Abraham "Bram" Stoker (November 8, 1847 – April 20, 1912) was an Irish novelist and short story writer, best known today for his 1897 Gothic novel Dracula. During his lifetime, he was better known as personal assistant of actor Henry Irving and business manager of the Lyceum Theatre in London, which Irving owned.

Salomé Guadalupe Ingelmo: Stale Aftertaste

Dracula, Stoker, Coppola, Salomé Guadalupe Ingelmo, escritora de terror, taste blood, Gary Oldman, miNatura, ricardo acevedo esplugas, Saco de Huesos Ediciones, Santiago Eximeno, Juan Laguna Edroso

Dedicated to all victims of the unbridled greed

Times have greatly changed: now even people of his rank may fall from grace. He looks at the peeling walls of the small apartment. From the former glory he only retains the titles, his foreign accent and his servant, faithful even though he has never taken a salary. He would cry. Not because of grief, but anger, this insolent world does not nourish respect for anything. Far from reverential fear of former times, they just reserve for him indifference and oblivion. He would cry, but "men never cry," use to say his father. And as he suspects, neither do the monsters. So he drinks to forget, rather than because of true gluttony. Life bores him: time is a prison for those who have nothing with which to fill it.
“Renfield”... he calls as he tends the luxurious goblet, a family keepsake.
The dense liquid leaves the body of the girl. He will take her back to the streets where he found her later, when she no longer has anything to offer. Homeless, drug addicts, prostitutes ... perfectly dispensable people. He realizes it is unwise to act in this way, but these times are not the times for squeamishness.
He thinks of his beloved Tokay and all reputed wines he enjoyed during that other warm life he barely remembers. Of all the things he will never taste again, wine is what he misses more. He would sell his soul in exchange for leaving the disgusting diet to which he is subjected. But he no longer has a soul to sell. More than five hundred years eating this rubbish, he tells himself unable to repress a grimace. While he observes mesmerized how, in the screen of a television almost as obsolete as he, a colorless woman uncorks a bottle. Everyone toast with unconscious enthusiasm to the new year.
“Enough?” asks his servant confused by the ambiguous expression.
“Yes, enough” he confirms absent. He knows what lies before him: only the red thirst, eternal. A tiny tear, a nearly imperceptible black drop, slides down his dry cheek.

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