Viscera

I walk home. It takes hours. In the frigid air, I don’t shiver.

Still, I pull the hood low over my eyes and tuck my hands in to my sides, staring at my feet as I go. The clicking of my heels mimics the hollow echo in my chest. For a long time I travel trance-like, ignoring the sparse traffic, hypnotising myself with my even stride and stuck-record thoughts.

...shiny toy for a magpie...barren bones for a vulture...leftovers for a hesitant owl...

Something loud crashes away to my left, and the startling sound breaks the rhythm. A moment later my foot catches and I go down with a yelp and a thump, splayed gracelessly on the pavement. I hear ripping, and see that my skirt has torn through at the seam. Bugger.

I push myself up to a seated pose, leaving my legs bent awkwardly. I slam my hand into the pavement with all my annoyance. Nothing.

No pain. Not even a twinge.

The frustration builds and I let out an annoyed snarl. Gravel and dirt sticks to me skin, and I start to brush it off.

“Hey, you okay?”

A man, tall, a bit unsteady on his feet; drunk. His cold-weather blush makes me angry. Suddenly, a rapacious need to do something visceral clenches me. In a split second, I mask it with a shy smile. Maybe this time?

“Oh, um, I tripped. Silly me.” I reach up; he grips my hand and tugs, launching me up. Lighter than he thought? Good. I make sure to stumble against him as he helps me stand, and he reacts to me instantly. Disgusting, the stench that comes off him; having extra-sensitive senses is more of a curse than a tool sometimes. But, perversely, I relish the stomach-churning feeling of repulsion that comes over me. Although I know the feeling isn’t real, its imitation shell provides enough of a comfort to be a fitting substitute. Like orange juice out of a box: fake but good.

I cling unsteadily to his cursedly warm arm and pull on the blank look I do so well.

“Oh no, I think I’m lost!”

His chest swells with importance; here comes his hero moment. I can almost hear his thoughts. Stupid, clumsy girl. Must be a good lay. Easy to drop, too.

“Would it be too much trouble- maybe, you could walk me home?”

Hooked. Laughably easy. As I make up an address I wonder to myself what story he’ll tell tomorrow, about the pretty girl who was lying in the road, how he forgot most of what happened afterwards... Doesn’t matter really. God knows I don’t care.

So, I tuck my hand under his arm, oohing about the cold weather, and ah, don’t I just feel freezing and other nonsense like that. He puts a big, manly, protective arm around me. Ugh. Didn’t his mother ever warn him about strangers?

We walk until I spot a darker street without any pedestrians, more of an alley than anything else. I tug him in, making sure to hug the building and stay out of sight behind cars and dumpsters. Then, a likely spot. I extricate my arm just enough to lean my back against the wall, and pull him forward against me.

I muffle his startled ‘oh!’ with my lips. I pull his head down, closer, and wrap one leg around the back of his. A moment later he’s already making a drunken grunting noise, hands fluttering unashamedly all over me. Trying to let go, to flow with the moment, I close my eyes, and for a long while I don’t know who I’m imagining in his place.

Then, yes.

But this reeking lusty mortal is disappointing. No finesse. Even when I clench my eyes and pretend really, really hard, I only feel the faintest sparks of pleasure. Again, a failure!

Then my frustration with this condition, this numbness, boils over. I wrench his head to the side and bite.

It’s an imprecise lunge, and I hit him just under the jaw. But the blood gushes immediately into my mouth and he slumps a bit, eyes starting to glaze.

The heavenly bliss of feeding- it’s just not the same tonight. Maybe I’ve built up my expectations too high, maybe his tainted blood just doesn’t satisfy the same way. I growl, and suck even more deeply. The feeding haze comes over me, and I back in the trance, building up my pace rhythmically. I snap out when he starts to flail weakly against me, the desperation of a trapped animal as he –and I – realise he’s about to die.

Somehow I just know that he’s low, but instead of stopping I speed up in anticipation of the last mouthful. My insides swell as the blood clamours for space, and I begin to feel that restless twitching of the coming euphoria.

The final gulp is different. It’s ambrosia and joy, mind-blowing, face-twisting joy. I grip him hard, slurping desperately at the empty vein, trying to prolong the sudden warmth that I feel inside. Then, finished, I push and kick the empty vessel away.

I don’t remember when we sat down, but I stretch my legs out and languish in the memory of feeling. I reluctantly shake myself when I feel the viscera on my face drying and the distant internal call of warning against the coming sun. I spend a moment thinking if I should dispose of the corpse – name unknown – but I can’t think of anything particularly clever. Too damn bad. I half-heartedly tip some rubbish over it; I’ve been slumming all night so the extra dirt makes little difference.

Home isn’t far, luckily. Faith had better not give me a ‘look’, I’m sure she’s done worse.

Besides, how should the stupid, clumsy girl know any better?