Musings in the Grave

From a young age, vampires intrigued me. It seems somewhat fitting then that like them I should lie here awake in a coffin, though, unlike them, I doubt I shall as easily move between the worlds of the living and of the dead. In point of fact, I find it somewhat doubtful that I ever will leave this cramped and shadowed abode.

I find many things doubtful here and now.

I remember stories of vampires transformed into bats sneaking into the homes of their victims, and so they would also disappear, a fluttering shadow in the night, leaving nothing but a dried-out corpse. There will be no trace of me as well, for like the vampire, those who would seek me must plunder the darkness of the grave.

Like the vampire, I suppose I never again shall see the sun, but unlike him, I will never again know the sweetness of the night. At least Dracula might gaze up at the stars. I see above me only the blackness of my grave. The watch on my wrist softly ticks away the moments of my fleeting hours, and in this, I am unsure which of us is the more pitiable, I who must soon sleep, or those who go about wakeful in death.