Addicted

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.

Inspired by a stray thought and a paper cut.

The first time was dreadful (first times usually are, he told her.) She had read several books on the subject, of course – what curious and romantic young woman hadn’t, after all? – but she hadn’t expected it to be quite so messy. Quite so bloody.

Then again, in those days she was very naïve.

It was better the next time (glorious, sweet, amazing!)

Later (many years, so many years, too many years) she sometimes found herself wondering what it was that she found most exhilarating.

Was it the thrill of the hunt? Stalking her prey, luring them away from their friends, into the dark shadows of the night. The sound of their hearts beating ever faster; the smell of their fear, so tangible she could almost (almost) taste it; the look in their eyes in that moment (flashing fangs, red lips, sweet, so sweet) when they knew.

Or was it the bite? (crouch, spring, strike! and then red, oh yes, red! flowing, faster, faster, yes!) That sweet succulent taste, that glorious ambrosia sliding down her throat. That moment when they gave up, the taste of utter and complete victory (the first drops are always the sweetest.) Maybe it was both. Maybe it was neither. (who cares, anyway?)

And then there was the time when one of them almost managed to kill her, only he struck a bit too far to the left. And she thought to herself that it was a good thing that they no longer taught their young ones where the hearts of her kind were situated (she wouldn’t look good in dust.)

Sometimes she felt guilty. Because, she thought, hadn’t she been one of them once? But those thoughts never lasted long, and afterwards she always found them silly. It wasn’t as if she could simply stop, and go into withdrawal (never taste that sweet, sweet life again, no.) No, such a thing would kill her. She couldn’t (wouldn’t) live without it.

There was nothing that compared to it. (nothing!) Not sex or alcohol or drugs. Not nicotine or chocolate.

Nothing.

And then one day there was a man who looked like him (beautiful, tall, smiling) and she hesitated. But then he saw what she was, and there was fear in his eyes (fear, so sweet, so soft) and he would never (never!) be afraid of her.

But she still imagined that it was him. And it was sweet.

Later that night, as she stood in front of the mirror (mirrors, yet another silly myth; what use is eternal beauty if you cannot see yourself?) she imagined herself as an old woman surrounded by children and grandchildren, and felt a moment (only a moment) of sadness. Children she would never have, nor grandchildren. Old she would never be.

And she thought of the young man in the alley (beautiful, tall, smiling) who would never have children and never grow old, and she wondered; had she been so selfish before he had turned her? And then she licked the blood from her lips (because, really, what did it matter?) and realized that she was still hungry. Perhaps she had time for a snack before dawn? (just one, a little one, please?)

Yes, she was addicted. That was a fact, and it was indisputable. And it was all his fault.