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I didn’t want my family to find out what had happened to me.Įven then I knew there was nothing they could do to help. Since I became a vampyr, I’ve been calling myself Cruz. They had conceived me on that river, during a holiday tour. My parents, Ethan and Marcia Cross, both dentists, both atheists, had named me Jordan, for the river in the Bible that flows into the Dead Sea. I was nineteen and a new fugitive from the sun. That midnight, I didn’t understand much about real life, not even the real life of people, forget about vampyrs. Which I spell this odd way because craving human blood in the night isn’t like stories and movies tell it. My recovery from the living, which began on those luminous streets that very night, has allowed me to accept myself as a vampyr. I’m done feeling sorry for the humanity I lost. Of course, as I crossed Stuyvesant at Tenth, I cast no shadow at all.
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The full moon at midnight filled Manhattan’s bright streets with deeper shadows. And whatever you can share about your addiction. Look, we all want to hear about you tonight. You called yourself a critical theorist, right? Lawyers are bloodsuckers. And you’re an intellectual - a college student.
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You’re a caring young man, not a monster. EAT has helped people with far more outlandish food addictions. Black puddings, blutwurst, hagis come to mind… And we want to hear what your food problem is. Are you still up for that?Īdmitting your affliction is the first honest step to recovery. You’re coming tonight? I know we talked about you speaking for yourself, for your addiction. I used to weigh 300 pounds, darling! I’m less than half that now. Like why you’re working there of all places. Then we get really specific and personal about our eating habits. We start off with general principles for the first couple meetings. Now it’s time for you to open up about your craving. You’d be astonished how many drop their sponsors after the first. Hello? There’s a lot of noise at your end. You’re human, yes? If I can write about my freaky vampyr experiences in a way that makes sense to you, then I haven’t entirely lost my humanity. Perhaps to create a new fate - for myself and for what I remember of being human. Why do I exist between presence and absence, in a middle realm without boundaries? If I concentrated in the right way, my reflection temporarily returned. It was where I appeared visible to myself by being invisible. That antique mirror became my holy site, an intersection between inner and outer worlds. The pavement before that shop window was my favorite place to stand in the city’s vague hours and reflect on why I don’t reflect. It once reflected a Bowery saloon of the 1890s. In the display window of an antique shop on West 25 th Street near 6 th Avenue in Manhattan, there’s a horizontal, oval mirror in a gilt frame carved with wildwood nymphs and fauns. I’ve often stood in front of reflecting surfaces and not seen myself and deeply wondered: Why? The undead exist without shadow or reflection.