So, here’s the story about the girl that lives in the woods near my house. She is a sad, lonely girl; not one for socializing.

Jill lives in the woods near my house, on Bloodengore Hill. Her house looks abandoned but it’s very much lived in. Rather active and mysterious to anyone else, but I know what goes on there.

I know...

It all started when I was roaming through the trees and heard the scream that jolted me three feet in the air. I had never noticed the house, though I walked these woods more than the halls at school. The blood curdling scream came from it and all I could do was stand there and stare. Such agony, such pain, such fear.

It was music to my twisted eardrums.

I had to know what was going on. Now. So, calmly and casually I walked up the six steps to the screened-in porch and grinned ever so softly. Creaky steps never failed to excite me and I could hardly control my hand from shaking when I raised it to knock on the door.

What? Yes, I knocked! I may be a twisted person, but I wasn’t so far gone that I forgot my manners. My momma tried to raise me right.

So, there I was. Standing there, my heart in my throat, my eyes wide, and hands trembling slightly; waiting. The screaming had stopped becoming only weak whimperings and soft sobs.

To my great amazement the door creaked open and a girl my height and build was standing there.

“Hello, can I help you?” she asked, her voice was soft and very polite. She looked about my age and had a lot of the same features as me. It was so strange, like standing in front of an old mirror.

Pale skin, dark hair, bright eyes; so eerie were our likenesses.

She must have thought I was incoherent for she had stepped closer, a worried look on her face. “Are you alright, miss?” her voiced colored faintly with concern, but mostly irritation.

I finally found my voice and spoke softly,” I’m fine, thanks. Where is that screaming coming from?” My eyes never left her face as I said the last sentence.

A smile cracked across her face like so much broken glass on the floor. “Why does it concern you, miss?” she asked softly still, her eyes seeming to glow in the dusk.

By this time she had fully stepped out of the house and stood just inches from me. She crossed her arms over her breasts and seemed to give me a once over before I answered; appearing to consider me for something. “I-I want...” I began, stuttering ridiculously. Taking a deep breath, I continued: “I want to help.”

Her eyes widened and she laughed. “Really?” she asked, not looking too convinced.

But she had just made my thoughts clear; she was torturing someone in there.

“Yes,” I whispered my eyes fluttered for a moment, I felt faint.

Too excited, I thought, or was it my adrenaline racing because I was in danger. Though, I doubted she would hurt me. I was too much like her and she could sense that.

She gave me another once over and smiled, a truly creepy smile filled with the promise of darkness, pain, and death.

Suddenly, she stepped forward and embraced me. How long we stayed like that, I will never know. I held her back and it felt so right, like seeing an old friend after years of separation.

She smiled at me again and said: “Come inside, I have so many things to show you...” I stepped inside and laughed softly. My life as I knew it was over...

Alarica set down her note book and chewed thoughtfully on her pen cap. She had been working at this story for days and this was all she had to show for it. “Damn!” she said softly and her dark brows furrowed. She pushed her long, dark hair away from her face and continued to frown.

Not that she was turning this in to a publishing company or anything, she just liked to write. ’Likes to write’ is an understatement, of course. Once Alarica started writing she hardly stopped for anything, including eating, which was really bad bein’ a vampire and all.  She was actually listening to her stomach roar when it dawned on her she had to eat.

Leaving her apartment was the last thing she wanted to do, but forced herself to get up and get dressed anyway. She dressed slowly, picking each article of clothing carefully. She really needed to feed, but was not about to dress like a slut to get her meal ticket. Standing in front of her full length mirror she studied her reflection. Yes, her reflection. Alarica smirked at herself and the silly legends humans believed.

She had settled for a knee length black denim skirt and a black and green long sleeve striped shirt, with combat boots that came up to mid-calf. Alarica’s hair was a constant mess of black curls and she did little to tame it. Make up was kept to a minimum, just eyeliner and lip gloss. Smirking one last time at her reflection, the vamp left the building.

Walking in quick, crisp steps, she crossed the street and hopped up on to the sidewalk. Thinking too much as always, she passed up several meal opportunities and thought about her writing. This story was way darker than anything she had written before, but her inspiration was running out, the well having sprung a leak. Alarica needed a new spark, a new perspective, something! Something new and exciting to make the thinking process more enjoyable rather than painful.

A smile crossed her lips as she grabbed a drunken guy and dragged him to a darkened doorway. He giggled and it only sounded slightly nervous. Alarica planted a kiss on his grinning face and moaned for his benefit. Not having a clue that he was so close to death the man kissed her back, wrapping his arms snuggly around her slender frame.

From a distance they looked like young lovers, drunk, and sharing with the public their affection for one another. Upon closer inspection, you would see Alarica draining the poor fool of his blood, his memories, and his life.

Feeling only slightly satisfied, she let his body slump to the ground and walked off...

...

Wanting so much more.

I can’t believe I like this town. It seems like such a stink hole now. It has become pastoral and friendly. Not like it used to be. But that was what ... five generations ago? I don’t remember.

The dark ones began sifting in about 20 years ago. I remember quite clearly. High on their inherited power and with the same foolish sense of indestructibility that typifies the average 18 year old high school graduate, they seemed to be acting out parts from “The Lost Boys.” Girls, too. Sickening. Entertaining. Bound for a fall, every one of them.

I shouldn’t be so high on myself, though. I only have half a face. Not literally, see? Look. It’s about the shape of a whole face and all, it’s just that a big part of it has burned away. Yeah, I had those thoughts, too. Just like so many other vampire freaks with too much time and not enough imagination. I tried the suicide by sunrise shtick. Didn’t work out so well. I have the scars to prove it.

So, I keep to the shadows and eat wayward fools. Actually, most vampires do. The real ones. We’re a bunch of sex in the dark corner of the park people. Kinky when thirsty. I guess pretty much like most people. If it isn’t sex, then it’s money or drugs.

Sure. I was watching this dead girl suck dry a live drunk guy like a 10 year old with a pixie stick.  They looked happy together, so I figured dead girl was on a smooth roll. Dead girl seemed ok with it up to the point where she finished. Then she seemed hungry for something else.

Don’t look at me. I got half a face and I’m deader than you.

Then she made that classic mistake. She left the body there and drained of blood. “For christ fucking sake, noob,” I breathed. Apparently I have to clean up after the ignorant plebes. Never shit in your own fox hole. Or at least don’t shit where you eat. Cops might just be mortal blood bags, but a freaked out city is a bad place for business unless you are some fucking Nosferatu wannabe with a sunrise death wish. Humans are never as stupid as arrogance thinks they are.

So I’ll have to clean up the damn mess. This time. Next time I cut the bitch’s throat.

Everyone acts like they need a maid. I ain’t no maid, but I ain’t stupid, either.

So I walk up to the scene and look around. She’s still there, lost in some twitchy orgasm or something, thinking about more. It’s always more, more, more with noobs.

“Hey,” I said from the shadows. Really, I have no idea why. I prefer being invisible. “At least hide the meat, for chrissakes.”

Alarica stopped walkin' and grinnin' when the shadows spoke to her. Shadows talking? She was slightly blood high, but not that far gone.  "Well, hey to you too, wayward shadow spirit," she answered and rolled her shoulders back, loosing up. She would never admit it, but the bitch had scared her.  What was tweakin' her even more was the horrific scars on her face. She hid the fact that she was utterly interested in this creature and concentrated on what she had said after scaring the shit out of her.

"I don't like being fussed at, lady," she said and crossed her arms over chest taking a step closer. Alarica looked down at the corpse and smirked. Not really paying attention, she slung the meat bag over her shoulder and then threw him down the nearest alleyway. She turned and looked back at the other woman, grabbed the hem of her skirt with both hands and curtsied. "To your liking, ma'am?" she asked, putting on a perfect French accent.

When did I grow balls? She wondered but her face showed nothing. Looking closely at the other woman, she felt a tremor make its way up her spine. Something was different about this one, she seemed older. No, not seemed, she was older. Way older than Alarica. Oh shit, let’s not irk the elders... She thought and uncrossed her arms, not wanting to seem hostile.

“Eh, let’s start over, yeah? I’m Alarica and not as noob-ish as you think. I’m just a vampire with nothing to lose, friend,” she sad, smiling sadly. Though that wasn’t absolutely true, she didn’t feel like explaining to someone she just met.

She was a twenty-two year old vampire that loved to write. Writing was her purpose, though nobody would ever know of her work. She wrote for herself and that was enough or so she thought.

“Hmm,” I grunted. Dead girl went right ahead and hid the meat. I suppose I was surprised by that, but my emotions had been so long in the crapper that I couldn’t feel pride or triumph over it. I was just ... surprised.

“Yeah, ok,” I said. She earned a start over, that bitch. Well, maybe not so much a bitch after all. Maybe she was just another dead thing without a direction. Or maybe a direction not made for dead things. I wasn’t sure. But I had a suspicion.

I moved a little further from the shadows until the street lamp's corona cast my scars into darkness. Not that I was all that self conscious about them. Or maybe I was. Actually, I was and I wasn’t and that’s about all the explanation you are going to get.

“Loka,” I said. I moved a little closer. “Nobody has anything to lose, sister. Most people just haven’t figured that out yet.” But of course I wasn’t talking about me. I had a lot to lose. Like the other half of my face. I’m rather attached to what little of my Oriental heritage I have left. I’d rather not lose any more of it.

“Sure you’re a noob. If you weren’t you’ld’ave cleaned up after yourself without me to remind you.” I angled my head to the side allowing my thin black hair to drape over my scars. I liked how my hair felt over that burnt skin. It was almost sexual. Quickly, I leaned my head the other way, but stared at her.

“I might be a friend, that’s hard to say. Jury’s out on you for the time being.”

I stepped closer ... very close. Close enough to run a finger through her pretty undamaged hair. Close enough to smell sex and blood. That would have fired off my fireworks in the past, but now it just seemed poignant; which meant that I was akin to liking her. That is, if she didn’t prove to be the fuck up that most of the other lost boys and girls had proven to be.

“So, Alarica,” I said with just the right amount of tension. I raised a finger to her hair, touched it lightly and then brought my finger tip to my nose. I sniffed sensually before grunting. “Hmm.”

“You don’t seem so lost.”

"Loka, nice to meet you," Alarica said, a smile spread slowly across her full lips. She listened closely as she spoke, the smile becoming more pronounced. "Speaking from experience, I'm guessing?" she asked, the smile slightly fading. She was studying her scars, not missing the pleasurable look that cross her face as her hair fell across them. Hey, to each their own.

Alarica had her own strange quirks, so who was she to judge?

The vampire didn't flinch away at the other woman's touch, she leaned into it. She loved for people to play with her hair, ever since she was a kid. Well she wasn't a kid anymore, not even alive. Just a dead thing with no direction. What does one do with eternity? Hmmm.. Eat people and write macabre short stories?

Alarica laughed softly at her own thoughts. She was a sexual creature by nature, but not a total slut. very seldom did she go out looking for a bed mate. Maybe that's what was bugging her and making her have writer's block.. She laughed harder at the thought and looked Loka in the eye. "I'm slightly insane," she said, as if it wasn't already obvious.

"Lost, not lost, meh.." Alarica shrugged. "I've come to the conclusion that I'm just bored with myself, honestly if it wasn't for my ability to write I wouldn't be here.." She trailed off and averted her eyes. How selfish that sounded when she said that out loud. She shivered and rubbed the the back of her arms. She looked to Loka again, still very interested in her, possibly in more than one way.

“Yeah,” I said like a sigh. “Experience.”

I pulled away and looked her over up and down as though checking a side of beef. It wasn’t personal, just sizing up the situation. “We’re all slightly insane. Comes with the contract.” Walking around her made it easier to check out all the topography, but that wasn’t what I was looking for. I was looking for scars and deformities.

“You are in too good repair to be bored. And anyway,” I said coming back around in front of her. “Boredom leads to The Stupid, and it’s a form of self-loathing. And that,” I said, “leads to idiocy.”

I knew that the way she’d rubbed the back of her arms and the aversion of her eyes indicated either embarrassment or arousal. Probably both. The only two candidates for such reactions was the mention of her writing and the glint in her eye when she had looked at me. I stood directly before her and ran the nail of my index finger lightly across the deepest furrow of the scar on my cheek. It had become a habit because - as Alarica had said of herself – I’m slightly insane. And she seemed much less bored. Maybe I was flattered.

“You know, I’ll guess, that words never get anything right. They are like shadows on the water. So to some degree, you are here as you put it because of illusive illusions that can’t be trusted.”

Yeah, well, I said that. Sometimes words don’t come out right and sometimes they do. I was curious about her writing. I suppose I was hoping she was good enough at it to create imaginary worlds powerful enough to take the sting out of this one; if only for a few minutes under an incandescent.

“Still,” I said reaching out to her right hand with my left. It was the hand that had all its fingers. I took hold of hers like little girls do when they hold each other’s hands in a school yard. I took a step forward, tugging her lightly along with me. “I’d like to read some. I assume you keep your stories at the place where you live?” Was that a childlike smile on my face? Impossible to tell unless you look close enough.

Not used to being scrutinized, Alarica stood up straighter and frowned, wondering what Loka saw. Well, let's rephrase that. She wasn't used to being scrutinized by another vampire, especially by one as old as Loka. Hmm. That wasn't exactly right, Alastair was ancient compared to Loka. But anyway.

"Clothes hide scars well, love..." I said softly, looking to her face. Alarica had her fair share of scares, she just hid them away.

Confusion crossed her face at Loka's complex sentences. More or less had a brain fart and tried not to show it on her face. Writing was pretty much Alarica's the only reason for still living.

Alarica's hand curled tight around the other woman's hand and walked along with her. "Yes, they're back at my apartment. it
s not far from here." She said and smiled. Strangely enough she liked going home. It was her woman-cave. A soft giggle escaped her lips. "Oh Loka, have patience with me! I'm as nutty as squirrel shit," the vampire said and laughed at herself again. She twanged kind of hard on the last sentence and laughed until she could hardly breath.

Suddenly, Alarica was struck hard by something. She was enjoying herself.

"Huh.." she grunted softly. They were now walking along the street she lived on and Alarica grinned, tilting her head towards the complex where she lives in. "Here it is."

She released her grip on Loka's hand and pulled a key out of her pocket and shoving it into the lock. The lock turned but the door was stuck. An annoyed frown appeared on her face and she lightly kicked the door, sending it flying open almost hitting someone on the other side. Alarica murmured an apology and grabbed Loka's hand again and pulled her inside. 

Good thing she lived on the bottom floor, she didn't feel like climbing stairs. She pulled out another key and unlocked the door to number seven. Stepping back she allowed Loka inside first. Manners, manners, manners.

"It's plain, but it's home," she said quietly, but smiled. She loved this place. Alarica closed the door and leaned back against it.

"Make yourself comfortable."

Not the ones that count, I had thought when she mentioned the hiding quality of her clothes. Skin and bones hide scars too, and we all know that. It’s the scars we wear on the outside that mess everything to hell and back. I thought it, but I didn’t say it. No point. And anyway, she was being downright courteous. That was just the sort of thing to make this deformed old hermit feel halfway to precious.

She lived in apartment number seven; a lucky number in the West and in China. But to the Chinese, it could be lucky or it could signify death. Somehow, as I stared for a moment at the number on the door, I thought it was fitting for this dead girl. I admonished myself – I must remember to call her by her name. I nodded in approval before clamping my eyes shut and gritting my teeth. She had one hell of a way to open doors, I thought, kicking it like that and making all that noise.

With a smile, I shrugged and followed her inside. The room was as sweetly simple and as uncomplicated as were Alarica’s quiet words. I liked it. I could breathe, so to speak.

Then I heard her lean back against the door just as she asked me to make myself comfortable. I whirled around and glared at her for a moment. One could just imagine what such an action followed by such words could mean. Entrapment. I quickly relaxed when I saw the expression on her face.

“Thanks, Alarica, I will,” I said. And I did. I made a bee line to a stuffed chair, plopped myself into it and then crossed my legs under me – all 5 feet and 4 inches of me. Laying my arms comfortably on the arms of the chair felt like home to me. Not my home, but the one I used to have before ... well, never mind.

I closed my eyes and leaned back until my hair draped a little over the back of the chair. Darkness. I could hear her move. I don’t bother breathing when I’m not talking. I don’t spend much time with humans, so there’s not a lot of reason to fake it. My heart beat only once since I’d arrived at her door, so I didn’t need much more of it for a while, either. So, I just lay back as silent and as motionless as the dead thing that I was – taking in the atmosphere of Alarica’s uncomplicated apartment atmosphere.

I suppose it would have been only courteous and kind to drum up a bit of simple conversation, but honestly – the atmosphere she created in her apartment had already taken half the sting out of my night. I was hoping she didn’t mind the silent treatment for a little while.

Alarica stiffened at her glare and almost threw one back. What the Hell, over? She thought and slowly leaned away from the door, tempted to open it and tell her to get the Hell out. But just that quickly Loka's mood changed and she seated herself.

The vampire shrugged, not wanting to ask questions, and bent to untie her boots. "Ahhh.." she sighed with relief when her feet were free and walked into the living room. Since the only chair was occupied, she sat on the floor in front of her guest.

No knowing what to say herself, she quickly jumped up and ran into her room. She smirked, thinking she probably freaked Loka out, but she continued looking for the story she had been working on. She smiled broadly as she found it and ran back to the living room just as fast as she had left it.

"My reason for living," Alarica said. She handed her several sheets of parchment paper and sat on the floor, green eyes shining like stars in the cold sky. Before Loka would get a chance to raise the papers to her face, Alarica rattled on about not knowing what to next and whined about the fact she couldn't decide on names for her crazy characters.

Collecting herself slightly, she realized Loka must really thing she's crazy now. Well, when you're passionate about something...

But she honestly didn't think the phrase, 'People do crazy things when they're in love' applied to writing obsessions.

But it did apply to the way Alarica became a vampire and she quickly shook the thought from her mind. She closed her mouth and allowed Loka a moment of peace to read her work.

How sweet it was to simply sit in a stuffed chair, eyes closed and mind on nothing in particular at all. It had been so long I’d forgotten the feeling. It’s a funny thing the way long lost feelings work. I knew I was being discourteous to my crazy hostess, but I could not help it. The chair, my hair, the quiet and the smooth giving-in to my slight weight into the chair; it was freaking marvelous.

All good things come to an end, sadly – especially stolen things. I heard her drop leaves of paper onto my lap and the rustling of her clothes as she sat on the floor. I had performed an unspeakable act of low society – I had become the difficult guest. I rose from my reverie and took the pages into my hands.

“Most embarrassed pardons,” I said as I gripped the pages and left the chair. “Please,” I said, “for you to be comfortable,” and motioned her to the chair.

How strange. How poignant and sad that I should revert to the words of a slave girl. Some nightmares never leave us. Some consume us until we have no lives of our own. Some, memories of ‘The Embrace’ as it was so unkindly called, leave us with nothing but endless and empty longing – leave us madly worried about who was able to kill us and who would lend us favors. I sighed. This one wanted only to be understood, and to share her personal salvation.

“Allow me a moment to read,” I said suddenly lost in the first paragraph. Leaning back on the door to her apartment, just as she had when we had entered, I was mesmerized. No mere human could write such words; none but one who had tasted the river of death and longed so dearly for life. Hers were words that spoke to my heart and bypassed my brain. I read quickly. Each thought seemingly transported into the dark hole inside me where once I had a soul.

At some length I finally finished - every page. I turned them over in the hope that I had missed some. I wanted more. I wanted to feel her words. They were like music – as long as they played on my mind I did not feel so naked and alone, so ... so ... deformed. Her words, in their frightening beauty, made me feel real again. But now they were gone.

I slid my body down the door until I fell hard on the floor. I dropped the pages at my feet, raised my palms to my eyes – and wept. In my weeping, I had forgotten where I was.

Alarica cocked her head to the side and looked slightly lost. Embarrassed pardons?? Not knowing what to do she stayed there on the floor. "I'm fine right here, honey.." she said softly, elegant eyebrows arching up a little. Shutting up, Alarica let her read, watching the emotions play over her face.

Watching her frantically flip the pages looking for more brought a smile to the dead girl's lips.

Said smile vanished in an instant as Loka covered her face and started to cry. Standing quickly, Alarica closed the space between them in an instant. "Please, honey... It's okay..." she whispered, petting her hair from her face. Not giving it much thought, she wrapped her tall frame around her and held her close. She kept whispering soothing words to her, though she had no clue what was going through Loka's head.

Alarica closed her eyes and just held on to her, resting her lips to Loka's forehead, wishing she knew what she could do to help.

She felt so helpless, her own problems seeming so small and self centered. This is what I'm missing? Could it be? Caring for someone else? Watch out Alarica's lesbian side is showing. Trying not to laugh, mostly for Loka's sake, she stayed quite for a minute waiting the other woman to collect.

I was raised by my uncle, and it was he who told me that weakness was a sign of stupidity and that crying was the vain refuge of idiots. He was also the man who sold me into slavery. It was common practice in those dark ages not so long ago. I was not fortunate enough to become an indentured concubine; fair of face and features I most certainly was not. So I cleaned and cooked and served and stood for long periods of time being invisibly available at my master’s whim. I remained his slave until the night I was 'embraced'.

Vampires do not cry like humans do. We cry blood. Unlike humans, even a drop of blood can make the difference between survival and eternal oblivion. The hunger that seems to eat us alive when we are thirsty is the only thing that keeps some of us from willingly bleeding to second death. And yet there I was being an idiot, according to my uncle, and wasting precious blood in the bargain. The realization hit me like a hammer. I licked the blood of my tears from the palms of my hands and stood. The pages of Alarica’s manuscript remained at my feet. I’d forgotten that they were still there.

“Sorry,” I said weakly, sweeping my emotions away with a flip of my wrist. “Foolish of me.” I started to turn and only then noticed the manuscript was at my feet. Quickly, I bent down and retrieved the pages, and then returned them to her where she sat on the floor.

“It’s really quite good,” I said in understatement. “Got the best of me.” I turned and went to the door, taking hold of the handle tentatively. “I ... really should go now and leave you to your peace.”

I felt embarrassed and ugly. The past was long gone and yet its memory seemed unwilling to be uprooted. So, I felt the same embarrassment I had felt when I had shown weakness to my uncle. “I’ve intruded quite enough,” I said, opening the door.

Everything was moving too fast, but Alarica realized soon enough that her comforting was in vain. "Why even try...?" she whispered very softly. She wanted to thank Loka for practically shitting on her kind ways, but held her tongue. Whatever she had just gone through was major and she didn't want to make it worse.

She took the papers from Loka, such a dead look in her eyes. A sense of loneliness was enveloping her and she wanted Loka to leave so she wouldn't have to witness her drowning. What a sad creature I am... She thought, shaking her head, black curls falling on to her face, hiding her bloodied eyes. She knew what it felt like to almost cry yourself to death. Oh well, she was planning on feeding again, anyway.

She stood slowly getting out of the way, not wanting to make her feel trapped or obligated to stay. "Go ahead and leave, everyone does," she said, her voice so bitter she winced at her own words.

Alarica stood there looking lost and forlorn. She really didn't want Loka to go, she was so intersting, but anger got the better of her and she turned her back on the other woman; angrily clutching her fists at her sides. The vampire was trembling, blood tears rolling down her pale face. Her mouth was set in a rigid line, her teeth grinding together.

Then she couldn't contain it, the anger. The sadness. She fell to the floor in front of her only chair, having walked back to the living area. The papers fluttered to the ground, speckled with her blood tears.

What a sad and severely fucked up creature I am...

I heard her speak. I was holding the door handle. I was leaving. Then she said that I should go because everyone does. God fucking damn her.  I was trying to do the right thing for once in my pointless life. I even sighed, I remember that. My shoes – ragged and torn – seemed suddenly important; I could not take my eyes off of them.

She had a warm home - a place of her own. I was street scum. I had nothing but 19th century clothes, which she did not recognize, and scarred skin. I was old – old enough to be her ... forget it. I was old and foolish and empty and angry and sad and embarrassed. I turned by head backward so I could see her face. She looked pathetic as though completely blind to my pain. What’s new? People only see themselves. I only see myself.

Why I stopped I will probably never know, but I did. Twirling back around like a Dervish, I crouched over and stared at her.

“What the fuck is wrong with you,” I screamed. “You have fucking everything! A place to live, the gift of words, smooth cheeks and no one to answer to. Look at me!” I screamed it, pointing to my scars. “I look like shit on a stick! No one comes to my hole in the ground to read my diary. No one gives one damn thing about me. I cared about you. I cared! And all you have to say is ‘Go ahead and leave’?”

I was stunned, aghast and out of my mind with fury. I wanted to slap her, but the wind suddenly exhaled from my sails. I knew I was crazy - the real kind of crazy. She just thought she was. We were both made this way. I closed the door.

“I need some place safe to stay,” I said, suddenly and contritely. “I don't want to leave.”