Time to Play, Bitches

I had never seen my past lives before. And honestly, this would've blown my fucking mind a few years ago, when I was still a newborn vampire, just starting out in this nocturnal community—you know, before all the shit I had to swallow to make it this far. Necessary hardships. Challenges. Challenges that maybe will never end. Because yeah, I'm sure that if I make it out of the Gloaming Inn, there'll be more shit waiting for me out there.

"If I make it out." Let's underline that. If I manage to escape this goddamn dimension. Because if I don't, all those vampire trials come to a dead stop. I'll be dead. And then I'll be reborn, and I'll get a whole new set of trials. Human trials. Trials with goals that reek of vulgarity. Basic goals, almost laughable if you look at them through a vampire's eyes. But for humans, of course, they're mountains. Peaks most never reach. Peaks others don't even dare imagine.

Yeah, I'll be born again as just another nobody. Back to the pit. Paying rent. Bills. That damn money crawling out of every crack. Watching your back so some slick bastard in a nice suit, all charm and perfect smile, doesn't screw you over. Watching your back again so some scumbag from the slums doesn't stab or shoot you. Taking care of your family. Carrying the burden. The burden of all that human garbage: boring, mediocre, senseless.

God, just thinking about it—I don't know what's worse anymore: figuring out a way to head straight to Hell and skip the whole hassle of living as a human again? Or being reborn, going through it all over again, being shit over and over, and still ending up—in the end, inevitably—in Hell? I don't know anymore. The only thing I'm sure of is this: I don't want to stop being a vampire. I don't want to go back to being someone like that guy I see now—a human without fire, without fury, without fate—walking through the darkness, down the damp streets of old Paris.

My name is Bastien. I've never been a vampire. My path hasn't crossed with Agnes's yet. I'm twenty-three. I'm a painter. I believe I'm brilliant. I believe I'm a spectacular artist. Someone who deserves applause, money, wine, and women by the dozen. But the truth is, my paintings have the depth of a piss puddle. I think I'm inventing a new style. A way of painting that'll be taught in art schools, analyzed, revered. But the truth is something else entirely: I paint pretentious garbage. My canvases are the faint echo of someone who never had anything to say. I don't sell a single one.

I live in a ruined attic in Saint-Antoine. Fourth floor. No light, no toilet, no future. The walls are damp, the bread's moldy, and the rats don't even run when I come in—they look at me like, "You again?" I sleep on a straw mattress that itches like an insult. I paint with brushes that look like a beggar's beard. And still, I think I'm a genius. How adorable. The only thing keeping me from dying in a muddy alley, sprawled out like I fell off a horse and broke my neck, is my beauty. I sell it for a few coins. That's all.

And look, it's not like I'm disgusted by prostitution. I've swum in that pond being who I am: the great Zico. You know this already, dear reader. I used to sell myself back in Miraverde, in the La Concepción neighborhood. But as I've said before, I had my limits: never from behind. My ass remained immaculate. And look at me now. Being Bastien. I do everything. Or maybe it's more accurate to say: everything is done to me. The tales of the Marquis de Sade are fairy tales compared to the degradation I reach as Bastien.

Yes, I'm Bastien. The garbage painter. A starving dreamer with an inflated ego. A third-rate whore. But of course—also a murderer. It's the only thing, if I'm being honest, that I'm actually good at. I wish there were some perks that came with it. A pin. A medal. A letter of recommendation. A tip. Something. But no. No perks. If the police catch me, all I get is a sentence. And you really don't want to know what prison's like in this era. Or maybe you do.

Prisons in 1702 are graves with bars. They stink of piss seasoned with old blood and stale bread. The bars are so rusty they'll make you sick if they so much as graze your skin. The guards aren't human. They're rabid dogs in uniform. They kick you like you're dried shit stuck to a boot, and then douse you in limewater to "purify your soul." No beds. Barely any food. And what there is, is pure filth. No trial. You just rot. Some prisoners scream at night. Others don't anymore. Those who survive learn to lick the moisture off the walls so they don't die of thirst. And that's if you're lucky. If not, they cut off your head. Though honestly, once you know what prison's really like, getting your head chopped off starts to sound like a blessing. And I almost forgot, there's something even worse. This one's the real jackpot of bad luck: they send you to the galleys. And there you are, chained to an oar until your spine snaps or your heart gives out. Whichever breaks first.

Oh, my friends, life is hard. Brutally hard for me: Bastien. The only thing I have is my art. That's the one thing keeping me from stealing a rope, finding a strong beam or a sturdy tree branch, and hanging myself. That's the one thing keeping me from jumping into the Seine in the middle of winter—dying in style, like a tragic artist nobody will remember. Vanish. Let someone ask, "Whatever happened to Bastien, the painter?" And the answer be: "Who?"

And there I am. In those gloomy, miserable streets, stumbling home drunk after losing my soul in some tavern. Drunk! Intoxicated on wine so cheap it tasted like sewage. The sweat of a gangrenous gladiator would've gone down smoother than that cursed red, which didn't drown sorrows—it taught them how to swim. I can't believe it. Drunk! Me—me! Back when I was Zico, the human Zico—I never touched a drop of alcohol in my life. I despised that shit. Why? Because drinking, even a sip, always seemed like something losers did. And yet, there I am. Wasted. Crawling through the streets, living like some bum from San Cristóbal Park.

I crawl up to my attic and collapse. Pass out. But then—who knows how long after—a woman wakes me up. Moonlight pours through the window and spills across my wretched little room. And there she is. Oh, what a woman. I feel like God has finally remembered me—unlucky Bastien. Oh Lord, I know I haven't been your most faithful disciple, but thank you. Thank you for this. Without a second thought, I throw myself at her. I want to tear off her clothes, defile that beauty with my filthy, drunken body—A body that, in just a few hours, will be destroyed by a hangover straight out of hell's darkest circles. And who is this woman? Well, it's Agnes. But of course, I—Bastien—don't know that. I have no idea she's a vampire. All I can think about is her body. Oh, that perfect figure. I want her. In the filthiest, most depraved way possible. I want to kiss that face—half angel, half demon. I'm burning with the most chaotic, abject lust there is: a drunk man's lust.

Agnes freezes me in place before I can touch her with my filthy hands. Then she shows me her fangs. And just like that, the drunkenness vanishes. I'm terrified. I piss my pants. Yes. I'm truly pathetic.

Agnes says to Bastien exactly what I'd say to that former self of mine: that frozen, drunken, pathetic loser of a painter. You follow me? To be precise: Agnes says to Bastien what I, Zico the vampire, would shout at that idiot who tried—without even the faintest chance of success—to violate a vampire whose beauty kills you, brings you back, and kills you all over again.

"You're a truly repulsive creature," Agnes says. "I should kill you, then take your soul in the afterlife, grab it by the neck, and shove it into Hell—Just to make sure this planet never again feels the itch of a louse like you crawling across it."

Agnes pauses and makes a face like she's about to vomit. A theatrical one. So very Agnes. Fuck. Watching her from where I am now—Here, at the Gloaming Inn, with Liora sleeping in my arms—I suddenly feel an overwhelming nostalgia. I want to see her again. She's my creator. I can't help it. And even more so now, because I finally see it clearly: she's like me, and I'm like her. I'm a vampire cut from the same cloth as Agnes. Ah, Agnes. Ah, you crazy fucking bitch. We'll meet again. Yes, someday we'll meet again. But next time, the rules will be different. Because next time, I make the rules.

Agnes says to Bastien:

"If the Agnes of today—so young, so tender—saw you the way I see you now, she wouldn't fall in love with you. Not in a million years. She wouldn't even feed on you. She wouldn't touch your filthy blood. She'd just rip your head off and throw it to the other end of Paris."

And I, Zico, think: That's not the Agnes of 1702. That's my Agnes. Agnes-future.

Should I be surprised? Yeah—if this were the first time life threw this kind of mindfuck at me. But you know how it is. It's not the first time.

I think: Did future Agnes travel back in time just so Bastien could meet the Agnes of 1702?

Yes. That much is clear. The question now is: Why? What the hell is behind all this? What's my true role in this story?

Well, patience. No need to lose it. I can't react like I did last time—like some frenzied idiot. The truth always shows up, if you look closely enough. Carefully. Thoroughly. If you look without anxiety. Without that desperate hunger to know everything all at once. Without clumsiness.

Agnes says to Bastien:

"I have to turn you into someone decent. I have to help you become a better killer. I have to make sure the Agnes of this time notices you. I have to improve your life."

Bastien replies, trembling:

"Don't hurt me."

"Did you not just hear me say I need to improve your life? How the hell do you go from that to thinking I'll hurt you? Do you honestly believe ripping off your arm or chopping your dick off would make your life better? You're an idiot, boy. Of course I won't hurt you. I can't believe my Zico's soul is trapped inside the meat I'm looking at."

"Who's Zico?"

"Someone who should be in Hell—but isn't. Someone I suffered for, thinking I'd never see him again. Someone my creator forgave without telling me a damn thing. But the good news is, now I'm free. Free forever. And I'm going to get back what's mine. But first, I need to handle this small task."

"I don't understand any of this."

And then—Agnes makes Bastien's mouth disappear. Literally. He has no mouth. I think: How the fuck did she do that? Bastien panics. He freaks out. He can't move. He has no mouth. Agnes bursts out laughing. She's the goddamn wicked witch from the fairytale. From another room, a man yells at her to shut the hell up, not missing the chance to throw in a few curses. Agnes keeps laughing. But the man's voice doesn't come back. What we hear next are screams. A woman screaming like she's lost her mind. What did Agnes do? Well, it's not hard to guess: Like a bag of puke launched from the fifteenth floor, exploding on a nail-covered sidewalk—my Agnes detonated that idiot, sending his guts flying in every direction. Moral of the story: never interrupt a vampire in the middle of her wicked joy.

This Agnes is definitely more powerful than the one I used to know. And she says she's free now. Free forever. She says she's coming for what's hers. Which means she's coming for me. She's free forever—and she's coming for me. That makes me wonder: Has this Agnes killed Du la Font?

The game just got serious. And I'm ready to play.

Like Private Joker says at the end of Full Metal Jacket by Kubrick:

"I am in a world of shit, yes. But I am alive. And I am not afraid."

Let's go. Let's head for the Perfume River. Time to play, bitches.