Origins(I)

  Everybody always wants to go on some kind of thrilling adventure or experience to get their hearts pumping in a search for excitement and 'self-discovery'. Well, not everybody but most people. As for me, sitting on the couch and doing nothing at all with a root beer in my hand and feet crossed on the table seems like the most exciting adventure I could ever ask for. Don't get me wrong or anything, I'm not lazy. Actually, I'm a glass half full kind of guy. In any case, my ideal adventure never happened once in my story. Hmm, 'My Story'. Has a nice ring to it, but it sounds too cheesy. Y'know, Richard did tell me once that vampires were cheesy.

  Oh wait! I'm getting ahead of myself. Sorry, I do that sometimes. Where are my manners? First things first; introductions. My name is Darmian. Yeah, just Darmian. In case you're wondering, I never got to know my parents so I don't really have a last name. Unless you can count the name 'Darmian the Great' (I gave myself this one).  It's not too concerning anyway because I can't even remember how my parents looked like or anything about them. All I do know about them was that they abandoned me at an orphanage home when I was two years old. But that's enough about my parents; let me tell you about myself.

  I'm about six feet one in height and really slim, but not too slim. If you've seen me from a distance, you might think my hair is black, but up-close you'll discover it's actually a very dark shade of blue, which is styled in dapper curls giving me a handsome (I say irresistible and hypnotizing) look which most people can't resist (people being my reflection in the mirror). And yes, as I've earlier hinted, I'm a vampire.

  Before you get disgusted or sigh in boredom (Yeah, Twilight did that to me), allow me to tell you my origins and clarify a few misconceptions about we vampires. 

  I was born seventeen years ago at a local hospital somewhere in upstate New York. According to what the nuns at my Home told me, I was dropped off at the front porch of the building in a raggedy crib with a small note which had my name written on it. They thought I was either the son of a junkie or the child of poor parents who couldn't afford to take care of me. Bottom line was that I was unceremoniously abandoned in front of a struggling orphanage home which already had too many children to handle while my parents sashayed off to wherever the hell they went to. It was at the Home that I had my earliest memories.

  Growing up in the Home made me realize at a young age that even though I didn't get to know my parents, I already had a family. Everyone, whether it was the children, the cooks, the nuns, old man Maxwell the gatekeeper, even our little terrier Ramsey were all part of one big family. Our bonds were special because in one way or another we all needed each other. There were times when kids way older than I was would cry almost every day and night begging for their mommas or papas to take them home (I just watched in amazement since I never had parents to begin with) but the truth was; we were home already. Or at least a home that cared about us and accepted us. Every kid who got admitted into the Home would feel sad and cry buckets out of their eyes but sooner or later, we would begin to relate easily with each other. That was my home, or at least the one I remember and will never forget.

  As for when I became aware of my 'exceptionality', I can't really say but it must have been when I turned eight. Before then, I thought there wasn't anything out-of-sort with me or anything that made me stand out much. Back then, I had always been unusually strong and quick for my age and among my peers (I wondered a lot why everybody else was so weak). I could lift Sister Martha's desk like it weighed nothing at all when I was five. I could square off one-on-one in a mock fight with boys thrice my age and still be able to pin them or force them into submission, sometimes even fighting blindfolded. My senses were heightened when I turned seven and I could see perfectly in the night just as well as I did during the day. I could hear someone's whisper twenty meters away and be able to smell different scents at the same time. I did however, get stomach aches from eating anything which had a sizeable portion of garlic in it. It wasn't too severe depending on how much I ate, like the time I ate half a loaf of garlic bread. I spent three hours moaning and rolling on my bed after that ordeal, sending the nuns —who later concluded I was allergic to garlic (since we didn't have enough money for a doctor's appointment) —into panic mode. 

  It was also at 7 that I found out about vampires after sneaking out from my bed one night when everybody was sleeping to the living room for a quick snack. I found my best friend Richard Fleek who had also snuck out of our room downstairs watching a movie, and out of curiosity I abandoned my mission and joined him. We watched Dracula and Richard gave me a quick rundown of everything about the movie up to where I began watching with him. That was when I first learned about  vampires. But after seeing that vampires in the movie were nothing like me (since I could see myself in a mirror and I can't shape shift), I never gave thought about the possibility that I might be one.

  Everything changed however on my eighth birthday (it wasn't my actual birthday, just the day I was dropped off at the Home ,since my beloved parents hadn't thought about writing my birth date). The day began as normal as it could've ever been. I woke up, recited my prayers, tried unsuccessfully to escape doing house chores…again, ate a simple but hearty breakfast and watched TV after finishing my homework. The head nun Sister Rachael Florence Harshey, what a truly amazing woman she was, called me to her small office and wished me a happy birthday. Just as I was about turning to go, she told me that for my birthday, she wanted to bake a pie specially for me and sent me to the small shop selling milk, ice cream, pastries and baking products. Among all the nuns, I loved her most because of her thoughtfulness and kindness and she loved me just as much (I was her favorite). That's why she wanted to bake a pie for me despite our precarious financial state because as she said herself smiling sweetly at me, "You'll soon be a real man".

  So, as I skipped down the street with thoughts of sinking my teeth into her fantastic pie, I pushed open the doors scanning the shop for sweetened milk after greeting Mr. Jimmy the shop owner. The shop was filled with other customers who, no doubt had showed up to cash in on Mr. Jimmy's Friday discounts. I was at the cooling section of the shop sorting for milk when it happened.

  "Everybody freeze!" said a rough voice which I traced to come from a tall and muscular man dressed in a tank-top and large rugged jeans who had just barged into the shop. His intimidating build and looks didn't really scare me as much as what he grasped firmly and menacingly in his hand; a gun.

  "You there," the thug said to Mr. Jimmy, "Bring out all the money in the cashier, and don't forget one fuckin' dime".

  My fear gradually gave way to deep anger as I watched him talk rudely to Mr. Jimmy and push him around. Other customers were trying to calm him down. One woman tried bringing her phone out of her bag, when a deafening shot rang in the air.

  "That's right, she's fully loaded," the thug snarled in delight with his arm and gun facing the ceiling. "So if you don't want a freakin' third eye, I strongly suggest you don't try calling the police".

  Only when I realized that he had shot the ceiling and not the woman could I breathe again. My anger increased as I watched people begin to cower in fear and shed silent tears for their lives. Despite my anger, I forced myself to calm down and then I realized something that I had completely ignored a few moments ago. I saw the path of the bullet when it hit the ceiling. Even at eight years old, I was smart enough to know that it's impossible to see a moving bullet, but I had seen it in real time slightly slower than it was supposed to be. Maybe because I flinched the moment I heard the gunshot. If I could see the bullet's course, even if not in slow motion, I had a chance of getting to him and keeping him immobile.

  Gathering my wits together before I could talk myself out of doing it, I slipped in between two men who were watching the entire scene unfold with fear written all over their faces. Taking a deep breath, I told myself that although this was probably really dumb, it's now or never.

  In two quick strides, I closed the distance between the both of us and was about ten feet away from him. My sudden quick movements surprised him, but he turned with an unexpected amount of speed for a large person to face me and fired at me without hesitation Luckily, I moved my head sharply to the left just on time to feel the heat from the bullet which missed my temple about two centimeters away. Using my momentum, I tackled him into a cake stand and we both got cake and icing all over our bodies. Licking some from the corner of my lips, I knocked the gun from his hand which skidded across the shop floor and planted my knee firmly on his back which made him shout in pain. Not willing to give him any chance to recover, I grabbed both of his large hands (which were heavy too) and pinned both of them to his back with his face on the floor while he squirmed under me and screamed obscenities.

  "Call 911," I shouted at the crowd in the shop who were all stunned by what just happened; an eight year old tackling a grown man and restraining him! Didn't he dodge a bullet too?!

  Later, when the thug got arrested and it was confirmed that the stray bullet had not hit anybody, a local newspaper did a story on me and my 'heroic' efforts. People were surprised to see me move so quickly especially after I told them my age (Seriously, I only wanted to buy some milk!) I even heard that CNN would be coming next week to write a report about me. Poor Sister Rachael had endless interviews from different radio pundits about the 'Boy Prodigy Who Saved Numerous Lives'. My new fame also made some people to start raising question about my origins and an actual answer for the question regarding my superhuman speed. After all, people had seen me dodge a freaking gunshot! The next thing I knew, we got a letter from the New York State Government requesting for my birth certificate, DNA test, and other scans.

  Just when I thought the surprises wouldn't continue, it did. Two days after the incident, a couple showed up out of the blue with plans to adopt me. It was strange because up until then, I'd never gotten any adoption notices. Sister Rachael called me into office where they sat. The man was plain with plain hair and a plain look but wearing an expensive suit. The woman who seemed to be his wife was the same too. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary with them apart from their expensive clothes and shoes.

  "Darmian, this lovely couple would like to tell you something," Sister Rachael said in a shaky voice and a sad look.

  "Hello young man," the woman said looking at me sweetly. "What's your name?"

  "Do I have to go?" I asked Sister Rachael ignoring her completely. She was about to say something when the man clad in the suit glanced at her.

  "Yes sweetheart," she replied slowly.

  "They only want me because I'm on TV!" I complained nearly in tears.

  "I can assure you Darmian, we've no intention of doing such," the man said firmly in a strong British accent.

  In the end, there was nothing I could do but say a tearful goodbye to my family. Even after hugging Sister Rachael for what seemed to be a long time, everything was over. Mysteriously, all news about my feats in the cake shop had disappeared from all news outlets after I left the Home that day.  As I got into my new parents' car, I felt extremely sad knowing that I might never see any of my friends at the Home again.

  "Now Darmian," my 'mom' said interrupting my grieving mood after ten minutes into the drive. "We need to tell you the truth".

  "The truth?" I asked becoming scared. What if these people were actually kidnappers?!

  "Yes. There are a lot we need to tell you, but you'll find out all about it when you get to Crescent College," she replied as if I knew what the heck that was.

  "What's that?" I asked still somewhat scared.

  "It's actually 'where is Crescent College?' " my 'dad' said rephrasing the question which was just dumb. I knew immediately he was the type of person who always felt he was always right and smarter than everybody else. "It's a school for vampires".

  "Right," I said slowly becoming angry that they were messing with me thinking I was some gullible kid. "Vampires. There gonna be any werewolves around too?" I let out a bitter laugh watching them closely for their response.

  "Don't be silly Darmian," my 'mom' said nonchalantly. "Werewolves don't live in this part of America. And the college has a strict policy against any other creatures apart from vampires attending the college".

  I listened in amazement as my 'parents' kept on talking about vampires like it as normal.

  "Will somebody please tell me what the heck is going on right now?!" I asked about to go crazy.

  "You really can't wait till we get there huh?" 'Mom' said softly. "Fine I'll tell you".

  That day, my world literally ended. Up until then, everything I thought had known was trash. I learnt of my existence and the story of the vampires.