Meet Thomas Polidori. Vampire. Born – 1612. Imprisoned to an eternity in an iron coffin – 1764. He’s started scratching at the lid of his coffin to record his thoughts. Let’s see what he has to say. Keep in mind, he’s been in there a long time, so he may seem a little… off.
How many centuries has it been since my solitary damnation to this coffin? Without the comfort of another soul to ease my loneliness? Without the exquisite delight of dialogue? I’ve oft pondered what conversation I might have with the first person I see. Oh, I am positively giddy for it! Of course, I doubt there would be any words exchanged at all. I am, after all, so very thirsty.
Madness. How I know it well—that terrible affliction that affects so many lives. Though, I feel many do not understand its temporary nature. I myself have gone “crazy”—as they now call it—twice in this coffin. It tends to last no more than 50 years or so. A lifetime for most, but not nearly long enough for me. I then awake to sanity and come to miss the days when the spiders would talk back.
Darkness poses no threat for my kind. We vampires have keen eyes and can peer through the blackest pitch. Even in the inky gloom of this prison buried so deep, I can discern every detail. Above me, I see clearly the iron lid of my coffin. Beside me, the iron walls. Beneath, the iron base. Honestly, there’s very little variety to what my eyes behold. What a useless gift I have!
Oh, how I mourn the loss of memory—that fragile thing! I’ve forgotten the details of many an important event. Why, even that most significant story of my incarceration has transformed over the centuries. Every time it repeats in my mind, I find I must fill in more holes. Now, I’m not entirely sure that a group of Arthurian knights on flying horses lashing me with whips of fire sounds perfectly reasonable.
Insects can be a blessing and a curse. When a few spiders or maggots make their way into my humble abode, I welcome the distraction. I name them and spill my soul to them until they leave or die. When they find a way to multiply, however, they become the bane of my existence. On several occasions, I’ve had to roll around in this coffin to snuff out colonies of ants that have formed around my body.
Oh, why must we always kill the ones we love?