Blood Bag

Hungry For Blood

I stare absentmindedly through the window, threading a small piece of card through my fingers. On it is an Address. Going there will no doubt change my life for ever. Or maybe it will just get me killed. Either way having it makes me nervous. But I cannot bring myself to throw it out. Not yet. 

It has been three days since I donated, three days since the strange boy accosted me in the alley, three days that I've spent questioning what I bottled all my hate up for if not to take it out on the leaches. But a rebel group? Even mentioning a dislike for vampires in public is enough to get you noticed by a BDA officer. Plotting their downfall? That's the sort of thing that causes people to disappear for good. My heart rate ratchets up a notch and a name resonates through every fiber of my being. Zachariah. I close my eyes, feeling the sting of tears approaching. My hand bunches into a fist, balling the piece of paper with it. 

I need to visit my parents, clear my head, see my sister, Nancy. My legs ache at the thought, they live in Sector 17, and walking is my only option. I drop down out of the windowsill, and weave my way across my tiny apartment, grabbing a black jacket that hangs on the door and throwing the scrunched paper into the bin as I walk through the door. 

Out in the open, or at least as open as it gets when you are in the city, I pull my jacket on. yanking the hood up, even though its not raining. My defense against a place I cannot stand, against people I do not care for. I take an indirect route, keeping away from the most populated places. When I walk invisible like this through the city, unnoticed, untouched, I feel strong, defiant. Like maybe I stand a chance of getting out of here. 

The pavement beneath my feet is cracked, and weeds grow up through the paths less walked. Most of the buildings on this street stand barren. Their windows dark gaping holes, plastered walls latticed with cracks. Nobody looks after places like this in the city, even if we had the resources or the skills it would never be a priority.   

I walk down only the familiar alley's, crime is low here in the city, but not unheard of. And people in Lavort have a tendency to disappear. I take a left turn and almost run straight into a group milling on the sidewalk. There are four of them, pale, gaunt, young; likely the same age as me. They wear faded loose fitted clothing, with frayed edges. Just like all the clothes in my closet. Its an easy way to differentiate between Lavorts original citizens and 'Refugees'. A term still used for those who came to Lavort after the Vampire scourage broke out, despite the fact that we have lived here for eleven years. I keep my head down, eyes focused on the floor as I skirt around them. I ignore the unpleasant mutters, turning  off this stretch of road as soon as I can. 

As I reach Sector 17 I breathe a sigh of relief, and glance up at the buildings, this one has the letter A painted onto it. The next C, I turn at the corner and find the one I'm looking for G, its relatively small, only split into three apartments. It always strikes me as home. I walk up the steps and push open the front door, inside I take the stairs two at a time, and bang on the first door I come too. 

My father opens it, greeting me with a solemn nod as I bound past him into their minimal apartment. 

The table in front of me contains an impressive spread, bowls containing various flavors of protein-chunks, a few tins of mixed fruit but most surprising is the existence of fresh produce, carrot sticks and a bowl of bright red apples. It must have cost a months worth of credits. My father looks at me awkwardly, his eyes leaving mine quickly to rest on the threadbare carpet. He knows what I'm thinking, that this is an over indulgence they cannot afford.     

My mother comes bustling into the room with a tray of  hot pasta, her graying hair tidied into a bun, an excited expression planted on her face. My presence appears to startle her and the tray jolts spilling a few spirals onto the floor. I briefly remember a time when our family dog would have hoovered that up before we could move an inch. There weren't any pets in Lavort though, unless you counted the Chosen. 

"Hey mum" I call, bending over to pick up the spilled food, I chuck the handful into my mouth,  can't afford to waste it. 

"You don't need to..." Mum starts, trailing off before she can finish. Her expression is wary now, like shes suddenly scared of me. Since when was eating off the floor so abohrent?  We ate out of bins for years when the trouble happened. I watch her face as her eyes dart towards my father, out of the corner of my eye I think I can see him shaking his head. 

"Where's Nancy?" I ask, around my mouthful. It is not like her to be absent with food about. My parents exchange another look, I can see a warning in my dads eyes. I begin to panic, Oh god has something happened to her? My dads eyes are still trained on my mother but I notice them flicker towards me more than once. A smile is beginning to creep onto my mothers face, so slowly that I know she is trying to fight it. 

"Nancy's been Chosen!" She squeals, shattering the silence, her hands flail in delight. I glance at my dad, hoping this is some sort of sick joke but his face is serious, his mouth turned down into a grimace. 

"It happened yesterday!" She continues, absolutely gleeful and completely unaware of the tension in the room, the tension building within me. "Oh, it is just so wonderful." She continues, and tears are actually brimming in her eyes. They are in mine too. But our reasons could not be further apart. My sister, Chosen? My sister who is only just fourteen, who does not deserve to have her choices in life so cruelly ripped away from her. My sister a walking blood bag?

I feel and hear my teeth grind together. My mind still trying to process the anger that has surfaced, how could this happen? My Nancy, who really was afraid of needles, and blood. I remember her first donation. I went with her and she held my hand so tightly I thought my fingers might drop of. I was so surprised at how strong those dainty hands were. She was always so delicate, fragile. Was. Jesus, I'm using past tense to describe her already. But to me being Chosen is a death sentence. Because being Chosen means belonging to a Vampire for the rest of your life.