The Prince in White

Never will I be remembered as a distinguished nobleman. Although my previous life was lived in such a manner. I wouldn’t put it as a “dark time”, just a reimagining of how life should be taken.

I was changed by the sultan of ego. A highly sinister being whose soul purpose was the petting of his own pleasure. His idea of happiness was an ever increasing body count and a pair of breasts to break the monotony. He claimed his name was Toureau and that he hailed from a small village near Brittanie, France. Although I often questioned him on his background I never doubted my findings.

His hair was a soft auburn. Oftentimes I would watch him groom it after a kill. It intrigued me as to why a being, after death, would continue to covet themselves so. His eyes were the color of quicksilver and burned right through my soul. I felt as if he could see the ash in my veins. His skin was an eerie pale that mirrored the reflection of a carefully preserved corpse. Often I would find myself wondering aloud reasonings for the odd trait. Considering myself a near human replicant.

His tricks were simple enough to master. Truth be told, I always felt as if there was more to be taught.

Words were a gift to him. They fell from his lips in the typical french fashion, breathy and snideish.

The table was set in a wild fashion, according to memory, for celebration. Many young fruitful courtesans, now void of life, littered the table. Toureau sat, arms crossed, his eyes, full of deceit and malice, glanced and locked onto mine as I gingerly pulled out a chair and sat down on the opposite end of the table.

“You forgot something dear to me.” Toureau voiced.

“My whole apologies my dear master.” Those words stuck in my throat. Just as phlegm does to those who suffer from allergies. I had always a difficult time viewing him as my lord and master. I could never shake the feeling that he was the lesser of us.

“No apologies necessary my dear lost boy. This was your party.”

“On what occasion?”

“Your first taste of human blood.” He condescendingly squealed as he took the breast of a young courtesan into his mouth and proceeded to feed.

The need to feed began to cloud my mind, as I pressed a glass of Merlot to my lips, trying desperately to ease the racing thought. As I released the cup from my lips, a blinking rage surged through my ashen veins. I reached and found my hands upon the leg of a blonde woman, her eyes still holding a candle of life, as I sunk my teeth into her vein.

The feeling of which was pure bliss. I could taste Heaven, her heartbeat was the angelic chorus, heavens choir. Singing to me as I sipped the sweet nectar of life from her veins.

I slept soundly that night. Now don’t let me cast an animalistic shadow over my character. I rarely find myself needing to succumb to such ungentlemanly behavior. I refuse to steep to such squalor. It’s just the nature of my beast.

The day of my departure from Toureau was just a normal day. The walking ego that was my soon to be ex-master was planning on throwing a Masquerade ball that night, wine, woman, drunken merrymen, all like candy to him. His senses would be full, and as he was petting his ego I would slip out unnoticed. I relayed my plan to a trusted servant and asked him to prepare my bags in advance, and have a carriage waiting.

The party came swiftly that night, as did my departure, I slipped right out the front doors of his Parisian Palace, only to find myself in a carriage headed for the Port Du Calais, to board a ship that would take me home.

Finally I was to be free of the lesser master than what I truly deserved, free to become what I always saw myself, a God.

As a humble host I refuse to bore my readers with a limp wristed account of my brief across the channel, or even a more boorish detailing of the French countryside, from the window of my carriage as I headed to the port. It’s truly not in my place to say my readers enjoy such unimaginative storytelling. They truly deserve more, and I Calvin James Ashcroft the Third do indeed intend to give them the very best.