Samuel Merchant
Writer's Name: James Mitchelhill
Writer's Age: 20
Email: bobjim@hotpop.com
Character Name: Samuel Merchant
Character Nature: Vampire
Character Age: 23
Description: Sam always had the pale complexion renowned of vampires, even before he was bitten. Before it was anaemia, now it's something else. It contrasts quite nicely with his hair, which is dark and is cut rather raggedly. He is of slight stature, and, quite typically, stands uncomfortably, as if he's intruding somewhere he's not supposed to be. He fidgets constantly, tapping his foot, biting his lip. His eyes are in constant motion, looking this way and that, tired and dark. He's not the kind of man you'd notice unless you were a bully, because some people, and Sam is a fine example, are born with little signposts reading "victim" over their heads. But he's there, watching from the corner.
Personality: Sam was never the most confident of people. Childhood polio left him weak and stunted his growth, both emotionally and physically. He had few friends, was never in the best of health and never developed those social skills gained from being with people. Fortunately, his family had money and he never had to work. This left him a lot of time to think, and a host of eccentricities. He performed small experiments with never-quite-perpetual motion machines, the breeding of pea plants and the other interesting tinkerings with the world. Behind those nervous eyes was a mind that truly believed in the scientific method and was set on dismantling the world one piece at a time. All in all that vampire could have chosen a target more able to deal with the rude awakening into how truly bizarre the world can be.
History: Born into the middle classes, Sam's life should have been set for a lifetime of owning the means of production. He was always a sickly child, and things only got worse when he contracted Polio at the age of seven. The doctors didn't think he'd live. They were wrong. He lived, an only child and an obvious disappointment to his parents. Nevertheless, he was a loved child whose mother would do anything to protect him. He certainly wasn't allowed out of the house very often and, after a while, came to enjoy the solitude. He read widely and voraciously, concentrating mainly on the scientific works of the time. He avoided fiction. There were too many lies in the world already.
So, he grew up alone and at odds with the world. No matter how closely the orbits of the planets followed their predicted courses, the orbits of humans failed to yield to mathematical analysis. People were a mystery, an unsolvable equation. What was worse was that he was human too and was forced to take part in things he could not understand, in which he had no idea how to act. People regarded him as strange and silent. He was nineteen when his father died. His mother followed soon after. He had lost a family, but gained an inheritance. He moved to London.
He spent a long time in the British Library, met a few like-minded souls, university professors and the like, as what should be termed friends. Occasionally, when the pain of the world became too much, he would stray into the darker areas of London, get drunk silently in a pub, surrounded by strangers, then hire a prostitute. The next morning always followed the same pattern: He would wake, ashamed and hungover, resolve never to be so weak again and go back to his studies for another few months. He never realized that sometimes, things he had never known would be watching when he stumbled.
The last time he ever allowed his baser urges to gain control, the great unknown showed itself to him. He thought he was going to die. When he awoke, he was back in his bed, weak and afraid. He called in on a friend that day, on the way to a library of quite obscure books in a cellar of a university and mentioned the experience, removing the tawdry parts of the tale he was so ashamed of. Something broke into his room that night. He dreamt of teeth. The following day he was too weak to get out of bed, blood loss compounded by anaemia. On the third night, he was unsurprised to find the thing standing over him again. His blood was drained, he saw the light of paradise or the flames of hell (he could not tell which, but it was a point of brightness in the dark). And then he tasted blood. He drank.
Someone kicked his door down. He never knew if his friend had more knowledge than he credited him with, or if a hunter had already been tracking the vampire. Either way, there was a cross and he was afraid. Water splashed across his attacker, causing flames to leap up from his skin and he knew he was damned. He didn't want to die. He ran.
The nights that followed were confused. He lurked in the shadows of Whitechapel and he killed through instinct. He had never been as fit in his life as he was in death. He is now thoroughly confused and disgusted with the world for being far more complex than he had ever realized. There have recently been a number of late night break-ins to libraries on the occult.
