In life, how do we define what is normal? I can assure you that what I am about to say, is far from any conventional sense of understanding. In fact, it is horrifying, but I am compelled to tell you what happened to me—I will die soon. At the end of this story, I will tell you how.
First, I must begin with my conception.
I was born in the small port town of Diffleteen, Maine, in year of 1710, during a frigid winter storm—right in the middle of a territorial dispute between a local den of Passamaquoddy Werewolves and a Coven of Dark-Blood Vampires. My birth mother, Mary and Father, John, were both killed when their horse and carriage were tossed over a cliff into the ocean below.
The Dark-Bloods sensed a warm fetus growing in my mother’s womb and saved me, while the Passamaquoddy scrambled off after the severe beating they took.
Up until today, I only knew myself as one of them (a monster), a murderous killing machine, living off warm human blood.
Through the late 1700’s they called me the blood butcher; I killed without mercy or remorse. By the mid 1800’s I had become my own worst enemy. Bored and arrogant, I soon found myself alone without the coven. I had planned to start my own.
Before that happened, fate stepped in.
The year was 1946, Friday, on a warm summer evening. I decided to return home, one last time.
As I set foot on familiar ground, I was ambushed by a pack of fierce Passamaquoddy. I didn’t know that what once was Dark-Blood territory now belonged to them.
They maimed me multiple times by their ferocious bites, yet failed to kill me. Miraculously, we were somehow linked.
As their venom flowed through my bloodstream, a surge of memories blew through my mind like a wild sandstorm. I found out, I was part human, werewolf, and vampire. Right before my mother’s death, she was grazed by a Passamaquoddy and then finally bitten by Anastasia, the Dark-Blood priestess (the only mother I knew up until now) to ensure my survival.
I chose to join the Passamaquoddy. With their help, I intended to find any remains of my biological family—but it was complicated.
Word spread that I was a traitor. Another war between the coven of Dark-Bloods and the den of Passamaquoddy was inevitable. All that time, after I left the coven, I never knew I had conceived a child: my son, Nigel-Desmund. We met in battle in the same territory where my life began, his too.
When Nigel-Desmund plunged his fangs into my skin, we walked as kindred spirits in a wondrous white light; His human Grandfather John and Grandma Mary were there. They pleaded with him to seek peace with the Passamaquoddy.
With a nod forward I let his hand go. In death, I found my sense of normality, stripped of all evil. Through a proverbial sense of manifestation, I left the world as a human after all.