"The Vampire Monologues" is an original work by Wade Bradford, published exclusively at About.com. These monologues may be freely used for educational purposes. "The Vampire Monologues" can be used as stand alone pieces, but together they form a complete play.
What Has Happened So Far:
During Part One, three newly "turned" vampires are welcomed to the Morgenroth Funeral Parlor, a sort of half-way house for "new bloods." Part Two introduces the audience to Morgenroth the Elder, the leader of these wayward bloodsuckers. In Part Three, the new arrives begin to tell their story, with a teenage vampire named Aria going first. Then, in Part Four, Zever, a teenage male vampire clad in a leather jacket, begins to share his origins.
Part Five begins with an interruption from Morgenroth, who asks Zever to get to the point. Zever, who is very respectful of Morgenroth's power, shifts gears, talking about how he became a vampire.
MORGENROTH: Mr. Zever, I may seem immortal, but that does not mean I have all the time in the world. Please spare us your entire autobiography and give us the abbreviated version of how you became a vampire.
ZEVER: Yes. Sorry. My apologies. I didn't mean to bring up all of that. I just wanted you to know that at that point, I was searching. Searching for a way to punish my father. And searching for a way to become powerful. Even though I grew up n a farm, bailing hay, loading apple barrels, my father was so much stronger than me. Faster. If I really wanted to overpower him I needed to change. Completely. There was a woman, a very old woman, who lived down a long, winding farm road on the edge of town. There were rumors about her. Ghost story kind of rumors. People said that her husband worked as a traveling salesman, and slept around with women all over the state, picking up who knows what, and finally, this little wife, only five foot one, snapped. And, this was just a rumor, he came home one night, and she was waiting for him behind the door. She caught a whiff of perfume from some prostitute, probably, and she snapped his neck right then and there. But the police didn't press charges. Most folks in town think it's because they couldn't believe a frail little old lady like that could possibly do something so wild. She just wouldn't be strong enough for one thing, let alone vicious enough. Well, I started thinking, I wanted to meet this woman. Little Old Aggie, we called her. She hadn't been into town in over a decade, and the word was that she must have been long since dead. But I did some research. Someone was still paying her property taxes, under her name. She was never listed in any obituary column. And then I dug deeper. The mysterious neck-snapping of her husband happened forty years ago, when Miss Aggie was seventy five. I did the math. If she was still alive she'd be over a century old. And that's when I knew. It just hit me. As impossible as it should have been, I knew that she was still alive, still thriving, even as she hid away from the rest of the town. When you stood at the foot of her long winding driveway, you could sense a power emanating from her house on the hill.
The day I figured out her age was the same day I walked up her road. I didn't go too close to the house, I just wanted to see if there were any signs of life, or death. I watched as the sun began to set; her curtains slowly opened, a light came on, and a shadow moved by, flew by maybe. It was fast. Too fast for just a simple old lady. I ran home. And I told my father that I met Old Lady Aggie on the way home from school. I told my Dad, "She wants to talk to you." He wanted to know what about. "She's finally selling her property and she doesn't want it going to an out-of-towner." Now, my Dad has wanted to extend his orchard empire, and that hill would be a perfect addition, so he is quick to agree. The next day, right after school, he drags me along up to her house. We get to Old Lady Aggie's doorstep; he makes me knock. He tells me, "Boy, if you are lying about this, I am going to whoop your butt so badly." No one answers the knock. He rings the doorbell. Nothing. It's getting dark, but it's still kind of light out. He pulls me down her steps, and I'm thinking I was wrong, and now there's hell to pay. But just as we are at the last step on her porch, we hear the rusty hinges of her door swing open. It's her. And she doesn't look one-hundred-and-five, but she does look old. And small. And frail. And kind. Like the world's most perfect grandma. But something about her, maybe her smile, let's me know she is more than she seems. My Dad has no idea, he bounds up the steps, about to shake her hand and do business. I call out, "Miss Aggie, this is my father. I brought him for you." And then she is on him, leaping for his throat. By the time I have winced and opened my eyes, my father is dead on the porch. Laid flat, white skinned, completely drained. She's looking at me, her face red like she's face first in cherry snow cone. She's trying to decide if she should devour me now or save me for later. So, I get on my knees, offer her my arm, and I tell her, "I know you can take my life, but I hope you transform me. I want to be like you." Then, she bites into my wrist. Everything went black. When I woke up, I was staring at a full-moon, and I was reborn.
