You’re the same in every city. Every country. Every continent. You have been so ever since Velázquez first used you as the model for one of his gods.
You knew he would.
How could he resist?
Your flowing platinum hair. Your alabaster skin. The faint glow of otherness about you. These things made you compelling to men and women of all walks of life, so why not one of the world’s greatest painters?
But then his vision changed.
Ever the storyteller, Diego chose to tell different stories with his paintings. Instead of capturing encounters between gods and men, he focused on the earthiest of the earthbound. The kind who most people made a point of never seeing: the poor, the ugly, the ill, the malformed.
But you; you were beautiful, and you knew it.
So, you went on a mission to show off your terrible, dangerous beauty.
Killing sprees across every city in Europe. Milan. Paris. London. Madrid. Amsterdam. Rome. Berlin. There was no pattern. You went wherever your bloodlust took you, leaving your crimson stain on the statuary, since you couldn’t leave a tintype or photograph.
And I watched you.
I watched you grow paler and more luminescent as last vestiges of humanity were bitten from the necks of your victims and spit, sizzling, to the ground.
Your humanity, not theirs.
And I began to wonder who the real victim was: those whom you killed; you, who did the killing; or I, who allowed it all to continue.
If I were a stronger person, if my resolve were better fortified, this is the point in which I would inform my readers that I’d left you, or better, that I’d committed the ultimate act of altruism and driven the final stake through your marble-esque chest.
But I am not that strong.
And love can be so weak.
And so, because through it all, my angel, my demon, my eternal companion, I do love you, I offer you my neck, and hope beyond hope that in doing so, some of your madness is abated.
After all, the blood is the life.