The Anniversary

2009-10-30T22:30:00.001-07:00

Well, it's that time of year again. October 30th. Halloween.

I hate Halloween.

I mean, what is up with trick-or-treating, anyways? It's despicable! A bunch of children smear slime and glitter to their faces and go door to door, begging for food. And why do people dress up, anyways? I know the original reason. Supposedly, the ancient Mexicans or whoever would dress up scarily to ward off any evil that lurked on All Hallows Eve. If that's true, we're making fun of their culture! If we're trying to scare people, why are Scooby Doos, sexy French maids and Dorothy of Oz lurking the streets with them?

I suppose I might be a little biased about Halloween. You know. A little.

It's when I was bitten. And I like to think of that as little as possible.

But right now, I look around, and I see faux-colored, beaming plastic pumpkins and clattery cheerful skeletons and cardboard tombstones with humorous sayings on them. This isn't real Halloween. It's a knockoff. In my eyes, a graveyard should have eerie flickering pumpkins with many imperfections and a gruesome leer. Skeletons should lie in graves, wrapped in bits of leathery flesh. Tombstones crumble at the corners.

Seven years ago. Seven years, now. A lucky number, is it? I doubt it.

Seven years ago, it was October 31st. Halloween. My shallow friends and I (for I was really quite popular; just with the wrong girls) were "too old" to trick-or-treat. We had been to a party, which had fizzled out to be quite lame, though we were all pretending otherwise. We were walking back on the way home. Madison and Alicia turned to their houses two blocks ahead of me. I lived farthest away; I had nearly four blocks to go by myself.

At the third corner there is a small park. A memorial park. It's handy for druggies to hang out at night. I saw a huddle of people under the streetlight. I thought they were about my age. I leaned over to make out what they were saying, but I couldn't hear them. So. Stupid, immature, cocky little shit that I was, I walked up to them.

I am such an idiot.

I try not to remember the details. All I feel like saying is, I said some things I shouldn't have, especially when I saw they were older. I tried to impress them. I was being flirty. There I was, in this flight attendant costume that I thought was so sleek, so sophisticated, but when I think about it I cringe with shame at remembering the perky little hat perched on my head.

There was a flash. A blur. A seizing, terrible pain at my neck. It wasn't like in your finger, or your shin, which hurt but get banged up so easily you are used to it. In your neck, it feels so much worse in the thin, tender skin of your neck. I thought I was going to die.

And sometimes, I wish I did.

This is getting old quickly.

2009-10-26T20:05:00.000-07:00

I understand now why kids all want to grow up.

The only thing is, how does it happen so quickly?

Plump, healthy, living little kids. They run on playgrounds, they learn. They stretch out taller. Some grow fatter, some slim down. They learn that life is like a jawbreaker: promising on the outside. Sour to the taste. And, right in the middle, a sickening, face-puckering burst of strong and horrid flavour. Bad and worse.

I haven't grown in years.

I haven't tasted candy, either. I have something better.

Blood.

Vampires are a fad, now. People delight in them the way they delighted in them in the 1720's. My brother, Benjamin, has told me about those times. Doesn't sound fun. People only like us for the same reason kids like to stay up late: it's forbidden, it's thrilling, and parents don't like it.

Most vampire novels say that vampires have souls. They regret the people they kill. They kill animals, instead, to save themselves from hell.

What a bunch of crap.

I'm not saying I never feel remorse. I do. Sometimes.

Sometimes I wipe the blood from my lips and eye the crumpled body at my feet, and see the little puncture wounds that are slowly closing from the amnesia-inducing, healing venom from my teeth. They will wake up, they will see blood on their clothes. They won't remember a thing. They might experience a few side effects. Like dizziness from blood loss. Headaches from the alien substances (see: vampire venom) in their systems. With that, comes nausea or even heart attacks. If you're weakened or sick.

Then I feel a tiny pang. Occasionally. It's no worse than a hangover.

Usually I hide and watch as the stupid punk who mouthed me off comes to, looks around, and continues with his life as usual. Then I feel anger. That's when I wish that this dumb kid would remember a hint of terror. Also, I wish it would hurt more.

What can I say. I have a temper. I'm only (not) human.

But there are times when I grow careless. Sometimes the blood is so delicious, so fulfilling, so nourishing to my dead body that I forget about appearances. I forget about being inconspicuous. I only want to suck down that sweet, sticky, live-giving blood that makes me feel more alive than I have felt in years.

When it's over, with my frozen veins still coursing with blood that is not my own, I will look down at the lifeless body. I will watch eyeballs flatten after five minutes, watch marble pallor come and age their faces. It is mostly then that I feel a crushing, burning shame inside of me. And sometimes, I will weep the only liquid I can: tears of blood.

Tears of Blood

The Anniversary

This is getting old quickly.