EXSANGUINATION By: Violet Hilton
Friday, June 26th, 2009“I did this to save you,” he’d said. There had been tangy, metallic kisses. My blood. His blood. Disgusting and delectable all at once.
It took me two days to realize he did this to control me. But he underestimated my power over myself. I am in control again and none of his words or enticing caresses will change that ever again.
“You were dying. Now you’ll never have to experience the pain of death. And I’ll never have to lose you,” he’d said.
The pain of death has nothing on the pain of hunger. But hunger is a familiar pain. Cultivated for years. Understood. Controlled. No matter how this new hunger has taken root and flourishes in my gut, expanding crippling tendrils to my limbs, fingers, toes, it is not in control of me.
If there is no fear of death, there is no fear of failure. I cannot give in. Every night is a test of my strength of will. Every encounter with him a battle for dominance.
My hair is falling out in clumps. Dark, brittle strands that I used to care for now litter the bathroom floor and clog the drain in the tub. I buy a wig. Short black waves frame my face beautifully. Or I imagine they do, since my reflection was the first thing to abandon me. It must have been afraid of the hunger. Or the years of being almost ten pounds overweight no matter what I did to purge the weight. No matter what I banned from my body.
For the first time in a long time my arms and legs look like they should. Thin, willowy, beautiful and fragile. My delicate bone structure is finally almost apparent. I try to convince him to take me shopping, but he refuses through tears and a look of repugnance.
“I did this to save you, not watch you wither away!” he says. Suddenly his wrist is bleeding freely and the scent and sight make me swallow reflexively. His offer disgusts me. Proof that he hasn’t yet realized who is in control. I try to shove him towards the door, but I feel so weak. Instead I shout at him to leave and retreat to my bed.
The raging ache of pain pulls at me from every direction, twists my insides cruelly. I curl on the sheets, my arms wrapping neatly around my legs. My control is real. Concentration is key. I can beat this feeling. I can lock it away again. I’m the stronger animal. My strength will prevail. Forever.
***
Guilt ate at me for two weeks. It took that long for me to convince myself that it was worth checking in on her again. I cared about her so deeply. Had cared about her. But now? Now I wasn’t so sure. My attempts to save her only drove her farther away, down a dark path I could never understand.
All she had to do was drink.
The apartment was the same as it was when I’d left that night, the memory of her practically skeletal form etched into my mind. I didn’t want to see her that way, but every thought of her was accompanied by that grim vision. It was a blatant sign that I needed to do more to help her instead of being so damn cocky about the idea that I’d rescued her.
I called her name, but there was no answer. It was possible she’d left. Maybe she’d finally given in to the bloodlust and sought out a warm meal. Maybe that wasn’t her emaciated body, just leathery skin and bones draped in a familiar sun dress and wig, frozen in the fetal position on her bed.
I had one last chance to save her, I knew. I’d saved her from death and now I had to save her from a worse fate. The mummy on the bed was alive, somewhere in there, she was still undead.
“All you have to do is drink,” I said. I didn’t know if she could hear me, but I pressed an open vein to her desiccated lips after lifting her up as best I could.
Slowly I could feel her body relaxing. What was left of her muscles began to move slightly. She was coming back to me. Now she would see that everything was going to be all right. Finally, she would know how much I loved her. We could get a place together. Start over.
Her teeth sank into my flesh, making me wince as she actually sucked the blood out of my veins of her own accord.
“I’m saving you again,” I said.
“Save yourself,” she growled, the words wet and primal. A perversion of her voice.
She shifted against my side and lunged for my throat.
—
©2009 Violet Hilton
