Littlerature

GRUdiz/flickr

Before tonight I thought the thing to be most afraid of was the unknown; demons conjured up by our imagination which lurk in the night. Now I know better. The thing to be most afraid of doesn’t live in the dark of the night, it doesn’t lie in the shadows – it lives within us.

My name is Mortimer Black, and fourteen minutes ago I became a Vampire.

I brush damp soil from my jacket and turn to the flowers by my headstone. The cool spring days have meant that the daffodils still look fresh; a card from my mum reads that I’ll be sorely missed. At least she buried me in Armani.

I pick up the book of remembrance. The pages are damp and curled. It’s been signed by friends and family, and even has a glowing sentence from Sarah Peters saying how much of an inspiration I’d been to her at college, how much she valued our friendship. Sarah Peters – fantastic body, gorgeous brown eyes, cardboard personality. She’d said perhaps a dozen words to me in the last eighteen months and was more interested in me doing her homework than actually talking to me.

Maybe she should be the first I go and say hello to. She’d look great as a vamp.

Geez, I’ve only been one of the undead for fourteen minutes—sorry, fifteen minutes—and I’m already thinking of becoming a sire. Becoming a sire …

The memory of my death hits me: I’m on my way home from the pub when I’m pulled into empty car park by a gang of men; beaten, stabbed … bitten. I close my eyes and try to focus of the ring-leader. He pushes his way through the gang; he’s tall and lean like a basketball player; he kicks me and I look up at him – dirty blond hair, mean-looking, fangs. His face sharpens into focus – Terry Llewellyn. Of all the shits in this world, it had to be Terry Llewellyn who was my sire. Come to think of it, a lot of things now make sense knowing that he’s a Vampire. I used to think he was an arsehole just for the sake of it, but maybe he had reason.

I plead with him to let me go. He just laughs as one of his gang stabs me in the back. It must’ve gone through a lung because I couldn’t breathe. I felt the blood bubbling up, coming out frothy on my lips.

Terry hauls me up like I’m a stuffed toy, looks me in the eye and growls, ‘She’s my girl. Mine. She’s gonna be my queen.’

And then he bites me. Searing pain shoots through to my toes. I’m dangling in mid-air as his cronies laugh, and he feeds off me.

One last word comes from his red mouth as I fall into darkness.

‘Sarah.’

So all of this was over a girl I’d barely spoken to; a girl this idiot wanted to make his queen. Well, my friend, two can play at that game.

A gust of wind brings me the scent of burgers and fried onions, not that I’ve ever found them particularly appealing but it does mean a motley collection of—I check my watch—post-Pub drinkers, filling up on grease before catching the last bus home.

I drop the book of remembrance onto my grave and head off to see what’s on the menu. If I’m to face Terry Llewellyn I’ll need to get my strength up.

As I step over the low stone wall marking the edge of the cemetery I spot the van about fifty feet away. It’s the one run by the fat Greek guy and a grease-pit which the council’s tried to close down for ages. Well, let’s see if I can do the job for them.

The yellow glow of a nearby street lamp gives the skin of the six men standing there a sick-looking pallor. They laugh and joke loudly – apparently Mike had copped-off with Josie from the newsagents – and he was telling them, in full HD clarity, how accommodating she’d been.

I decide that Mike’ll be the first. Okay, I may be a monster but what’s his excuse for being a prick?

That’s when they notice me. They think I’m a tramp, and I suppose I look like one – filthy suit, matted hair, dirty. They throw chips and insults, laughing at me, telling me to “sod off”.

I’d put up with enough crap in life and was damn sure I wasn’t going to stand for that sort of shit in death. And it happens; the anger, the adrenalin. The fury. I gently run my tongue over two, inch-long fangs.

Their taunts get louder and more violent. Apparently I’m a scab on the arse-end of society, and it’s people like me that’s dragging the country down. I bend down, pick up one of the chips and throw it back.

It was the red rag to a bull that I’d hoped it would be.

It’s okay for them to taunt and bully one of life’s unfortunates but how dare someone do it to them. Mike is the first to reach me and pauses, mid-punch, as he takes in the last sight he’ll ever see. The tramp that he thought he’d leave a bloody mess has opened its mouth to show a pair of glistening fangs. Fear takes him a split second before I do.

He tries to fend me off with a hand that still holds his last meal. Call it instinct or call it genetic memory but I somehow know exactly where to bite him. His friends stop as they see me attached to his neck.

Time seems to slow as his blood pumps from the twin wounds and is forced down my throat. Hot, salty, metallic. Wonderful. I tighten my grip on him and bite deeper. Too deep as it turns out. I hear his neck snap – he twitches and his fat legs give way. I grip his arms, take his weight and finish the job.

His friends and the Greek guy flee before I’m finished. At the burger van I glance at the aluminium back-plate behind the griddle: Armani suit, but no hands, no face, nothing else. Shaving might be a problem.

Now then, I wonder if Terry still hangs out at that club in town …