Little Red Riding Blood.
- Mar 10
- 5 min read
Perhaps if I was offered a banquet of blood wrapped in the sweetest of things, I'd indulge myself fully. Unless I was abstaining. Which in this wonderfully vampiric world may happen. And before a paid a visit to Red Riding Blood, I was six years clean:
Those around me, my kin, my clan, my fellow vampires, have already fallen. The kind that'd happily lick the rim of a toilet if they took a fancy to the girl whose period spattered it. The kind of creatures that could bring you to your knees simply by staring. Through orgasm. Or terror. Or both. Depending on their moods. Inside they're like the dustbins of life, and every dirty little dark desire you hold they cover in a sticky glue and throw at you.
And as in the case of most life-altering things that happen to a vampire, they almost always start off as a small, inconsequential little thing. A kiss on the cheek, a handshake, a welcome back into the fold of the clan after an extended departure, slowly ever so slowly drawing you back in, like a fish on a hook.
The slightest movement of a stocking'd knee due to a skirt slightly adrift. An incredible perfume freshly glistening on the flawless skin of a slender neck surrounded by chestnut brown tousled hair accompanied by the barest hint of cleavage slightly pushing against her blouse. Little toes with blackberry coloured nails flexing in stocking'd feet, as shoes were casually kicked off during the welcoming kiss backed up with its superhuman wingman — the perfume. Her lips were equally dark, plump and pouty. These demons are artists at an attraction. And just like having one or two drinks at a party, my abstinence felt itself slipping.
Perhaps there was still a small thread of humanity left in me there, right until the naughty little blood donor, we'll call her Little Red Riding Blood, tipped me over the edge. And it was never a long edge to reach. And then every sensation I'd ever felt, fused together into a humming, overpowering machine that just sucked me right in, and I knew, as a drowning man so far from shore, it was simply better to just let go.
Perhaps Red Riding Blood was just as willing and just as corrupt as me, and there, right at that moment, I fell.
I had become accustomed to living in the light of the day and had found a peace I never felt in the dark. Six years. Six ... years of abstinence! I felt I'd reached the very top of that Snakes & Ladders board I'd spent an eternity tumbling down and believed I'd never fall down again. And when I did, when Red Riding Blood made sure I did, the monster inside me, the monster I truly believed had left me, made me realize it was only sleeping and when it awoke, it was uncontrollably ravenous, a glutton, it wouldn't have cared if it had burst before being satiated as long as it could plunge as deep down as it possibly could sucking up every atom it needed. It went beyond being satiated, it became the living embodiment of the act itself, it lived only to feed. There was only the feed. Nothing else existed. And Red Riding Blood made sure I took every last drop.
And when it was over, and I came to my senses, I cried about what I had done. It wasn't my first time, or my second. It ran into thousands and every time after, every time, I regretted my fall. I didn't cry for myself. I wept at God's feet for what I had made Him watch.
Can you imagine how dirty I felt after doing something like that? Bone deep filth that can never be washed off or completely erased. In a sense, you become the filth itself, rather than it being a part of you.
It almost feels like you've caused yourself some permanent damage, and it feels horrifying, almost as though you've cut off your own leg, or more in truth, perhaps you cut off your own soul.
After cleaning up, I left and wandered into the daylight. They are my family, my clan. And family is always family, no matter the distance I sometimes try to maintain. I knew the sunlight would not feel the same as it did before I had fed and as soon as the sun touched my eyes and my skin, I felt sick. I started to feel like I was coming down with a cold or a virus, and I'd known that misery before. Not intolerable although the familiar niggling headache that would soon turn into a migraine level pain added to my woes. I knew I'd have several days of feeling that way before I felt anything like what passed for normal in my life, and rather than dreading it, I accepted it, like a person might accept they have the flu, and it would take some time to recover.
Unlike in the films, I felt no afterglow, there was no walking into the sunlight with a great piece of incidental music playing in the background while the character basks in the sunlight and feels fully energized.
I went home to where the curtains were still closed and opened them. I looked at the sun that seemed so jarring and sobbed as the rays warmed the wildlife I had fed and sat among a few days earlier. I closed my eyes and imagined the warmth of an embracing sun, knowing all it could offer me now was pain and a bitter reminder of how I had fallen. I wished I and the sun were friends again and knew in time we might be, but for now, I knew solace could only be found within the shadows where at least my flu-like symptoms would ease.
And so I write, I write all night long and dread the daylight and when it arrives, I goes to bed. My curtains are lined and every scrap of light is carefully shut out. Sometimes even a sliver of it can make me nauseous. And the pain in my head is as bad as a migraine. I cower under my quilt trying to find the deepest darkest blackness I can and there, at least there, I can find a little rest. Sometimes I wish I would never wake up and often fall asleep remembering so long ago when God showed me heaven and my place within it. And now I feel so far from it, and God. For this part of my life, until I will be welcomed by the sun again, I rest in Satan's grasp.
Farewell God, please wait for me, I have a long road to travel before I see you again.