An interview with a vampire

"Mirrors lie" Huh, that’s what she said. Well, of course, they do, darling! I couldn’t stand them when I was alive and, might I say, I harbour absolutely no trust in them in my current state of being. That is, in my after-death. But if you look at this close enough: how come a respectable man of the age of enlightenment can put all his faith in a polished piece of metal when attending to his looks? A piece of metal, where any minor surface imperfection might influence the way you perceive you own brilliant self? Did I tell you I was born in England? A proper British gentleman. We had polished copper looking glasses, that is, to a simpleton, a hand-held mirror. Back in my home village of ***, only after a great amount of saliva and a proper handjob and absolutely no effect — I am talking about polishing a mirror here, my dear friend — did I realise that the devilish piece of metal didn’t hold any imperfection in itself, but those were rather the consequences of the leprosy I had contracted earlier that I was seeing in the mirror. But did I give up? Did I falter? Oh, positively not! It was a bloody disaster, all that leprosy at that time, and yet I was still considered the crème de la crème of the village. With later, after the plague had rampaged through our green fields and lovely bustling towns, claiming the title of the most handsome man of the county! That title could have easily won me that much desired love and affection, hand and heart of any beautiful lady in the vicinity. Too bad that leprosy was still rampant making the definition of beauty a bit vague, if I might say so, and bringing irreparable damage to hands and, perhaps, even hearts. I am not a doctor, I cannot judge. So I say, young man, heed my advise based on personal experience: don’t waste your saliva and muscle strength, that is a handjob, for a mirror — there are better uses to those! For a completely unknown reason, mirrors are uniquely popular nowadays, even though they are clearly always accompanying the very essence of bad taste. Why, would you ask? Well, I’m glad you asked! Remember that last time when a companion looked at your respectable self and exclaimed: “Laszlo, what is it you are wearing? Have you looked into the mirror at all?” No, no, of course, they are not saying “Laszlo” — we are talking about you now. Imagine, should you have looked into a mirror, would it change anything? Would you look more imposing? Would you have more colour in your cheeks and blossom in your peaches? In fact, you almost certainly had looked into a mirror before going out and then received that by all means rude and disgraceful commentary anyway. Think of it: what is it other than a lie from your most trusted reflecting piece of furniture, huh? And what is it other than a confirmation of the lack of taste that you are so unfortunate to have? Taste, as we all know, is inbred and nurtured over the course of life. So mirror or not, the lack of it is difficult to remedy. In fact, almost impossible. And yet, you look into your mirror, you see yourself, you turn your inner critic and you say “hey, I look decent”! Happily, you go out and bam! You are in shame head to toes. Not seldom also in pigeon droppings. And somewhere in the depths of your house, in its heart of hearts, your precious prized mirror is just hanging there, smiling, happy about yet another lie and mocking your doubtful fashion choices. You know how they say about vampires: their image is so ungodly, the mirrors refuse to reflect them. As if they would reflect God, if it was realer than a fiction of an old man on a cloud, bollocks! Or, even better, vampires don’t reflect in the mirrors, because they have no souls. I say, the layer of truth in this statement is thinner than the skin on donkey’s balls. How do I know? Well, we had some donkeys back in the village and if you just quietly creep from behind, extend your hand and… Ah! How do I know it’s not true? Pure logic, my friend, pure logic. Say, this magnificent Victorian chair doesn’t have a soul. Not that I at least am aware of any within it. Or a wall behind me. Or a sofa that bravely withstood my intricate love games with Baron Afanas at some point. Or donkey balls, for that matter. They are all utterly soulless. However, all those objects, when presented in front of a mirror, will be reflected nice and proper to the tiniest bit of detail. So, as you might notice, it’s either donkey balls have souls, or I, Laszlo Cravensworth, am a soulless bastard! To tell you the truth, vampires are only truly allergic to mirrors with silver coating due to our inborn weakness towards silver of all kinds. But did you know that silver coating only came into use in the 18th century and, probably, spoiled the afterlives and fashion choices of oh so many aspiring vampires forever. We can all agree that vampires looked more menacing back then, even though our judgements would come purely from the engravings and portraits. However, these days, give us any other type of reflecting surface and we can play around. Most of us, though, do not reflect at all by choice. Call it an anti-mirror coalition, if you’d like. Standing strong and proud against silver discrimination. Of course, I can only speak for myself, but I personally don’t reflect in the mirrors, because I am pro-choice. I chose so. More than that, I forbade a mirror to reflect me. I just thought I didn’t want to share my image with a mirror. You know, just say no. Have you ever played Monopoly? A good game, I think I always win. Besides, there is absolutely nothing that can help improve my already perfect taste, therefore why would I need to see my reflection?