I have a very sharp bone to pick with Stephanie Meyer, Ann Rice, Charlaine Harris, and every other author who thinks that any Vampire could ever have the capacity to be a lovey-dovey, romantic, soul-bearing creature — They’re not.
They’re brutal, sociopathic, demonic creatures who feed off of our very life’s blood.
Understand, they’re not people. Not any more. They’re what is left, of what once was, a person. A person terrorised; weakened to the brink of death; raped of their entire being, until they became catatonic; their bodies left to be inhabited by their tormentors.
These aren’t tragic souls, but hollowed out beings. They are an abomination of life. They’re parasites — for they cannot reproduce on their own, while their sole purpose is the destruction of human life.
These are monsters in every sense of the word. They seek us out, and prey on us. They’re cold, calculating serial killers; and they’re nothing to be admired.
Meyer, Rice and Harris flirt with romantic fantasies of the Vampire. But they never truly follow these fantasies to their inevitable conclusions. They’re still entranced, and make allowances for their being. They want them to be redeemable. Yet, for the Vampire, there is no redemption, for there is nothing to be redeemed.