Marriage ain't for the weak

I’m awakened by the sound of my wife in the kitchen, whipping up whatever new treat she concocts lately at a whim. I’m disoriented, the way I usually am, and have to remember what year I am in – I start counting back till I remember it’s 2092, we are in the middle of summer, and we live in Savannah.

This daily count back has been disturbing my peace lately – to say the least. It’s as if my mind is failing when the rest of me is alive, strong, and well. Nikki, my wife, says it’s to be expected at my big age. I say she’s full of shit, and just trying to make me feel better. That makes her laugh, but she tells me to go fuck myself before she gives me a kiss and continues on with her day.

I guess it’s part of having been together for over 500 years, but Nikki seems to hear me stirring even when I don’t make a sound. She appears at the door like magic, treat in hand.

“Well hello, my love”, she says, while she hands me a cup of hot whatever-she-made. It smells like crap and, after a sip, I can confirm it tastes worse than crap – but I take a huge gulp anyway.

“What the hell is in that?” I ask, grimacing both from disgust and because, in reality, I don’t want to know what is actually in the cup.

“Miss Ma’am, you know you don’t wanna know what’s in that cup!” she chides, knowing full well that I don’t ever want to know what is in anything she makes, because – well, Nikki is Nikki. There are some things best left unknown.

“I had to count back again today. I’m starting to wonder if this crap” – I raise the steaming mug into the air in front of me – “is why I can’t remember shit.”

Nikki frowns, and I realize that I probably needed to “haha” or something after that sentence. I immediately feel like the world’s biggest, oldest asshole – and that’s saying a lot.

“Really, Kai? Sometimes you’re an ungrateful piece of work!” she blurts, before turning on her heel and leaving me in our bedroom alone with the Cup O’Nasty. Welp – Looks like I better figure out how to apologize to a pissed off vamp-witch before she sets my nani on fire.

Nikki and I met in Puerto Rico back in the 1500’s when it was still young and carefree. Born Crus de la Vega, she was taken to Puerto Rico as a hand-maiden for the wife of some statesman I never met, and we never discussed. Crus was the daughter of an African Slave and a Spanish farmer, and by the time I met her, was already over a hundred years old. She’d taken on different forms and lived in different places over those last 100 years, at that time choosing to go to Puerto Rico (or Borinken, as it was known back then) to get out of Spain.

I am a vamp-witch of myriad lineages and races, currently described as a “no race” in these new times-it’s what they choose to call us racially ambiguous folks nowadays. Before I understood what I was, my mother told me tales of my ancestors, some from Egypt, some from Africa, some from Spain, some from the hearty tribes of the Carib – because she wanted to ensure I understood where my powers came from, why I was different. Back then, all the places my ancestors hailed from had different names, and by the time I met Nikki-Crus, I was over 200 years old and had seen the world change countless times over.

We’d both borne children and, horrifically, watched some of them grow old and die – our genes had not passed on to them. Of our surviving children, there is Max – Nikki’s daughter, (who is about 400 now) and Jean-Pierre, her son, who is almost 500. Vamp-witches can reproduce alone, without needing to “mate” like the mortals, and do so at will when we are healthy and willing. There is no way to ensure the children we bear are like us, though – so we wait, and watch, until they start puberty. Once puberty begins, and they carry the vamp-witch genes, aging slows to a halt as soon as they’re fully developed-around 21. Otherwise, we know their fate.

I had twenty children myself by the time I’d met Nikki. I have three that carry the gene – Kayla, who is 300, Brynn, who is 400, and Michael, who is 500. None of our children have decided to reproduce. Kayla says she refuses to watch her offspring die – and I understand. As old as I am, I still remember what it was like to nurse my own children on their deathbeds at 80 or 90. Some of my children died before they even reached puberty – plagues, floods, war. Kayla was the last, and neither Nikki nor I wish to do it anymore. Our children all live in different parts of the world, and we travel often. Once a year, we get together to see each other and be around each other, and then we are off to different places. Vamp-witches don’t need to be in each other’s presence to communicate (whew, that is more annoying than you would think) and definitely don’t require the presence of others the way mortals do.

When we first met, Nikki and I chose the guise of “sisters” in order to live together in peace. We don’t age, so we use “glammers” to change our appearance, to make it seem as if we are aging. We have lived many lives as the “old maid sisters” in many different lands, we speak our own ancient languages, and have learned a bunch of new ones, over the years. I can call myself an asshole in at least 50 different languages, and I do it now, when I realize that for probably the millionth time in the last 500 years, I have hurt my wife’s feelings yet again.

I get up and go to the kitchen in our beautiful, Italianate mansion. When we bought it, I remember hating every single space – it was stuffy and overdone, with floral wallpaper covering nearly every surface. Nikki would not be moved, however, to choose any of the more modern homes overlooking Forsyth Park. She insisted on redecorating, renovating, and revamping every single one of the 12 rooms in this place. In the end, though, I had to admit – she did an amazing job. We currently live as fashionable lesbians (because we can now, of course) with old family wealth that “choose” to work as an Interior Decorator (me, believe it or not) and a UX designer (Nikki) with a famous video game company.

Nikki redid our kitchen with towering, hand-crafted Acacia cabinetry, recessed appliances, and beautifully intricate quartz counters. We have an enormous island, two dishwashers, a butler’s pantry, and a separate kitchen for our “work”-all Nikki’s idea. I, the interior designer, couldn’t get past the horrific wallpaper. Happy wife, happy life – so they say. I often wonder why we have such a huge place when it’s just us most of the time, but Nikki says she needs her space. I think she needs her space because I am, quite often, an absolute asshole. I wonder why she’s put up with me for centuries. Love really might conquer all? Maybe.

“Nik, I’m sorry – I didn’t mean anything by that, I was just kidding,” I say, as I place the cup of yuck (half consumed) in the enormous farmhouse sink that never really has any dishes in it.

“Kai, I am trying to help you… you won’t feed, you won’t work any spells, you just sit there in your funky energy. Why do you think this is happening? You’re damn near 800… You haven’t fed properly in 200 years. What the hell is wrong with you?” Nikki almost shouts, and for the first time, I can see the fear on her face. Nikki is never afraid – and now I am, too. “We are in SAVANNAH, Kai – SAVANNAH. There is more energy here than most of us can consume in a hundred years – but no, you just sit there. What the HELL, KAI?” and now she IS shouting, and I realize that my wife has probably been scared out of her mind for a long time.

Sighing heavily, I realize that I am going to have to tell her why I haven’t fed – I’ll have to tell her about the night in New Orleans, the Priestess that offered her energy, and the surge afterwards… and I know that to say my beloved wife isn’t going to like it is an understatement.

No, she’s not going to like it one bit.