Her Mind’s Eye (taken from Blood Culture)

“In the hands of someone else, a life becomes much more precious than you’ve ever realised. If they give it over freely to you, then it’s obvious that there is a deep trust. You become the carer, the nurturer, and the holder of the soul. You hold the heart of someone willing to die for you.”

He pauses, looking across the bed at her, at her limbs tied tightly together, at her body trembling with pain, and the ferocity of her breath.

“It’s a pity that I will never know that feeling of complete trust, of complete intimacy. But alas…it was never meant to be. I do not weep for it. I do not envy it. I am something far more precious.”

He moves across the bed and tilts his head. The wound is made in her belly, ripping through her abdominal artery, shooting her blood into his mouth as he opens his hands to her soul.

* * *

“Hey Jesse…you alright?”

The woman didn’t answer. She tucked a strand of ebony hair behind her ears and once again tasted the air: its atoms infused with the scent of smoke and the woody patchouli oil, and the bittersweet aroma of stale beer. But she had noticed something unusual, something foreign, and something tempting floating above all of this. It was faint scent…an exotic scent…the scent of cloves and herbs, a sweet and spicy scent overlaying the tobacco. It had been haunting her all night.

“Jesse! Look, you gonna fetch some more ice?”

Still no answer. Mark sighed, and looked around the club, at the spiders web of silk strung from the ceiling, at the paintings hung in the tiny alcoves, at the woman now stood by the bar in a black net dress with an ice bucket dangling from her fist.

He’d known her do this before. She’d drift off into a little world, and you had to wait for her to come back. Usually it happened when she was concentrating hard upon something, although sometimes she really picked her moments.

“Jesse!”

“Huh?” She looked around, her eyes trying to focus.

“We could do with some more ice…like now…”

Mark watched her smile of apology fade as she turned from him, and he sighed exasperatedly before returning his attention to the customers.

* * *

Her back arches.

The pain is deep inside her, a hot ball that twists her gut as it is sucked through her, tearing away her insides as it moves. A long sigh escapes her lips. A shiver runs through her muscles. Her skin breaks out in goosebumps. Her nipples harden.

Never has she felt anything as painful, yet sickeningly exquisite as this. She is helpless.

His mouth is upon her, his tongue driving under her skin as her forces his way into her, as his lips tickle across the surface of her skin, as he drinks up what she spills.

His hands hold her sides, one now snaking round to her back, his sharp fingernails digging into the nodules of bone, pressing her further to him. He is moaning and he is swallowing. He is feeding and she is dying.

* * *

The man loved it here. Bodies were hot, their sweat mingling with their perfume and the ingrained smell of tobacco smoke in their clothing. He was dressed as he always dressed, even though it would make most people stare. But what many thought eccentric and strange was the norm here. Tight black leather trousers, a lace-up crushed velvet shirt, open at the neck to reveal the tiny droplet of ruby upon a silver chain. Over all of this the long trench coat sat perfectly. His hair was swept back across his shoulders, his skin tinged with a slight blush.

He raised the black cigarette to his lips. His deep green eyes stared from the shadows into the dimly lit club. The taste of the cloves burned deep in his throat, the filter leaving a delicate taste of sugar upon his lips. Every now and then his eyes would flicker across the woman serving drinks. Once or twice, she would catch his stare, she would brush a hand across the lace of her dress, and then her eyes would move onto the next thirsty mouth presented to her.

* * *

“Hey, Mark. Time for me to take a quick fag break?”

“Sure…hey…roll one for me while you’re at it?”

Jesse grinned at him. “No probs,” she answered, and skirted round the edge of the bar, sitting upon one of the low couches, deftly teasing and rolling the tobacco between her fingers. The lighter sparked in the dark corner and the infusion of cherries filled her lungs.

“That’s precious to you, isn’t it. That one drag that stills your soul and unwinds your muscles.” The voice was soft, and Jesse looked around. Bodies dancing. Bodies talking. No one was addressing her.

“Isn’t is beautiful when you lose yourself in the rush. Sometimes it doesn’t come…all you feel that you’re doing is acting out a habit. But sometimes you get a shiver deep in you. That’s when you know it’s worth it. That when you realise why you still do it.”

Her eyes widened. Over the music, she could hear the voice, even through it sounded to be barely above a whisper. Immediately, instinctively, all of her sense retracted. If she could ignore it, she would.

“At least you have a choice to stop. To give up. To abstain. If I give up, I die.”

She took a shaking drag upon her cigarette, her eyes moving over the people. No one noticed her, no one was near her. Just a product of her imagination, something to be easily shut out.

“Jesse…Jesse.” The voice laughed with contempt. “It’s my choice to talk to you…not your choice to shut me out.”

She’d had enough. Grinding the fire of the cigarette out she stood, and started to walk through the crowd back to the bar.

He breaks his mouth away. His skin, once white has taken on a pink blush.

She shivers as her eyes try to flick open. He licks his bloody lips.

The images flashed through Jesse’s mind. She stumbled, totally disorientated.

Her abdomen moves quickly as she fights for breath, but each breath that she takes intensifies the pain in her belly so she tries not to breathe.

Her eyes widened. She turned, and saw the ember glow among the shadows, saw his long hair drift across one eye.

His finger traces through the blood pooling from her, welling up to create a crimson sea upon her skin. The tongue darts. Tiny droplets splash.

What horrified her most was the smirk emerging upon his face. His eyes met hers, and his grin widened.

He reaches up to stroke her cheek. He sees the pain in her eyes and whispers, “Don’t worry Jesse…it will soon be over,” before driving his teeth into her, swallowing every last drop.

Her mouth opened in a gasp, she saw his lips move and heard his voice inside her head.

“I’ll be waiting for you when you finish, my love.”

***

This little story is the first in a collection that I wrote last summer entitled ‘Blood Culture’, whose words address the what you might call ‘classical’ image of the vampire, and its modern day counterpart. I hope you enjoy 🙂

Copyright Debra Lee 2000