Anyway, whatever reason they went there which included the more vapid ones, people tended to be more respectful of the real magic entombed within its ancient graves. I didn't have the same level of reverence, but my type of "fun" was greatly curtailed by those wanting to speak in whispered tones and tiptoe between the marble statues. That's why I came to Cemetery Number 1. While still filled with old bones of older infamy, it didn't carry the weight of oppression on every dipped angel head. Here, especially in front of the grave where I now stood, I could let out all the anger over the world not giving me my due.
"Anne Rice. You bitch."
I had a special hatred for the woman yet to be buried here in this mausoleum, even though she had a maudlin 'funeral' a few years ago as a way of working out her issues, which are numerous. No, I hated her because not only did she write some of the biggest lines of bullshit about my kind, she also was given complete credit for every one of those bullshit lines. Unlike me. I was never going to be celebrated as the literary genius and risk taker I am and it /galled/ me. Damn, I should get around to killing her.
I am Marquis Donatien Claude Armand de Sade, alas not to be confused with Donatien Alphonse François de Sade who is my father. Was. He died in 1814 in the insane asylum he'd spend his final years along with his teenage lover. He was a rapist and a pedophile, yet the world still speaks of him as some sort of genius because of the stories he wrote. /My/ stories. I grew up in a home that had no love, only lust. I watched my father abuse the servants and hold his various victims against their will during my formative years, which if I believed in any of that psycho-babble, might have me questioning who I was really angry with and it wasn't the outside world. But how could I blame my father? Back then I had to find an outlet for all the depravity I was exposed to so I found it in writing. The words spilled across the page, especially once my father was imprisoned in the Bastille for his crimes.
I took my words to him, seeking his approval as I always did since he preferred to give his attention to his playthings. He hid that original draft of 120 Days of Sodom in the walls of his cell and believed the manuscript to be lost when the Bastille was stormed. He encouraged me to write me and I felt seen for the first time in my life. My next work, Justine, was thus inspired after I overheard a sad tale in a tavern and I delivered it to him along with so many others. When the debauched work was discovered my father did the first generous act of his life, or so it seemed at the time; he took the 'blame' and was declared insane. I was free to live my life and yet his true motivation soon became clear. My father reveled in the infamy of /my/ words, not caring if it was revulsion or praise thrown his way as long as his name was on every tongue. One such person to desire an audience with the most notorious libertine was a vampire named Renaldo.
Renaldo befriended me and I thought for once someone was showing an interest in who /I/ was, to the point I begged him to turn me. He said the price I would need to pay was an audience with my father, to prove I was who I said. I arranged the introduction, was made into an immortal monster to for once be something my father couldn't be, and awaited the life Renaldo would gift me. Instead, Renaldo laughed in my face and said my father was the true genius and I was just a jealous son trying to claim his fame as my own. Ironically enough, Renaldo would be my first kill as a vampire, never being able to remove the sound of his mocking laughter from my head even now. The sound of the stake breaking through his rib cage to pierce his heart was a very nice addition to my memories, however.
And so it was to continue. Me being unable to escape the legacy of my father across continents and centuries while also never being able to get credit for the words, which was all I wanted. He could keep the crimes, for all I cared. I just wanted the art. The poetry of fate is that over time I became almost as much of a monster as the original Marquis de Sade. I may prefer my victims to be adult and more willing, although none truly knew what they were volunteering for, they still wound up very dead for the most part. Lately I'd taken to having a companion who was little more than a pet, if I was to be honest. She had an addiction and by feeding it, I could do whatever I wanted to do to her and my wants were never-ending. I didn't bother to ponder what this did to her, nor did I know if I was going to keep the promise to turn her one day. I was going to do what I liked and maybe, eventually, the world would see I was the superior de Sade. Until then, I'd find what little satisfaction as I could and damn the consequences. I stomped into the shadowy Garden District mansion I'd bought, oil lamps my preferred method of illumination even with all the modern amenities at my fingertips.
"Get in here, Eden! It's time to take your medicine!"