I was reading a vampire thing and do you know how bitter and petty I'd be?
Cw: vampire turning as an allegory for rape (but no actual SA, just symbolism), and reader being horrible.
John Price could recall making many mistakes over his lifetime. The biggest was turning you.
He'd been in love with you, see, had planned to tell you, court you properly. But then he'd come across you whilst hunger itched at his fangs, while his eyes burned red and his senses were hyper, on edge. He could hear the blood rushing through your veins like thunderous waves in his ears.
He couldn't control himself. One moment he was staring at you, the next—
Blood. So much blood. Your throat had been wounded, deep, gaping holes leaking sluggishly; clothes ripped and torn, hair a mess, eyes glassy as they stared up at the dark sky, unseeing.
(You could still remember it. Back then the worst thing you thought could happen to a woman was rape, but this was so much worse.
He'd taken from you all the same, stripped you of your mortality and humanity, pricked you with sharp teeth and took, took, took; draining you dry.
In a way, he had, hadn't he? Reaped you of what made you you, stolen your freedom before disappearing into the night.)
John had turned you. He hadn't even been thinking when he did, regret guiding his motions.
He wishes he'd been of a clearer mind. Maybe then you'd be able to rest.
You were bitter. Bitter and horrid and vengeful, because what else was left to you? Taken and ruined and turned into something unnatural.
Food was ashes in your mouth, sunlight far away, unable to truly warm you, forced to be a murderer lest you starve and go mad.
What kind of life was this?
The worst part was that you couldn't even die.
Every vampire had an ability unique to them. Yours was that you were immune to everything. Garlic didn't make your throat swell up and burst into hives, sunlight shined on you normally, a stake through the heart bounced off your skin– hell, even other vampires couldn't kill you. You'd know. You'd begged them to.
You were the true immortal amongst immortals. Never able to die, never able to be killed.
You hated it. And in that hate, everything about you twisted and turned, bitterness all that remained.
When John returned to bring you to his coven, to teach you their ways, you'd fought them off and ran, refusing to be with any other leeches if you could help it.
It wasn't until the London Massacre of 1222 that John truly regretted turning you. He should've known when he'd seen that look of pure, seething hatred in your eyes that you wouldn't go quietly, wouldn't fade into the background like a woman scorned would.
No. That would be asking too much.
In late 1222, you forcefully turned over a hundred men into vampires and unleashed them onto the city. They hadn't been random, but criminals, freed from their cells and enjoying their newfound power and freedom.
John's coven had been the ones to end them, to clean up the mess. God, he could still remember all the bodies. The women, the children– how could you do this? The village girl he'd once been besotted with would've never done this!
But that girl died the night he drained her. All that was left was you.
They never found you. You weren't at the Massacre, and whenever you replicated this attack over the centuries, you weren't around then either. Always far, far away, evading capture.
The worst part is that even if they captured you, what could they do? You couldn't be killed. They knew that much.
As the centuries passed, you tried to fill the years.
You learned every language, current and dead; you learned every cuisine and recipe despite being unable to taste them; you read every book there was, an ever increasing number thank God; learned every subject there was...
The hobbies and skills piled up and up, unending, anything you could learn you did, anything to pass the time. The infinite, immeasurable time.
After all, you had eternity, you had to fill it up somehow.
During that time, your ire never died. It lived within you, a twisting, curdling creature. Any whisper of John's name would make it spit and hiss, and you'd find yourself back in that moment, teeth in your throat and failing to save yourself.
Oh, how you hated that man.
It was while you were sitting in the sun, enjoying it as much as you could, that one of your vampires came to you.
Vladimir had been born during the height of the Imperial Period in Russia, and ever since you turned him, had been a good comrade to you.
"They say he has a family." He tells you. "A daughter."
Your eyes snap open, rage beginning to stir.
A daughter? How? Vampires couldn't have children. You'd know, you'd spent centuries...
Unconsciously cupping your belly, you looked at him.
"How?"
"Half-human. A one in a hundred chance." He shrugs. "We're all still trying to figure it out ourselves."
"... huh." You said simply, head cocking as your mind began to race with all the different ways you could destroy John Price's newfound happiness.
John slammed open the door only to freeze at the sight before him.
The window was open, curtain swaying in the breeze. The rocking chair creaked, his daughter gurgling as you held her.
He whispered your name, pleading, urgent, but you just shushed him.
"Come now, Price. Surely you don't think I'd kill a child?" You ask coyly.
He eyed your nails digging into Leah's little throat, and felt only fear.
"Oh right, I would." Your expression turned cold. "So, tell me, why shouldn't I do it?"
His breath stuttered, and he tried inching forward, only to freeze when your grip ever-so-slightly tightened.
"From the kindness of your heart–"
"Nonexistent."
He swallows. "Because she's innocent–"
"Innocents die all the time." You say simply, staring at him, never blinking, just looking at the man who'd ruined you. "And wasn't I innocent before you forced yourself on me?"
He tries again, saying anything he thinks will appeal to whatever remains of your conscience.
Finally, your patience snaps.
"Why did you turn me all those years ago?" You ask, the question having always been on your mind. After all, just how cruel could he be to force this life on you?
"... because I loved you."
You stop.
"No."
"I did." He nods. "I didn't mean to attack, I lost control, and– and I couldn't lose you, so I turned you."
You stared. Your pupils were pinpricks.
"... all this time... my personal hell... was because you 'loved' me?" You tilt your head, Leah whining as your grip increases. "If you truly loved me, you would've let me died!"
You stood abruptly, holding his baby by the neck.
"Catch."
John screamed as he jumped to catch Leah as you flung her, the baby's shrill screams shattering his heart as he cradled her close, whispering assurances. When he looked up, you were gone.