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 Dr. Samantha Thomas
I thoroughly disapprove of duels. If a man should challenge me, I would take him kindly and forgivingly by the hand and lead him to a quiet place and kill him.
- Mark Twain
So, you want to know about me, the real me, where I came from. how I got here. The "why" of it all. I'll tell you. you may even record it wish. I admire your persistence. You think one interview with my kind would have sated your appetite for our stories. Still, I am heartened to know you don't base your thoughts of us on a few woeful, angst filled Toreadors.
No, I will not tell you my real name. Sometimes I don't remember it. That part of me died some years ago and I would see her rest peacefully. Samantha means "listener." For years I took in all that I could, learned all available to me about my new life. Heh, un-life. I remained quiet, in the background, waiting as I plotted my revenge. Little did I know then the time I would have to "Listen." I took the name Thomas from my second husband, a historian of some regard at Oxford in the 1950's. But I get ahead of myself by all accounts.
I was born during the reign of Queen Victoria in London. I remember going to the Great Exhibition of 1851. A dazed young woman, I wandered through the Crystal Palace, seeing myself as a princess in some faerie court. Now I stand on the verge, but not as a princess, and certainly not of faerie. I get ahead of myself again.
I don't remember much else from my childhood. I worked at a textile mill, girls did not go to school then. At eighteen I found myself with child, then married to a young man not much older than I. Oh yes, we did have our indiscretions, even in Victorian England. We kept them quiet, hidden behind polite mannerism and etiquette. The overt morals of the day continue to affect me. It took years before I wore pants, and I still prefer keeping my arms and legs covered.
Our meager existence did not afford us much in the way of entertainment. We occasionally took a picnic lunch to the countryside some Sunday afternoons. I never felt watched, as other of my kind commonly do before their embrace. I led an unremarkable life, whose only joys came from the love of a good man and the smiles of an young daughter. I did not stand out. I did not create great works of art, exhibit some terrible derangement, wax eloquent before assembled masses. I do not understand why I was chosen, why I would be tested.
I do not remember the specifics of the event. He fell upon us as we returned from one of our picnics. I recall walking, my daughter Pamela holding my hand, a heavy wet shape falling on us, then darkness.
Upon awakening, I fell upon and murdered my husband. I believed I murdered my child. In the frenzy of my first moments of un-life, I escaped my sire, not knowing who he was, not knowing where to run to. I learned later, much later, I had escaped thanks to the unseen hand of unknown allies, and that they had saved my daughter. I did not learn that until much later. Then, I roamed the streets of the Rookery of St. Giles, afraid of what I'd become, terrified of what I'd done.
Dammed, beyond redemption, I had taken the posture of a prostitute. I lured the un-weary to take a bit of their blood, leaving them with fantastic memories of a lascivious, back alley encounter. Surrounded by the object poverty of late nineteenth century London, I could not bring myself to feed upon the countless children of the rookery. I saw the face of the daughter I thought I had dispatched. 'Til this day I cannot feed on the blood of children and feed only from those who would prey upon the misfortune of women.
Warwick found me there, in the small brothel I ran in the dark alleys and soot covered streets of London. I had left a mark on a certain political figure under his influence. He sought me out, to destroy me, I believe. He could not afford such an affront to his honor; to let some un-classed street harlot encroach on his stable of licks. I did not hide from him. Not knowing any of my kind I sought out this intruder in my dirty little world. He railed against me, chastised my ignorance of the "traditions" of our kind. He berated me for leaving the telltale signs of feeding upon a victim. Learning the identity of the whoremonger, I brazen agreed with Warwick, saying I should have killed the mortal instead.
Expecting a rage, Warwick chuckled instead. Surrounded by yes men, he invited me to join his entourage. He offered a chance to dispatch the corrupt politician. I laughed, and in language I had learned in my fall, told him to fuck himself.
He struck me. In all the time I had known this kingmaker, this marks the only time I have seen him resort to violence. The taste of my own blood on my tongue, he made the offer again. I did not know who he was, then. I did not know of the influence he had wielded over Mother England for hundreds of years. I did know the power he oozed at that time, in that spot. I knew I could learn from him. I hoped that I could take what he offered and find the one who had felled me. I knew that through Warwick, I could have my revenge.
I assented with a nod and followed him out of the rookery north to Warwick. Under his tutelage I discovered a love of history and a method by which I could obtain renown among our kind.
Do you know of the Masquerade? The code under which our kind live to conceal our presence to the mortals of this world? Some of us question this idea, but still keep their existence secret, fearing the power of a combined humanity should they discover us among them. Some of us have faltered, in history, in our past. I took my knowledge of what had passed and created plausible explanations. I met Bram Stoker and enticed him with the tales of Vlad Tepis so that his could with one book transport us from the realm of reality to mythology. Under Warwick's auspex, I published some books, under assumed names.
I attended university, oxford. In my new found love of learning, I fell in love with and married one of my professors. I still carry his name although records would identify me as that couple's granddaughter. I learned about loss once more when he passed. I learned...
image from Vampire the Masquerade, First Ed. Used without permission.
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