Second Night

The back door was unlocked. I'd made sure of it before everyone else had retired to bed. I didn't care whether they found out I'd slipped away. Let them, there was nothing they could do for me anymore. My head was filled with her. My whore. Such a beautiful word.
Some tiny part of my mind was rebelling, kicking and screaming against this . . . thing, that had taken over my brain. I took no notice of it; what was it to my beautiful whore? The two-storey house and its front steps were engraved on my consciousness. I had no idea where this house was, or how I was going to find it, but I knew I would, even if it took me all night. With her to torment both my waking hours and my dark hours of stillness, I would know no rest until I did.
Strangers to my ear, were the names I invoked to aid my search; Apollyon, Belial, Abaddon, Asmodeus. But I didn't care. If they helped me find my delicate little whore, I would call on them.
I should have been scared; the nights weren't safe for anyone to be wandering the streets. But I was not. Nothing could harm me where I was going. Was it the unfamiliar names on my lips that protected me from the nightwalkers? I had often thought the crosses I'd once worn around my neck were enough. I couldn't even stand to touch them now. Blinded by visions of her, my feet moved by a will not entirely my own. The journey was a blur; it seemed to me as if I had simply opened my eyes and the house had appeared before me. A light was shining on the lower level. Dressed completely in black, I used the night to hide my approach to the window. Stealth came easily to me; not a single cracking of a twig or crunch of a leaf gave away my presence. Letting go of the breath I'd not even realised I'd been holding, my eyes, just above the sill, beheld my exquisite whore. Curled into a lounge chair, she was reading by the light of an antique Victorian desk lamp. The book was old, bound in black leather decorated with gold-leaf. Even though she sat on the other side of the room, through the window I could read the title. A stray chill wound its way down my spine; she was reading 'Dr. Faustus'.
I'd never know what it was that made her glance up from the yellowed pages; I'd not moved a muscle. Our eyes met across that room. I'd expected her to scream, instead she seemed enchanted. My ribs threatened to break from the force of my heart pounding against them. We stared at one another for so long, I couldn't remember exactly how long I'd been standing at the low window. Had she not moved, I would have stood there forever, feasting on the sweetness of my whore. In her eyes, I could see the shadows flitting across the room, taking the form of my own child. The child of my heart, whom I – so enraptured – now gazed upon, would nourish and mother the child of my flesh.
She would know me. Soon, she would know me. But not now. The strong urge was building, to leave, for daylight was but a few short hours away. The workings of my mind had a natural affinity to the dark cloak of moonlight; upon the first rays of sun, this creature of desire that inhibited me disappeared.
But to leave my fragile whore without so much as a word?
To my surprise, pen and paper were in my hands. It didn't occur to me to question where they had come from. The note was folded and slipped underneath the window. That done, I melted back into the shadows. On that sheet of paper, she would find but one line written.


Stumbling upon a man wounded on the footpath left me unmoved. What did I care for street trash done away with? If I'd had the slightest inclination to look, I knew I could have found the crack that was what would soon be the death of him. Yet it wasn't that which stopped me from walking on. It was the bullet wound on his shoulder. It wept red, and the racing pulse rang in my ears. I could see my hand shaking, even in the darkness. The night-creature of my brain was sending unnatural, and all the more acute, cravings through me.
Trembling fingers came away bloody. My eyes would not open, refused to bear witness to the first hesitant taste of metallic red mercury.
I could feel the warmth running down my throat, and then felt only the traitorous longing for more. The man's head lay at an angle, exposing the soft flesh of the throat. Had I been standing, my knees would have given way; even kneeling as I was, my arms bore the brunt of my weight lurching forward. Rasping breaths left my bottom lip brushing against the razor sharp points of long incisors I hadn't even known existed. That small touch was enough to open gashes, bleeding profusely, if not for very long, onto my tongue. The smell of blood-salt alone was too much. Unable to help myself, I buried my fangs in the man's neck, and drank.
My stomach churned in revulsion even as it welcomed the meal.


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