Darkness was no stranger to Donavan Mason. He had lived with it for centuries. Nor did he mind. It was the daylight that hurt his eyes and tended to be uncomfortable to his flesh, but what he disliked the most was that it reminded him of the human he’d once been. He could walk in the daylight, as most vampires actually could, when the sun wasn’t too severe. It was a myth that vamps exploded into flames in the light of the sun, but they were more sensitive to it than humans. For this reason, he had moved to the Pacific Northwest, as the sky was overcast more often than not. And there he had lived for the past hundred years, somewhat secluded, away from populated areas, appreciating the anonymity of the woods. Still, he was unbearably lonely. Something he’d resigned himself to many years ago.
At one point in time, he’d purchased a spider monkey for a pet, thinking it would help take away some of loneliness. Unfortunately, in a moment of extreme thirst, he had ended up killing his pet, draining him of his blood.
There were no more pets after that.
Money was no problem, for he enjoyed a more than plush income from investments he’d made in Europe over the long years he had lived there before moving to the United States. And if someone were to ask, he would say that the thing that kept him from losing his sanity was his art. He loved to paint with oils, acrylics, watercolors, basically any medium one could name. That was what he spent most of his time doing during the day.
Night was another story.
Donavan Mason was a vampire.
Night was when he hunted for his nourishment.