blood of angels © Sean Fortner, 2011
Preface
Blood. It's always about the blood. Hollywood and bad writers romanticize it; pay channels make it into pornography. The truth is much more simple and profane. Blood is life. Its an addiction that my kind can't live without. It drives us to do the things we do. It screams in our heads when we're away from it too long. It is our sustenance and our drug.
There are so many things in this world that are hidden in the periphery of your awareness. Haunting, disturbing things that crawl around in the back of your head when you sleep. Unfortunately, I am one of those things. I am a monster. I am a thing that manipulates and takes, a thing that lies and steals. I am a creature of myth and superstition and I am very real. My name is Patrick Williams, and I am a vampire.
This is only part of my story. This is not a history lesson. This is not a romanticized look at a curiosity. This is a view of a world that is living right beneath your feet.
Take this for what it is. It might be a confession, it might be a warning. It might even be a bit of revenge for the wrongs I have been a victim of. I'm not sure I care about what you think, you're supposed to be my food. So take it any way you want, but take it. It could save you from one of us, maybe even save you from me.
CHAPTER 1
“I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earthS
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;
Morn came and went--and came, and brought no day,
And men forgot their passions in the dread
Of this their desolation; and all hearts
Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light” Darkness by Lord Byron
Where do I start? Do I bore you with the details of my past? Maybe a little history. I may seem like i'm glazing over important things, but I'm sure that my childhood traumas are second rate compared to my death.
I was never a happy child. My first memory is my Grandmother's suicide. My parents deluded themselves into thinking I wouldn't remember it. I do. I remember the sticky mess I sat in as she leaked out on the floor. Her wrists slashed to the bone. I remember sitting and crying; watching her eyes goes lifeless as her soul ran away from me. I don't know why she did it. It seems like the Williams family is cursed with this need to eradicate themselves.
I grew up in an alcoholic family. My father was abusive and utterly beyond reach. My mother tried to leave, but her weakness was us, her three children. Jonathan, Jennifer and I were all that mattered, and daddy made good money, so she stuck it out with him.
Jennifer ran away and disappeared when she was sixteen. I was thirteen at the time, and I naively hated her for it. Jonathan, my Irish twin, took up the mantle of protector. He was only a year older than I was, but he was always bigger and stronger than I could ever hope to be. He protected me from dad and carried the Williams curse with much more grace than I could.
I started drinking a few years later, drugs a few years after that. I had inherited the gene and grew up knee-deep in it. Mom didn't drink, but she abused prescription medication. I wanted the same thing my parents wanted, I wanted oblivion. Jonathan kept me from pouring over the brink and into the abyss.
He was the star; the one Williams that could make it out of the pit and into some modicum of success. He was preppy and popular. He was class president and was a frequent flier on the honor role. I was his freak brother, underachieving as I sat in the back of the room thinking of things to destroy. Jonathan kept the prep squad at bay the best he could, so I skated through high school without too much of a beating. I dressed in black. I wore combat boots and dyed my hair black. I prowled the goth clubs and listened to the sound of depression.
Its a horrible feeling to be so utterly lost, but at least my angry youth never ended in a school shooting or being arrested. It just fizzled out on its own and became despair. I used alcohol to numb it. I fought addiction at such a young age; fought against the dying world around me. Then my life sank even deeper. Never think you are as low as you're going to get. Life can show you new depths unimagined.
On April Fool's Day in 1997, Jonathan died. I was twenty-one and still living at the house that caged me in. I heard the phone ring from my basement room. It sounded different; a dirge for the departed. I knew it was him. I knew he had died. It was as if I felt the world become a little bit darker, a little worse, from his passing. I ran upstairs and found my mother doubled over on the floor in tears. She had pulled two handfuls of her red, messy hair out by the fistfuls. My father was outside on the porch, breathing strangely. There was no sound but sobbing and the phone clicking against the wall. I remember hanging up the phone and holding onto my mother. She cried into me, desperate to undo this tragedy.
That was it. I decided that I was done with this toilet called planet earth. It was my mission now to wrap things up in a nice package so I could go join my brother. I remained patient.
The funeral home was my next clear memory. My father sent mom and I ahead, scouting the parlor for him. As I flipped through the pictures of caskets while my mother retreated into her Valium trance, I smiled dimly at the irony of it all. I wasn't picking Jonathan's coffin, I was picking mine.
We chose the prayer, the mass cards, the guest book, and the most convenient times to come and see his body. It was all so mechanical. I sat across from the owner of this disgustingly clean death house; his saccharine and practiced smile more lizard-like than human. I grunted audibly and pointed to a nice picture of a rich, coca-colored mahogany casket. It was a classic design, almost fitting in as a piece of decorative furniture in someone's living room. I could almost see the rings of coffee stains on it or the tell-tale wisps of cat hair stuck in the trim. It was perfect. This was my wagon to the beyond. I asked if he had one on site. He grimaced apologetically and informed us that it would be available in time for the viewing, but, alas, it had to be shipped in. What a rip-off! How was I going to feel the fabric? Was it going to be soft? I wanted to lay down in a bed of satin and smell the fresh stained wood. I wanted a small, casket-sized pillow as a memento; a prelude for the whole thrill ride that was just around the corner.
“We'll take it,” I said, forgetting that Jonathan was going in there and that I had to wait my turn.
I found myself coming to in a dark club a few weeks after the funeral. My sister Jen was a no-show. Hundreds of people had found the time in their busy lives to come and see my brother's body, but my own sister didn't come. I was mulling over my imminent suicide note as I washed down my sixth gin and tonic. To keep the bartenders off my case, I alternated between the upstairs and downstairs bar. Of course, the dramatic soul I was, I preferred to be in the basement where they poured in the most smoke form the machines and played the most depressing music. The candle light flickered on the bar as it blended with the purple cloud of ultraviolet-hued fog. This was how I first met Miranda Loken.
Mathematics predicts chaos. It predicts the collapse of systems. Miranda embodied the subtle equations that, when left alone, mutate into huge algorithms that swallow entire planets. Chain after chain of events stretched out behind her as the purple mist parted, her ghostly visage revealed itself to me at the last moment. I was deep inside my own melodrama; numb and drunk and hell-bent on dying. Miranda pulled me out of this vortex in an instant. Her scent announced her arrival. Frankincense and gardenia, two clashing smells that no one else could manage, blended together like the yin and yang as it captivated me. She turned her pale, perfect face towards me and smiled. Her impossibly white teeth matched the whites of her eyes; the whites of her eyes framed the darkest of pitch-black irises. It was a sight to behold; thin, ruby lips, curly black hair, a vintage black velvet gown with a cameo and velvet choker. Her eyeliner and high cheekbones reminded me of the busts of Isis I had seen at the museum. Was I Osiris? Had she come to gather up my pieces? Before she spoke, I remembered Robert Frost. “The woods are lovely, dark and deep, but I have promises to keep,”.
“I love that poem,” Miranda said, her smooth voice flowing into my ears.
“Did I say that out loud?” I asked, shocked.
“Of course you did, bunny, I can't read minds,” she said with a chuckle, “so, what are kids these days drinking?”
“Over-priced Gin and tonic,” I said, forcing a joke through my nervousness.
Miranda blinked in slow motion as she turned her attention towards the bartender. She announced herself to him without a word. He turned away from a customer in mid-order and walked up to her.
“I want a gin and tonic. Top shelf. Bombay sapphire. And an extra lime wedge, sugar,” she said as she turned her head slowly towards me.
I understood immediately. I had to pay for this angel's drink. I had to make an offering to the gods for their gracious gift of bestowing Miranda upon me. I fumbled drunkenly with my wallet, eventually winning the match. As I dropped a twenty down on the counter, I saw that her drink was already there. Had I been fighting with my wallet that long? Ugh. I flushed with embarrassment at my inept attempt at romance. As if reading my discomfort, she patted my shoulder reassuringly.
“Don't worry, your delivery wasn't perfect, but the thought was sweet enough. What’s your name?” she said with a sly grin.
“Patrick,” I mumbled.
She extended her hand. I gasped when I saw her velvet glove. She was like royalty slumming it in this place. Everything she did or said or wore reeked of class. I was trapped in her web, a victim to my own desire for apotheosis within the skin of a woman. If there was one weakness I had outside my chemicals, it was the fairer sex. It went beyond lust and mating. Women were a sonnet. Women were a storm on the ocean at sunset. I had romanticized females and all they stood for. I was bewitched easily and bruised constantly by them not living up to my unrealistic expectations. They were human, after all. I treated them like art, but they were just as flawed as my fellow knuckle-dragging males. I suppose it was my desire to hide my pain in fantasy that led me to this delusion. Perfection in a sunset was much harder to touch then perfection in a smile or a curve of the hip.
“Miranda. Miranda Loken,” she whispered in my ear, her breath on my neck melting my tattered resolve.
“I have promises to keep,” I said as I moved away.
“Stay,” she mewed, pawing at me with her wonderfully classy gloves.
I finished my drink and sat beside her like a mute toad on a log. It was awkward and silly, but I had nothing to fall back on. I was drunk and itching to get on with my death. Miranda was a perfectly frustrating distraction from my duty of being a Williams. I had to die, damn it! Why now? Why the hell did miss mysterious beauty appear tonight? This was supposed to be the night. I had already rented a cheap motel room that stunk like roach-killing juice. I had already perused the hideous sixties- green carpet. I already meditated on what my tape outline would look like. I had the pills I stole from mom. I had dad's scotch. I had Jen's abandoned pillow. And best of all, I had Jonathan's stationary to devise a perfectly scathing suicide letter.
But no, Miranda had to come into my life and ruin it all. Miranda had to come in and show me a glimmer of hope. I had nothing left in the tank, so I sat like a mute toad.
“Cat got your tongue?” she aid after a while.
“What?” I asked, “No, not at all, I'm just, I don't know, I'm-”
“Deep in your cups,” She answered for me.
She was too good to be true. She even talked like she was from a different time. Without thought, I leaned into her. Our eyes met as I gazed into her perfect darkness. I kissed her gently, overwhelmed by the sensation. Miranda kissed me back as we stood up from the bar.
Off in the periphery, the music changed. I led Miranda into the belly of the smoke machine where the shadows of other people danced around us. They were nothing to us as we joined together in a slow spiral outwards. She caressed my cheeks, her eyes locked with mine. Her flesh was cool and pale and perfect; a sonnet embodied.
“Why me?” I asked, unsure if I was really here with her.
“Because it's meant to be,” she said with a flare of the devil in her eyes.
My lust got the better of me. I embraced her tightly and kissed her madly. She didn't resist. She took my kiss as an invitation to explore this further. We ended our dance and fell together into a plush loveseat in a perfectly-planned shadow. We were alone, yet mere feet from other people. Our tryst began in the midst of this amazingly murky club. My hands ran across the nape of her neck. My fingers danced on the thin velvet of her choker. Her flesh and the velvet were one and the same, equally perfect and smooth. Her curls draped to the side as my hands roamed down her back. I leaned in and licked her neck. She gasped and moved to let me explore deeper. Her hands roamed under my shirt and sifted across my chest. Her scent, her flesh, captivated me. I forgot the rest of the world around me as I moved my hand down to her thigh. I hesitated, expecting her to resist. After all, she was class; perfect and upper class, not some harlot and bar girl. She moaned and pulled my hand higher and between her legs. I felt her sex on my hand, wrapped neatly in satin panties. She began to purr and nibble at my neck as I moved the fabric aside and slid my hand across the moist, soft hair.
“”Do it,” she hissed as she bit slightly harder at my neck.
I was lost in the passion, oblivious to the chewing sounds that were coming from by neck. My fingers gently penetrated her. I desperately wanted her to feel pleasure; it was my duty to make her feel as amazing as she was. She ground against me as she tightened her grip on me. She scratched my skin through my shirt; the burn intensifying my own arousal. As she peaked, I felt a rush of pleasure and pain stemming from my neck. She had broken my skin and was now slurping at the wound! I gasped in horror! What had she done? I struggled to pull away, but somehow, she had tightened her hold on me. I was trapped! Of course, instead of feeling fear, I found a darker place within me that accepted this as perfectly normal and even more arousing. I returned to her, my hands entering her again. She squealed with delight as she latched onto me. I moved on top of her and began kissing her chest, moving the fabric of her dress aside to reach her naked breast.
I became lost in the sensations of her flesh and her scent; her presence was more intoxicating than any chemical I had ever ingested. Her body was chiseled out of supple marble; cool and pale and flawless. I became frantic. I wanted desperately to be inside of her. Ignoring the crowd of people outside our shadowy nest, I opened my fly. As I raised up to adjust myself, everything changed. What had once been a slightly perverse display of sensuality had instantly changed into horror. I was bleeding! My blood was dripping down into her open mouth, a mouth framed with fangs!
I pulled away and quickly ran into the misty purple club, away from my attacker. I had no idea who she was, I certainly had no idea what she was. All I knew was that she had bit me deep and I was bleeding all over myself. I wanted death, but I wanted it on my terms, in my cheap motel room, not in some dingy dance club, and certainly not by anyone else's hand but my own.
The world blurred and echoed around me as I pushed past the oblivious echoes of humans that conspired to block me from my destination. It was decided, right then and there, that I was going to die tonight. So, if I was destined to die, why would the universe not part the human waves and let me get on with it? I pushed and shoved franticly at them; begging out loud for them to move aside so I can run my endgame. It was rehearsed to the point of perfection. I needed it now! She was my last horrah, my harbinger of what was next. It made sense now. Miranda was my going away present. Thank you, Miranda. See you in the next life. I have promises to keep.
CHAPTER 2
“Chan eil tuil air nach tig traoghadh.” (Every flood will have an ebb) Scottish proverb
Shaking, sweaty with panic and fear, I practically kicked in the door of the cheap motel room. Drunk and bleeding, I tumbled into darkness. Fumbling for the light, I managed to rip a swath of incandescent evil into the comfort of numbing shadow. The pills were laid out. The scotch was already poured. The notebook was open with the pen in wait. How dare she pull me from the brink! The nerve; and all I had to show for it was a bite, blood, and less time to prepare. This was no ordinary night. This was one year later, one year after my brother left me alone. This was March 31. I never thought I'd be dying on a Tuesday night.
I ate the pills and drank the scotch. Glenfiddich. Top shelf. More pills. More scotch. I began to scrawl my note:
To my family:
I Leave this husk behind for you to do what you will. I mean no insult;
I only want peace. I have lived long enough to see what life brings and I do
not wish to journey further. I chose to remove myself from this hell.
Wish me peace; wish me joy and solace. Most of all wish me luck in my
Search for Jonathan, my brother and true guardian. Gone too soon.
As am I now; gone too soon. Does anyone truly learn to live when
all you end up with in the end is ash?
-Patrick Williams
I barely got the words out. My body began to warm and my eyes fluttered. Whatever was going to happen was coming soon. I can't recall any fear. I just knew that I could not go on living in misery. I was alone. I was drowning in panic attacks. I was an addict. I hated being chained to the urge to drink and numb myself. I gave up, pure and simple. I quit. I thought briefly that I did believe in God. I just didn't trust a supposedly all-loving being that put so much misery into this world. I didn't think that God even called the shots anymore. I had some faith left, surprisingly, after all that had happened; all the misery I had endured and God still whispered to me on occasion, but it a cold comfort in the face of all this tragedy.
No matter how I felt about God, I was going to see him soon. The chemicals in my bloodstream divorced me from all emotion barring one; curiosity. I was curious about what it would be like to not have a solid form anymore. I wished for a ray of light to illuminate me. I wished for a beam of pure truth to irradiate me.
I lay on the floor, unable to control my balance or my limbs. The white noise gathered in my ears as I began to spiral out. I felt like I was shifting orbits and breaking free from Earth; free to roam the stars. The floor beneath me became liquid as I sank lower and slipped out of my body. I saw the remains of my husk lying on the floor. It was trivial and distant as I turned to face the most amazing sight. It was bright and warm and safe; it was home!
Jonathan! He appeared within this corona of light, his head hung in sadness. Can you cry in paradise? I was bewildered as I sank deeper into this ocean of radiant perfection. I was swimming for the far shore and he was there waiting for me.
Without warning, I was ripped from this womb of peace with a searing pain and overwhelming thirst. I came to, covered in freezing sweat and I was drinking something. I was drinking hungrily from the flesh of a woman. It was Miranda Loken, and she had ruined everything.
“Ssh. Drink. Don't talk, don't move, just drink,” She whispered in my ear as I latched onto her arm and suckled the wound.
The pleasure was indescribable. There were echoes of voices within this wonderful liquid. The fleeting glimpse of death was clouded over now; a new urge had replaced the desire to die. I was now completely under the iron grip of blood. I was a thrall to its power. The blood was life, the most powerful drug in existence. It was my new favorite thing. It was better than scotch and pills and suicidal ideation. It was sustenance and exhilaration and sex and more. Blood.
I drank and drank, hungrily pulling as much as I could through her armored flesh. She tried to pull away, but I gripped tight the tap that poured ambrosia of God. She struggled as I floated through sounds of voices.
I saw Miranda in a flapper's dress; thin and frilly with a pretty hat to match. Miranda was in an opium den, holding a man as he got sick. I saw a glimmer of a man basking in shadows, a pure and ruthless creature that scolded her. Miranda wept. Miranda shivered with fear. Miranda was made into a thrall like I was.
“Don't get used to it,” she said as she finally broke free from my grasp, “It's the last time you'll have my thoughts.”
I fell backwards and hit my head on the coffee table, splintering the wood. I opened my eyes for the first time as a newborn vampire. I immediately knew what I was. It all made sense. I figured that this was an inevitable result of my years of haunting places like that dark club from earlier this evening. I chuckled as blood poured out of my mouth.
“You better get into the bathroom,” She said to me.
I looked at her confused. What did she mean by that? Then it hit, a pain beyond compare. My body was dying; the infection was spreading through me.
I ran to the bathroom, acutely aware that I had mere moments before disaster struck. I was clear-headed, no remnants of drugs and booze. It was a strange sensation; more hyper-aware than dulled, yet oddly buzzed from the blood I had drank.
Slamming the door, I stripped. Jumping into the tub, I curled into a ball as the tendrils of vampirism sprouted within me. Each organ died in turn, then each organ reemerged undead. My heart stopped beating. The pain was unbearable! I stifled a howl as it ground out it's last living beats, spreading the disease further into every corner of my body.
I suddenly heaved as my stomach emptied out. My bowels let go. There was no romantic becoming, there was no kiss of immortality carrying me into vampirism. There was rejection, the death throes of my once-living and natural form. Something much darker and hungrier replaced it. I felt this alien presence insinuate itself into the corner of my mind. It is still with me to this day. My body lurched for what seemed like hours. I was in agony as everything unimportant to this demonic infection squeezed itself out.
Sobbing, I drifted into a shallow sleep, recalling my vision of Jonathan. I now know why he looked despondent. He knew that I was going to end up like this, trapped between two worlds. I was seeking peace in suicide and invited a vampire along for the ride.
I jolted up with a start. Had I dreamed this? I was naked in the tub, but there wasn't a speck of waste around me. Miranda's dark shadow was standing over me.
“Are you okay?” she asked as she knelt beside me.
How the hell could I answer that question?
“Hey, seriously, are you okay?” she asked again as she ran her fingers through my hair.
I shook my head yes. I had arrived.
The world looked different. Everything was more intense. My vision was beyond measure. I could see cracks in the porcelain tub with such clarity that it looked like etchings on a cave wall. I could see in the shadows. I could hear the heater in the next room over, humming like a chorus. It was incredible.
“Hey, Patrick, you need to focus. We need to talk. Do you need to think for a bit?” She asked with what I believed was true concern.
“I'm a vampire,” I muttered in disbelief.
“Yes you are, but we can't go telling everyone. Vampirism is a best-kept secret, okay?”
“I wanted to die. Why did you do this to me?” I asked, suddenly angry.
“Loneliness,” Miranda said, her hands still gliding through my hair.
“Mine or yours?” I asked in return.
“A little of both. You were too nice to me in the club to die on a floor in a place like this. You have such potential. I sensed it from across the dance floor,” She said, suddenly stopping.
She pulled her hand away and stood up. She turned to me and smiled.
“Come out soon. Oh, and don't stare at yourself in the mirror too long, okay?”
“Sure,” was all I could manage.
Mirrors are mankind's worst invention. No matter what you try to cover up, whatever it is that haunts you as you desperately try to hide it from everyone else, it stares back unfiltered when you gaze into a mirror. All of my sins were there. I looked at once horrific and beautiful, an angel slighted. My face had changed into perfection; every blemish erased from the demonic thing infesting me. My new-found visual acuity held me transfixed as I stared at the geography that was my face. Al the tiny pores, although smaller now and perfectly uniform, were like craters. The light above the sink cast a cloud front across the hills of my cheeks and lips. Magnificent. On the other hand, there was a predatory glow in the blacks of my eyes. I looked dangerous. I was pale and chiseled from pure marble, yet I looked like a monster. Was it my sharp eyesight, or was I destined to look evil for the rest of my new life? Touching it only made it worse. It felt smooth as silk, yet bumpy and tough at the same time, like a snake's skin without the scales. And I still didn't get it; why wasn't I covered in vomit and shit? Then I felt it. My heart beat. I waited, waited, then boom. Another heartbeat. It was droning a slow, almost imperceptible dirge. I was suddenly pulled out of my reverie.
“Patrick, the sun's coming up. We need to talk,” Miranda called from the other room.
Sunlight? I forgot about that. Did I burn up in sunlight? I didn't think much about losing my ability to walk around in daytime; I drank and slept my daytime away anyway. It didn't seem so bad. On the other hand, an eternal life without the sun's warmth sounded depressing.
She curled up on the bed like a cat. The blue-hued stripes of encroaching daylight through the shades glistened off of her pale skin. She was beautiful beyond words. She was electric and powerful, poetry in every subtle motion. My new senses drank her in deeper than before. Miranda turned and stretched. I watched her flesh ripple as her sinewy muscle coursed like a wave. She rolled over and smiled at me, dark eyes burning into me.
“We need to have a talk, bunny,” she said as she patted the bed next to her.
I walked over and lay down. She lay her head down on my chest and looked up at me.
“You look amazing,” she said with a smile.
“So do you,” I gasped, seeing her up close for the first time.
“It's part of the disease, we look perfect because we need to,” she said.
“What?” I asked, confused.
“We look good so we can catch our prey, or did you think we all line up at the blood bank?” she chuckled.
I suddenly became unnerved. Did I have to kill people? She seemed to read my expression.
“I'll teach you how to hunt. We wouldn't have survived this long if we killed people all the time,” she said.
“I have questions,” I said.
“I'll answer them all, but give me time,” she said as she stood and walked to the window.
Miranda pulled the blinds up as the sun broke over the hill beyond. Gold light ringed her in a corona, a halo of deep colors I’d never imagined. And why the hell wasn't the light burning me?
“We aren't made of kerosene, Patrick,” Miranda said as she raised her arms and turned slowly.
“Really?” I gasped, expecting flames any second.
“Settle down, you goof, we really don't burn up. It's a big secret, but no, we don't burn up in light. Crosses don't work, holy water is just water. You know we have reflections already, you were in the bathroom for a while,” she said.
“Why all the lies?” I asked as I joined her at the window.
“We call them the False Devil. The lies are there to keep us safe. We can prove we're human if we have reflections or if holy water doesn't burn our skin. Some of them, the humans came up with. A stake in the heart hurts like hell but doesn't turn us to dust,” she said with a smile.
“is my heart supposed to beat?” I asked.
“Yes. It beats enough to circulate blood. But, if you jam an object in there, it blocks the blood flow and hurts like hell. Avoid stakes, bunny,” she said.
Still in awe of my newborn experience, I stared down her pale body. The black velvet dress slipped to the floor as Miranda kissed me deeply. Every second was vibrant and vivid. I felt her flesh as if it was the first time I felt anything. I felt the indentations of her pores. I felt the cool softness of her flesh. I also sensed the power of the blood under it as it coursed its way through her, keeping her alive on stolen life. I salivated at the thought of drinking more blood.
Miranda broke the spell as she stepped away and stretched in the growing sun. she was art, the Venus de Milo standing naked in front of me. Our eyes met. She grinned and pulled me close again, stealing another kiss.
“Make love to me,” she whispered as she bit my ear.
I followed her down to the sheets and lay on top of her. Her black velvet gloves slid gently across my cheeks as I stripped off my wet clothes. She pulled me close and nibbled at my ear.
