Journal Entry #1124
I am a killer.
There’s no use sugarcoating it, I’m a realist. Why do you think so many have called me Sylva Slasher? No, it’s not what you think. I’m not some homicidal maniac in a hockey mask seeking retribution for an abusive life. I’m a five-foot-four, silver-eyed, blond trapped forever in an eighteen-year-old body. I’m also a vampire—a fledgling. Before that, I was a necromancer—a death dealer, an enigma who could raise the dead since she was eight-years-old.
If you must know, the smell of blood stimulated me the way candy excited a fat little kid. My fangs won’t show until I go through some kind of ritual. Yet, I have the strength of a goddess, the speed of a shooting star and acute senses that allow me to smell fear and hear the heartbeat of a hummingbird half a mile away. Yeah, I know, badass.
I am the daughter of the eldá, who is the leader of our Ohana, which is Hawaiian for blood family. I'm part Hawaiian, part Hungarian, and a full ex-nut job, if there is such a thing. Mom hadn’t taken me out of this stupid psych ward two weeks, before I was working with the Necrotic Affairs Division as a paid zombie killer; commissioned to cleanse the U.S. of any remnants of the Infection.
An old woman who had just turned undead became my first kill. After I slashed her neck, the old hag’s decapitated head swung in my grasp like a proud hunter’s trophy. I remember how her hair slipped through my fingers like grains of sand falling to the ground. Standing over her headless corpse, I stared, mesmerized at her blood dripping like crimson oil from a painter’s brush. It slowly ran down from my scarred pale hand and slithered along the blade of a fourteen-inch gorkha knife.
Excitedly, I watched blood flow onto her shredded torso drop-by-drop. Beneath the blood, a tattoo inked in blue below her crusty, sagging breasts read:
KARMA’S A BITCH, SO MAKE SURE YOU TREAT HER RIGHT
What was an old hag doing with a rad tattoo like that? I’d hope the Golden Rule didn’t apply to vampires. That would be a bitch. But that day—that day at the grave site, outside of Dubai, holding that old hag's head—that was our last job as federal zombie slashers.
Madam President brought us home, and shut down our task force, only days before she and her entire administration was assassinated by what the Ohana are calling rogue vampires.
Something was creepy regarding how that all went down. It was the beginning of the end for humans, and that sickened me to the core. It wasn't that long ago, that they, humans, were my family, now I belong to the undead. The odds were in my favor even though the deadheads outnumbered me twelve-to-one.
Was I worried? No. Was I being cocky? Perhaps. Am I delusional? Your decision.
Did the pressure boil in my blood almost to the point of implosion? Yes, but those who stood in my way found out the hard way that Slasher was more than a name, it was a lifestyle. My journal is more or less, therapy—my guilty pleasures for performing deeds that pushed back the boundaries for what some may deem as good, or what others may call evil.
This is my confession of faith—faith in the fact that death … was only the beginning