It is humorous that money buys nothing in the end. We work for this paper our entire lives and when the end is near we lie there like any other and wait for fate to come down and shit on us. Believe me, I have climbed the ladders from scum to supreme, from poverty to powerful, from a New York City bum to a corporate entrepreneur with more money than the goddamn president; but as I write this down I am immortal. The blood that flows through my veins is not pure, but a coarse black serum that keeps my pale skin thriving in the dark.
My secretary had first introduced me to the treatment. When I had been diagnosed with cancer a year ago I’d given up. The doctor told me I had less than a year to live, that no treatment would remedy the affliction. The bastard gave me a Medical Marijuana card, and enough painkillers to drug a fucking whale.
“I got something” My secretary said nervously, rubbing his hands together. “Shipped straight from Asia, real weird shit.”
“If I’m looking to get high I’d just smoke the weed, Tom” I had told him and twirled a quarter on my desk. “I need a cure. I have all the money in the world, but the doctors got nothing.”
“Nah, a friend from overseas told me about something that’s been passed around in the underground markets. People call it ‘Vampyre’.”
“Yeah as in ‘Vam-pire’. It comes in a fluid, you inject it and in three days the cancer will be gone.” Tom cleared his throat nervously. “But-“
“Side effects?” I asked.
“Typical bullshit- headaches, nausea, minor hallucinations, and in some of the cases death.” Tom paused. “But that’s a small percentage of trials. “’Course it’s not FDA approved or nothing but I can get it in here in a week or two,”
That’s all I needed. I just needed to see a spark of opportunity, even if it were dim. I wouldn’t have cared if he were trying to pour rat poison down my throat, or inject cyanide in my veins. As the cancers swam through my veins each and everyday grew more dreary; more cold and hostile. I would eat my lunch at my desk and then stand tall and watch the world flutter by outside of the windowpanes. Sometimes I would count the snowflakes as they splashed against the glass and freeze. When each moment matters and death lingers at your doorway you have two options; to run away until it eventually finds you, or to jump into it and knock death on its ass. I chose the second path.
My secretary came to me one morning with this bottle of dark liquid. He placed it on my desk and dropped a black balloon and a syringe beside it. “Just like shooting dope,” He spoke as if it were nothing. I looked bug-eyed, but I let him tie my arm and inject the ‘Vampyre’ into my veins. It burned but then went cool as it climbed throughout my veins. He found his way out of my office and I slit down the wall nearest my desk; my skin grew clammy and cold as my insides twisted and turned. The morning came through the window but I shriveled away from the light of dawn, into a closet near the door. I didn’t leave my office for the last couple of days; I left my wife lonely at my home and my kids oblivious away at school. I cowered from the daylight and marveled in the shine of the harvest moon.
The cancer had subsided, and I watched the world at night through a thin glass array. To my family and friends I was a man who overcame cancer; but to me, I was Vampyre.