A Thirst to Quench

I wish this story had a more dramatic opening. A fight of some kind, leading to a noble sacrifice and loss of innocence. Something Hollywood-esque, with suspense, a creeping feeling in the back of your mind that makes you want to scream "don't go in there!" or "you can't trust him!". One good thing I could provide to the world. A real, page turning drama. This story has no such start. This story begins in a run-down night club, amongst the rainy streets of Stoke. No shine, no blockbuster glimmer. Just a hold up of twenty-something's looking for dopamine beneath the stroblite.

The Pink Room had always been a safe haven for the queer community for as long as I can remember. It welcomed those ostracized by society with loving arms made of shots of Tequila and shitty drum and bass. Young, closeted university students mingled on the spirits-soaked dancefloor, or the pink leather sofas soaked in make-out sweat. It was a twisted sense of community layered in lust, and a wanting to exist without prejudice, and I had found myself there one night, needing to experience both of those feelings. There is a magic in the eyes of everyone you see in there. I remember each guy I made eye contact with had this sparkle that shined within their iris's, which felt like staring into the sun wearing beer goggles. Michael didn't see it apparently. Being the 'token' straight friend of mine, he had tagged along with me to the club, and each time I turned to him with a drunken sway to state how hot x guy was, he'd give them a look up and down, before turning back to me and saying "Yeah, thats a guy alright."

It wasn't until later in the night that I got what I had come out for. I saw him on the dancefloor through a five-double-rum-and-coke haze, a strobelite silhouette of movement. His body swayed with careful articulation to the music, eyes closed. He was neither smiling, nor in any discontent, he was simply existing, the music flowing through him as if the speakers were a beating heart, pumping music notes through his skin. He was beautiful. As my gaze lingered far too long, as if almost knowing I was watching, his eyes parted slightly, and his head tilted in curiosity at my direction. Unlike every other guy there, his eyes felt like pools of dark void. He gave a slight smile that made my body melt.

"Go on then." Michael spoke through his half-drank bottle of Corona. When I tried (and failed) to play coy to his words, he sighed, and nodded his head in the direction of the man. "You jus' gonna oggle him all night or what?"

"Oh fuck off Mike," I responded in a half laugh drunken slurry, "its not that easy y'know?"

"C'ept it is," Michael retorted, now having set his bottle down, and walking up to me, turned me in the direction of the guy with hands on my shoulders, like guiding a submarine's telescope. "Walk up, 'av a dance, then see what happens." Mike paused, "just don't take it to the toilets, more piss on those floors than porcelain, and God knows the diseases that might be-"

"Aright alright!" I laughed, shoving his hands off my shoulders.

This is where it gets fuzzy. My legs began to move towards the still dancing man, dressed in skin tight black jeans and a black mesh shirt. I turn back to Michael, who is sarcastically giving me a salute, sending me off to battle.I recall standing behind him, having him slowly turn to look down on me, as if viewing me as some lost oddity. There was an exchange of hello's, flirtatious words flowing from his mouth like syrup that turned my cheeks blood red. Dancing, bodies close that I could feel the beat of the music through his chest. A kiss, long and deep, lustful and inviting. The toilet cubicle, against Michael's advice. It was an animalistic removal of clothing, kisses seeped in spirits and desire. His hand on my chest, almost gripping the skin above my heart. I pulled him in, and he began to slowly kiss my neck, softly biting.

Then harder. Intoxicating at first. Then harder. Panic, the adrenaline rush of fear. His had pinned my arms to the cubicle walls as he bit harder, deeper, and I could hear the sounds of gulping from his throat. A warm liquid ran down my neck and soaked the collar of my shirt. The smell of iron. A kicking and screaming, banging on walls and the locked cubicle door as he held me there, and for a moment it felt as if he lifted us both off the ground, a moment of levitation, something so magical enveloped by eye widening horror. I felt the music beat itself into my back from the cubicle walls, as the beat of my heart quenched the thirst of this man, this thing, with each ba-dump, ba-dump. Blood, sweat, tears, the audible drinking of my life through the sharp breaths and muffled moans of satisfaction.

I dropped to the floor, shaking, arms crossed over my chest, my hand instinctively going towards my neck, where two deep gouges had been made in perfect symmetry millimeters from each other. Even feeling that, the warm stickiness of blood now on my fingertips, the wipe of satisfaction of his mouth with the back of his sleeve, and then his eyes, of which at first I believed were dark due to the lighting of the dancefloor, looked into mine. Dark, pitted voids, no white, no iris. A nothingness looked into me.

"M-am potolit. În curând, și tu vei avea nevoie."

That tongue which spun words of wanting minutes ago, now spoke in a language I could barely comprehend. I tried to form a reply, through the shaking and lightheadedness, but all I could say was "W..what?" before, without another word, he opened the cubicle door, and left.

Michael found me a few minutes later, having seen the man leave without me in tow. He came in with a joking boisterous voice,

"Alriight! Fun's over mister, I swear you better have cleaned up whatever 'activities' you and 'im were getting busy wit-" His eyes widened as he saw me on the ground, bloodied, wrists bruised and crying softly.

"No, no oh Jesus Christ Tim", all joking left his voice, replaced with a soft, concerned manner, as he knelt beside me, checking my wrists, and then the wounds on my neck. "What the fuck did he do to you? Fuck, don't tell me he r-"

"N..no" I replied, voice quivering as I wiped my eyes with my dry-blooded hands. "No, no we didn't get that far...fuck Mike, I couldn't, he was like a fuckin' animal, I swear he was drinkin' me..." The words drifted from my mouth as the drink and loss of blood finally hit proper, like a sudden blunt force to the entirety of my body.

I was out cold, collapsing into Michael's arms. I woke up outside, sat on the edge of an ambulance, leaning on the side paneling. Dawn began to creep its way up from the east, light reflecting off the police tape that reached to both ends of the club's entrance. Michael was speaking with a police officer, before spotting me awake, and rushing over.

"Tim," his voice was hoarse, filled with nerves, "you feelin' any better mate?" I managed to give a nod, wincing at the dull pain in my neck. Michael sighed, and in an uncharacteristic move, pulled me in for a long hug, the kind where the squeeze is as cathartic for the one receiving it as the one giving it. He needed this as much as me. I felt a tinge of guilt and shame, having him be filled with all this worry, all because I wanted to get my rocks off. That was Mike though, always there for me, no matter what.

I told the officer all I could recall of the man's features and the event. It was clear that half of what I told her fell on deaf ears. Whilst the attack was not debated, her eyebrows raised, and forehead crinkled in confusion and doubt as she recorded down the details of his appearance. She said she would be in contact if needed, and asked if we needed a lift home. Mike had brought us both in his beat up Corsa, so after confirming with a breathalyser that he was now stone cold sober, he helped me up to my feet, and we walked to his car, as the first rays of morning reached towards us.

That is when I should have known something was wrong with me. Maybe I was in doubt of it all, giving these characteristics to the man due to his violent nature, and the ferocity of the attack. When recounting the details back to Michael on the drive home, he too seemed doubtful, but played it off as best he could.

I should have known. Known what that man was. What he did to me was real. For when those first rays of morning reached me, all I could think was how my skin suddenly began to itch, a sensation that became something akin to a slow, methodical burning.

He was a vampire. And unbeknownst to me, I would be by the end of the week.