Vampire Story | Saylor Skidds
It was incredible, Deborah thought, how much she and all the movies had gotten it wrong. It wasn’t sexy. None of this was remotely sexy. Deborah lay sprawled on the damp sand, her legs splayed out in the low tides. She gasped and wheezed, and felt her body spasming in ways and places she could not control. She had wanted it, but she hadn’t anticipated how violated she would feel. She had never thought that Nathaniel, on top of her, could have ever looked so different. So unlike himself. So bestial.
“Don’t you want to live forever?” Nathaniel had asked her.
“Don’t you want to have talent?”
“Didn’t you say you wanted to create something that would outlive you?”
“You’ll never get there in your lifetime, at the rate you’re going. You don’t have enough time to build up your skills or hone in your craft. You’re getting old. We both are, but I started this all younger than you. You need a shortcut. I can give it to you, if you want.”
It had started so simple when he said it. After that, after all of the whispers of forbidden things, he had talked like it was some sort of business deal. I drink your blood, you drink mine, he said. It’ll be relatively quick after that, it’ll only take one night, he said. It’ll only take one night. One long, excruciatingly painful night. Then you’ll be a creative supernova. Deborah could feel several thousand pinpricks under her skin at first. Briefly, she wondered if this was anything like the experiences of hypothermia. The pinpricks then seemed to elongate, and Deborah started to think that there were knives in her bloodstream, reaching out, bones snapping and slicing through her skin. Only there were no ruptures, no blood trickling down her arms or legs. She wanted to scream, she wanted to beg for mercy, she wanted to push Nathaniel off of her. But he had one hand pressed over her mouth as he worked his way down, biting her in various places on her body. It was fruitless to try. And somehow Deborah knew that it would be too late to do anything anyway.
The pain had started quickly, spreading like a virus over Deborah’s extremities. But just as quickly it stopped. No, not quite. It didn’t stop, so much as Deborah went numb. As numb as if she had been doused in ice cubes, as if she was underwater in the winter ocean in front of her. Where she had twitched and pushed against Nathaniel, she now went limp. She was now detached from her body, only her head and neck were still mobile. Her mind was the only active organ, and then she blacked out.
The next thing that Deborah remembered was waking up in the motel room she had been staying in. She had met Nathaniel at a writer’s conference, and he had invited her to an after party on a beachfront property that night. She had been thrilled to meet him. Deborah loved his writing, and she had approached him first in an autograph line. They were both over fifty, some of the oldest in the crowd. Nathaniel had been responsive, and in a moment of boldness Deborah asked him to read the only essay she had brought with her. She hadn’t been able to write much of anything for a very long time. It had been very embarrassing, walking around all that time with just a few sheets of paper and nothing else. Graciously, Nathaniel had agreed to read the essay. He had liked it, evidently. One thing led to another, she told him about her writer’s block and her worries about being too old to try to do any of this, and she was here now.
The sun was shining out of the dingy window. Deborah noticed something on the side table, tucked underneath the portable alarm clock. A small index card covered in the same fluid script that was on the fly-leaf of the novel she brought for Nathaniel. It was written in a strange blotchy and watery red ink. At first, Deborah thought it was something like beet or cranberry juice. People wrote with those sometimes, right? But then Deborah picked it up. She ran her hand along the lines, smelling the blandness of the paper. She could smell so much better now. Smell so much more. And Deborah’s nose picked up blood.
“You’re welcome. Thank you for giving me such a good drink last night. You passed out once I was done, so you didn’t get to drink my blood. That’s too bad. I wish that I could come back for you, but I have to leave to catch my plane. Have a drink today. I recommend it. If you don’t, in twenty-four hours you won’t be able to do it again. You won’t be able to do anything again. It would be better if you drank from me, but it is what it is. You can find someone. It can be pretty much anyone. And after that, you’ll have the muse, the talent.”
Deborah dropped the index card on top of the alarm clock. A ray of sun peeked through the dirt and grime on the foggy window glass, and hit her skin. Deborah panicked at first, thinking of all the stories she knew. It was her writing hand, too. But after a moment, she calmed down and waited. After a while, it seemed to her like the myths were wrong. The sun wouldn’t kill her, she’d just have to be careful. She felt a fraction of the pinpricks she had felt last night. It was tolerable, just a little uncomfortable. She withdrew her hand and began to get dressed and to clean up.
Last night was the final night of the conference. The college where it had been was an hour away from her house. As Deborah tidied the room and put her clothes in her bag, she contemplated her choices. Deborah could drive home, but it’d be better to kill someone here. Someone in her hometown could be easily traced, and she wanted to get this done early. Picking a person who people wouldn’t notice would be such a hassle, too. Yes, she decided. She’d kill somewhere near the college, and quickly. Or she could hitchhike. She’d try that first.
Deborah picked up her bag and left the motel room, locking the door behind her. She dropped the key on a small wicker table on the patio. There was no time to return it. After that she walked to the end of the parking lot and stood directly under the motel sign. The highway was busy and the motel was popular. This wouldn’t take too long. And it’d be better than killing someone at the college. Less of a trail, less hassle.
The day was starting, she didn’t have to wait long. A large red pickup truck stopped by the motel sign where she stood. A man reached over and pushed the passenger door open. He leaned over so he could see and hear her. Deborah didn’t want to tell him who she was. It was better to be cautious. She didn’t think that anything would go wrong, but it would be her first time. Better safe than sorry. So Deborah didn’t give him her name.
“My date went home without me,” She called out to him. “I’m not from around here. Could you drive me to the nearest bus stop so I can get home?” Normally, she wouldn’t do this. She knew about stranger danger. She knew about how to script her interactions. If she was doing this before last night, Deborah would have never revealed this much, even if it was a lie. But right now Deborah knew that she could prevent anything the driver would be able to do. Deborah knew that she was different now.
“Of course,” He said. “Of course I’ll help you. Hop in,” He said. “I’ll get the heater going.” And he did just that relatively quickly. Deborah climbed up into the narrow seat and was greeted by a blast of hot air. The air was some part secondhand smoke, some part diesel. The man didn’t tell her his name, either. Maybe he didn’t think of it right away. But he did begin to talk. “You’re lucky I picked you up. It’s still early, not many vehicles out on the road right now.” He kept chattering, and Deborah kept up a serene facade, but she could tell something was off. He seemed decent enough on the surface, and before last night she wouldn’t have seen or heard anything different, but somehow now she could tell that his intentions didn’t match his friendly exterior. She could sense it.
He didn’t want to help her, not really. That was what Deborah immediately knew. This would be perfect, she decided this right then and there. This was the ideal first drink. She knew from the ride here by bus that the next stop wasn’t for a while. She had plenty of time to get this done. The area around the motel was practically deserted, and the road was pretty much empty. So Deborah decided to amuse herself a bit before she had her drink.
“You’ve done this before, haven’t you? Many times, in fact?” Deborah asked.
“Picking up people to give them rides to the bus stop? Sure. Pretty girls? Yeah, a few times.” He replied.
“Not like that, I mean after you’ve picked them up. I mean what you’re thinking about right now? What you’re planning to do at the next turn-off? Or behind a strip mall?”
“How many have you done that to? Do you even know yourself?”
“I…” The man trailed off. “Lady, I have no clue what you’re talking about. I’m just trying to be nice.”
“They’re all with you now. They travel with you.” Internally, she was smiling now. This was fun. This could be fun. Who knew? “They’re telling me how much you’ve hurt them. And they’re asking me to act on their behalf.”
“What-what the fuck are you-?”
The truck veered off the road, landing in a wide, muddy ditch. Deborah grabbed at the driver, turning his neck up and bringing her teeth down on him hard. It didn’t taste sweet like she had predicted. It wasn’t alcoholic or addictive in any way. It didn’t make her feel inebriated or especially pleasured. It was simply the coldest, purest, freshest drink of water she had ever had, with only a slight metallic taste. Like she had thought with Nathaniel, it wasn’t sexy when you were the attacker, either. Not even a little bit. But it was as though Deborah had been in a desert, slowly dying of thirst before this moment, and she hadn’t even realized. She hadn’t even been able to comprehend her initial state of deprivation. And now that she knew what being sustained felt like, how alive she could now feel, she knew it would be impossible for her to return to her previous state.
When the truck driver’s body was dry and limp, when she was so full she couldn’t take another sip, when she cleaned her hands and face of bloody smears and took off her stained sweater, she opened her duffel bag. Deborah found the legal pad she had been taking notes on during the conference. She wiped her hands on her sweatpants again, and grabbed a ballpoint pen she saw in the cupholder. Tearing away the two sheets of printed lists and notes, Deborah began to write.
Saylor Skidds is an English major at UAlbany from Rhode Island. This is their first time being published in ARCH. In their free time, Saylor enjoys reading, sewing, and volunteering at the library.