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Entry tags:
blood;
For Junefield; posted.
Ring a-ring o’ roses
Her small ashen white hands handled his neck delicately. He had made quite a disturbing cracking sound when his neck had broken, but it was nothing that she couldn’t handle. It only went a little wrong. She could handle quite a lot, and more misfortune on the victim who thought otherwise. So she didn’t feel sick in her stomach or anything. That would be stupid.
She told herself that she was just quite hungry.
Her long black jacket billowed out around her, as if she was wading in a pool of black in the middle of her wooden floor. It had been quite simple. She had taken him by the hand, and led him up the stairs in the middle of the night, and the stairs had creaked and the floorboards cracked in the little gingerbread house, until they reached her room. And she had been patient and stupid, and allowed him to examine her room under the dim moonlight.
The wallpaper had been quite a disgusting pink, though now there were excessive sprays of red that she really shouldn’t have wasted. But he had talked to her quietly, in low voices because her family slept patiently in the other room. They talked in whispers, and it was a little bit exciting, and he hadn’t looked old but quite young when he picked up the disgusting unicorn sculpture on her desk, and talked with his eyes flashing excitedly and his hands waving around and tenderly touching the horn.
“Do you believe in fairies?”
She was a vampire. What sort of stupid question was that? It had all been very stupid, and she had been stupid a little, by letting him sit on her bed with the sculpture in his lap, and smiling at her kindly, like he actually cared. But she knew better than that.
A pocketful of posies
Slick wet blood dripped from her chin, and with her slender fingers, she wiped her mouth and sucked on her nails thoughtfully, languidly, allowing her saliva to coat her fingers so they glimmered under the dim moonlight. And there was quite a lot of moonlight, and it disturbed her. It wasn’t a full moon, but a good half of the moon still shimmered in and out of the dark black clouds that drifted across the inky black sky.
Black blood had already began to crystallize around the opening, and she allowed her small pink tongue to dart in and out, scraping it until the blood melted and entered her mouth, staining her pearly teeth.
It had been quite easy. The mail had come, like the mail had always came, except this time there was an envelope addressed to her, and it had the picture of a droplet of blood, and when she opened it, she knew. She knew she had gotten back her vampirism, and that she would no longer have to lock herself up in her room, afraid of a mechanical soft voice that said strange things like love and protection and parents and children.
And there had been soft licking flames that ate at the smell of burning skin and you didn’t forget burning skin because the smell the stench the rot filled up your mouth first and then your nose and then you, and it repulsed you from your lungs and your stomach and the chunky vomit couldn’t stop but the rotting smell would only continue and it was so hot, burning, hot, fire, flames, orange, red, hurt.
“I’ll protect you.”
Like anyone could protect her from herself.
a-tishoo!, a-tishoo!.
And he had bent on his knees like a knight and she had been a little stupid, and that was why there was wasteful blood spray, because she had been stupid. She had called him on the telephone, making sure nobody else could hear, and he sounded neither happy nor sad about it, just remarking something about the weather, something about bringing her a present, and a slightly lower pitch at the end to assure her that she was a good child. And then he had come to her door in the midst of night and she had taken his hand like he was a child.
A dead body’s blood didn’t taste as delicious. It wasn’t as ripe, juicy, pleasant. She had wondered, a little, how a country’s blood would taste, but he had tasted like man, and that disappointed and repulsed her, for some reason. Her small white hands rested against his head and parted enough from his shoulder so she would have the expanse of skin to bite into, and at first she had merely pressed her teeth against his taut skin, feeling his veins throb against her mouth.
It was his fault.
She sunk her teeth deeply and to his credit, he hadn’t screamed, though she supposed he had plenty of experience in other worldly creatures. But he had made a choked, surprised sound, and his hands suddenly flew up, fingers curled in pain, from hanging limp at his sides. She tensed for a moment, expecting him to try and strangle her away. Instead, he let his hands fall again.
She needed no other invitation.
The taste of fear tingled from the tip of her wet, blood-stained tongue, and she could feel his breathing tense and shorten and choke in pain as she dug her teeth, breaking skin, feeling the soft rubbery vein against her teeth before she snapped it lightly into two, allowing the blood to flow into her mouth and it was delicious, dark red, ruby against the moon, and it was so delicious, and she tore at his throat, at his muscles so he could no longer scream but still he made soft sounds but she was nearly drunken with delight it had been so long and it was delicious, soft chunks of flesh, so delicious. Blood tasted—tasted like metal, somewhat, the tinge that run up and down her tongue, but it was so warm, and sank into her so she could taste it everywhere, and her teeth flashed in the moonlight and her head was nearly dizzy from the sudden food and she tasted blood and it was so wet and damp and gushing forth and
“We should play together sometime.”
That’s when it had all gone wrong, because she had jerked back abruptly, though she wasn’t sure why.
And though he was half-dead, he had looked at her with a confused, surprised expression on his face, and she had panicked, and with her small, pale, ashen hands, snapped his neck with a startling crack and then it had gone even worse because she was used to this, but his body had fallen forward, not back, and she found herself on the floor, head ringing from where she had slammed the back of her head against the wood, dead body atop her, sprays of blood dripping from her wall.
She had allowed herself a moment to breath, watching the dust flutter back and forth like fairies in the moonlight. Her fingers were damp with blood, dripping down into her wrist and to her elbows under her jacket, and more blood were spilling on her stomach, where he was no longer moving.
The body’s warmth wouldn’t keep the blood good for long, and if she waited too long, then the blood would just taste cold and disgusting, but still edible, and she knew it, but she couldn’t move for a little while. She didn’t think for a long time, and the first thought that appeared in her mind, like a little boy holding a bunny shyly appearing from the thick of bushes, was that she had made a mistake.
Yes, of course she had, why did she even hesitate.
No, the little boy with the bunny said. This is a mistake.
And the thought outraged her enough to suddenly sit up under the moonlight, abruptly, and she breathed heavily with her chest heaving and the body was still slumped against her and of course this wasn’t a mistake, she had done this so many times before.
And it wasn’t that she hadn’t been used to desecrating corpses, but she was still felt numb, as if she wasn’t in control of her own body, when she tore at his throat, vicious, drinking the cooling blood quickly, the metal taste sticking to the back of her throat as she clawed as his neck, drinking, desperate, and she was on her knees and pushing the body back against the dark, cold wall, and her hands had been cold as she tried to sip and drink and swallow and drink and her teeth dug deeper and deeper into the muscles, undignified, but there was no one around to see her now.
And maybe it had wrong of her hands to tear at his collar, to dig her hands around his tie and tear it away, to try and uncover flesh so she could bite and suck and he was dead and it wasn’t a mistake, she had just taken him by the hand and led him into the gingerbread house and the witch had gobbled him up and the flames from the oven hurt.
We all fall down.
She felt exhausted, and she wondered if she had to clean up after herself, but she rested against the wall, not touching the body, but allowing her long coat to swirl around herself so that she seemed to be swimming in a sudden hole on her floor. The moon pooled onto the floor, dripping across the room until it reached her desk, where the porcelain unicorn still sat primly.
For a moment, she stared at it blankly, before struggling upwards, saliva-coated hands supporting herself on the wall. She staggered towards her desk, and then her hands wrapped around the unicorn’s head, and she snapped it off, but it wasn’t neat at all, and the shards bit into her thumb and the dust crumbled and the little pieces fell and clattered onto the desk.
It hadn’t been a mistake, she told herself, even though she didn’t want to turn and face the body. She would do better next time. Yes, next time. And the time after, and the time after, because she would kill him everyday, every night, lead him to the oven, watch him die and bleed, and she would kill him.
Idly, she wondered how long it would take for her to tire of her game and to leave him behind in the rotting dust, because even if this wasn’t a mistake, she might as well make it completely and utterly her mistake. She smiled a little bit, though her smile didn’t reach her eyes.
She would drink his blood and crush his heart, as the oven simmered in the background.
Ring a-ring o’ roses
Her small ashen white hands handled his neck delicately. He had made quite a disturbing cracking sound when his neck had broken, but it was nothing that she couldn’t handle. It only went a little wrong. She could handle quite a lot, and more misfortune on the victim who thought otherwise. So she didn’t feel sick in her stomach or anything. That would be stupid.
She told herself that she was just quite hungry.
Her long black jacket billowed out around her, as if she was wading in a pool of black in the middle of her wooden floor. It had been quite simple. She had taken him by the hand, and led him up the stairs in the middle of the night, and the stairs had creaked and the floorboards cracked in the little gingerbread house, until they reached her room. And she had been patient and stupid, and allowed him to examine her room under the dim moonlight.
The wallpaper had been quite a disgusting pink, though now there were excessive sprays of red that she really shouldn’t have wasted. But he had talked to her quietly, in low voices because her family slept patiently in the other room. They talked in whispers, and it was a little bit exciting, and he hadn’t looked old but quite young when he picked up the disgusting unicorn sculpture on her desk, and talked with his eyes flashing excitedly and his hands waving around and tenderly touching the horn.
“Do you believe in fairies?”
She was a vampire. What sort of stupid question was that? It had all been very stupid, and she had been stupid a little, by letting him sit on her bed with the sculpture in his lap, and smiling at her kindly, like he actually cared. But she knew better than that.
A pocketful of posies
Slick wet blood dripped from her chin, and with her slender fingers, she wiped her mouth and sucked on her nails thoughtfully, languidly, allowing her saliva to coat her fingers so they glimmered under the dim moonlight. And there was quite a lot of moonlight, and it disturbed her. It wasn’t a full moon, but a good half of the moon still shimmered in and out of the dark black clouds that drifted across the inky black sky.
Black blood had already began to crystallize around the opening, and she allowed her small pink tongue to dart in and out, scraping it until the blood melted and entered her mouth, staining her pearly teeth.
It had been quite easy. The mail had come, like the mail had always came, except this time there was an envelope addressed to her, and it had the picture of a droplet of blood, and when she opened it, she knew. She knew she had gotten back her vampirism, and that she would no longer have to lock herself up in her room, afraid of a mechanical soft voice that said strange things like love and protection and parents and children.
And there had been soft licking flames that ate at the smell of burning skin and you didn’t forget burning skin because the smell the stench the rot filled up your mouth first and then your nose and then you, and it repulsed you from your lungs and your stomach and the chunky vomit couldn’t stop but the rotting smell would only continue and it was so hot, burning, hot, fire, flames, orange, red, hurt.
“I’ll protect you.”
Like anyone could protect her from herself.
a-tishoo!, a-tishoo!.
And he had bent on his knees like a knight and she had been a little stupid, and that was why there was wasteful blood spray, because she had been stupid. She had called him on the telephone, making sure nobody else could hear, and he sounded neither happy nor sad about it, just remarking something about the weather, something about bringing her a present, and a slightly lower pitch at the end to assure her that she was a good child. And then he had come to her door in the midst of night and she had taken his hand like he was a child.
A dead body’s blood didn’t taste as delicious. It wasn’t as ripe, juicy, pleasant. She had wondered, a little, how a country’s blood would taste, but he had tasted like man, and that disappointed and repulsed her, for some reason. Her small white hands rested against his head and parted enough from his shoulder so she would have the expanse of skin to bite into, and at first she had merely pressed her teeth against his taut skin, feeling his veins throb against her mouth.
It was his fault.
She sunk her teeth deeply and to his credit, he hadn’t screamed, though she supposed he had plenty of experience in other worldly creatures. But he had made a choked, surprised sound, and his hands suddenly flew up, fingers curled in pain, from hanging limp at his sides. She tensed for a moment, expecting him to try and strangle her away. Instead, he let his hands fall again.
She needed no other invitation.
The taste of fear tingled from the tip of her wet, blood-stained tongue, and she could feel his breathing tense and shorten and choke in pain as she dug her teeth, breaking skin, feeling the soft rubbery vein against her teeth before she snapped it lightly into two, allowing the blood to flow into her mouth and it was delicious, dark red, ruby against the moon, and it was so delicious, and she tore at his throat, at his muscles so he could no longer scream but still he made soft sounds but she was nearly drunken with delight it had been so long and it was delicious, soft chunks of flesh, so delicious. Blood tasted—tasted like metal, somewhat, the tinge that run up and down her tongue, but it was so warm, and sank into her so she could taste it everywhere, and her teeth flashed in the moonlight and her head was nearly dizzy from the sudden food and she tasted blood and it was so wet and damp and gushing forth and
“We should play together sometime.”
That’s when it had all gone wrong, because she had jerked back abruptly, though she wasn’t sure why.
And though he was half-dead, he had looked at her with a confused, surprised expression on his face, and she had panicked, and with her small, pale, ashen hands, snapped his neck with a startling crack and then it had gone even worse because she was used to this, but his body had fallen forward, not back, and she found herself on the floor, head ringing from where she had slammed the back of her head against the wood, dead body atop her, sprays of blood dripping from her wall.
She had allowed herself a moment to breath, watching the dust flutter back and forth like fairies in the moonlight. Her fingers were damp with blood, dripping down into her wrist and to her elbows under her jacket, and more blood were spilling on her stomach, where he was no longer moving.
The body’s warmth wouldn’t keep the blood good for long, and if she waited too long, then the blood would just taste cold and disgusting, but still edible, and she knew it, but she couldn’t move for a little while. She didn’t think for a long time, and the first thought that appeared in her mind, like a little boy holding a bunny shyly appearing from the thick of bushes, was that she had made a mistake.
Yes, of course she had, why did she even hesitate.
No, the little boy with the bunny said. This is a mistake.
And the thought outraged her enough to suddenly sit up under the moonlight, abruptly, and she breathed heavily with her chest heaving and the body was still slumped against her and of course this wasn’t a mistake, she had done this so many times before.
And it wasn’t that she hadn’t been used to desecrating corpses, but she was still felt numb, as if she wasn’t in control of her own body, when she tore at his throat, vicious, drinking the cooling blood quickly, the metal taste sticking to the back of her throat as she clawed as his neck, drinking, desperate, and she was on her knees and pushing the body back against the dark, cold wall, and her hands had been cold as she tried to sip and drink and swallow and drink and her teeth dug deeper and deeper into the muscles, undignified, but there was no one around to see her now.
And maybe it had wrong of her hands to tear at his collar, to dig her hands around his tie and tear it away, to try and uncover flesh so she could bite and suck and he was dead and it wasn’t a mistake, she had just taken him by the hand and led him into the gingerbread house and the witch had gobbled him up and the flames from the oven hurt.
We all fall down.
She felt exhausted, and she wondered if she had to clean up after herself, but she rested against the wall, not touching the body, but allowing her long coat to swirl around herself so that she seemed to be swimming in a sudden hole on her floor. The moon pooled onto the floor, dripping across the room until it reached her desk, where the porcelain unicorn still sat primly.
For a moment, she stared at it blankly, before struggling upwards, saliva-coated hands supporting herself on the wall. She staggered towards her desk, and then her hands wrapped around the unicorn’s head, and she snapped it off, but it wasn’t neat at all, and the shards bit into her thumb and the dust crumbled and the little pieces fell and clattered onto the desk.
It hadn’t been a mistake, she told herself, even though she didn’t want to turn and face the body. She would do better next time. Yes, next time. And the time after, and the time after, because she would kill him everyday, every night, lead him to the oven, watch him die and bleed, and she would kill him.
Idly, she wondered how long it would take for her to tire of her game and to leave him behind in the rotting dust, because even if this wasn’t a mistake, she might as well make it completely and utterly her mistake. She smiled a little bit, though her smile didn’t reach her eyes.
She would drink his blood and crush his heart, as the oven simmered in the background.