uprising. The ilustrados drew their motivation from the martyrdom of GomBurZa; if Rizal - due to foolish actions stemming from excessive drinking after Luna and Boustead's wedding - had perished the cause and effect of the revolution would have been weaker.

On the other hand, if Antonio had challenged someone to a duel while intoxicated, he would have likely been killed through foul play. Consequently, the Americans would have captured us without resistance, particularly when Emilio Aguinaldo, our "president," was somewhat naive.

The marriage of either man to Nelly would have exacerbated the already complex and tumultuous history of our nation.