Blood
by Imajiru
imajiru@mindspring.com
imajiru@unicorn-x.net
October 9, 1995

The mattress was soaked with blood.  Again.  Time to get a 
new one -- again -- call up the department store and order 
another; call the 'special disposal' service to get rid of 
the old one.  The young-looking men with the too-pale skin, 
who didn't think anything of the fact that this was the 
third mattress they'd replaced in the last month.

And it would be a good idea to order a couple dozen more 
sets of sheets:  black satin didn't show bloodstains, that 
was true, but the blood never quite washed out, either.  
Far easier to throw them away and replace them on a daily 
basis.

The very first time she had awakened beside him and found 
her naked body covered with drying blood, she had nearly 
thrown up -- she'd thought she was prepared for this 
eventuality, after all, she'd KNOWN what she was getting 
into -- but the reality was very different from her 
fantasies.  One thing to know, on an intellectual level, 
that a vampire's bodily secretions were comprised mainly of 
blood; another thing to experience it on such an, um, 
intimate level.

It was a nightly ritual, now: ducking swiftly into the 
shower before allowing herself to glance into a mirror, 
staring straight ahead as the steaming spray dissolved the 
crimson-brown fluid and sent it swirling away.  If she 
didn't look, she could pretend that everything was normal; 
she could keep her equilibrium intact.

But despite the fact that she'd been dealing matter-of-
factly with worse forms of gore for years... she had never 
gotten used to waking up covered with blood, and doubted 
that she ever would.

What else did she have to do?  Grocery shopping: coffee, 
and cat food, and paper towels...  And there were other 
supplies to procure, things that couldn't be found at 
supermarkets.  She had three different suppliers to choose 
from, offering a variety of products at a range of prices; 
and if the rates weren't good this week, she could always 
liberate something from the morgue.  Nobody in the 
household would go hungry tonight... 

But first on the agenda was the issue of the mattress.

This was the thirty-seventh time she'd replaced the 
mattress since she'd moved in.  At first, it had only 
slightly disturbed her, but with time and repetition she 
had come to loathe the task.  It seemed to symbolize the 
essence of her relationship, in stark, horrifying detail.

First: leafing through a selection of bedding outlets 
throughout Ontario and New York State, to find one she 
hadn't used yet.  Having to make the call, ordering the new 
items through gritted teeth.  Then: calling the disposal 
boys, fuming at their lecherous smirks as they carried the 
blood-sodden mattress away.  It had become an ordeal, one 
she could barely face.

And then the new mattress would be delivered, and for a 
little while she could imagine that she was in a normal 
relationship with a normal man...

....until the next evening, when she would wake up covered 
once more with his blood.

She had longed to be close to him, yearned for it, until at 
last it had ceased to matter what he was.  One magical 
night, in the space of an instant, they had become one -- 
and there had been no turning back, not for either of them; 
not when they had wanted each other so badly, for so long.  
As a lover, a friend, a companion, he was everything she'd 
ever dreamed he would be...

....but there were aspects that she hadn't been prepared 
for, no, not at all.

Her hand reached up to the spot on her neck that was always 
slightly sore, and she remembered the feel of his fangs 
sliding in: the sharp, sweet not-pain that seemed to sear 
straight into her soul.  The hot luscious ecstasy of his 
passion, soaking into her consciousness as he fed... at its 
maximum intensity, it was far better than lovemaking; which 
was perhaps why she'd only recently noticed that they 
hardly ever made love anymore.  Most mornings, he was 
content to simply feed, and then fall asleep...

....and sometime during the long day, his arms would wrap 
around her, drawing her close; and she would awaken 
drenched in his blood-sweat.

She shivered.  More and more often, it was occupying her 
thoughts.  The blood...  she'd thought she could ignore it.  
She'd thought that their love was so strong, so vibrant, 
that nothing else mattered...

....but she'd been wrong, heartbreakingly wrong.

With a heavy sigh, she forced herself to abandon her 
reverie in favor of practicality.  There were things to be 
done.  Time to order another mattress...

Her hand moved toward the phone.  Stopped.  Hovered in 
midair for a moment indecisively.

Then moved toward the phone again.

But when her fingers moved across the dial, she found 
herself calling the airport.  Even as she wondered what she 
was doing, her traitorous fingertips were inquiring via 
touchtones as to the next departing flight.  And before she 
had quite comprehended the import of her actions, she was 
in a taxicab, headed down the QEW.

Dazed, she stared out the window at the velvet night, at 
the raindrops that covered the glass in fat spatters.  She 
could just barely see the reflection of her face against 
the darkness, and fancied she saw blood there, that each 
splattered drop of rain was another splash of blood on her 
skin...

Her hands rubbed together anxiously, as if scrubbing 
themselves clean; a nervous habit she'd only recently 
developed, that she wasn't yet consciously aware of.

She wondered what he would think when he came home to find 
her gone.  She'd taken nothing with her but her purse; he 
would probably ascribe her disappearance to some sort of 
crime.  Certainly, there would be no reason for him to 
suspect she'd left of her own free will...

Tears coursed down her face, crystal-clear saline tears; 
but in her mind's eye, they were tinged crimson.

How could she tell him?  How could she confess that she 
could no longer tolerate his inhumanity?  There was just no 
way she could find words for that -- and no way she could 
endure the sight of his stricken face.  Her rejection would 
crush him... no, far better for her to simply disappear.  
That way, he would mourn her, instead of loathing himself 
for driving her away...

She had resources: he had made certain of that.  Resources, 
and contacts:  enough of both to make a new life for 
herself, somewhere secluded enough that he would not be 
able to locate her until well after she'd succumbed to old 
age.  She would move on, just as he himself would someday; 
and he would never know the truth.

Such a cruelty to him, and such a kindness.

As for herself... she wondered if she would ever be able to 
look at herself again without seeing blood on her skin.  If 
she would ever again kiss a man, lest she compare him to 
the only one she had ever truly loved -- and could no 
longer stand to love.

Wondered, briefly, if she would ever stop crying again.

The taxi sped her to the airport, to the plane that would 
take her away; and her tears slipped down her cheeks to 
drip onto her hands, as heavy and bitter as if they were 
drops of blood. 

-------/end