Going Nowhere

Crimson

~~~~

Boom.

Right out of the gate, we have a vampire story.

Enjoy

~~~~

There’s blood everywhere.

It stains my pajamas.

It smells like metal and seeps into the carpet.

My mom’s neck is ripped out.

My dad’s chest looks like a bowl made of bones filled with thick punch.

I should be crying,

Screaming,

Anything…

But I can’t.

My throat is locked up tight, and I can’t find the key.

I sit between my parents, their cold hands gripped in my shaking ones.

There is man standing on the other side of the room.

He did this.

He killed them.

His mouth is smeared with blood.

My parents’ blood.

He drank it and made me watch.

His unnatural white glowing eyes scare me.

The man takes a step towards me, and I whimper and try to back away.

He grabs me by my neck.

His fist tightens, and I feel the air slipping away.

Just as black dots start to cloud my vision, he releases me.

I cough and choke, and then looked up into his terrifying black eyes.

“It isn’t your time yet, little one.”

My hand rubs my throat as I watch him walk out of my parents’ room.

Just as I think he’s gone, he speaks a final time.

“I will come back for you, Lucy.”

*

“I will come back for you, Lucy.”

Those words still haunted me to this day. I’d stopped sleeping for awhile to avoid the nightmares that replied that night in my parents’ room. Once the doctors had caught wind of my insomnia, however, they’d put a stop to it by adding to my daily pills.

You see, when my eleven-year-old self had been found wandering around the suburban cul-de-sac in which I lived, covered in my parents’ blood, I’d been almost immediately checked into the psychiatric ward of the local hospital for “trauma”. However, after the police had asked me who’d killed my parents, and I responded “a vampire did it,” I was sent to Bloomfield’s.

For the first few months, I’d refused to talk to anyone about what had happened. I’m sure they all thought I’d done it; a bratty kid who’d snapped at her parents and gone psycho.

I soon realized a couple months into my stay at Bloomfield’s, it would be better to give in and tell everyone what they wanted to hear. Not that I’d killed my parents, of course, but that a man in a ski mask had done it. Some of the doctors probably didn’t believe me, but it didn’t matter.