The Wine of Life

Written for Struck By Lightening Flash Fiction Contest - Prompt: The blood was...

Word Count: 475

Death By Food sat between Huxley’s Tux Shoppe and Write Your Life Down Biography Services on Main Street in what was called the Death District, mainly for the sky rocketing death rates – suicide, murder, accidents. Whatever they were called, the majority of the crimes that took place involved someone’s life expiring. Death by Food was a ritzy place with high priced meals, sultry mood, and the only place that catered to the macabre individuals that resided in the Death District: People who claimed to be vampires, witches, artists with no souls, having sold it to the Devil in the name of their craft. The restaurant was also a cover; they had ways to dispose of… carcasses.

The man in black sat down at the table with a woman in a golden dress with red curls. She did not greet him, barely looked at him. He didn’t mind. It was all part of the price he paid to sit with her. He ordered The Wine of Life that was advertised as the table’s special.

The crystal decanter came accompanied by two small glasses. It sloshed, coating the sides with each step the server took. She approached the table with a wide smile and delicately placed the glasses on the white table cloth. She set the tray aside and uncorked the decanter, her smile never wavering.

After each glass was full of thick, red liquid, she left.

“The wine of life, my sweet,” the man in black said to the lady across from him.

Her pale skin shined in the candle light. He lifted a glass to his lips and sipped. A tremor ran through his body, a quiet moan escaped his lips. He looked at his date; her glassy eyes stared at nothing, her plastic skin tight across her facial structure. She slumped a little further to the left as the man in black sipped again from his glass.

“Do you mind if I drink yours, my dear?” He asked of his dead companion. “Of course you don’t.”

He looked around the room at the patrons of the restaurant, wondering what their lives were like. Their dates were very obviously alive, talking, laughing, chatting, obviously intoxicated with life, love, or alcohol. He looked at his date with disgust.

“You never talk to me anymore,” he said with a false pout. He sat in silence, staring at her frozen features. He started to laugh, slowly, a low rhythmic noise in his throat. Building, it reached his lips and spilled out, loud, grating. He wiped a tear from his eye and beckoned to the server.

“Take care of her, will you?” He asked. The server bowed slightly, gripped the woman under the armpits and dragged her away. “Her blood is delicious,” he said to himself, sipping from the tiny glass once more. “But she isn’t very good company.”