When I was little I wasn’t allowed to have Halloween because my mother was, and is, a narcisistic sociopath. A religious homophobe, she was mentally ill and hated all people on earth, even hereself. But the jokes on her - cause I am now an author who is happy and gay as shit! Anyway, I’ve written a Drakula type book based on the historical figure of Vladislav Drakula III. It’s not like any other vampire book, in that Drakula is actually fleshed out and you see what he sees, in his own words. A great deal of historical research has gone into this. If it does well, there will be a sequel as volume II.
His young eyes, new to the sorrows of the world, were puzzled as he look at the corpse that lay of the table. Part of him wanted to run in fear, most of him wanted to simply cry for the loss of a life he never knew.
Done in the traditional manner, the hands of the corpse were folded across his chest, holy candles lit to ward off evil spirits that might enter the body and corrupt it. Incense and flowers carried away most of the smell of rot and the faint hint of purge that bubbled up from the gut.
In a low hum, the priest prayed to the absent Nazarene carpenter as the mourners wailed out their grief and sorrow, each trying to outdo the last.
Afraid, young Vlad edged closer to the corpse of his estranged uncle and looked at a dead man for the first time in his life. It would not be the last. His red turned red and tear trickled down his chubby cheeks, crying no so much for the lost an uncle he never knew, but out of sympathy that others were crying.
Dressed in a white linen rode, a rosary done in his hands and with silver ducats on his eyes to hold the lids closed, his skin was sagging and the under layer was gradually slipping. A long and wide patch of purple and reddish black from gravity collected blood could already be seen just under the neck.
The hard fingers were drying quickly and the nail was seemingly long as the flesh peeled close to and back from the tip of the bone.
The wake was oddly named, as it was clear to all that unlike the odd case of a waking sick person or someone not yet dead on their death bed, this former human would never rise again.
As a half-hearted gesture of fatherly guidance, but mostly derived from a rush to get moving, Vlad’s father’s hand pressed his shoulder and guided him away from the spectacle. He had only come to see that Alexandru was indeed dead, clearing his own path to wealth and power.
In the simple palace, large and cold, strong and unfeeling, the candles were the only light. Damp air and mildew hung with the bevy of thick scents already in the air.
They were only a step over the peasants they ruled in terms of luxury, eating the same food as them, bearing with the same torments of the dark ages, but the people in that small room help the sway of life and death of thousands at their whim.