Varicose Fangs

My teeth, they press against my lips; I’m sure my mouth has turned puffy and fiery red. Elongated and sharp, I have to leave my jaw loose, slightly ajar, to prevent them from penetrating my gums. I’m sweating, I can feel the dampness on my face, the cool air breezes against me and I chill. Saliva pools, resting in the dip of my tongue, but my throat feels dry.

My legs feels are unsteady and my body feels jittery

I am thirsty.

Around me I can hear the sloshing, the wet beating of hearts, the thick mouthwatering sound of each pump, the quiet rushing of liquid flowing through veins. It’s making me uncomfortable. I can’t help but squirm in my seat as the bus comes to a stop and the women besides me sways, her arms brushing against mine. In that half-second I can feel the warmth of her.

Bitch.

Like she can’t see that I’m at an end. Everyone else has noticed and politely kept the seat adjacent to mine open and free. Sure this was a crowded bus, but I needed my space. Yet here she sits, ass plopped into the small seat and half-leaning against me. It’s all I can do to keep from attacking her; to keep from ruining three weeks of fasting by sinking my teeth into her plump little neck, when I’m just an hour away from the doctor’s appointment.

No. I wouldn’t bite. If I did, I’d have to start this fasting business all over again and I would not do that. The blood samples would be taken today, I reminded myself, and then I’d be free to gorge myself on the icy bottles I’d let cool at home in the fridge. I could control myself. I wasn’t an animal. Besides, it would be impolite to do that in public and even worse to do so to a stranger. I could wait a few more hours.

I try focus on something else, on something other than the delicious moisture lurking under her frail skin.

Honing in on the sound of a little girl tapping her shoes against the seat in front of her, I block the beating and the whooshing sounds of her circulatory system. I look up at the little girl, thankful for the calming pale yellow of her dress, and she stares back at me, murky green eyes nearly hidden by her thick muddy brown hair. I can see the sandy freckles spattered across the tops of her cheeks and her tiny upturned nose. Sympathy resting in her gaze, she smiles weakly, and I tried to smile back. It’s more of a grimace, I can tell, but she nods.

The next time the bus comes to a halt, her father tugs at her arm and she trails behind him as they exit the bus. Before they disappear out the door, she smiles at me again, lips bared and teeth revealed. I almost laugh. All four front teeth are missing from the top of her mouth, but the two at the side are still stood proudly. Just a bit longer than the rest and the tiniest bit more pointed than normal¸ her canines make their debut. She’s too cute for words.


At the doctor’s office, I sit in the waiting room. There’s at least ten other people here and none of them are my kind. They all keep their distance. Once they see the paleness of my skin, the thin blue capillaries that are clearly visible at my jaw and around my eyes, they know to stay away.

The receptionist spots me and nods, understanding. Once the doctor is done seeing his current patient, I’ll be next. She calls me forward and a medical assistant ushers me through the small door and to the back. Weight and height are taken. Blood pressure and temperature are checked. Then I sit on the plastic blue chair and wait a bit more.

“That’s it, Kyle. Just see Veronica on your way out and schedule your next appointment.”

The boy, Kyle, steps out of the room and spots me. A grin on his lips, he winks before walking away. If I didn’t feel so weak, I might have smiled back and tried to seem a bit interested. I was interested. He was cute.

Doctor Monroe steps out shortly after and waves me in. “Hello, Miss Narissa,” he says, “you’re looking well.”

I try not to snarl or growl at him, no need to perpetuate any negative stereotypes, and I settle for a glare. He only chuckles in response and closes the door behind me.

“Up, up. On the table.” He pats the paper-covered surface and kicks a stool over to me before turning his back and rattling through the cabinets and drawers.

“So how’ve you been? Hope the fast wasn’t too bad for you this time. I know how tough it can be,” he says as I climb onto the table, feet dangling and hitting the metal doors below. Do you? I think.

I pull off my sweater, leaving my bare arms exposed, and wait for the doctor to find what he’s looking for. “It wasn’t unbearable.”

After a minute or two, Doctor Monroe faces me again. In one hand he holds a couple of bottles of some solution and a few sealed needles in the other. On the counter next to where I sit, there’s a tray with a small empty tube and other medical instruments.

First my ears are checked, the pointed tip of the auriscope plunged into my ears, and then the cold stethoscope is placed against my chest and I flinch back.

“Breathe…breathe…breathe….breathe…” Monroe orders, too quickly. He’s moving the stethoscope from one spot on my chest to another and then to my back. Before I can exhale the last breath, he’s already asking me to take another.

“Okay. How ya feelin’? Alright?” He asks, scribbling down notes into my cream folder.

I don’t have time to answer. Once he drops the folder, he’s coming at me with a thick rubber band and wrapping it around my upper arm. I don’t see when he opens the needle packet, but very quickly he slides the needle into my arm and pushes the other end into the empty tube. Handing me a blue foam ball, he smiles and says, “Here. Squeeze this.”

And I do. I squeeze the little ball and watch the tube fill with thick deep red blood. Already scarce of the liquid, my head is swimming by the time the sample is filled and I’m more than a little disoriented as the doctor delivers the vaccinations to my other arm.

“Blech,” I mumble once Monroe is done and he guides me back into my sweater. I jump off the table, the paper crinkling mercilessly underneath me as I move. The sound is loud. Amplified.

The assistant meets me outside the door and brings me back out to the waiting room, holding tightly to my arm to prevent any accidents. The receptionist is waiting with a small plastic cup in her hands. She hands it to me, pressing it into my palm and pushing my hands closer to my face. Once I get a whiff of the scent emitting from the cup, I greedily drink it all down. My lips are stained with red, but I feel a bit better; not great, but well enough to make it home.

I take a cab home, not sure if I can deal with the bus, and I’m there within fifteen minutes. Eager to get into the fridge, I rush past the stranger sitting in the living and head straight for the kitchen. My stomach cramps as I open the fridge and see that the glass bottles I’d stored there earlier that day are missing.

“What the fuck?” I whisper quietly. It’s almost painful, how thirsty I am. I suddenly feel like I’m suffocating. I can actually feel how empty my veins are. I bet they’re dusty and crackling. “What the fuck!” I yell louder this time as I stumble out of the kitchen back into the living room. “What happened to my stuff?”

The guy lounging on the couch turns his head to face me, bewildered. “What stuff?”

I roll my eyes and look around the room for someone else. There’s no one. “Not you,” I say, “Where’s everyone else? I need to talk to by blockhead roommates? Who are you? Who are you here for?”

He stands and turns around. Leaning into the couch, he holds out his hand towards me. “I’m Patrick. Tony’s friend.”

I can’t help it. His scent wafts over me and I shrink back, folding my arms across my chest and tucking my hands underneath my pits. I’m just so thirsty and, damn, he smells nice.

“Fucking shit,” I mutter. “And where’s Tony?”

“He stepped out for a minute. Went to the store…”

The way his voice trails off raises suspicion. I tilt my head just a bit, and sitting on the coffee table are four empty bottles, an entire case, of A/B positive. I know none of my roommates would drink that. Why would they? The stuff was repulsive to anyone who didn’t need it.

“Did you drink that?” I snap. “Did you drink all of it?”

“I’m sorry…” he spit out, backing away from me and trying not to look too amused. “I really didn’t know you had to do blood work today. Come on. If I did, I wouldn’t have drunk your stuff. I know what it’s like. It really was an accident.”

I try to believe him, take a moment to breathe and relax, to calm down. My stomach still hurts and I’m still thirsty, but it was an accident. He didn’t know.

“So you’re a vamp too?” I ask once I’ve calmed down a bit. Patrick nods and moves around the couch so he’s standing directly in front of me.

Wrong move.

Before I can catch myself, I’m already attached to his throat.

“Shit,” he hisses through gritted teeth. He doesn’t even make an attempt to detach me. He simply takes it, allowing me to keep pulling from his body. I slump into him and he wraps an arm around my waist, keeping me upright. I hardly notice his free hand trail down my arm to my wrist, but I do notice when I his lips meets the skin on my forearm. I can feel his teeth sinking into the flesh and I groan into his neck a gross gurgling sound. Blood escapes my mouth and drips down his shirt, staining the collar.

Before I know what’s happening, I find myself flipped around, my back pressed against his chest, and his canines are buried into my exposed shoulder. I grab the arm wrapped around my upper body, between my neck and my breasts, and pull his wrist to my face. Blood pours into my mouth as I grind the heel of my foot into his toes. My tank top is drench. I can feel it, wet and sticking to my skin. I’m wasting it.

I open my eyes long enough to see that the I’m no longer facing the couch, but the wall, and with all my strength, I push back hard, crashing Patrick into the sofa. We both flip over the arm of the chair, him landing on his back and I landing on the floor, crouched and ready to pounce again. The force of his landing has already broken the tiny wooden legs under the couch and as I stand I can feel a piece of something sticking into my leg. At the back of my calf there’s a thick piece of glass and blood is gliding down my ankle and staining the rug.

Patrick sees it and very quickly I’m on the floor again, my back pressing uncomfortably into the remains of the shattered coffee table and him suckling at the open gash right below the back of my knee.

“Get off me,” I grumble, unhappily staring at the tattered remains of what used to be my jeans. “Those were my favorite pair.”

Of course he doesn’t listen, so I swing my free foot and it connects with his stomach. Immediately he’s soaring through the open space and crash lands into the wall. The paint and dry wall crack and flake off. A puff of dust fogs my view of him. The force I put into the kick, flips my own body around, so I’m standing again.

And I saunter over to him, a cocky grin on my face, my body a mass of bruises and open wounds, and spattered all over with blood. At that moment, it doesn’t cross my mind to be bashful or ashamed, though I’m standing only in my underwear, my shoes, and a nearly destroyed top. The only thing I can think of is the blood I can smell. It’s everywhere. I lean down, my fingers gripping his matted black hair, and turn his head to expose his neck. I barely graze his throat with my teeth before my back slams into the counter of the open-kitchen. His fangs find the flesh near my hip, and there goes my shirt.

“Ow. My back.”

He ignores my whining and simply digs his nails into the back of my thigh.

“Ughngghh.” I look down as Patrick groans into my hip and then pulls his face away¸ smeared in blood.

He drops backwards, head landing mutely against the wood floor, and I fall forwards, landing on top of him, suddenly exhausted. As usual, sleeps overtakes us, and we all but pass out.


Hours later I awake, face pressed into a cool shoulder and fingers brushing through my hair. The little clothing I’m wearing is stiff with dried blood and the scent of it is surprisingly faint. There’s a breeze cooling my back. Looking towards the window, I see that it’s open and then sun has long set. As my senses slowly catch up, I can hear the distant sound of voices.

“Are you awake yet?” the body below me whispers quietly.

“Yeah. Sorry,” I mumble before rolling off him. He stands up before I do and holds out a hand to me. As soon as I’m off the floor, I realize where the other voices are coming from. It’s the TV.

Before I can face the noise, I hear the voice of Tony, “Yes, the TV survived. It’s one of the few things that did.”

Once I turn to him, I see that he’s sitting on the surviving couch, amidst the rubble that was the living room, flicking casually through the channels.

“There’s bleach in the kitchen.”