The Night Is Here

Malignant

1995: 16th December, 1:45 am. 

It was raining outside. He was shivering with a jolt every 5 seconds crouched on my bed like a 6 year old. He was scared, I could tell from the look on his face. Otherwise who sweats while feeling cold? He was. I was staring at him without blinking continously from the last 5 hours. Oh I don’t need to blink I forgot to tell you. I have ice in place of eyes. Funny no? I know. But this man sitting on my bed scared to death was the one who once wrote poetry on my beauty and brutality with these lines! I remember one that was my favourite. I hated it.  

She is cruel but beautiful

She is open but sealed 

She has ice in place of eyes

And fire in her bones

Her voice is smoother than honey

But molten lava runs through her veins

She is pure love and wonder

But she reeks of a brutal hunter

She is magical, oh yes magical

But also malignant.

Now you tell me why shouldn’t I cut of his hand? He used it write me a horrible poem that doesn’t even rhyme! He thinks I would appreciate his tryst to win me over with such sultry poetry or prose or gross or whatever the crap they call it. I hate art and I hate artists more. But this guy, he kind of intrigued me the first time I saw him. And continued to do so for the next few months until he ran out of ecstasy required to keep me hooked and save his soul. I first met him at the nightclub where girls stripped and danced clinging to a pole and called the pseudo gentlemen to move their lousy legs to horrible tunes. I went there for free drinks and food. They always managed to have something on the house for women. I was 21 and broke. And I couldn’t survive on just human blood. Because of two things. First:I am not a vampire, I just like the taste of blood. Second:Human blood is contaminated with the sins of their human and alcohol and nicotine and proteins I do not require. 

“Please let me go! Please!” I snap out of my daze with his feeble voice asking for mercy. I know he doesn’t have much time left. It’s the same tone the goat uses to beg to the butcher before he is cut down to pieces and served on our plates. Oh meat! I prefer blood more. But only human. They have the tastiest. Trust me. I have every variety of human blood stored in my fridge. Infant, child, teen, young men and women, middle aged and old. And you won’t believe me they all taste different. The tastiest being the early 20s. I am sure I have tasted adrenaline in their blood. The man about to die on my bed due to anaemia is 24 and I never thought he’ll have this fate but guess what? He refused to spend his life with me sipping on blood for red wine and he even threatened me to expose my heinous crimes to the world. That’s what he called my only craving for blood. I laughed at his outrageous attempt to do so. 27 kills in three years and he dares to warn me. Poor soul could’ve lived happily ever after with me drenched in the exotic aroma of human blood but alas! He chose to sacrifice his own too. Though unwillingly but still a sacrifice is a sacrifice. That’s what our religions teach us no? Do we ever ask the goat before we sacrifice it to the almighty? Then why should I ask humans? Sacrifices should be equal. 

I don’t see him move anymore. Must’ve rested in peace by now. It was really painfull for him with both his hands chopped off and a slit in his soft throat. I go over to his body ruining my white bedsheet. Ah art! The way his blood has splattered across my blank satin bedsheet looks like someone has carved sorrow on it. Beautiful sorrow. Even his blood tasted a bit of Charles Dicken’s classics and Leonardo Da Vinci’s Monalisa blended together! Too much art for my stomach to digest. I’ll pee colours and ink tomorrow I’m sure. I struggle to carry his cold body to my basement. That’s where they all rot and pray for heaven. Souls of the innocent come together to curse mine and I grow stronger every time I sip on their blood. I think and smile to myself while I dump his lifeless body in the basement. 

2015: 13th June, 6:30 pm.

I cry out in pain. But its raining blood outside and nobody hears my pleas. Who would? I live in the middle of what they call the black forest. No not the pastry. Its been 5 years since I escaped from the hands of police when they came checking on me after the new neighbours in my near to isolated locality in London complained of foul smell erupting from my house. The young policemen looked too delicious and I couldn’t have controlled if they hadn’t invaded my basement. Germany called me home I guess. Oh didn’t I tell you? I was born in Germany and moved to England when I turned 18 after my mother was admitted to a mental asylum because she kidnapped infants from the villager’s houses and I never got to know what she did to them. 

I know I am counting my last breaths. I don’t even know what disease I have but I slowly seem to rot away. My 41 year old body was decaying overall. The skin on my bones was peeling off and insects started breeding on the open wounds. My own blood didn’t even have an aroma. It smelt of filth and dead fishes. And my once beautiful face looked like a character from the Walking Dead. I haven’t had any food in the last three days because my toes have come off my body and I didn’t even shed much blood from the open wounds because I think I don’t have much left. Have hardly had any food or blood in the last two years. It was just 1 month ago that a fox barged into my frontyard and I couldn’t control my maddening urge to slit open his throat and drink all the hot blood streaming through his veins. We were two hunters ready to kill each other. And though I won the fight I suffered a few bites on my delicate body. 

I cry out in pain again. I need water. I am thirsty. My eyes are shutting down against my will and the world is a blurr. I am very thirsty. I have never been so thirsty in 41 years of my life! I know I am dying but I never thought my death would be so filthy instead of glorious. I can’t breathe my throat is so dry. I move my skinned hand over the bedside table to look for even a drop of water. I find a cold steel glass and faintly try to grab it. I somehow manage to save it from falling off the table and bring it to my mouth as quickly as I could and sip on. It’s not water. 

As the blood spreads inside my dry mouth and touches every corner of it I see faces of all those humans I have feasted on. They are all smiling on my misery. My sins reflecting in their eyes. So many eyes. Hundreds of them. All cold like mine. They are coming closer. Every passing second they come closer. I know what they want. And I am never going to succumb to their wish. I quickly gulp down the last drop of red water from the glass as I breathe my last. 

Your sins never die.