{Written For A Vampire Contest in Writing.com}
If the night was an enemy I would naturally be one as well. The smooth center of evil’s skin. Like the sex of the virginal ones readying for a choice to be withdrawn or engaging. Like those old tales of sex; older yet persisting. I was hungry but not so much to attack.
I prefer the park at day as well. Daylight will wound me if I dare to bare myself too much to it. She is a guardian of my chastity it seems – a holy mother bent on a nun’s secrecy to flesh. Nudity is akin to witchery and the only allowance of nudity is that of the practice of being stripped and to burn at the stakes with hungry perversions of eyes eating slowly with cannibalistic triumph. A necrophile’s open labyrinth added with the spices of hay and sugars of embers. I had seen the corpse after burning. It lacks soul but not vision. A puzzled expression of skin – the black residue of what was in past blood and organic delights: do not worry poor woman your flesh will be consumed by mongrels even if one as highly beautiful as yourself do not request it…For stealing is prohibited for man and those dogs do not know the vulgar art of thievery but are manipulated to eat. Flesh feeds flesh.
I am but not a human less but a human straight
.
What man is taught to do without teaching I do with the phase. For my life is a phase. Striped in a odd prisoner's dress. Murderer is human. Vampire is an animal who cannot steal.
The musical of your tears: Oh Poor man if I knew what stake burns at your heart?! What petridish is formed in your sorrow? Oh Poor man tell me and I shall release you…if the pain consumes too much…
The man does not wish to share words but tears he has a plenty. Oh poor little man – let me suffice with your neck vibrating with the sounds of wounded dreams, I presume my dear man that you cry for dreams? Or is it some damozel that has surrendered herself to the delicious drink of a different love? Oh, such a pity – and they say that the women want sentimental men now. I had always yearned for such a man – who did cry. Even when blood-flesh was me. As this undead phase I had gained a century to my liking
.
I did not stay as a Coy Mistress of poetic fame. Rather I light the bold candle of seduction sans seduction. In other words I dared to talk to a stranger.
Poor man crying into the night let me be Keats’ nightingale and give you the ode of other worlds and peace – let me cure your ills of a world turned melancholic and give you the blood-kiss; keys that grant a passage out of the worldly passage.
“ Are you alright?”
The man looked at me for a while. Then decided to go back to a weeping. Then all of sudden. He grabbed me quite forcefully for a human and grinned a demonic grin.
Oh dear a rapist. I knew the possibilities of that. Remove his equipment and like a fish out in land he’ll be choked in his ecstatic blood orgasm.
My pussy is mine. Or shall I use the proper label – vagina – nice names for the crotch.
“ Give me all your money!” he yells with a shaky voice. Hesitance. Gee – what a powerful ally…to his nature.
I give him a slap. It stings his sweet cheek. He huddles and cries. As if some gigantic bee has deflowered his flesh. Poor actor. You are no mugger or rapist. A preclude to who you really are.
I now notice that you carry a bag of sorts. A satchel type arrangement. Those brown leather bags carried buy erudite w0men and men.
“ Please don’t hit me again!” he weeps and requests and I feel sorry for slapping him. It was only to get him to bear his right senses.
“ I am sorry,’” I follow his posture by kneeling down next to him minus the uncontrollable shaking of course and the fit of tears that are so – how can I put it – eloquently expelled. It is not sadism that makes me describe him rather an admiration – he seems emotive and not egotistical. I love that of men and women; “ I had a feeling you’re not a fucking bastard but I hit you to get your senses back together.”
He looked up at me with sternness behind the water, “ So hard…?”
“ Do you not believe you were being hard on me making me believe you were going to rape me?”
“ I..I didn't…I just wanted to sound like a mugger…!”
“ Well your grin was that of a rapist!” I spat it out making him tremble aback. Then I smiled – if my excitement grew then obviously my eyes would glow – I tried to use my hair to hide my intentions. It was fun that way. Keeping him guessing my nature. Am I the docile? Am I the wild? Am I disastrous? Am I seductive? Am I…Am I…Am…I…
“ Uh…isn’t it wrong for you to be here…so late at night…?”
I look at his question and provide to it my fangs, “ What is that a sexist statement?”
“ Hey – I don’t mean that!”
“ I know what you mean…” I giggle, “ But you are here too…besides I think danger hardly considers sex…”
“ Uh…true…” he sobbed, “ And neither do tears…”
It seemed odd our statements. Were we engaging in the philosophical or is this quite a banter between strangers…? Funny, I had always thought that the weather served for such things. Then again such stereotypical notions are better left to the dull.
" Why are you crying?" I ask and he is somewhat offguard.
"Because I am sad!" he screams at me as if that is the best answer and the most obvious one.
I laugh, " I can see you are in pain...but why are you in pain?"
He looks down, " I am losing it."
" What? Your mind?" I ask steadily.
" I think so - I know so..."
" Why are you losing it?"
" Well, I can hardly decide on it...but I really want my theme to be that..."
" Uh..hello...you lost me here..." I wave my hand in front of him and he looks like he is in a trance.
Suddenly, he grabs my hand with little strength as if to get my attention (obviously, he has it), " Miss do you think it's ok to love your work?"
I look at him a bit impatiently. What do I tell this kid? Listen Moron I'm fucking over a hundred and work to me is like passing the fucking slab of boredom like some freebie or one nighter - so, yeah I don't love my work! Why the fuck would I - uh, right, he's staring at me. Shit.
" Why do you look so mad Miss?" then with more clarity, " Are...are you a prostitute?"
I felt like smacking the bastard, " I'm fucking leaving!" I speak angrily getting up but he grabs my legs and I was almost fall down, " What is it?!"
" Please don't leave!" He was crying again and I unhooked his fingers from my legs, " Hey man what gives?! Don't have to grab me!" I realize he was crying too hard so I got closer and I helped him up, " Listen, don't cry..."
" Well I assumed you were!" he protested, " You looked so angry!"
"Look, it's just maybe I don't do a worthwhile job ok?" I laughed, " It doesn't mean I pay the bills with sex..."
" Ummm...I'm sorry..." he looked so apologetic that I really felt angry at myself for getting fiery, " It's just I'm so confused..." he was silently crying, " I am thinking of my job...of my ex-wife...of my love of old stories...I don't know..."
" Did you get fired?" I've seen most humans drink toll they die over a lost profession or love. As he has managed the ex-wife a bit well I supposed that his job meant more to him now than ever.
" No...but I might be..." he looked very unhappy, " I am working to try to resurrect an old painting. But there's not much information on it. I don't think I'll be able to work at all for the exhibition. They might remove me or tell me to do some other project."
" And you want neither right?"
There was a nod, " I feel so lost!"
" That really doesn't make sense on why you wanted to steal money from me..."
" I don't have sufficient funds to do research or carry on sculpting various models for the piece..." he looked vulnerable all right.
" Stealing will only complicate your sadness..." I advised, " Listen, gather your bearings and keep on trying...I bet you will accomplish what you set out for..."
But that does not help him...he buries his face in his hands and a whole flood erupts as if he is burying his spirit in water to finish the job. Tsk...I realize that I can't abandon this mangy human. Ummm... he's not that mangy. I actually understand this artist's dilemmas after all now I understand that he loves his work because it's not a nine to five cage that most people complain about. He's one of those lucky ones. Able to do something that he likes.
" Listen boy..." I wasn't condescending him but given our species' calculative lifespans I was an old lady to him, " C'mon get a hold of course..."
As if fate was truing to test my patience he did the reverse of serenity - he began puking his guts out. Yuck! Oh! Poor Dear! I looked at him emptying his reserves - geez, he must be under a lot of mental pressure. I looked at him with an endearing quality as one would look at an abandoned child.
Before I could question him he suddenly fell down. Unconscious. In his own vomit. Yes the fates are like Puck from that midsummer's dream only the title is mislead. This is a nightmare.
Oh you good man devoted to your profession. How many are there like you?
I dragged your fallen form up carefully. Take out my water bottle (I can drink H20) and splash your vomit smothered parts. For a moment you do wake up as if jostled in traffic or in the elevator rush of business Mondays but then you revert back to your sleepiness - as if you are some warrior of some forgotten battle.
The dangers of leaving you here do not need seminars. I have decided I would help you. Of course the regulars of my race would say that this is blasphemous (if a religion of ours do exist; we are the undead and religion seemed to be with the purely living) and that I have condescended to save one who is considered 'lower' than me but I do not hesitate.
I once was you -once a human. To say otherwise is to deny I was born.
Also being helpless is not a human condition. It happens to any being stranded in this world. Limited does not escape the undead and immortality is still a relative term.
I take out his wallet. I look at his address. Oh, it's not far
"Wh...What...?"
"Well, I found some leftovers in the fridge...if you want I can microwave them for you..."
"No, May, I don't think..." suddenly his eyes looked popped out... " What the hell?! Who are you?!"
" Please, have some coffee first..." I laugh at his panic, " It's me ass...from the park..." then I look more serious, " It's not in my nature to babysit but after you went so sentimental I thought what the hell let me give this guy a break..."
The young man looks at me, " Oh yes...I am so sorry and Thank You...what time is it?"
" Well for starters it's a Saturday evening...you obviously did not get any sleep for a bit because you have been unconscious since last night and I stuck around to see your sculptors - by the way those are good, well done guy - and at around eleven in the morning a woman came by. She was surprised to see me. She bought some of your groceries, not without complaint, telling how silly and uncountable you are, I believe she was your ex-wife..."
" Did she have blonde hair...?"
" Yeah...."
" Yes, that's May..."
" Did you ask her to do your groceries...?" I gave a bit of a disgusted look because what was he a helpless infant, obviously, his ex acted as though he were Atlas and had told her to hold the world for a bit. But I can understand her irritation though - not many people like doing things for exes.But U think this guy should just grow up.
" Uh....yeah...I am not good with these things...and I had not much money left so I told her that I'll pay her back..." he rubbed his head and hair as if he were suffering a concussion.
So, the artist is not an independent. Now that won't do.
I took the nearby vase and splashed all of the water in it on his face. Of course the roses got thrown out on his bed. A vomit of roses. Better than the actual vomit.
"Hey what was that for?!"
" Your lack of direction." I stated seriously, "And your immaturity!" I was livid, " That woman obviously does not like you so why do you still depend on her?!"
" Because...I think...I think I still love her..." I look at him with disbelief as he confesses it.
" Paul dear you definitely need a life..."
" You know my name? And how did you find my apartment?"
God, it was like teaching a preschooler about birds and bees - I was annoyed because he refused to think, " Einstein your wallet gave me all those info!"
"Oh yeah..." then he looked cautious.
" Yeah you can check your wallet - I didn't take any of your money!" I did read his mind - no telekinesis - but body language are dead giveaways.
" I'm so sorry...I didn't mean to..."
"Well - you sure know how to make a girl feel welcomed..." I really wanted to leave, " First prostitution and now thievery - need I remind you Paul Orwell that I did not try to mug anyone last night..." he looked so alarmed at my irritation, good, count your lucky stars that you are seeing me angry by words and not by fangs, " Well as you now up and about...I'm gonna leave...hope you don't do stupid..."
" Please...wait...Thank you I'm so sorry...I..." he had scrambled out of bed and looked miserable, " You are right...May was right...I can't do anything right..."
The young man suddenly slumped on his own floor. He would be the perfect sub for a dominatrix. Nah - I'm just teasing. In fact. Why not tease him? After all - maybe it might fire up his dead spirits.
" Oh, what a baby boy you are Humpty Dumpty..." I grab his face, " Do you crack your cock anytime and everytime you see trouble?”
The man looked appalled, “ Are you this crude?”
“ When I need to be yes…” I smile, “ You obviously don’t know me kid…”
He mumbled something under his breath – sounded like “I” and “don’t” and I was confused, “What did you just say…?” I question – I had a feeling it was not an obscenity.
“ I said I just realized I don’t know your name…”
“ Well ain’t that beautiful…” I laugh, “ Well it’s Antonia…Antonia Euphores…”
“ Oh…”
“ Well, don’t just wait there…”
" Huh, what?"
" Show me this grand project of yours!"
I enchant him with a wild smile. He has not regained all his bearings. Nor else he would have seen the light in my eyes.
"Like Lightning Fla-shing - in the sky
There's a charm that is greater still
When my love's eyes are lowered
And all is fired by passion's kiss...
I see -"
" The Dull Flame Of Desire..." he finished the song and smiled at me, " Bjork right - 'The Dull Flame Of Desire' - a song she made out of a poem..." so, we know the same artist. Bjork was one of my favourite women. Carved in blood after my own heart. It would be plain cannabilism to taste her blood.
She reminded me of me and someone else...
Paul wore his glasses, it seemed he did wear them, and looked at me. The poor man seemed nervous. He obviously did not know what to think. I looked at him. There was much devotion he possessed in his work. She must have left him for that his ex-wife. By what I saw earlier she hated his works and had wanted him to be more of a businessman. She was certainly not interested in his creations.
"Uh... I haven't finished...you see my sculptor is based on a rare painting..."
" Really..."
" Yes, I think it was from the 1600s or the 1700s - it depicts a beautiful African-American women clothed in a pair of sails - I mean cloth from the ship's sails - and she is surrounded by fire. Most people don't know of the painting and the artist is unknown as well..."
The blood of mine cold and unkempt freezes more. The old poem of hell freezing in the second visit is within my body. Such a body of devotion met another body of devotion and now entails another body of devotion. If I had possessed human entrails then the nausea-attach would be my familiar. However, my familiar is my eyes - which hide from him - they glow bizarre - I sense.
Melancholy is such a sensitive fruit. Its seeds asphyxiate the innards of one as unholy as me.
" The painting has a vague history... the painting is called -"
" Petit Ange Thou Soul Escapes Ignorance..." I finish him. I have tears in my eyes. Kristy it is you...at the stakes...
" Yeah...wow you know about it Antonia...?" he looks impressed. " I had no idea..."
I turn away and do not meet his gaze. So this sepulchral is here. Within the paints that expelled me will expel this man from his fortress of blessed bliss. No...I cannot let such an altar sway...God though I am damned listen to me...listen to this unholy's prayer...
" Uh...are you alright Antonia?" he asked in innocence.
" Yes...I am fine..." I wipe myself from weeping and look at him.
" Oh Ok..." he smiles, " This painting has a vague history...it is done, as I said, by an unknown artist...it tells the story I think of a witch caught and burnt..."
" A farmer girl accussed of witchcraft and also a beloved intellect who was told that her place was with the slaves..." I mutter and exceed the safeties of control, " A beautiful woman killed because she would not convert from her own religion and was framed with the body of a dead priest..."
" What...are you sure?" he looked awfully shocked and impressed, " Wow Antonia you know a lot of this painting..."
" Yes I do..." I looked at him, " You do not need to worry about money Paul I will send you some money tomorrow - let's say you robbed my heart with your good tastes..."
Before he could stop me I wore my boots and left. The tears over flooding me. Kristy...someone has found you at last...
Excellence was at the tip, fiber and skin of your very being. It is under your tutelage I had learned of fruit planting and astronomy. Women were not easily admitted them to the arms of education yet you wooed and wielded all the armaments needed for wisdom. They had given you a poor name Kristy. Your real title you did not disclose. As Oroonoko proved to Behn the royalty in ones called slaves you proved to me that slavery was man made. Shackles and names do not destroy pure genius. It was pointless of them. Pointless of them to think of you as an exotic slave fit for fiddling on the earth and fucking in the shadows. You showed them that the earth is not only for reproduction but also to strengthen the heart and fucking is but a dog's rabid teeth and love making is the course for pure pleasures.
I had not asked you of your origins. Some had told me you were brought from India. Others said that Africa had bore you. You seemed to be of both and yet of none. You had spoken once of England. Of a house. In Childhood. Were you the mistress's keep? A gentleman's gentle slave? Oh Kristy if I had all my powers then I would have slaughtered all the injustices done to you!
In my sleep I weep.
Outside daylight screams with its yellow voice. Flames burn. Birds call. Traffic of the modern world collide with human sentences.
I, the considered nocturnal, dream.
" Antonia...you have done so much for me...I cannot relate...I...I want to meet you...I don't understand why you won't return my calls. You had given me your number upon my request and I had taken all the information and money you had given me but you refused credit and refused to give me your address. Antonia - I - I don't understand...I don't..Antonia...Antonia please...please contact me...Antonia I need to talk to you...please...I really need to..."
The message ends as I drink blood. No, I did not hunt. I usually buy my blood from reliable sources. After centuries of hunting you somewhat do get bored. I listen to the message a couple of more times. Paul...I miss you...maybe...I will visit...
Drops of blood come out of the corners of my mouth...they stain the carpet...dammit...what am I to say to the clean-up boy and lady in the morning?
When Paul slept he looked like an infant. Vulnerable, Pure and yet strong and wise. Such a paradox you are Orwell. I had observed his window during the day from the shadows of an alley. I could not bring the courage to meet him. I had seen him telling his wife something which almost made her slap him. This dispute was short lived as I heard May scream "fucker" and left before Paul could say anything else. What a woman she was and what a woman Paul had married. Obviously, no match as such was made in heaven. Heaven. A concept I had learned. A concept I had yearned to forget. A concept forever a concept. No Eden's gate opens for the undead. How radically stranded I am in this globe-flat thinking world.
Sometimes I am disdained of the saying "cogito ergo sum" as it implies perfectly to my state. I will forever be here to think. For I had thought the best way to have blood was to be bested by blood. Blood nothing but blood.
I then realized it was nightfall. I had slept with eyes open. The windows were partly open so I wasted no energy in the thinking of blood. I leapt and landed with the inhuman flexibility of a cat cum lion upon his lair. I had no idea as in why I had decided to choose such a feline's route. Oh yes, I wished to see the painting in private. Then I hesitated. Paul will be displeased. This was not a way he had invited me to his home.
My lust overcame prudence. A rather human tendency one could say. However, I renounced the painting's private audience and like some perverted peeping Jane saw Orwell as he slept. Nude. Signs of sex wafting underneath the sheets. Masturbation? Ah, yes, a lust to be rid of lust. Blood pumps to an erectile center and gushes as white fluids skimmed of the red.
I see sweat and they dance upon his hair. Oh Paul - you had seen some sexual playtime haven't you? A moan erupts and I am hungry now. You so innocently unoccupied with a member that seemed dissatisfied with only your hands. You moan again. Paul...are you dreaming?
" An-Antonia..."
" I am here Paul..."
You awaken...your dreams are realized and you see me in a white vintage dress like shirt and black slacks. You see me with my black hair and glowing eyes. You see me as though I am Galatea amongst the lumpy half-sculptors of dreams. No. I am not Galatea. I am Athena ain't I with Aphrodite's mask? I am seeing you my Venus as a Boy - Bjork couldn't have been more right when she named her song that. Your excited sex has gotten my wicked sense of humour (Oh no, those were not the lyrics) but I see you my male Venus.
" Antonia...how - how did you get in?"
" Through the window..."
He looked more closely now. This time I bare my eyes - they are no longer clothed with my hair or distance. The glow frightens him. Do you now realize human? Do you?
" Antonia..." he gasps, scared, " You are...this has to be a dream..."
" No...Paul...it's not...I apologize that I intruded here but I am no dream..."
" No - no - it has to be!" he was yelling, " Your eyes are glowing!"
" Some paw-prints then in your sands..." I state it teasingly as I rush towards him and with glowing eyes pressed my fingers upon his flesh. He is frightened beyond anything as I draw myself nearer I say, " Boo."
He is unconscious.
" Your still not dreaming." I tell him when he comes about. I think he realizes too. Now Paul looks too fearful. I take him in my arms and I catch his naked body against me kiss him before fear reenters his veins. I allow him to touch my breasts by placing his hands on them. I undress. I lick his neck. I hear him moan. I grab his manhood and he shrieks at my sudden action. I look into his eyes. " Do you want this to be a dream?"
I tease. For a moment he opens his mouth but then decides not to say anything. His eyes are closed for a while. But then he kisses me back. Hungry are we? There is no waste of time - no thinking of waste - a sort of heaven - he rushes for my breasts and my lips and my face, "Antonia...Antonia...I missed you so much..." he is almost about to cry. Had I not stated this century is for me? I want my men to be real...I want them to be human...so, they can feel in my stead..."Oh Paul..." I slowly confess, " You have done me a great thing..."
" You saved me Antonia..." he was holding me, so tightly, " I want us...I want us to know each other..."
Our lovemaking begins. After moments it ends. Paul looks at me with his eyes - I wish I can paint them. I had not painted anything after Kristy's immolation nor did I think I would.
"Did you paint it?" he finally asks.
I nod.
" So, what are you...? Who are you...?" he asks with innocence.
Am I a woman? Am I undead? Am I painter? Am I drone? Am I Kristy's pupil? Am I Blood demon? Am I born centuries before? Am I born again? Am I...Am I... Am I... Am I...
