What's Natural

I’m numb. I can’t move; I can’t breathe. There’s the vaguest suggestion in the back of my mind, like screaming after a dropped bomb, that this is what it’s like to die.

I am dying.

I feel cold and frail. I open my eyes and I can’t see. It’s like being underwater for the tears and I can’t force the retina to focus. It hurts, from my heart to my stomach, and all the way through. My lungs inflate and I hear them rasp. It would be so easy to fall asleep and to rest. To make the pain go away. That’s what I want.

But there’s another sound. A voice I knew, years since, but have forgotten. I can’t make out the words. I can’t recall the face. She’s there though. I can taste her on the air, when the dry surface of my lips crack apart and my tongue rests on the bottom pillow like a worm in sand. There’s more in my mouth than I remember.

More words. I look at her and read concern, but I can’t focus for long before my head falls back against the pillow. The hand draped across my belly is shaking. I can’t hold still. I’m failing. I can’t even feel my heart anymore. It’s dark.

And then it isn’t. A scent cuts through my chest like defibrillation and I’m awake. I sit. Though I’m still shaking, it isn’t from weakness anymore - it’s adrenaline. It pushes through my barren veins and ignites in my brain as it switches every operation into overdrive.

I lock onto it immediately. Everything else is grey but a thin branch leaking crimson sap. I force myself, desperately swimming through the murk to fasten my lips upon the wellspring.

The first swallow is ecstasy. So is the second. And the third.

My breath hastens and I roll up on my knees for better purchase. It tries to pull away but I dig in harder with my teeth and that sends the message. It stills, opting instead to brush long through my hair and hiss out a pained noise I find soothing.

If I close my eyes, I can see the warmth spreading from my gut, through the alleys of my body to carry colour and life and movement. I feel stronger for every swallow. I feel myself returning. I’m not dying. I’m the opposite.

“That’s en-enough,” it says. I pull back to observe it face to face. “It worked…”

I recognise her. I can’t bring myself to speak. I simply do not have the words, though I tilt my head to better examine it - her - and run my tongue across the nectar that covers my mouth. There’s sharpness behind my lips, points that feel ever so beautiful to probe. Now I’m aware of them, I bite into myself - testing - and revel in my own dangerousness.

“You were right!” she says breathlessly, “you were right about everything!” Scrabbling to her feet, she launches herself at the desk in the corner of the room, teetering a little with the frailty I passed onto her, and scribbles into a notebook.

I’m aware that it's dark. I see candles illuminating tomes and knives and implements of blackest magick - my tools - but the mystery I want to associate with it all is gone. Something has taken away the shadows. Now all I can see is her. And she’s falling.

I catch her. She falls so slowly, as if on purpose, and when I look into her eyes I see the same coldness I had felt before. I lay her on the bed.

“You took a lot, greedy,” she says quietly with a small laugh. Ever so small. The smile looks desperately pleased, like that of a mother looking at her child. I can’t bring myself to return it. A wince and she clutches her chest, just by her left rib. “It should be easier for me. Just bite into your wrist and I’ll drink.”

I understand the words, but the meaning is lost on me. I cock my head and my hair falls gently upon my shoulder. She’s expecting something unnatural of me, something that feels like a violation.

I’m still shaking. My tummy hurts.

“Hurry,” she says nervously, the smile still hanging on her lips, “I feel nauseous… just… let me drink.”

I climb onto the bed. That feels natural. It depresses under my weight. I lick my fangs, making sure they’re still there.

“What are you… what are you doing?” Her eyes are struggling to stay open. “You need to-”

I bite into the dense muscle of her throat and hold it still as she screams, a wild, animalistic noise that thrills me to my core. Blood, rich and sweet, splatters the inside of my mouth and I swallow desperate and fast to devour it all without spilling. Still, some leaks from my lips. I unfasten to catch it and more sprays. It’s messy. It smells so good.

I moan, long and sensual as I feel my stomach swelling. Pint after pint makes me fat like a leech. I squeeze her beneath my weight in an attempt to pump it back to the wound. Between shallow beats of her heart, I chance the occasional belch, wet and meaty, making more room for her to occupy.

“Why?” she whispers. It’s the last thing she says. It’s ragged and broken, just like her. And when it’s all gone I raise up on my knees and stretch. My belly pulls tight beneath my breasts, and bulges when I relax with a viscous slosh. I whine, guttural and needy - every movement makes my liquid meal jiggle beneath my tender skin

I’m so warm. My skin is bright and translucent with a lucious glow. I take great efforts in licking up what I spilt, sucking from the quilt what hadn’t already dried. When I’m finished, I rise up to the windowsill and press the pane outwards, swinging my legs out and into the cool night air.

It’s a full moon. And what a beautiful moon. The night has never been so intoxicating. I want to drink it all.