**—0—**
*This is my beautiful show*
*And everything is shot in slow motion*
*-*Marilyn Manson, “*Slo-mo-tion*”
My name is Lucie. I was nineteen years old when I died.
My maker’s name was Valentine – a cliche name, for sure, but vampires who began their un-life in the nineties and early two thousands tended to go for these. Vlad, Lestat, Spike, Kraven – pop-culture galore. I’m not judging; these names make more sense than using their given names. Vampire Bob? No way.
My maker shouldn’t really concern you though. He’s dead. I killed him while I was riding him, right at the moment when he came inside of me. He turned into a pile of ash, and I finished myself off with the handle of the stake I used to kill him. I rubbed his ash all over my body. It was fun.
What should concern you is this: in the mid-nineties, a cabal of more progressive vampires began researching something that would change the world forever – a cure to our aversion to sun. The cure involved some breeding programs, gene alteration, and magic. They would breed humans to birth genetically altered babies, and these babies would be turned when they reached an appropriate age. They thought that these progenies would take care of them. But we – for I was one of them – were an ungrateful bunch.