Entry for "Blood in the Water" contest - now a prologue for longer work.
I feel a million years old tonight. But if you want to split hairs, I guess I’m 22. I’ll never be older than 22.
It really upset me at first. More than the pain, more than my family; I just felt cheated that I was dead. It was like playing a pinball game and losing your quarter after only a half-minute of play. Game over.
I don’t feel dead.
Yes, if you touch my skin, you’ll find it to be cold. The blood no longer courses through my veins to pump my heart. I have no pulse. Truthfully, I don’t know how my body works anymore. Where my blood goes; where your blood goes after I drink it. I know how to make one of you become like me and I know how to prevent it; but really I’m like a little kid who has barely learned about the birds and the bees and isn’t ready to hear anything more. Whatever more there is to this, let it remain a secret from me at least for awhile.
At night the wind rustles through the trees and the air carries such scents. I want. I still want. In fact, I want more than I ever wanted when I was alive.
Nothing dead could ache this much with desire.
A million years ago the one who gave me this life, took my eyes from me; but I don’t need them. I can smell you in the distance. I can hear your blood race beneath your skin. You are sitting on a bench, locked in an embrace with a woman . . . . a girl. I can smell and hear her too. Her scent is the smell of a rabbit being chased by a dog. She is all anxiousness and fear. You. Your scent is the spicy musk of the hunt. Your scent is what draws me here. Your scent calls to me.
“Feel it baby? Feel how much I want you?”
I don’t need to see to picture the scenario. You are holding her hand at your crotch; sneaking your other hand beneath her clothing against her skin wherever you can. You coil around her like a serpent preparing to strike.
“ B. . .but. . “ her voice is muffled by the breathy noise of mouth meeting mouth followed by you lifting a bottle of Vodka up to her lips. She drinks with the sloppy noise of someone who has spilled as much as they sipped.
“But nothing babe. You want me too. I’ll bet you’re just dripping for me.”
Now is your moment to strike. You begin to slide your hand beneath her panties . . . but it’s my moment to strike too.
I leap upon you both, grab her out of your arms. I’ve snapped her neck and dropped her over the cement and into the water before you recognize I’m even there.
Next I lean into you, my hands at your collar, finger in the impression at the base of your throat.
“She wasn’t, you know. Wet for you. But I am.”
And I kiss you, my tongue deep in your mouth. You respond automatically, still not completely consciously aware that she is gone and I am here. I run my finger down the front of your shirt, popping all of your buttons, before I pop the snap at the top of your pants.
“Ah ah ah. . . “ My fingernail cut a bit of your skin on it’s way down. You’re bleeding. And your brain is catching up with the events of the evening. Your face keeps pivoting from me to the river, from me to the river.
“She’s gone, baby. She just didn’t appreciate you. Now look, you’ve gone and made me cut you. Let me clean you up.” And I lick the blood off your chest carefully.
Oh! You taste . . . you taste of lust and testosterone and copper and water and . . . . life. I taste carefully, my mouth wide open, breathing your scent into me. I have to be careful not to drink you all at once. A meal like you should be savored.
I drop my face where you put her hand. I tease you with my tongue.
“See baby?” I whisper in your head, “Isn’t this what you want? Isn’t this what you need?”
You put your hand on the back of my head, pulling me closer to you.
Too soon it is done. And you are gone.
But I can feel the remnants of your warmth beneath my skin; I can smell your scent still in my nostrils. I put my hand on my breast; my nipples are hard.
I don’t feel dead.
I feel 22.
I’ll always be 22.