PART I
I want to deflect any assumptions that you might have already made to yourself, dear reader. This is not a publicity stunt; this is the true, honest words of the one Credence Crow, Moonlite Montreal model. I want to make it clear right from the start that this is my story, my struggles, and it begins in a humble English village. The greatest gratitude to my therapist, without whom I would not have had the courage to be able to share this with you today.
I cannot recall much from the days of my youth, but this moment I will remember forever: the bleak skies, the grey grasses and trees, the haunting wind carrying with it the moans of the ghosts who had not so long before called this place their home. That is, before the Death took them.
Historians have since labelled these two years the Black Death, the wiping out of nearly the entirety of the English population from some foul sickness they called the bubonic plague, the coughing and shivering and exploding boils of pus, leaving you as good as out to pasture for the carrion to finish off. Of course, we were none the wiser back then, thinking we had done something to anger the Almighty God, and that this was his form of punishment. These were dark days, and even the least pious of us had turned to prayer for our salvation, for redemption of whatever sin we had committed.
I lived in an old farmhouse with my family—well, what was left of them, anyway. Being a family of eight who had to share one room and three beds, we were easy pickings for the Death. The first to go was my twelve-year-old brother, who had been prone to a chronic runny nose, so it wasn’t at all surprising the scythe cleaved him first. We were too scared to touch the body for fear the Death would latch onto us, so we wrapped him in burlap and put him in a wheelbarrow, pushing him out into the stream. Then came my eleven-year-old sister, who caught a chill playing outside in the rain, and she, too, we put in a wheelbarrow. Eventually, we ran out of wheelbarrows (naturally we didn’t think to retrieve our wheelbarrows after dumping the infected corpses) and this was the worst thing of all, as my five-year-old brother had just passed.
As the eldest child, I was like a third parent, so the duty fell to me to dispose of him. I wrapped his stinking corpse in soiled towels and carried him out behind the shed, digging as quickly as I could. He watched me the entire time I piled dirt on him, staring with his porcelain face and pink lips parted. For a while, I was able to convince myself it was only a doll I had buried out in the yard.
For a time after that, the Death seemed to have parted from us, and we were stunned by our sudden luck. How was it that we had been spared, but three of my siblings had not? None of us wanted to voice it aloud, for fear the Death would hear and come to finish us off. It seemed we were in the clear.
And then I got sick. I coughed up blood one morning, and, horrified, my parents shunned me to the shed, where, within a fortnight, my condition had deteriorated so much I was pleading for death. Our previous doctor had succumbed to the disease himself, so my parents sent for another, a newcomer who said he’d come all the way from London. I never learnt his name, nor did I see his face because of the beaked mask all the doctors hid behind to drown out the pungent stench of our rotting flesh, but I would never forget what he did for me.
He visited me for three days, comforting me and giving me strange–tasting herbs, even though we both knew it was futile, and it was that third day when my time had finally run out. I was shivering uncontrollably, covered in a musty blanket stained with my own bloodied phlegm, that did nothing to warm my aching limbs, yet the doctor only stared at me with his head tilted and his hands on his hips as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. That’s when he said to me:
“You cannot perish; you must not. I will never allow someone so beautiful to be erased from this world.”
I had been stunned; here I was, all but two steps away from Death’s Door, and he was in awe of my…beauty? Was I beautiful? Back then, the only time I had ever laid eyes on myself was from glimpses in the wash bucket or a puddle of rainwater. Maybe the herbs he was plugging his nose with had addled his thinking.
Alas, no; he knelt next to me, and ever so gently traced the line of my jaw with his gloved hand. “I will make you an offer, but you must decide quickly, for Death is upon you. I can spare this body of yours if you desire, but you must have absolute trust in me.”
I thought about what he was proposing, certain this had to be some sort of jape. But what if he was telling the truth? What if I could live to see another day, make a life for myself? If I truly was blessed in good looks, why, I could do anything, be anything.
I didn’t want to die, and I told him so. The doctor nodded, and then instructed me to close my eyes.
“This will take but a moment, and in that time you might find yourself drifting off—”
Well, he was right about that, because when I came to, I awoke in a ditch, earth walling me in, roots reaching out twisting fingers to restrain me. My parents stood over me with a shovel. Before I could register what was happening, my mother’s already gaunt face flushed white, and she shrieked, collapsing into my father’s arms. As I rose from what was undoubtedly my grave—though I didn’t clue into this fact right away—my mother was wailing and had her hands thrust before her, her fingers forming the sign of the cross.
“You are not our son! You are not our son! Satan’s spawn!”
And that’s how I was kicked out of my own home, my father chasing me with a shovel and my mother lobbing curses in my direction for my ‘unholy wretchedness to go back whence it came.’
This is it, how it all began—my story. Credence Crow before Moonlite, Credence Crow before Honeycomb. But I’ll get there.
PART II
Moonlite Montreal didn’t come into my life until much later; I first had to figure out what the hell had happened and what I was supposed to do now that my family had ostracized me. In those days, there was no transportation in our village, so I had to walk and hope I came across someone who might be able to take me to London.
I decided rather quickly that London was to be my destination: the doctor had come from there and was the likeliest candidate to be able to explain whatever he had done to make my parents think I had died. I was angry and confused, and knew I had to give him a piece of my mind. How I would find him in such a great city when I didn’t know his name, or even what he looked like, I hadn’t a clue, but I needed some purpose to ground myself, lest I fall into despair.
I don’t recall how I made it to London, other than the journey having been too traumatizing for my subconscious to retain. It was within that first day wandering around looking for work—I needed an income if I was to rent a place to live—that I first began to experience strange symptoms of the doctor’s work:
- The sun hurt my eyes. Had it been so bright before? And then, within a week, if I didn’t cover every inch of my skin, I developed nasty blisters that sizzled at the touch.
- I wasn’t hungry. I ate out of necessity, conscious of my scrawny composition, yet I couldn’t find the desire to eat; every morsel to pass through my lips was so bland. The only thing that seemed to satisfy me was cheap red wine, and, even then, I felt hollow.
- I could never sleep at night anymore, I became too restless and would start screaming and had to do something with myself, so I would wander the streets, instead.
There were more changes to my body than this, of course, like how my skin naturally cleared itself of all blemishes, which was unhelpful when I tried to search for any physical evidence of the doctor’s work. I was also always getting stopped in the street and complimented on how my hair looked that day, how bright and shiny my smile was. It got to the point that when I asked my employer if I could work overnight he didn’t bat an eye at the odd request, instead giving me a razor to trim the patchwork that had formed on my face so as to “accentuate my great bone structure.”
By God, the doctor may have forced me out of my home, but I was starting to realize he may have in fact saved me from a life of perpetual mediocrity. I was gorgeous, and people were noticing. Suddenly, everything came more easily to me; I got my own place, a stable job, and could now take the time to investigate the doctor and my new condition.
I remained in London for some 700 years, give or take. Okay, you see, here is where I should probably come out and say it—I’m a vampire. Yes, the ‘eternally youthful’ Credence Crow is a bloodsucker, a nightcrawler, a fanged menace. Except, none of those are me, but some disgusting stereotypes imposed upon us because just one of my kind couldn’t satisfy his bloodlust and went on a killing spree. Of course, vampire portrayal in the media will have you believe this is the case for all of us. Sigh. The injustice of the world today.
But I digress; I never found the doctor, but I did encounter some others of my kind one night while I was sipping my wine at the bar. Apparently, vampires possess an internal radar that makes other vampires completely irresistible, so they sidled right up to me and offered me “a special something” to augment my drink. The “something” was a vial of viscous red liquid that deepened the colour of my wine once it was added.
“You’re one of us, aren’t you? Try this, and we’ll tell you where you can get more.”
Lo and behold, nothing had ever tasted so good. The minute the liquid trickled onto my tongue, my senses were alive, and I was immediately energized, shuddering with pleasure. Naturally, it was blood, and I wanted more—needed more. They were able to hook me up with a vendor who extracted blood from rats so we didn’t have to it ourselves, because that, of course, would be uncouth. Plus, London was teeming with rats at this time and no one minded seeing them gone, so our vice was, in fact, dual–purposed.
Why did I leave, then? To be frank, I just became so bored of London. The city changed too much for me to be able to keep up. It was bad enough I had to relearn English as my birth dialect had fallen to the wayside, but trying to follow every war, political upheaval, and economic drought was a headache. The city was no longer overrun with rats but with reeking automobiles, enormous ugly grey buildings, noise, and so many people. Too many people. Even the vampire community was becoming too large, so that ethical means of acquiring blood was becoming a daily competition. I needed a change. That’s when I thought I would head to America, and the budding Hollywood scene.
For 700 years I had grown accustomed to being beautiful, so why shouldn’t I flaunt my looks? And, if I could make a living out of it, why would I ever do anything else? I would gaze wistfully at the cinema billboards, at all the pretty faced movie stars that were so above everyone else, and think that that was where I was meant to be.
I did make it in Hollywood for a while. I strolled into one of the studios one sunny afternoon in my black trench coat, sunglasses, and fedora, and was immediately directed to the soundstage to get headshots taken (apparently they thought I had already been hired they were so floored by my style; who knew it would be so easy?). I was given complete access to all the behind–the–scenes of the film world—the free coffee and doughnuts, and all the cast parties. I was only a background actor, but the perks still applied.
Now, I was living it up being the only vampire in California, but eventually the glitz and glamour of the red carpet began to lose its novelty, and I was exposed to the “Hollyweird”, as it is so aptly named here in Canada. I’m a very sexy man, of course, (the foreign accent helps: “Oh, you’re British?”) so I was constantly invited to the exclusive VIP clubs, the types with valets and red velour and satin everywhere. Unfortunately, these venues also attracted the crowd who were into some…shall I say, questionable ideas of “a good time.” This is where I discovered that there are freaks out there who enjoy having the blood sucked out of them, which, being a responsible vampire, I was not at all interested in.
At this stage of my life, I wasn’t sure what to do. I had settled into the “American Dream” and didn’t particularly want to leave it, but I was dangerously close to having my condition be discovered. I had been in California for over a decade, and the Hollywood honchos were beginning to inquire as to how it was I retained my youthful vigour—“Why, if I didn’t know better, I’d swear you haven’t aged a day!” I was outliving the “expiration date” of my acting career, and Hollywood took notice.
As it turns out, they weren’t the only ones. While I was beginning to grow anxious of my situation, I received a letter from a modelling agency north of the border; that is to say, in Canada. The letter was sealed in a manilla envelope, bore a small, inked emblem in the corner for one “Moonlite Montreal”, and was addressed to “The Dashing Mr. Crow.” You see, I didn’t know it yet, but Moonlite Montreal had already captured my heart. I tore into that letter, and drank it in with frantic eyes.
Someone across the border, it seemed, had seen my headshots from when I’d first arrived in Hollywood and, entranced, had proceeded to document my career. Having suspected what I was from the very beginning, the agency confessed to having been founded by vampires itself, and had a policy of only hiring other vamps. It was a haven for our kind was how they framed it; we will protect you and provide you with all your ‘special needs,’ and the public will be none the wiser. No one questions pretty people, after all.
It was the out that I needed. I was on a flight to Montreal within 24 hours.
PART III
THE ‘ADONIS’ OF MOONLITE MONTREAL: CREDENCE CROW ISSUE MARCH 2000
THE CROW COLLECTION: A DARK AND SMOKY WARDROBE THAT WILL LEAVE YOU FEELING AS IF YOU’RE WALKING THE FOGGY STREETS OF LONDON
THE FOREVER TIMELESS CREDENCE CROW
Finally, here we are, the true purpose of this memoir. I have included above only a handful of the headlines marking my illustrious modelling career—well, back when I still was a model.
My transition to Moonlite from Hollywood was rather seamless; I was already used to spending hours in the makeup chair and having countless redoes of the same shot, except this time I, alone, was the subject of the camera. The first thing they had me do was pose in front of a green screen of a beach, though I wore a black satin suit instead of bathing shorts and my trademark sunglasses, only a tantalizing bit of my ivory midriff showing, the idea being: show us Credence the vampire without showing us Credence the vampire. My looks and poses were unconventional; I was blowing up in the media more than any of Moonlite’s other vamp models and was invited to every gala in the city. My face was all over the covers of fashion magazines, portraying me as the “suave slice of seduction on the dark side.” Within five years, I had launched the aforementioned Crow Collection, which was not only a brand of black, navy, violet, and crimson garments for various occasions, but a makeup pallet (this was during the emergence of the “emo” phase where it was hot for men to have that “smokey eye” look and acrylic nails) and hairspray, in an attempt for common people to mimic my voluminous, silky black waves.
There were many benefits to being part of an all-vampiric modelling agency. I was housed in a block of town among my own kind and registered as an anemic who needed weekly blood transfusions; in other words, a free buffet at my disposal. My flat was chic, located two blocks from downtown Montreal, and had special tinted windows to block out the sunlight during the day so that I could get my beauty rest.
For the first time, I felt in control of my life. I still had to be careful about hiding my condition from the rest of society, but at least to my employers I could truly be me. The only downside to Montreal was the cold (the winter wreaks havoc on my skin care regime)…and Saoirse.
Where do I begin with Saoirse? Saoirse was, technically speaking, my paramour. We had met during Fashion Week in London (Moonlite had sent me to be a representative) and she had clung to me ever since. She had been the first of my “groupies” to breach my security team and, because I was powerless to resist her charming demeanour and flattery (“Why, you’re just the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen!”), I was more than eager to invite her back to Canada with me. Maybe her V-neck top, short skirt, and fierce tangle of golden hair might have had something to do with that, but can you fault me? I am still a man, after all. So she left her native Ireland and moved into my flat with me.
Over the years I had dabbled with many lovers: humans, vamps, and one time a werewolf (he had a habit of “marking his territory,” pardon my crudeness); but I had never settled in with anyone, mainly because I knew none of them were worthy of me. I was simply beyond them; I was a 10, and they were just toys that eventually lost their lustre and needed to be tossed to the curb. But Saoirse had captured my interest. Plus, we weren’t exclusive; neither of us was ready for a serious commitment, and it worked out splendidly. I could gallivant as I needed to, with the knowledge I always had someone to warm my bed. She was constantly energized, shiny, and eager to please me—yes, I do mean that figuratively and literally. Saoirse is a faerie.
Now, most of you are probably thinking: wow, I would love to be with a faerie! They’re so pretty and magical. Perhaps they are, but what no one tells you about faeries is how invasive and messy they are.
It is a myth that faeries have wings; instead they have the ability to teleport themselves at will and apparate in your home when you least expect them. It is frankly quite startling: imagine an entire person pops into existence in front of you, depositing a shower of glitter each time they do so. She once apparated to me while I was shaving and I nearly cut my nose off with my razor—which would have spelled the doom of my career! I told her she must text me from then on before “dropping in” unannounced, which she agreed to for about a day before apparently forgetting every time because “Silly me, I’m so absentminded.”
And that was the other thing—the glitter. I will never despise something with my entire being more than goddamned faerie dust. For some reason (or maybe it’s just Saoirse, she likes to make her presence known), faeries are perpetually covered in glitter; their clothes, their hair is woven through with glittery strands, their slippers leave golden footprints, even their very skin is embedded with the stuff. And it gets on everything. It’s not the big flaky type that comes out of a confetti cannon; more like the clingy ones that come off Christmas tissue paper. I’d find it in my bed sheets, my clothes that had gone twice through the wash, the bathroom sink, the kitchen sink, the fridge, my hair, my shoes, my personal areas—I have had to throw out entire pitchers of bloody marys because Saoirse had decided to spike them with one of her shimmery spells that she claimed would give me a “balmy glow” (as if I need a spell for that). And she never cleaned up after herself, claiming she left it as a “token of my unbounded love for you.” I’d hate her now, if she hadn’t been such a good lover. Unfortunately, we’d coexisted under the same roof for so long that it would be an inconvenience to send her packing.
Needless to say, I was in a rough patch with Saoirse when my managers at Moonlite decided to call me to the back office one night, sit me down, and look me dead in the eyes to tell me: “You have to retire, Credence.”
In that moment, my entire world was ripped off its axis. It was a joke, surely. They would never get rid of me, and I told them as much, laughing it off, but they only looked back at me grim–faced.
“We’re sorry Credence, but the world is starting to catch on. You’ve had a terrific run, more than most vamps. What’s it been…twenty-two years? Yet you’re still twenty.”
I could not believe what I was hearing; my entire body felt like it was going to collapse in on itself. They had already gone ahead and hired a fresh-faced vamp who looked all of sixteen, judging by the black-and-white headshots they slid across the table to me. Round face, megawatt smile, well–contoured brows, cupid bow lips, and hair that fell in waves out of frame, presumably down her back. No doubt about it, I was in trouble. This girl was going to turn more than a few heads.
“Oh but don’t worry Credence, we’ll keep you on as an advisor for the new models,” they reassured me. “Train your replacement because you’re not good enough for us anymore,” was what they meant. If I hadn’t known my managers were vampires too, I might have drained them dry. I was quaking, barely able to contain my rage as I spat out, “Well can I meet her? My…pupil?”
They took me out into the hall and asked me to wait for a moment (the audacity! Making demands of me, Credence Crow!) and then returned with the woman who would be my archrival, the tormentor of my emotions and dreams, the executioner at the chopping block of my willpower.
This was when I met the woman who had been created to complete me. This was when I met Honeycomb.
PART IV
“Can you tell me, Credence, why you believe you must remain a model?”
This was the first thing I was asked upon visiting my therapist. The answer: modelling was the only outlet that had ever let me be myself. The lights, the sets, the cameras, my attire, were all there to accentuate me, not the poor English stableboy or the vampire–in–hiding lost among the stars of Hollywood, me—Credence Crow, the “World’s Sexiest Man.” I had crafted this image for myself, I had brought notoriety to a nameless modelling agency tucked away under the snowy fronds of Montreal—being a model was who I was.
Was. Because I no longer am one. Honeycomb made sure of that. Her name wasn’t even Honeycomb; I just called her that because she reminded me of it with her caramel skin, long chestnut curls, and amber eyes—her sweet disposition…
I wanted to hate Honeycomb; I would toss and turn in bed over her, bunching the sheets up in my fists and screaming in frustration, trying to force myself to feel something that I physically could not. I would go out in the sunlight with my skin exposed just to feel pain, as if the burns would somehow cleanse my pores and soul of the emotion that threatened to devour me…unconditional love.
This love was different. It wasn’t the lust I felt when I wanted a quick lay, like with Saoirse; there was substance to this desire, not one of sexual wanting but of being able to truly cherish someone for all their beauty, inside and out. The feeling was absurd, and I knew there had to be something wrong with me; I was in turmoil over losing my job, that must be it. So I turned to a therapy clinic, one that specialized in vampiric psychology and behaviours (who knew this was a thing?), in the hopes it would save me.
“Can you tell me, Credence, why it feels wrong for you to be in love with Honeycomb?”
What wasn’t wrong with me…god, do I dare say it? Loving her? For one, it was because of her my life as I knew it was on the line, and she was just too nice, it was irritating. She was the type of person who would let spiders make a home in her room because “they’re not bothering me, so why would I hurt them?”
Honeycomb was different from any vampire I had ever met, any model I’d ever met. There was no vanity about her, nor did she shower me with false affection like every other woman I had encountered—in fact, she had never even heard of me (obviously just another reason I should loathe her) and didn’t want to be a model in the first place.
“Why are you here then?” I’d asked her during our first official session of modelling training.
“I didn’t have a choice,” she’d mumbled, frowning, and exposing her adorable dimple, “I can’t pursue my dreams, but I had to get away from home, you know, to deflect suspicion. But after the four years…I don’t know what I’ll do.”
Six months prior, Honeycomb had been Turned by her prom date. Having excelled in academics throughout secondary school, she had been set to attend McGill University for a biomedical engineering degree. However, when she discovered her new condition, Honeycomb’s future was dashed; sure, she could go to university for the first four years with little notice about her agelessness, but what then? Become a biomedical engineer for two years—if she was lucky—before her coworkers started to wonder why she perpetually looked eighteen? Unwilling to give up on herself, Honeycomb discovered Moonlite via the powers of the internet, and, having already been destined to go to Montreal for school, regardless, she reached out. Being as stunning as she was, there was no denying her application.
And then she smiled at me, her pillowy voice hopeful. “But I’m glad you’re here, Mr. Crow. If I’m going to do this, I may as well have the best in the business as my teacher.”
I was gone after that. I could sympathize with her plight, having experienced it myself 800 years before, and the thing was, she sympathized with me too. When I recounted my story to her, she was distressed. “You lived through the Black Death? Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry, that must have been horrible to experience.”
Honeycomb was an apt and attentive student, as well. Even though modelling hadn’t been her first career choice, she poured herself into learning all my tips and tricks, all the while buzzing with curiosity. Even I had to admit she had an eye for design, curating herself simple yet elegant looks in bold reds, yellows, and greens.
“So then, what ails you, Credence? From what I’m hearing, you know what you want, and that’s to settle down. You’re at a stage in your life where this is perfectly understandable; no one can say you didn’t have a great run. And it sounds as if Honeycomb could be that piece to link you to the modelling world and still have your own life. Naturally, I can only make suggestions; it’s up to you to set the ball in motion.”
Honeycomb did like me; I knew that much. She laughed at all my jokes and was appreciative of everything I did for her. Just yesterday, she stole me into an embrace, rattling me right to my core.
“I must thank you, Mr. Crow. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”
When she withdrew to look up at me, there were tears in the corners of her eyes, and I ever so gently brushed them aside with my thumbs, electricity crackling through me at the touch of her skin.
“Please, just call me Credence.”
She kissed my cheek then.
I’m not being very convincing, am I? Here I am trying to tell you how Honeycomb ruined me, yet I have spent three pages rambling on about her. Am I hopeless, destined to forever be longing?
God, I think I’m in love with her. I’m in love with Honeycomb.
. . .
So that is it—my confession. Credence Crow, Moonlite’s most famous model, is a vampire. And yes, even gorgeous people do not always have it together.
In truth, dear reader, I don’t know what I shall do. I cannot go on living as I have been. Saoirse has begun to notice I have been more distant lately, been pulling away from her touch. I don’t know entirely what I shall do with the rest of my eternity until the day someone comes to drive a stake through my heart, but I do know this: I will do anything it takes to make Honeycomb fall in love with me. I think we could be beautiful together, and I one day hope she thinks so too. Even vampires deserve happiness, after all. We are not monsters, just lonely people. Eventually everyone we grow close to dies whilst we live on. It is why no one else understands us, me and Honeycomb.
As a final note to those of you who have made it to the end of my sordid romance, I’m leaving an eviction notice for Saoirse once I sign this off.
Yours truly,
Credence Crow
Lindsay Wymark is a current undergraduate student majoring in English with a concentration in Creative Writing. Lindsay is from Ottawa, ON, has been a fiction writer since the age of seven, and will experiment in any genre except romance.
