He touches the sharp tip against his finger, testing the needle. Perfect sharpness, perfect width. He reaches down at the sniveling, gagged girl and slides up her dress. So pretty. So young. He presses the needle against her thigh and slides it in. He pulls on the plunger, letting her sweet blood fill the barrel. She whimpers through the gag. He smiles at that.

He’s nearly emptied her before he’s done. He looks happily into his bag. He’s collected plenty of vials of the virgin’s blood. The vampire junkies that buy this stuff from him will pay a king’s ransom for only a taste. Meanwhile, he knows he’ll eat well as long as he can keep her well-fed.

And if he can’t, or if she grows too troublesome… well there’s more than enough elementary schools in the country.


“It hurts,” Beverly said, looking up through the grated metal panels over her eyes. Her vision was blurry from the drugs. Mommy knew best though, so she struggled as little as she could against the leather straps cutting into her wrists and ankles.

“Of course it does, sweetie. But this is how you’ll win.” Mommy held up the struggling rooster. It fought, its claws tearing bits from Beverly’s naked belly. Then Mommy slit its throat. She shook the flapping cock over Beverly’s naked body, letting the blood scatter over her and mix into the cuts on her arms and legs.

Beverly reacted with muted sobs and soft whines. “I don’t feel so good. I think I’m gonna throw up.”

“Well, if you’re gonna throw up, make sure to swallow. The surgeon will be here any moment, and you can’t be rude.”

“I don’t wanna do this anymore.” She struggled harder, barely able to move now. Her limbs were weakening as her life’s blood poured more and more quickly from her arms and legs over the grooves in the table she was lying on and into the gold cup.

After a few more moments, she didn’t feel anything anymore. Beverly’s eyes rolled back and she let out a deep, long sigh.

Mommy picked up the cup, brimming with her daughter’s blood, and held it up. A man with pale, waxy skin that was stretched and warped and stitched over his face like wrappings stepped out of the shadows. He wore a blood-drenched doctor’s coat. His fingers were long and his nails were sharp as scalpels. He blinked, his eyes squinting behind flaps of tightly stretched flesh. He grinned a lip-less grin, showing off teeth as white as porcelain that each looked like they had come from different mouths.

The surgeon, took the cup and said, in a soft, whispery voice, “She’s going to be beautiful when I’m done with her.” And he drank from the cup gratefully.


I clamp down my teeth. Sweet, succulent rage. Lust for revenge. I lust too…for the lust of it. He rubs the side of his head and thinks about her. The woman he wants to strangle to death with his bare hands, whose bones he wants to feel crack under his clenched fingers. He thinks about the lies she told and it makes his insides hot and his outsides sweaty. I coil my tail around his neck to keep from slipping off.

I suckle on him as he thinks. I want him to feel it all. But I try to be delicate, to suck softly on his neck as he watches through the closet blinds. He sees them now, his wife and his wife’s lover, writhing and twisting and throbbing at each other. Every moan they exclaim makes my meal shudder with fury. I lick at his ear. I want his rage unbridled, loosed, freed.

Pleasingly, his fingers slither into his pocket and wrap around the handle of a gun. I slurp happily as I hold on tight by the teeth to the back of his head. So sweet. So very sweet.


I didn’t finish tonight.

I had the dream again last night. I woke up on my bed, which someone had apparently placed while I was sleeping in a field of lavender. The flowers’ perfume mingled with the smell of a rotting carcass in the distance. With a mixture of disgust and curiosity I was compelled to search for the  offending stench. I finally found it–a torn, mangled, and gutted doe being fed upon by millions of grubs and maggots, stomachs bulging under their pus-colored flesh.

I woke up with the overwhelming need to throw up, but despite my strained heaving at the toilet’s edge, I couldn’t summon forth anything more but phlegm and spit.

I had no idea what it meant, but I know that I was starting to have trouble with the smell of lavender, which was especially bad considering that I’d been working at Miss Gertrude’s flower shop for some four months. Miss Gertrude–an old woman who insisted on being called “miss” despite her age and the fact that she was still married, albeit to a man who had been catatonic for some seven years–loved the scent of lavender and enjoyed sprinkling all of her bouquets with it, and some gypsophila to break up the intensity of the colors.

During the mid-winter months, Miss Gertrude spent more and more time away, tending to a tulip garden that flourished only when the soil was cold. I was left to care for the store. To give my nose some respite, I rearranged the bouquets, ordered more gypsophila than lavender, and sprinkled the shop with carnations–a delicate smell that my nose found far more pleasing than prickly lavender.

But the smell of rot would not go away. In fact, like a mold it spread into my waking hours, and even in my dreams began to blend with carnation until even that silky scent began to test my gut’s ability to hold its meals.


“You just won’t learn, will you?” she said, touching a lit cigarette to her bruised and cut lips and breathing in deep. “You just won’t,” she repeated, exhaling and letting the smoke seep lazily out of her nose and mouth.

He laid on the floor, quiet. Listening. His eyes were wide. His arms were tied behind him. He didn’t know how he’d gotten this way. Maybe she’d put something in the beer he’d demanded earlier that night. Or maybe he’d had a few too many. He’d had a stressful day.

“You did this yourself,” she added.

He did had vague memories of getting angry with her. She always got on his case when he got home. He had so much on his mind that he’d forget to do this or that. He just wanted to come home and rest. She seemed to want him to come home to yell at him. To call him worthless and a waste of space.

So he wasn’t coming home as often. And then she yelled at him for being late. He just wanted her to shut up sometimes.

She pressed her foot against his chest, pinning him to the ground. Then she put the cigarette in her mouth, pressing her lips closed. She breathed out a cloud of smoke and glared at him through it with her puffed and bruised eyes. Then she aimed the barrel of the shotgun to his chest.