It was a freezing November night. A million snowflakes danced in the sky. They were falling like confetti down into the desolate streets. I was sitting at a corner table in a local tavern. The strong stench of flat ale and mildew invaded my nostrils like a solitary soldier taking point. Even though it was late, and in the middle of the week, there was still a quiet chatter in the air from the local patrons. If you concentrated, the dull hum of a dying neon sign could drown out the drunks and the stories of their glory days. The impaired pop art flashed AD_ink_Bu__Dry@.
I was reading a short story as an assignment for a literature class I was to attend in a matter of hours. Suddenly I felt violated. It was as if someone or something had invaded my thoughts. He was seated at my tabled long before I noticed him. I was almost startled when I looked up and discovered his eyes penetrating deep into my soul. Those eyes, they were like polished steel, a shade of grey that I have not seen before or since. He wielded them like a knight=s sword. His words ravaged my conscience, forcing thoughts of death and mayhem into my very soul. He spoke to me, yet his lips did not move, and he never made a sound. That was when I first realized this man was no man at all. He was a beast of the night. Oddly enough I did not feel endangered. There was a feeling a exhilaration. It is difficult, if not impossible; to explain the thoughts that one has when she knows she will surely die, yet are so aroused. Visions of sex and death monopolized my imagination.
He took me to a tawdry motel on the strip, where the glare of neon pillaged the solitude of the moment. His body was one solid mass. It felt like cold marble. When his arms held me, it felt as if I were trapped inside a mausoleum. His hand gently pulled my head back, making the ivory skin taut on my neck. He pulled my head back and to the left, exposing the jugular so it would rise and fall with my pulse. He kissed me, his full lips gracefully covering my throat. Quickly he pierced the vein. There was a sharp pain that lasted but a moment. The sexual pleasure of it was immeasurable. As he extracted the scarlet blood, I could hear the rush of it all leaving me. He was silently raping my soul and I savored it all. When I felt the heat rise from his body as the crimson elixir fleeing my very existence filled his own, it was over-powering, erotic. As bright red life fed his hunger, his body softened. His muscles became flexible. He wasn=t rigid any longer, and then our bodies intertwined. He never let his grip ease. The time he took seemed like eternity. He wanted to revel in the taking. His tongue caresses every ounce like a debutante would caress a ruby. When the last bit of life was drained from my cadaver, I collapsed onto the bed. Underneath my cold, paling skin, I could feel the stained sheets scratching at my remains. Even though I was empty and my senses were fading, I could tell that the sheets were impregnated by the foul odor of stale smoke from cheap cigars, and Jack Daniels whiskey bourbon.
When he spoke his words were soft, almost kind. I could tell you what he said, but I will not. Those are my words, not in the sense that I spoke them. Those words were meant for my ears. They are mine. I will tell you that Rimbaud, Plath, or even the master of macabre Poe could not come close to matching their beauty. Soft floating words that I alone could hear. When the conversation of thoughts ended, he tore at the incandescent skin with murderous force. His fangs were hypnotic. They shone white like nothing I have ever known. He used these miniature daggers to rip his hide. They cut through his flesh like a hot branding iron would melt and ice block. The fluid that poured from his would was thick, and glowing a vivid shade of burgundy. He made me drink the sweet nectar. It was like no other pleasure I have known. The warm sensation filled my corpse, feeding my spirit.
I lay there quietly, until the shuddering began. Every life must end, although most do not experience their demise with a conscious mind. My body was alive with the creature=s blood. Every pain was felt with an extreme intensity. I cried out in agony. I was frozen with terror. My green eyes were wide open, and as dry as a desert wind. My blonde hair was damp with sweat. The pain was tremendous. He told me that this was the one inconvenience of becoming immortal. At that moment I did not believe I would survive the ordeal.
Finally the tremors ended. I lay in a pool of my own excrement, the last I will ever know according to this creature. I noticed my skin had an eerie glow, not unlike my maker=s. My fingernails were crystals, reflecting light like a mirror. As soon as I realized what had become of me, I felt ill. More importantly I was overcome by a deeper nausea, one that comes with intense hunger. Armed with my preternatural powers, and my maker, I was to begin a journey that would last lifetimes. And even though I have taken thousands of lives to survive my own, I have not tasted anything so rich and fulfilling as his blood.
And that is how I became what I am.