Lord Andreyev's Journal

Journal Entry of Rominskov Andreyev, 21 May, 1625, Russia

May god have mercy on me! I sit here with stained clothes and a fast-beating heart, writing on parchment I had never touched before. I haven't a clue what I have done!

I was playing my violin and watching the fields below my window when I spotted a serf in particular that stood out to me. The way he sowed the ground, the methodical pounding of metal to dirt, hypnotized me and gathered my full attention to him. I dragged a seat over from the chess table and watched him from my window for a while.

He worked hard, caring so roughly yet gently for the earth as he turned it, and as he wiped the sweat from his forehead I decided I wanted him to join me for dinner.

At the time, this seemed normal. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, yet never had I asked a serf to dine with me.

The sun was hot and the stench of the fields burned my nostrils the moment I stepped outside. I feared for my light red slippers getting dirty, but when I saw his shimmering blue eyes with little reflections of the sun bouncing off of them staring at me, the thought of ruining them faded quickly.

Still, nothing seemed besides normal!

I crossed the field and stood close to him, very close, smelling the dirt on his clothes and the sweat on his skin. Not even this could stop my desire for him!

I gazed in his scared eyes seductively, fluttering my eyelashes like a young lady looking across the ballroom for a suitor. "Join me for dinner." I purred.

He looked at me from one eye to the other, clearly stunned and at a loss for words. I smiled at his confusion. "It'll be alright," I told him. "Meet me when the stars come out."

The tenseness in his face slowly started to ease away and he nodded.

I took his hands and nodded a thank you back to him.

That night I felt such an attraction to him and a longing that I couldn't wait for him to join me. I detailed to the chefs that I wanted the best meal they could make for me and my guest.

"He must be having a lady over." I heard them whisper to one another.

Long was I a widower, my wife dying a year after our marriage. Everyone pitied the Lord who was always alone. But I was not lonely tonight, then, he was my lady just for the moment.

When he arrived I was sat in my chair at the head of the table and he made his way to a seat across from me. He was so far away, it saddened me. I waited so long for him to be close, and I'd have to wait longer.

But I still had a good view of him. He had cleaned himself up, wiped the dirt and sweat away and shaved his face, and he pulled his chestnut curls into a bow at the base of his neck. He tried so hard to look nice for me, it only excited me more. His clothes were that of a peasant, but they were the nicest ones he had. And the only ones clean.

When he grew flustered and red about his clothes, apologizing that he looked poor, I felt myself get red, as well. I told him it was alright, it was always alright with me.

I watched him tear the meal into pieces and fill his mouth again and again, watching his throat as it moved and carried the wine down into his stomach. He ate quickly, he was starved.

When he caught me staring, he apologized again, this time for having no table manners. I told him it was always alright with me.

He smiled.

I smiled back.

I watched his tongue wrap around the silverware, making me jealous. He reached for seconds and thirds and more and more and I was filled with so much ecstasy as I got to watch him eat.

I believe we sat there for two hours, he eating all of the food I had the chefs make. When there was no more, I stood slowly, slowly I did everything as to savor the moment, and walked over to him with my plate.

I stuck a fork through the thick dinner, though what it was I do not remember and what it was I had no appetite for. Again, that was strange for me; I always had quite the appetite for everything the chefs prepared. But my mind wasn't concerned with that then.

I lifted the food to his mouth. He gave me a strange look, his wet mouth slightly agape and his eyebrows furrowed.

"Do you want it?" I begged him to take it from me with my eyes, tucking my clean, black curls behind my ear and tracing the side of my face with the same hand.

He pursed his lips, in thought for a moment. When he opened his mouth to speak, his bright red lips mesmerized me and I leaned in to kiss him. Again, nothing like me! And again, I thought nothing was out of the ordinary!

He pulled away and I whimpered. "Do you want it?"

He thought again, then reluctantly nodded and I quickly pulled his head towards me, tangling my fingers in the thick dirt in his hair. Our lips met and chills shook through my body.

He moved his lips with mine, like he really wanted me. I moved my tongue into his parted lips and felt him jolt away before coming back to me, me who wrapped my free arm around his shoulder, an apology for surprising him.

I gasped when I felt his hands slowly creep up my back, his dirty fingernails digging into my satin frock coat. I was jittery with so much excitement.

I tortured myself and withdrew my tongue from his foul mouth.

And I bit down. I bit into the soft, red, and wet flesh of his lips and tore a chunk of it with me.

I heard him screaming as I moved to sit on his lap and hold him in his chair, but the screams seemed so far away. My mind was on nothing but the metal taste of his blood and the soft texture of skin in my mouth. I looked into his azure eyes, burnt red from the tears falling down his cheeks, and then down at his lip.

It was gone. Only his top lip remained, all that was below was yellow-stained teeth and blood.

He thrashed violently but I held his hands back and leaned in again, lapping up the blood around and inside of his mouth like a dog.

I began to unbutton his waistcoat, holding his hands back with my legs wrapped steadfast around the chair, and then the tunic underneath, leaning my cheek against the warmth of his chest and the quick rise and fall of his breath. Under it, I could here his heart pounding methodically just like himself in the fields.

I wanted it. His heart.

I situated myself down his body further and began to tear away the skin and muscle around his ribs, his screams and pleads growing louder.

I backed away and swallowed the flesh, looking around me for something to break through his bone with.

The wound was so large, I was amazed he was still alive.

I spotted a small statue of my late wife across the room atop the fireplace, and so I got up from him and went to pick it up. I brought it back to him, he who was looking down at his wound now, and sat on his lap again.

I had to do it delicately, I told myself. I had to be gentle if I wanted to feel it beating in my hands as I took a bite.

And so I slammed the statue into his rib cage once and tore away the shattered bone. The heart underneath still beat, but he was no longer awake. I gently took it out, careful not to rip the veins attached.

I let the blood trickle down my arms and onto my clothes, the warmth lighting me up more than a fire or the sun ever did.

I leaned in and kissed it gently. My heart began to beat as the one in my hands did, and I felt as though we were one.

I took a bite.

It was something indescribable, something I want to know and keep always to myself. It was so soft, yet tough, like him.

I was satisfied. I dropped his heart and leaned against him, my arms around his peasant vest, letting him die against me, letting us die as one.