Eternal Thread

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Chapter 1: HER-STORY

The sun finally showed after the late-afternoon rain shower had passed in Savannah, GA in 1998. Droplets caught by the sun shone like diamonds as they slowly dripped from cast-iron balconies. The scent of Spanish moss-draped oak trees and the azaleas, with colors so bright they seemed purposefully placed in order to entice one to linger, was intoxicating.

Inside 3 West Gordon Street, thick velvet drapes blocked what little sunlight remained.

Then she entered.

A woman, perhaps in her sixties, her dark hair streaked with silver, cascading loosely over her shoulders. She moved toward the armchair positioned at the center of the room with a glide rather than a walk, as though the floor itself carried her forward.

“Queue up the cameras,” Elise whispered to her assistant.

María turned toward them, her lips—bathed in Dior’s Icon Red 99—curved into a smile.

“I see you’ve rearranged my room.”

Neither woman spoke. They only nodded.

Sensing the tension, María tilted her head.

“Hmm… do you like my ensemble?” slightly gesturing to her garment.

“It’s from my latest collection. White cotton, full length. A wrapped V-neck top flowing into a skirt with pockets.” She smiled faintly. “The modern woman must have pockets.” Her smile was wider now.

Then she traced the seam with her fingers.

“And see here—this is not two pieces. It is a singular design. One continuous form.”

A pause.

“Elegantly conceived, if I may say so myself.”

The smile disappeared as she sat down.

Gingerly she tipped a tiny red pill from a case from her pocket and swallowed it with water, her hand betraying a tremor she did not try to hide.

She was repositioned under the soft glow of studio lights by her Creative Director, Lola. María glanced around the room, the subtle hum of electronics filling the silence and cables criss-crossing on the floor.

María turned to Elise, the producer.

“Do I talk to you or to the camera?” María asked softly.

“Shit,” exclaimed Elise, who had just cut her finger on the clipboard, revealing a growing line of blood.

María's attention instantly snapped to her direction then recomposed herself as Elise grabbed a tissue and adjusted her ear piece.

“Just talk to me. The cameras will capture everything. We’ll handle the edits afterward so don't worry if you stop or pause. Some of this video interview will be used to show you telling your story, and other parts will be used for narrating your story with a voice-over."

“Thank you.” María smiled,

"You can begin any time.”

María hesitated. Elise saw the hesitation and continued.

"Why have you chosen to come forward and share this with us now?" she asked.

María paused, "This story will only be released once I am gone, correct?"

"Yes, exactly as you specified," Elise answered honestly.

María took a deep breath, a gentle smile gracing her lips, although her eyes reflected more. “There are some memories I will not share with you,” María said calmly.

“Not because I’ve forgotten them — but because remembering has a cost.

“For the rest, history has a curious way of forgetting, and those truths must be spoken ”

She settled back into the chair, her hands folding neatly in her lap. For a moment, the studio seemed to fall away — the lights, the cables, the quiet breath of the crew — all of it receding as her gaze drifted somewhere far beyond the walls of the room. “I suppose,” María said at last, her voice softer now, “we must begin at the beginning.” She lifted her eyes, no longer to Elise, but to speak to the witnesses of the past. “My name is María Ferrer de la Ribera. I was born on January 21st, 1333 in Barcelona.” The words were spoken in a French / Castilian cadence no one in the room recognized — not learned, not performed, but lived.

“When the plague came, that is when I can truthfully say I lost and gained everything.”

Her eyes sparkled in amber against the hue of yellowed staging light.

“Que Dios los acoja en su seno”

“God rest their souls.” She crossed herself.

Slowly her eyes returned to the camera, fixed, as if granting permission to continue.

“How old are you?” Elise asked.

“Over 650 years old”

“And the veracity of your claim is established by these two items?”

“Yes they are.”

The camera then shifted to the end table where a magazine lay open next to a black and white photo. The cameraman zoomed in on the magazine article. The article featured the famous designer, Coco Chanel, at a table having cocktails with several women. Most notably one with an uncanny resemblance to the woman, sitting in front of them.

“You attest that this is you next to fashion designer Coco Chanel Harper's Bazaar Magazine published December in 1937 at a restaurant in Paris?”

“It is.”

“La Tour d'Argent. Je me souviens qu'elle aimait particulièrement les martinis ce soir-la.”

María replied, her French flawlessly Parisian.

“The restaurant, La Tour d'Argent. She was particularly fond of the martinis that evening.”

The camera then shifted to the photo, a woman, again remarkably in poise and appearance as the subject of the interview, sitting staidly, prim and proper for her photo.

“And again, this is you, in the photo Is that correct?”

“Yes it is. April, to be precise, the Spring of…1917.”

“I was married then, to the Viscount Jonathen Michael Williams of Devon.”

“And what became of him…”

The voice remained steady, without judgement or critique, but cleanly reflected the cat's curiosity.

“He died, unfortunately, in his prime. But left me his fortune.”

There was a slight lilt in the way she spoke which carried with it neither confirmation of the obvious, nor denial of it.

It was not pursued.

The room stayed silent for some moments before María spoke again.

Perhaps in the telling of my story you will see, understand, accept what I am about to tell you as truth. That I am indeed a vampire.

Lola held her breath, looked at Elise and the camera crew. No one showed even a hint of a smile much less a laugh.

María’s eyes stayed on Elise, but her voice lowered as if the room had walls that listened.

“For too long, we have survived by being misunderstood,” she said. “Fear is a useful veil.”

She paused, and for the first time her composure showed a hairline fracture—barely there, but real.

“Not all of my kind will forgive this,” she continued. “Some thrive on secrecy. Not out of shame—out of control. They have ruled from the dark for so long they mistake the dark for law.”

Elise kept her face neutral, professional. The crew did not move. Even the cables on the floor seemed suddenly loud.

“They will call what I am doing betrayal,” María said. “And betrayal has consequences.”

A faint tremor ran through her fingers. She folded her hands tighter to hide it.

“But the story will be released when I’m gone,” she added, almost gently. “So whatever punishment they wish to give… it will be late.”

Her gaze drifted—not to the camera, but through it, into an older memory.

“I remember the first time I understood what eternity costs.”

The streets of Barcelona rose behind her eyes: a city sweet with citrus one season, then suddenly rotting. Carts creaked over stone, piled high with bodies. The air was thick with lime and bile and prayer. Mothers pressed cloth to their children’s mouths. Men stopped touching door handles.

“I walked through it unmarked,” María whispered.

Images flickered—centuries spooling like thread pulled too fast: feedings taken in the dark, hurried departures, the same face in a mirror while lovers and friends became strangers and then graves.

The whirl threatened to swallow her. She drew in a careful breath.

“We must begin at the beginning,” she said. “And you must understand the one who made it possible.”