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With my Achilles Heel of genetic resistance, you could say that my transition into Nosferatu had its share of hiccups— especially when Travis and Donny first set me free onto the unsuspecting public. No longer able to come home to Stefanie’s arróz y habichuelas con chuleta, I had to learn to adjust my palate for a steady diet of sángre víva. And the blood had to be human since the thing that lives in us can only be fed with the blood of its host species.
Travis assured me that killing was something I would learn to enjoy. But not having done that yet, it was difficult at first to imagine that being possible. It was not until later that I found my niche in disposing of those that I felt wouldn’t be missed by society. Once I did, it admittedly became a little easier and sometimes quite pleasurable. For this, I will burn someday. Neither my loathing of what I’ve become, nor the nights I’ve spent wrestling with guilt, will excuse me. My destiny is eternal damnation. And with that lovely offering waiting at the other end, you can understand how permanent termination has little appeal for us.
No longer being spoon fed by Travis and Donny, I spent my first dreadful nights suffering an insatiable hunger. I also found Buffalo Johnny’s solution unpalatable because Travis mentioned it was difficult to control their minds. That meant having to develop a relationship where a woman would be comfortable with my face between her legs during that time of the month. Not an easy task without hypnosis being involved. Also, my face was all over the newspapers so I had to keep a low profile. I was already getting curious looks from strangers on the sidewalks.
So, what to do? I didn’t want to take innocent lives and I also didn’t want to roam the nights auditioning for kinky porn videos. There was also the question of where. Travis and Donny already had claims to the Big Apple. Where could I conduct my new nocturnal existence without being somewhere that was totally unfamiliar?
I contemplated my future one night while having a Whopper at Burger King. Reading the Daily News, I came across an article about a Wisconsin mother that drowned her kids in a bathtub (not all monsters have fangs). The case was being compared to one in North Jersey from five years before, where a woman claimed that her two-year-old son drowned in their swimming pool. The distraught father of the child had serious doubts about her story since she had shown signs of mental instability and was undergoing treatment for postpartum depression. When the investigation turned up traces of soapy water in the boy’s lungs, his suspicions were confirmed and it led towards proof that she had drowned their child in the bathtub. The woman’s name was Melissa Traynor, also known as “Missy”.
Missy was sentenced to be held at Blackwood State Hospital in West Orange, New Jersey after being declared legally insane. Local citizens were up in arms over the injustice. New Jersey is a death penalty state and in the eyes of the local residents, that was the more fitting punishment for the atrocity she committed.
I remembered watching the news report the night the trial ended. It was the ten o’clock news where the announcer would say before the broadcast. “It’s ten o’clock. Do you know where your children are?” Both of our children were home safe in bed while my head rested comfortably on Stefanie’s lap, watching the appalling newscast. How could even an insane person do that to her own child? Not that anyone believed her plea. The general consensus was that her claim of being possessed by evil spirits was designed to avoid the death penalty.
Missy was a petite blonde-haired woman, just out of her teens, that was actually kind of cute. It was impossible to believe that such a fragile-looking young woman could commit such an act.
The Whopper and the fries weren’t doing it. I had to do something before I lost the remaining nutrients from Travis and Donny’s leftovers. Surely someone capable of committing such an atrocity as Missy Traynor’s could be considered expendable by the general population.
A stolen taxi and a few trances later, I found myself at Blackwood in padded solitary confinement with sweet little Missy. When the entranced security guard allowed me in and closed the door to give us our privacy, she remained reactionless, just sitting on her bed, staring at the wall opposite her. I detected nothing on the wall that was visible to someone from this world so, to test her cognizance, I blocked it by stepping in front of her. Again no reaction, completely catatonic, to put her in a trance would have been redundant.
Not having killed yet, I was still having trouble mustering up the necessary venom. I had to focus. I had to imagine the frightened cries of the child that trusted his mommy and couldn’t understand what she was doing to him.
Why, mommy, why?
I sat beside Missy and looked at her profile. She really was pretty, although incredibly skinny. Would her blood be good enough—especially in that sedated state? What the hell kind of drugs did they put in this girl? I had learned later that sedatives were necessitated by frequent, unpredictable outbursts in which she’d violently attack other patients.
Oh, well, no need for formalities.
I gently took her by the hand and laid her head on my lap—two tender lovers on a Central Park bench. Her expressionless eyes gazed at the molded ceiling while I fixated mine on the freckled flesh above her shoulder.
The current of her blood pulsed through my fingers.
The scent of her willowy flesh...
the involuntary extension of unhesitating fangs...
...the loss of my humanlike projection...
...hello Missy, Death is here.
Not a flinch! Nor a gasp. Nor a scream. Nothing. Holy crap, woman, did you get a look at this face?
I raised her to me like Rudolph Valentino preparing to engage in a long, passionate kiss with his leading lady.
Sorry Missy, no kiss. Instead my incisors spiked through her neck as I lustfully swallowed every surge of her life that gushed into my mouth. It was my first feeding—the first time I ever did it on my own. I felt a sick air of pride while guzzling on Missy but there was no one around to pat me on the back—not that Travis was the pat-on-the-back type anyway—maybe Donny. It was too bad. I could have used the coaching, especially after what transpired next.
For the first time Missy started to move. Her head, which I had been holding in my hand, turned towards me as she softly moaned and started kissing my shoulder! And if that wasn’t weird enough, she then started to bite me back! Okay, no one prepared me for this one. I lifted my blood-covered face to look at her. What the hell, woman? Do you have any idea what’s happening here? Her eyes lit up! It was a look I’d recognize anywhere. Missy was turned on! Here she was, her life spilling away onto her shoulders, dripping down to her bed, and the crazy little hellcat was horny!
I roared. I have no idea why, it just felt like something I should do before throwing my head down and devouring Missy in reckless delight. She gasped and grunted—not in pain, not in fear, but with pleasure, biting back with equal aggression. Her jaws were not strong enough to break my dead skin, but I was confounded. I had to stop and take a look at her again. She was disappointed. Why did I stop? She wanted more.
Missy then arched her eyebrows and gave me a demented smile. I bulged. I couldn’t hold back.
I pulled Missy’s face to mine and engaged in a forceful kiss (better than Valentino’s). Both of our tongues swirled in her blood as we tore off each other’s clothes. Her blood, still flowing, coated our skin as I pressed her down to the bed, alternately kissing her and feeding from her neck. Missy reached down, bringing me inside. Our bodies then slammed at each other’s with violent thrusts as her life continued to drift into the next world. Through it all, Missy never screamed once. She just moaned with pleasure as her blood poured generously, covering our entire bodies.
Did she know she was dying? Honestly I had no idea, nor did I care. I was having a great time enjoying my first kill. As for Missy, she couldn’t have been more cooperative. She was enjoying it like it was the best lay she ever had, licking and sucking ravenously at my shoulders, growling with delight, taking in her own blood as I thrust my hips into her.
Minutes later, Missy’s wiry frame was limp and unresponsive. Her life had drained away with her eyes remaining opened, staring blankly at the ceiling—just as they were when I came in.
I closed Missy’s eyes with my blood-drenched hand and climbed off her. Her pale, naked corpse lay back peacefully on her bed with chunks of flesh dangling from her neck.
I had actually done it. I killed. And I didn’t hate it. Maybe I could do this killing thing. If I could dispose of worthless trash like Missy, maybe I could turn my need to feed into something positive—something I could do, guilt free.
Well, not quite. If you are a human being that was conscious of the fact that actions could result in consequences, genetic resistance will not allow rationalization to come so easily.
In the days that followed, reality set in. The next morning, when daylight broke through, Missy went up in flames—another unexplained case of spontaneous combustion. And though the afternoon newspapers showed little or no sympathy for the child murderer, reports came out that Missy’s mother was demanding an explanation for the mysterious death of her daughter. Months passed, investigations ensued. The end result? Missy’s mother sued the hospital and several employees lost their jobs, including the security guard whose brain I scrambled so I could get in. I then realized that no matter who dies, good or bad, productive to society or general waste of human flesh, death will have its collateral effect on the people who are left behind. Sure Missy was a child murderer, the lowest form of criminal around, but she was also someone’s daughter.
Missy’s mother took action against those that were responsible for the care of her daughter; administrators, nurses, security guards, etc. And all of them had families; parents, children, spouses and even friends that would suffer the after-effects of this one death.
One feeding, one death, yet so many lives affected.
Do the undead normally care? Not in the least, unless you are cursed with genetic resistance like I am. Then every feeding becomes a struggle with your remaining humanity. You are not even free to be the monster that you are.
I have been a night predator now for over twenty-seven years. That’s a lot of feeding. How many people have I killed? How many lives of survivors were affected by my need for self-preservation? For me, guilt-free killing is nothing but a fantasy. Yes, there are times I enjoy it. Roberto is a good example. But in most other cases, guilt eventually creeps in to make my eternity miserable.
Well, Nicky, if killing makes you so miserable why not just end it?
That’s easy.
Never underestimate our innate need to remain walking among the living. What waits for us in the next world is motivation enough. So if killing is the only way for me to go on, then the choice is clear. Although I may be a product of Hell, it certainly doesn’t mean I wish to reside there.