1. It begins…
886 Words
1
IT BEGINS…
That b***h.
I feel the rage in my veins every single time I have to scrabble my way over the floor. My legs, my useless legs, squeal against the wood — one severed above the knee, one just below the hip. But killing a vampire isn’t as easy as hacking off a body part and letting us bleed out; we can drag mangled tissue around forever.
But I won’t have to drag these stumps around much longer. Because I’m a genius. Some would argue the point, but they’re just jealous.
I can’t blame them.
I smile as I haul myself onto the old plastic crate, the stumps of my legs hanging off the edge. No real furniture here, no lights, but I need neither. The plywood table is already laid with the pieces of my project: Styrofoam, metal rods, silicone molds, and the resin. I reach for the pitcher — searingly hot, a heat that would blister human flesh — and pour a thin layer of the blue plastic into the mold. It flows out like sludge. Like custard.
Like watered-down pus.
Like the blood as it flowed from my brother’s veins. But that was an eternity ago.
I reach one hand to the back of my head, the place where my skull is caved in. My brother took so much from me, namely the woman I loved, though I got her back in the end. I took his life from him, though he left me with a nasty reminder — the divot in my skull. A crushing blow that would have mattered if I were human.
I return my fingers to the pitcher and my focus to the art. The resin smells of burning plastic, a chemical reek that’s enough to make mortal eyes water. But not mine. Toxins don’t bother vampires the way they do humans. Their bodies are weak, sensitive; they’re all trying to avoid cancer. If a vampire got cancer, they’d die of shock before they died of disease.
I almost smile at my joke. If anyone else were here, they’d think I was clever too. I could go repeat my quip to the guy in the other room, but he wouldn’t laugh. Though he sees my genius, he is terrified of it. Actually, he may be dead already. I ought to check.
I set the pitcher aside. The silicone molds glimmer dully, a shiny wetness that will soon become my lower limbs. Sure, I could craft legs out of rubber, or from steel — I could mold my legs with my bare hands.
But resin is the only medium that speaks to me. Hard, when finished, and cold to the touch. Like me.
I can no longer create life — only death. And these creations, while not any more alive than I am, feel more animated. It’s as if I’m bleeding the sludge from my veins and molding it into something more useful.
No one ever thought I was useful, definitely not my family — not in life, not in death. f**k them all, that’s what I say. I’m tired of being the black sheep. And now I don’t have to be.
Now I have a queen who accepts me. Who sees my gifts for what they are. Who trusted me enough to put me in charge when Mikael failed.
Do they know yet, Markula and his little band of misfits? Have they figured it out? Do they know who I am? She should; we have a connection, Dawn and I. I could smell Dawn from across the county, well before we made it to that cow pasture. I could taste her on the breeze well before I saw her standing on the far side of the pond. The glow in her gaze … I’d know that face anywhere, no matter how many years have passed. Those eyes. She looks just like her —
A sound rumbles through the far wall, the low guttural moan of pain and panic. Perhaps I should go in there … put him out of his misery. But what fun would that be?
I frown at the stumps of my legs, then gaze at the slowly hardening molds, the steel bars — reinforcements — barely visible beneath the resin. Already, the plastic layers look more like glass.
They are lovely. But they are not my own.
I will spend an eternity without working limbs, all because of her. Goddamn b***h. I hate her — I hate them all. And no matter what my brother thinks, there is no human who’s worth this.
But I know what she is. Who she is.
I know why she has to die. And it’s been a long time coming.
I can still recall the first time I saw her. I can hear the harsh grinding sound of ripping flesh and disjointed bone, the snapping of tendons. I failed to take her there — failed to even find her, let alone kill her — but only because Mikael was in charge.
But I will not fail this time. I would never fail my queen.
Murder, after all, is my job. And despite what my family might believe, I’m far better at it than they are.
We all have fangs.
But only some of us have heart.
- Writer
