copyright September 2012, All Rights Reserved
My name is Lyra, and sitting alone in my darkened room, I could feel myself dying. Not in the figurative sense, not the way that so many of my classmates “died” a hundred deaths a day from lack of attention from members of the opposite sex; or too much attention from the opposite sex; or from their parents not understanding that they really did need those new five hundred dollar boots that “the bitch next door has!”. No, my death was literal. The specter of it had become an ever-present shadow, and the shadow had become a claw, dragging at me mercilessly.
As the days passed, I could feel myself getting weaker and weaker. The injections were no longer helping, and no matter how much I drank it was never enough. My mother would bring be entire families to drain, and always the results were the same: I would gorge, but then, before the un-life affirming nutrients could be absorbed into my system, I would vomit it up in great geysers of black oil, one that could coat the walls of my room, or even the ceiling if I happened to be lying on my back.
There were no outward changes of course. My appearance remained the same. To the outside world I was five seven, one hundred and five pounds, with raven black hair and green eyes that could vary from pale to iridescent dependent upon my mood. My skin was a healthy, olive complexion. Carefully chosen by my parents so that I could fit in with all of the other humans that I attended school with. No matter how much blood I lost, I never became pale. A small blessing that was, as I would sit silently in class, the thirst and pain comingling within me, causing my insides to twist and dance as if someone had driven a stake into my heart, but missed it, skewering my colon instead.
No matter how intense the pain, I would sit there. Astute, resolved, the perfect little student. But I would catch myself staring out the window more and more lately. What would it be like? The finality of death I mean. Would it hurt? I had heard it described once as going to sleep and never dreaming, and ever waking up. I couldn’t picture that. I had never slept, and while I had a very powerful imagination, I had never had a dream. I didn’t know what it was like to lose control of my conscious mind and let it wander into…what? What exactly would I dream about if I could? I would glance over at Troy, one of the co-captains of the school’s football team, and I liked to think that I would dream about him. The two of us sitting in a field, surrounded by dappled sunlight and flowers, birds singing as I lay with my head in his lap; discussing what we would name out children and how many we would have, and where we would build our dream house. I’ve seen this in movies, and was pretty sure it is what you did with the object of your affections.
But it would never work for me. If I could dream, it would go something like this: The flower filled meadow would be stained bright red. Arterial blood is the most oxygenated in the body and personally I always go for the big arteries first. It is messy, as puncturing a major vessel in the body results in a considerable jet stream of blood. Most humans can easily pump their blood six feet or more from a severed carotid artery. There would be a lot of thrashing about of course, which would cause the blood to cover an even larger area. There would be no birds chirping, as most have an instinctual fear of death and avoid it at all cost. The only living eyes on the scene would be the stray vermin or raptors, perched high in the trees hoping for a chance to pick at any leftovers. The only sound would be the delicious bubbling gurgles emanating from Troy’s spasming body; my mother taught me to always sever the vocal cords with the first bite so they couldn’t scream. And as for the fantasy of our children; there would never be children. While I could copulate, I could never reproduce; and honestly, if I did, I shudder to think at what would happen if I ever gave into my thoughts as to what a baby might taste like.
Those were my dreams. Wet, throbbing, hot and drenching redness. As much as I might love the idea of loving Troy, the reality of eating him would be so much nicer.
But I hadn’t had those thoughts in weeks. My eyesight was going. At night, I could still see better than most humans could dream of during the day. But during the day, I had recently found the need to start wearing sunglasses. My vision was starting to blur ever so slightly along the periphery. My hearing, while still as keen as ever, would sometimes pick up and magnify very slight vibrations to the point that they would drown out all other sound in my vicinity.
I could feel my body growing weaker by the day. My strength was at a fraction of what it once was. While still prodigious, I over heard my mother telling my father that at the rate I was going, I would not be able to fend Them off if they decided to attack. The physician had told them that my senses would be the first to go, so they had no idea I could still hear them. I lay on my bed, arms crossed staring at the ceiling. I pitched my hearing to the other side of the oak door that separated my bedroom from the adjacent antechamber where my parents were talking to my physician.
“Is she dying,” my mother asked.
“Yes,” the doctor replied.
“How much longer,” asked my mother?
“There is no way to tell. How long can she keep her food down?”
“Lately? Not long at all. An hour, maybe two if she does not move after feeding.”
“Those times will get shorter and shorter as she grows closer to passing,” the physician said.
I heard my father clear his throat and ask, “will it be painful for her?”
“Excruciating, I would think”, replied the doctor.
“Will it be a Human death or a Vampire death,” my mother, every the realist, asked?
“I have no idea. Hopefully, a vampire’s death,” the physician said. “Humans die slowly, their bodies shutting down, each cell screaming out in agony before letting go. A vampire simply ceases. Everything we are, everything we were; gone.”
“With only ashes left to mark our passing.” My father sound almost melancholy. “We shouldn’t have tried this.”
“Don’t be morose,” my mother said. “We knew there would be risks. We wanted something better for our child, and we achieved it. It’s time we let her go.”
I could sense my father choking up. If he had a heart, he would have been one of those men to wear it on his sleeve.
“Is there nothing else that can be attempted,” my father asked. To my ears, the question sounded leading, and there was a silence in the air that made me even more uncomfortable than any pain circulating through my bowels.
“Well,” said the doctor, “we have gone as far as science can take us….”
“Absolutely not,” my mother hissed. “Our daughter will not be desecrated. If she has only days left, then we will make them as comfortable as possible. But she will not endure….that,” she spat.
I heard her turn on her heels and storm from the chamber. The pain swept over me once again. I felt hot and nauseous, the rolling heaves signaling it was time to regurgitate my dinner once again. But before I did, I heard my father lean over and whisper to the doctor; so softly, that even I had to strain to be certain I heard it: “Bring me a witch,” he said.
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