I'm 250 years old, for fucks sake. I've seen a lot of shit. A little good. A lot bad. And somewhere around 150 years ago I couldn't see the line between the two anymore. Currently, I am somewhere in Europe, lying on the floor of my apartment completely drunk. Honestly, I don't know how some of those other vampires do it—years and years of the same old shit? I'm tired of it. I've done the bad boy thing. I mean…the really bad boy thing. Which was great, for a while. Then some girl had to screw that up for me, and now even though she's gone I can't go back. I tried, not long after she left. Put in a really good effort, if I say so myself. The bird flu epidemic they kept trying to prove in 2013? You're welcome.
The glass in my hand rolled across the dirty faux-wood floor, my glance casual as I watched what was left inside trickle out and wet the dirt. The bourbon was good. Wet. But it didn't quench my hunger. Which, speaking of, was starting to really get on my nerves. How long had it been now? A week? That sounded right. I was out of blood; it was so hard to keep it cold without electricity. I forced myself up off the floor, practically having to dust myself off—Jesus, if I wasn't careful I would become part of the furniture at this rate. Shuffling around, I managed to throw on my jacket and a pair of shoes, first heading to the window for a quick bit of recon. Paris. That's where I was. And in the streets, a good 50 of them meandered about. Not bad. Not great, but doable at least. I cinched the jacket tighter—I've had this thing for years. A lot of years. But it was one of the few things I had left that still reminded me who I was.
I'm Damon Salvatore. I'm really old. And now I'm going to walk the streets of Paris to find someone living to eat.
Because Zombies taste very bad.