I expect that it probably hurts a lot more than I think to die. To have every bodily function shut down while consciousness is slowly fading, unable to grasp desperately at life, the sun, the air which we all take for granted even as it courses through our lungs, must be painful and utterly horrifying. How odd to see a hand lying motionless in a pool of dark crimson liquid, and realize even through blurring vision that it is your own hand, and the steadily growing puddle is your life blood leaving your body. And to taste that same liquid dribbling from your lips and clogging your windpipe—to wonder if it’s killing you by leaving or being there—must be so frightening, confusing, and sickening that your mind screams for it to end, one way or another…
And then for it to draw out longer as someone else’s blood is dripped into your throat, causing convulsions as life and death contradict one another…
Must be the feeling of Hell itself.
At least, that’s what I can infer based on his descriptions. Ironically, he smiled when he expressed these explicit images. I wonder sometimes if he was trying to give me the nightmares my mind produces when I actually go to sleep. Which I don’t do often because I can’t during the day, and at night I’m talking to him or at home too afraid of said nightmares to close my eyes. Damn that vicious circle. And damn the man who probably drew me into it intentionally.
In case the Devil needs a name for the damnation of all things, it’s Trystain. Trystain D’Eaulle. I call him Tryss.
It’s surprisingly easy to keep anyone else from knowing about a huge aspect of your existence—in my case, the aspect involving the man who no one else should ever have to deal with. It’s especially easy to hide something like that when your “life” depends on it; of course, I’m not referring to life itself, but to the “life” that so many teenagers try to attain for social status. I do not believe in any perfect one of these, seeing as some may lead to gangs, drugs, debauchery, etcetera, but I’m fairly satisfied with mine.
At home, I’m rather distant with my family, as I think is natural for most teens. At school and during the day, I laugh and joke with my friends. At night I go to bed as far as anyone knows, and then slip out the window to walk around. This walking around normally ends up in the park or some other deserted area when Trystain manages to sneak up behind me and herd me in whatever direction he feels like.
Unfortunately, when he sneaks up on me he tends to deprive me of a clear view of his eyes. Normally they’re a very pretty azure color, but sometimes I can make out a subtle hint of a reddish hue staining them. Other times, they are dark red. It’s at times like those that I know he’s not in a good mood.
Yes, yes, I’ll stop hinting and be frank; he’s a vampire. A bloodsucker, a leech, a legendary bringer of the plague (though he denies that last one).
Anyway, he’s something of a jerk—to hell with it, he’s a rotten bastard who would probably make the world a better place by simply ceasing to exist. But he’s told me that there are plenty of people like that, and he’s right.
“Hey, Tryss,” I asked him once in the park, “have you ever read any of those vampire fiction novels that are getting popular nowadays?”
“A few. Those are meant to target girls, you know, but I have taken a look at a few of them.”
“And?” I leaned forwards in the too-small swing to peer around the chain to the other swing, where he slouched nonchalantly.
He raised a fine black brow, one corner of his mouth turning upward in amusement.
“And what?”
“What did you think of them?”
“They were accurate enough, I suppose. But a little far-fetched as for the romance.”
