Two for tragedy. Volume 1 - стр. 4

When I returned to the castle, I put on a long waterproof cloak. It was autumn, so my attire was not much different from that of the citizens of Prague. Then I went into the garage to get my car. I was the lucky owner of a black Toyota, but not one of the latest models, despite the fact that my family members changed cars almost every week. My father, mother and Markus decided that since they couldn't fly around the city during the day, they would flaunt their cars – the latest models of the world's famous brands. I smiled derisively at this consolation of my ego. Passers-by often saw off the Morgan's motorcade of foreign cars, and my Toyota looked like a real exile in it. But my faithful iron friend was to my liking, and I was not going to change her. Since my youth, I have been convinced that a means of transport should have only one function – to be comfortable, and not to become a way of compulsive self-expression.

Contrary to mortal opinion, we do not literally fly around the city. To my great regret. But we call all our movements around the city "flying". And once again I flew to the bridge that connects the districts of Prague and is located on two hills, stretching over the deep Nusle valley. This bridge was conveniently located in the neighbourhood of the Faculty of Physics and Mathematics where I studied.

The Czechs call the Nusle Bridge, forty-two metres high in the centre, the "Suicide Bridge". Seven other such bridges were built in the world using similar technology, but all of them, except Nusle, have faded into oblivion. In Soviet times, Nusle was considered a working class neighbourhood, although workers, hooligans and other people still live here. The spirit of the neighbourhood is depressing, and the concrete bridge has absorbed the same spirit. You look down and think about how easy it is to die. That's the thought of hundreds of suicides who come here to end their lives. There were so many suicides that the Czech government seriously thought about this phenomenon, so nowadays the bridge railings were iron partitions and bars. However, these pieces of iron do not stop the death-seekers: from time to time, opening the daily Prague newspaper, I once again learnt about new victims of the Nusle Bridge, this gloomy giant. A person flies a distance of forty-two meters, in free fall, in just three seconds, and then, at a speed of one hundred kilometers per hour, meets the asphalt. Suicidal people are reminded of the streetlamp under the bridge, which illuminates part of its tube and points upwards to illuminate the suicides' final path. And those who wish to commit suicide are many: their number approaches four hundred. In the history of the bridge there are only two known cases when those who jumped from it survived, however, one of them died in hospital seventeen days after the fatal jump. During the Soviet era, the media hushed up suicides on the Nusle Bridge, as nothing was to sully the name of the first "worker" president, Clement Gottwald, which the bridge bore until one thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine. Today, howevebr, the bridge is infamous worldwide as the "Suicide Bridge."

Not knowing what death was, I loved this place. I had a beautiful view from the bridge, and no bars prevented me from seeing it. I liked to meditate on it, to watch the sunset, and sometimes even to watch the dawn. Unlike my relatives, who came to the castle before dawn, I was not afraid to be here in the morning, and with the hood of my cloak over my head, I stayed until the first rays of the rising sun. Here I was not disturbed neither by the noise of the city nor by the noise of passing cars – I had long ago learnt to abstract myself from reality. And this time, after my conversation with my brother, I morally needed a long reflection. For some unknown reason, this time I felt inferior, an outcast, an outsider in my own family, in which everyone had a meaning in life. That meaning was their other halves. And I was like a person who didn't know what she wanted, or rather, didn't know what she lacked. But what do I lack? I have everything that mortals can accurately dream of: immortality, wealth, perfect physical disguise, a loving family, a vast store of knowledge. What is it that makes me feel inferior and alien when I have everything? I hoped to find the answer to that question. But how quickly would I find it? And, the worst part is that it could be months, years, or even centuries before the answer is found. But even then, I will be unsatisfied: each new guess gives birth to a dozen more questions. And this endless chain will never be broken. And all this time I will have to live with a feeling of mental emptiness. Will I be able to? I can't. I'm a vampire. Immortal.