The Blood Thief

I haven’t tasted blood for three months now. I remember exactly the taste of the last drop that scorched my throat, the sweet, cloying scent, and it’s smooth, syrupy consistency. I remember how it felt; like breathing after drowning for a lifetime. I remember the irrepressible need, and the speed in which I gulped it down. But I also remember why I stopped. I remember the beautiful little boy’s ashy pale face, and his unnatural stillness. I had not killed him cruelly; I doubted he had felt any pain. But then, who was I to know that? I know nothing of death. All I know is that his scent was too sweet, too beautiful, and I remember how the creature that overtook me that night easily broke into his bedroom and murdered him in his childish sleep. I remember how she greedily sucked his life away, not spilling a drop, and how as she assimilated all his life force, her dead, frozen heart restarted. I remember how his brother slept on in the same room. But the creature was separate. She had always been separate from me, a different being entirely, until I glanced up and happened to see her in the mirror. Then I saw reality. I saw myself in her face. I saw my stunned eyes, dark with shock, and my own red hair. But the creature was there as well, crouched over the boy’s corpse. I could see her in the blood on my lips, in the ruddy colour on my cheeks. I could visibly see the boy’s blood pumping through my veins now, and now my face was feverishly red and bloated, disgustingly so. I raised shaking hands to my skin, and felt the warm flow of blood. I suddenly realised then, confronted with the image of me over a dead body. I realised that I was the creature. I had always imagined myself to look different, somehow, when she overtook my senses and my mind. But now I saw that we were one and the same. In that sickening moment, I swore to myself to never again drink a drop of human blood.1

It has not been easy. I feel so weak, I am afraid that I might crumple and break in the slightest wind. I have been roaming around aimlessly like I have done forever, but forever has been long enough. My silent heart, deprived of blood, aches more than it ever did. The pain is agonising, and it worsens tenfold any time the tiniest hint of blood in the air smacks into me with a massive, breathtaking force. The wandering is more tedious than I thought possible, even after all these years. But I seem unable to stop moving. I have to keep on travelling, forever moving on. I feel like I’m running away from something, but I don’t know what, or who. I have no one to fear but myself. The humans don’t see me. If they did, I’m sure I would be long dead. Sometimes the loneliness gets to be too much and I almost wish that they could see me. I don’t fear death; I’ve even wished for it occasionally. I once cut myself, years ago, to see what it felt like. It was not a clever thing to do. As I dragged the blade across my arm, the stolen blood spilled from my veins, driving me insane with its mouth-watering scent. It made my head spin as I resisted, the urge was so strong. I almost fed from myself. It was a pointless exercise that just had me killing sooner, after the blood loss. But I have done many stupid things.2

Today I have arrived in a small Greek village by the sea. I stand in the square, alone, but surrounded by people, as the morning suns warm rays tickle my face, and the water in the distance glitters like gold. The seagulls are screeching to themselves, warning each other about the dangerous and thirsty threat that has just walked so casually into their midst. Somehow, they see me, along with all the other creatures I have met on my travels. They all seem to know what I am, whereas the humans remain oblivious, blind, to the danger that stands right next to them. My throat burns dangerously as I struggle to contain my need. This is good, I tell myself without real sincerity. Maybe, just maybe, it will help me to resist in the long run.3

But the pain! It’s unbearable, and my heart yearns to beat again, to pump that hot, pulsing liquid through my veins. I feel faint, weak with malnourishment, and I try to distract myself. I watch the seagulls in their alarm; try to smell the strong scent of the Greek market food above the far more alluring smell of human blood. But then I smell something else, and it completely diverts my attention.4

A man has just wandered down the street and paused, sniffing greedily at a young Greek mother at one of the market stalls. He makes to follow her, but then stops in his tracks, as I have in mine. He turns to stare at me, joy momentarily flashing across his features, and then a strange mixture of pity and disgust as he takes in my appearance. I realise with a jolt that he sees me. And I know, instinctively, what he is. His hair is fair, and his skin is rosy, blood pulsing underneath. He seems bloated, and I can smell the swirl of blood that pounds through his veins.5

He approaches me slowly, warily, and stops before me. He looks me up and down and speaks.6

“Wow,” he says pityingly. “When did you last drink?”7

I am so amazed that I am actually being spoken to that I’m not sure if I can answer. My heart, incredibly, feels almost whole again. Tears spring to my eyes, and I try to remember how to speak.8

“Three months,” I murmur, my voice harsh with misuse. He looks staggered at my response.9

“Wow,” he repeats, awe in his eyes. He obviously notices my amazement, as he says, “You’ve never seen another of us before, have you?” I shake my head, still uncertain of myself, unsure on how to communicate properly. My eyes don’t seem to be able to move from his. “What’s your name?” He asks.10

This seems to me to be a strange question. “I don’t know,” I reply, a little embarrassed. It has been too long since I have needed a name.11

His eyes bore into mine with a little compassion and something that looks almost like amusement. He smirks. “I’ve seen lonesome little wanderers like you before.” He says, turning back the way he came. I fall into step beside him, and a sudden, intense curiosity overpowers me.12

“So there are others?” I ask, eagerness saturating my hoarse voice.13

“Of course,” he answers, his smirk growing. “You just have to know where to look.”14

“Tell me,” I plead, desperate, frantic. “Tell me where.”15

He seems surprised and a little uncomfortable with my intensity. “There’s a small Dutch Island. It’s called Vlieland. You’ll find what you seek there.” He fiddles with his fine clothes and glances at an intricate gold watch. I suddenly feel a little ashamed of my own rags.16

“Why don’t people see us?” I press him for information, as my thirst for knowledge completely overwhelms my thirst for blood.17

He shrugged. “Defence mechanism, I suppose. We wouldn’t last long if they did.” He paused, uncertain. “I don’t think we’re completely invisible. Just unnoticed.”18

I take comfort in this thought. “And the animals?”19

“Maybe they’re just cleverer than the humans.” He laughs. “Or wary enough of danger to see us.” He glances at his watch again, and then back at me. That strange expression of mixed pity and amusement is back on his face. “You look awful.” He comments matter-of-factly. “You’re paler than any human I’ve ever seen.” He reaches over and tugs gently at one of my tatty auburn curls. It breaks off in his hands. He stares at it for a moment in amazement. “So weak,” he murmurs, almost to himself.20

I don’t know what to say. With this reminder, my heart smarts again, the ache consuming my whole body. And the scent of blood all around me makes me dizzy, intoxicated. He sees this on my face.21

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he says as soon as he realises. “It must be painful.” He looks bemused, perhaps wondering why I have let myself get to this state. “I have to go,” he says abruptly, and I gasp, horrified at the though of the loneliness returning. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back,” he reassures me gently before I start hyperventilating. “Shall we meet here at two o’clock tonight?”22

I nod, dumb from the shock of the whole meeting, and he departs, melting into the crowd as quickly as he appeared. It takes me a few minutes to recover, but eventually I am able to stagger away from the too tempting scent that clings to the humans in the marketplace.23

The time passes slowly, so slowly. I walk around for a while, watch the sun travel across the sky, gaze into the sea. I stare at my reflection in the water, and wish that the humans could see it as well as I can. I watch them, wonder who they are, where they came from, and what will become of them. The sun eventually sinks into the golden sea, and the night begins.24

I stand in the same spot that we met for five hours or so, until finally the clock strikes two o’clock, and he materialises out of the darkness. He smiles amusedly when he sees me standing there, waiting so impatiently. He holds out his hand.25

“Come with me.” His voice is seductive, his smile is wicked as his teeth glint in the moonlight, and I take his hand, too curious to waste time by asking where we’re going.26

We walk swiftly through the moonlit, silent village. As we do, I notice how he appears more bloated, and I smell fresh blood circulating in his body. He has obviously fed. His heart thuds wetly, too loudly, and I find myself almost consumed by envy.27

Finally, we arrive at a little cottage, eerie looking in the cool, midnight light. He opens the unlocked door, and leads me into the black house. I stumble up the stairs, bang into the wall, and eventually find myself in a bedroom.28

Lying in the bed, lit by moonlight filtering in through the window, is the young Greek mother I saw in the market earlier. Her hair, black as the night, is splayed across the white pillow, and her mouth is set in a tiny, stressed frown. Her eyes flicker and move beneath the thin, purplish layer of skin covering them, and she rolls over restlessly in her sleep, murmuring incoherently.29

“I saved her for you,” he breathes in my ear. His voice is almost inaudible, a low, compelling sigh, despite the fact that she would never hear us. “She smells so good, but I ate earlier so that you could have her.”30

I take in a deep breath, and she does smell delectable. But my head is spinning, whirling in the knowledge that I am going to kill another human, whether I like it or not. Because I am so weak, so disgustingly thirsty, that I will never be able to resist. I suddenly realise how stupid I was to follow him here, because now my goal is ruined, and I will never be able to last this long again.31

“No,” I say, and my voice is a childish bleat, trembling as her scent burns on the back of my tongue. “I can’t.”32

“Why not? We’ve all gone through the moral stage before, you know, if that’s what this is. It never lasts long. You’ll just end up killing yourself.” His voice is too persuasive, as is her scent. I have to get out of this close, stuffy little room, but he is behind me, blocking my exit.33

“Good,” I whisper.34

“It won’t work,” he assures me quietly. “It’s impossible.”35

“What can I do then?” I am suddenly angry, my voice rising an octave and cracking, still harsh with misuse. I hate him for doing this to me, for turning me back into that creature, but not near as much as I hate myself. “Just keep killing and killing, never ending, no change, no redemption, just this?”36

“Exactly,” he murmurs.37

“I can’t do that.” I feel tears on my cheeks, and the hot liquid feels too much like the blood I crave. I feel myself relenting, imagining killing her, tasting the blood…38

“You can. You’re just the same as the rest of us. Just the same.” His face is right beside mine, his hands on my shoulders, and he presses his lips against mine, so very lightly. 39

After the years of having loneliness as my only companion, any kind of physical contact is like the breath of life to me. And so I respond with hesitant fervour. I feel him relax, thinking he has won me over, as was his purpose from the beginning. But his lips are so warm and soft underneath mine, and in my weakness and ill state of mind, I instinctively bite down, sinking my teeth through the fine, soft flesh.40

He just has time to gasp, “no,” against my lips, and struggle for a millisecond before sudden strength overtakes me, and I seize his neck in my capable hands, twisting it in one swift movement so that it snaps, and he becomes still. And now the stolen blood from his veins flows through his lips and down my eager, parched throat. I can taste the subtle differences in flavour, the mixture of all the people he killed last. It tastes incredible, beautiful. There aren’t words to describe it as I become the thief, embracing the creature within me, and gulp down the sweet, metallic fluid, not wasting a drop.41

I am finished within minutes, and I rise, feeling as though I have been reborn. There is a smile upon my face and colour in my cheeks. The young woman sleeps on, oblivious, safe, as I step over his drained body and walk out of the house, my heart pounding in triumph, less painful than it has ever been. As I leave the sleepy little village, I think I have found my purpose in this strange existence that I live.