The Gold Coffin and the Mirror from the Nirvana Noir Mythos
“I have been buried in a cloud of dust, velvet, and unexpected slumber. I call it my survival.”
PROLOGUE
Each chapter in this book is drenched in mysticism, magical realism, and a dash of dark
romance. Expect gothic allure, twisted beauty, and other indulgent curiosities.
Crafted from myth and rooted in history, I invite you to journey with me through the lens
of a vampire who has worn many faces—each one chapter of survival, seduction, and
transformation. This is my story told in velvet and blood.
CHAPTER 1 : The Awakening
I have been asleep for so long, I feel as though I’ve woken up trapped inside an Anne Rice novel.
What is this place?
I do not recognize its smells, its loud, brash noises… but there is a seductive allure in the air—
something that stirs me from my golden coffin.
Where am I?
The last time I walked among the living was a few centuries ago.
Oh—but the memories, they are crawling back now… like tiny spiders, threading their silk webs
through the corridors of my mind.
I have never heard guitars played at such odd rhythms, paired with what sounds like a demon
dancing atop a wooden table.
What is this music?
The last time I was this frenzied was during my little liaison with Paganini—yes, that Paganini.
He played for me on his crimson violin. I was his muse, his madness… until I grew bored and
tossed him aside.
Back then, consorting with the peasantry was forbidden for one of my lineage. Our bloodlines
were sacred—noble, mystical, and ruthlessly separated by class.
But let us not get ahead of ourselves, shall we?
Let us begin from the very commencement.
I will not bore you with tales of my mortal birth—how predictable.
No, let’s make this interesting. Come. Let me seduce you.
Let me show you the world through my eyes.
I was born around 325 A.D., during the rule of Constantine the Great.
Of course, my kind were not mere mortals—we were carefully crafted: noble-born, bred of
witches, warlords, and pagan lords. We held our rites in shadows, danced with spirits under
crescent moons, and whispered secrets to gods older than time.
Then came Constantine—the great moralizer.
With his sermons of Christ, his declarations of sin, his obsession with the Devil lurking in every
woman’s hips.
A time of holy delirium and political madness.
Sound familiar?
We had our little sanctuaries, hidden from the Christian wave—tucked between Naples and
Sicily, where sea winds masked the scent of blood and roses.
We consorted with the trinity.
Not his—but ours.
Hecate. Persephone. Demeter.
And they danced with us in rites too sacred for scripture. And I would have continued in my
slumber if it weren’t for him. Sirah Cabernet—the Art collector with an eye for the morbid, the
divine, and the forgotten. He brought my coffin at an Italian estate auction and brought me to this
strange land that reeks of perfume and voodoo! Sirah was convinced he had hit the jackpot when
he spotted a ceremonial sarcophagus from the “Gothic Revival,” ahh poor mortal fool. He did
not realize that the revival was me.
He had shipped it across the oceans in a deadly silence ,eventually resting me here, in a dusky
little antique shop nestled between cigarette smoke, jazz bars, tarot parlors, women wearing
excessive amounts of make-up and tight clothes that make their ample bosoms ready to explode
in the French Quarter. It was the incense that woke me up. That smell of rich patchouli, musk
and vanilla which permeated the shop every night, it is the same scent my mother used to bless
the bones of those who crossed over willingly. It crept into the golden seams of my velvet prison.
It stirred melancholic ache behind my ribs.
Sometimes the pungent smell from his Cuban cigars, and taxidermy chemicals give me weird
psychedelic nightmares which made me reminisce about my past lovers. Especially Paganini and
his crimson violin. Too bad he was such a bore! I could have consorted with him until he grew
less attractive. Who am I kidding I would have still walked away to escape boredom.
That music again ,the obnoxiously loud sound that accelerates my heart rate, wakes up my fire,
my lust to seduce ,and plunge my red rose lips into someone’s neck . That music ,the
combination of the incense and the darkness of the shop is whispering, Rise, my queen, The
world has forgotten how fearful it is, let us remind it of what It fears.
So, I rose.
The shop was soaked in candlelight and dusk, Gilded mirrors stared at me from every possible
angle. Attempting to cast a reflection of me in the dim light, all I could see where the slightly
wrapped time curled edges of what seemed to be parchment paper, Crystal chandeliers from the
17th century made out of color glass trembled as I walked passed upon them to open the little
heart shaped box that cut my eye.
As I reach beneath the mahogany red desk to get the heart shaped box .I accidentally braze my
stocking cutting my skin ,dripping one more droplet of blood. The smell quickly revived my
instincts. Once I opened the box I discovered a blood diamond with encrusted pearls and
emeralds in it. a jewel fit for a queen. So, I took it off its box and adorned my neck with it.
Fabolous !
That small cut on my leg made me feel a little weak, so I trembled back to the boudoir upstairs to
lay down and think of my next move. Sirah was not here but I could smell the leather, the
tobacco smoke and his overpowering cologne lingering in the air.
🕯️ Felt the pull? Let her haunt someone new.
If this chapter moved you, pass it on.
One soul. One shadow. One whisper.
Mylene remembers the ones who speak her name.
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