So I started to figure out what I was. I read a lot of literature. I mostly sought out historical accounts, but they are really hard to find. I became obsessed with certain historical figures I thought might be like me. I spent hours in libraries. I assumed Europe was a logical place to find a historical precedent, so I did a lot of research there. I was done sneaking past the iron curtain, so I couldn't get to Romania. Ceaușescu was one of the least-bad of the lot, but I didn't want to risk it just for some chance of finding out more information about myself based on folk wisdom. Also, I was Jewish, so I was a little skeptical of the entire Eastern European connection in the first place.
I did some tests. At this point, I knew I needed to consume blood to not be hungry, but I hadn't tried to starve myself. I tried. The hunger simply become unbearable. I couldn't resist it long enough to see if I developed symptoms of starvation. I just got tired and insatiable.
I still looked young for my age but aging hadn't noticeably ceased to affect me. So there was no way to know about that.
I knew I healed rather quickly and I still hadn't ever been sick.
I knew I could go out during the day without issue. Bright sunshine was not my favorite weather but I could chalk that up to preference.
I had visited a couple of churches in Europe and didn't feel weird. I stared at a crucifix in Koln for a while without a second thought.
I didn't have a taste for normal food, but I didn't have any opinion about garlic.
I was a bit of a night owl but that probably had more to do with my drug-laden lifestyle than anything. Such a life lends itself to late nights.
I wasn't particularly interested in death or the macabre. Except for that one still-warm corpse I'd stumbled upon.
I had one shitty, super inconvenient symptom, the blood thing; and one only moderately nice benefit, the health thing. I couldn't fly or turn into a bat; women were not magically drawn to my redolence.