Chapter 19 - A Brief Aside part 2

What do I look like?

I look much as I did in my mortal lifespan. If I should push myself back from this antique French desk, turn away from my electronic writing machine-- Ha-ha! Yes, I know it is called a computer; a Macbook Pro, to be specific!-- and if I should stroll past my 17th century Baroque settee, my weighty collection of phonograph records, my Renoir and Manet and my glorious Pissarro landscape, if I should enter the bathroom and look at myself in the mirror, I would have no difficulty recognizing the face that gazes back at me.

Yes, my kind can see themselves in mirrors! We are subject to the same physical laws as any other corporeal being.

I was almost thirty when I was made this thing that I am, and I look thirty still. The shape of my lips, the aquiline nose, the thoughtful brow and high, angular cheekbones... I recognize them all. Looking in the mirror, I can say, "These are my features, as they have ever been." I enjoy the same impressive height of six feet and three inches. When I was a mortal man, my stature made me something of a freak. It is still considered tall in this modern era, though not quite as unusual. I have the same sturdy build, broad chested, with powerful biceps and rather thick, muscular thighs. My hair is long and flowing, a little too dark to be called auburn but with coppery highlights, falling in length to the middle of my shoulder blades. My beard, which is unfashionably long and curly, is no different from the day I was transformed. If I had lived out my natural span, I probably would have looked much like my father, with jowly cheeks and a protuberant belly and a great, frizzy mane of gray hair, but I was snatched from life not long past my physical prime, for which I, in my vanity, have always been secretly grateful. I won't lie about that. I am a little vain.

There are some differences, of course.

Take my skin, for an example. In life, it was ruddy and soft, tanned from the sun and slightly weathered by the elements. It is chalk white now, and I must hide its inhuman gleam beneath a layer of makeup—L'Oreal True Match Super-Blendable, usually—before visiting any brightly lighted venues. If I did not take the time to paint my face before I ventured out in public, I would quickly become an object of overt curiosity, if not send a few of you scurrying away in fear. It is not too much of an inconvenience, the application of my camouflage, and the necessary cosmetics are inexpensive and easy to procure in this era of material plenty.

I do not fully understand the nature of the transformation that was wrought upon me, but the cells of my dermis have… crystallized. That is the only way that I know to describe it. To the touch, my body is hard and cold and somewhat glossy. Some have described the texture of my skin as silken, but more often than not, I've been told it feels like stone. In modern fluorescent lighting, my flesh appears slightly translucent so that you can see the webbing of my circulatory system, all the little capillaries and veins and arteries running just beneath the surface. It's really quite repulsive. In direct sunlight, my skin glimmers very subtly. In low light, my flesh takes on the coloration of its surroundings, similar to the way some people's eyes change color depending upon the clothes that they wear. In candlelight, I am a Caravaggio portrait. In darkness, I become all but invisible. I believe this to be a predacious adaptation. To quote a popular children's story, "All the better to eat you, my dear!"

My eyes were similarly transformed, crystallized in much the same manner as my skin. They are like two round jewels ensconced in white satin. They are the same hazel color they were when I was living but now they glimmer in the light. They are the eyes of a nocturnal predator, able to dilate so completely that only the pupils are visible. When spied from the right angle and in the right kind of light, they glow like two amber lanterns. The living find their predatory qualities instinctively dreadful. Even mortals who claim to find them beautiful are chilled by my stare even as they speak in admiration.

What else?

My penis (he types with a mischievous grin)?

Functional and of satisfactory dimensions, I assure you. I am not circumcised, of course. My clan did not practice genital mutilation, neither upon our females nor our males. We would have found the very thought of it outrageous. I can become erect and I can have sexual intercourse, although my mortal sexual partners have told me that the coldness of my flesh and the strange texture of my skin can sometimes be less than pleasing. I can even orgasm, although my issue can no longer spark life in the wombs of my female partners.

Alas, the wellspring of my manhood is as cold and sterile as the man itself!

And fangs?

Oh, yes, I have fangs! Two wickedly sharp eyeteeth, which I flawlessly conceal from the view of those around me by the movements of my lips and tongue... unless I want to be dramatic and frighten someone with a monstrous show of needled jaws. They are finely serrated on the interior edges, my fangs, perfectly designed to slice through flesh and arteries with the lightest caress.

In sum, I look and feel like a living marble statue. Stripped of all my glamours, I am beautiful and grotesque, seductive and repellent. You might think it a small price to pay to be liberated from death, but I promise you, extreme longevity is no good trade for anything.