Dracula is sitting stiffly on a velvet tuxedo-couch, fidgeting with the silver ring on his index finger, a gift from one of his brides, “she’s long gone by now—the work of a hunter,” he says. Dracula takes a sip of blood from a wine glass, the rich blood coating his long, sleek fangs. This is the first time he’s been interviewed in the last 30 years, but now he breaks the silence. “Being a vampire isn’t easy. It’s a hard life, very isolating,” he says, somberly. “Nobody really gets what it’s like, they just think you’re a monster.”
“That sounds very difficult,” I add. He nods and gives a weary smile, flashing his bright, white fangs; they look almost like little daggers made of opals—truly a sight to behold.
“There are a lot of rumours spread about me, a lot of misconceptions. For example, did you know that I don’t drink human blood?” I furrow my brows in confusion. “Animal blood only, for the past 50 years.” There is a pause. “Are you okay?” he asks, which is when I notice that I’ve begun to frown slightly.
“Yeah, I’m okay,” I reply. “So you don’t drink human blood at all? Never?”
“Well, sometimes, I suppose—when it’s consensual, but that’s once in a blue moon,” he says, his glittery fangs moving along with his lips. My frown disappears. “It’s hard being immortal, very depressing. You watch everyone you’ve ever loved slowly shrivel up until they’re a shell of themselves—then their heart stops beating. People all around you turning to rot, until it’s just you left, standing alone—”
“To change the subject,” I interrupt, “what’s it like feeding?” He’s confused by my question, his fangs almost drooping to match his mood. I repeat it.
“Uhm, feeding… it’s a deeply personal thing… that I’d rather not get into—”
“I mean,” Dracula stares at me blankly, “it’s an interview. I have to ask questions—the hard-hitting questions.” I shrug.
“Well… I suppose if the question has to be answered…” he sighs, and I get a glimpse of his sharp, girthy pearly whites. “It’s like—it’s like taking the life force of another being.”
“Yeah?” I rasp.
“Yeah,” he continues, “like you’re taking the very essence, the very soul of someone else.”
“That’s got to be very… exciting?” At this point, I’m no longer making eye contact with him, but looking at his fangs instead.
“Uh, no,” his fangs glisten in the light of the candle, turning red, orange, then yellow. “More like, disturbing, horrifying even—”
“It lights your nerves on fire? You can feel the energy flowing through your veins? It makes you feel alive, electric even?” I ask in rapid succession.
“I suppose a bit,” long, white, seductive chunks of enamel move along with his mouth. “But it’s very traumatic.”
“Yesyesyes—” I pause. “Of course, it must be. But doesn’t it make you feel powerful?”
He hesitates for a moment, before asking a question. “What are you looking at?”
My cheeks turn red. “Who?” I stammer. “Me?”
“Yeah,” his eyes narrow, “you.” I stammer and stutter and various syllables leave my mouth, but none of them are remotely comprehensible. “Wait,” he pauses for a moment. “You’re one of those fang-girls, aren’t you?!” As he says this, he clenches his jaw, digging his fangs into his skin.
“Uh, no?”
“You’re staring at my fangs right now!”
After that, he kicked me out of his castle, yelling and screaming and flashing those long, girthy sharp fangs of his. He mentioned something about this being the reason he hasn’t done an interview in the past 30 years. When he noticed that I was staring at his fangs again, he slammed the door in my face. Despite this, I had a good time—a good time looking at those sleek, seductive fangs of his.
