Fade

Prologue:
Crimson, such a beautiful, deep, and passionate color. The color of many things that I now hold so dear. The color of the wine in my glass, the color of the sky as the sunsets- right before it disappears from sight, the color of your heart. Crimson; the color of blood.

I come here nightly to clear my head. There's something comforting about the dark and eerie club that never rests, never sleeps. I sit in my usual corner booth, in the shadows, with my usual red wine, and this here journal- and write. Sip and write, sip and write.

I believe I'm getting ahead of myself, perhaps an introduction will serve us well. I am Darian Quinn Latista, I was born and raised in Edinburgh, Scotland, and I am almost 250 years old.

Chapter 1:
I was told that I never shed a tear on the day of my birth, which was surprising to me because my mother died shortly after. I reasoned that I should've cried, I should've had some kind of connection with her, but I didn't. Maybe I knew she was going to die.

I've always sensed things like that, people leaving, people dying. It's a part of life and I suppose that living with it for hundreds of years enables you to sense such things.

At the age of three, I learned to read. My father was a professor at Edinburgh University [check this date] and so he provided me with many reading materials, and from then on, I was home schooled until the age of fourteen when my father died unexpectedly.

By this time, it was the year 1772 [this will probably change, it sounds a bit ridiculous]. Both of my parents were gone and I was an only child, and so I moved to New York City with my uncle- my father's brother. And so, this is where my story begins.

I remember walking in the heart of the city, attempting to find my way to my uncle's apartment building. The only information I had was the directions given to me by random passerby on street corners- those who weren't too busy to help a lost fourteen year old boy.

Eventually, after wandering around the city for a few hours with only the clothes on my back and a small bag holding only various books, pen and paper, and a toothbrush, I came across a large building across from a park, and noticed our family's crest on the sign: two rams. [This is going to be more elaborate, eventually.]

I walked into the building, what looked like a hotel, through rotating doors. It was elegantly decorated with peach walls and oriental rugs, huge fancy chairs and sofas with tassels and pillows. I walked up to the clerk and the reception desk and asked for my uncle, John Latista.

I became so exhausted as I was taken up to my father's floor in an elevator, that I hardly noticed any of the beauty and decor beyond the entrance corridor. I was informed by the elevator attendant that my uncle owned the entire sixth floor as his loft, and as the doors to the elevator opened, I was left on the sixth floor with a friendly nod and a "G'day." from the attendant, and the doors closed.

As I turned my back to the elevator, a tall and thin, well dressed man stood before me, dressed entirely in black and grey with short, dark brown hair. He looked at me with tired and restless eyes, and placed his hand on my shoulder.

"Are you ready to bargain?" He asked timidly.

"Uncle?" I never felt so frightened as I did in that moment, and I somehow knew that this charming looking man wasn't my uncle.

"You don't know what you're getting yourself into, son." And with that, the man turned from me, walked down the hall, turned the corner, and was gone.

I gathered myself and began walking down the opposite corridor, passing rooms as I headed towards the door at the end of the hall. That door was the last thing I remembered seeing.

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I awoke the next morning around 9:30, still feeling a bit drowsy but otherwise, well rested. As I gathered my thoughts, I sat up and took a look around the room I was in: A huge room- no less, decorated in browns and tints of gold. The few books I had brought with me were stacked on a desk in front of the bed along with my notebook and pen.

"Good morning, Master Darian," a cheerful voice exclaimed as the bedroom door swung open and a short round woman waltzed inside with a basket of new, clean clothes.

"Up!" She added loudly, motioning for me to get up and out of bed. She tediously made the queen sized bed I had slept in and fluffed the pillows. I was amazing at how everything in the room matched: the burgundy and brown bed and the gold and rust colored walls.

"Here are some new clothes for you, Master Darian, and a clean tooth brush and comb. Your uncle is expecting you downstairs in roughly an hour for breakfast. Go wash up!" And she swiftly left the room.