Dirt and Filth ( Jesse Fforde)

[Ishaq (DELETED 4744)]

The tile floor sent chills down his spine once its surface connected with his bare back. His mouth laid open much like that of a baby bird, taking its first meal provide by its mother. Not that he was calling the man his mother or father. He had one of those already, but he was giving him a new sense of life. Well, at the moment, he didn't know he was being given new life. He felt like a freak; a sick monster ingesting someone else's blood. Hadn't he read the case studies in high school about what could be transferred through blood? All the diseases and infections....things that could kill him. Yet this didn't feel like anything that could kill him. In other words, he didn't know what the hell he was participating in and why he couldn't stop himself.

The waterfall blood had cease and he laid on the floor in a complete daze, eyes creeping open to stare lazily at the ceiling. He could feel the stickiness of the dark substance begin to dry on his cheek. Ishaq probably looked a hot mess, but he felt this eerie sense of peace washing over him. This feeling...this sensation, it reminded him of the first time he tried cocaine. It was the same sensation he continually sought after, taking more and more to achieve the very first high he ever experienced on the wondrous drug. This was the first time in a while he could just be for a moment. The world stood still for him. He wished it could last forever.

Forever only lasted a minute or two really.

It started off in a dull ache, much like stomach ache. The man didn't move but continued to be still, hoping and believing that the dull ache would soon pass. Yet, gradually, it began to creep up his chest. It made his left arm tingle. Ishaq closed his eyes and brought his hand to his chest to check his heartbeat. But he didn't try to get up nor did he cry out in pain. He like to think he had a high pain tolerance. You couldn't be a pussy with pain and expect to endure the hours of needle work to get the tattoos on his skin. So, he thought he could endure this too with breathing in and out slowly to pace his heart.

Then it stabbed him. His eyes shot open as he lifted his head to peer down at his stomach. At first, he assumed the man had stabbed. But no blood was spilling from a gaping wound. There was no wound, but the stabbing continued and he curled onto his side, wrapping his arms around himself. "Ugh...****.." he groaned, trying to catch his breath. Why the hell was he becoming short of breath all of sudden? What started out as the best high of his life was turning into a nightmare filled with unbelievable pain and uncertainty. He rolled onto his hands and knees, pressing his forehead against the cool yet dirty floor. Was it the blood? It had to be the blood. How could his system digest it so quickly? His abdominal muscles constricted and he smacked his head into the tile floor several times in an attempt to refocus his pain to another area of his body. It worked for a moment; now, his head pounded and a stream of blood ran down the bridge of his nose.

There had to be another way.

He thought...if I just vomit, I'll be alright. Ishaq crawled over the dead girl and slightly pass the man. Lifting his hand up, he reached out to push the toilet's lid up, but couldn't. Instead, he found himself slumping by the toilet, gasping furiously and desperately for air. He clutched his chest with one hand, forgetting about the pain in his stomach instantly, or even the pain pulsing from his head. His eyes rolled back before they fluttered closed and his body grew still on the bathroom floor, his hand relaxing then dropping to the ground. And Ishaq for sure met the end of his days.

It was cold. No, he was cold. But he supposed that's what death was-cold and lonely. He kept his eyes closed for a few moments longer, unsure if he wanted to even open them at all. What the hell would his eyes meet? Allah as his grandfather called him? Saint Peter? Mother Mary? Where would he be standing? In front of the pearly gates? Hell even? Purgatory? He didn't know and a part of him wished he spent more time finding some sort of faith of his own. At least he would have had something to base this moment off of other than the perceptions of others. He would never know unless he opened his eyes. So he opened his eyes and was met with the most unusual sight:

the motherfucking bathroom.

No, that can't be right. He was dead, yes? At least, he felt he was dead. The bathroom of all places? Ishaq groaned as he propped himself up against the toilet. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust; everything seemed a bit brighter. His gaze shifted to the floor and started hard and long at the girl who was still very much dead and who most definitely hadn't moved from her final resting spot. Which could only mean....

His head turned to face the mysterious man, sitting at the cupboard. Bringing his hand up to his face, Ishaq scratched at his cheek and pulled his hand away to stare.

Under his fingernails rested the crusted dark remains of blood.

"I...don't...what the **** just happened?"

[Jesse Fforde]

I don’t move as my newest progeny—as that is what he has become, in that moment that his heart stops and his eyes fly open—rolls over and tenses into the tight fist of a foetal position. This is all normal, I know. Every turning seems to be different, but this kind I have seen before. Great pain will be endured as all the ordinary organs shut down, as all the ordinary, human functions of the body become redundant. I imagine the guy’s innards shrivelling and shrinking, wanting only to crawl out of his body but caged inside, unable to move. I can imagine the veins swelling, welcoming the new blood, and then shrinking, as the body realises there’s no human blood left in it. That it needs more. I can imagine that as soon as the change is complete, that the body will not immediately feel more powerful. It might take me a while to convince this one that his life is now infinitely better than what it was.

The singer crawls over to the toilet, and I lean forward. I wait for the inevitable, but it doesn’t come. The fluids don’t come rushing out of the former human like a flood from an over-full damn. The guy holds his own, and gasps for air—air that he no longer requires. It’s not long before he passes out. Well, it seems as if he’s passed out, I can’t tell from this angle. I lean forward just one inch more, peering toward the inert body of the lead singer. I wonder, idly, whether he’ll attempt to continue his career as a singer—to become a veritable Vampire Lestat—or whether he’ll let it all fall by the wayside in preference for more violent distractions.

I wonder whether I’m going to have to carry him home. Whether this is the way this one’s going to go. Whether he’ll have passed out until tomorrow night. I don’t have to wonder for long, because he comes to life again. I grin, and sit back, watching him closely. I still don’t know what his name is, though I suppose I could have got it from any one of the avid fans in the house outside. I’ll get it from him, later. For now, there are more important things to… well, we can’t really discuss them. But there are more important things to think about than names, or introductions.

As expected, he asks what the **** just happened. A fair enough question, and if I had a voice to explain I’d tell him that what happened is exactly as he remembered it—all the crazy nuts and bolts of it, that’s exactly what happened. He was bitten. He was bled near to death. He was fed blood. His human body died. And now he’s alive again—stronger and better than ever. I don’t say any of that, however; instead, I run my tongue along the grooves of my teeth. The canines are still extended. I grin at him, bearing those sharp teeth. I all but hiss, as I perk a brow and gesture to his own mouth, daring him to test his own canines. Surely they, too, must be sharp. This new, and he’s probably famished.

There’s another bash at the door. Perfect.

I stand, unlock the door, and open it only long enough to pull inside whoever it was who was waiting on the outside. I shove them into the room before slamming the door again, locking it behind me. This might be a bit of a bind to get out of—maybe we’ll have to escape through a window. With narrowed eyes I assess the walls and…yes, there. A window. Perfect. For now, though, I have to share with the singer his first meal.

The human I’ve snared is female—of course, men are impatient and will go pee in a bush. Women, however, are a whole different story. She laughs breathily, her hand over her chest. Her green eyes are lined in black—to me, she looks like a raccoon. Her skirt is plaid and pleated, a chain hanging from it. Her tights are black and fishnet. She’s got black, fingerless gloves on her hands, and a torn, black band t-shirt barely covering her torso. On her feet are heavy black romper stompers. There’s a stud through her lip, and another through her eyebrow.

“Well well, boys. What’s going on in here?” she asks. Her heart only begins to beat faster as she glances at the body on the floor—the dead girl. “Need some help with your girlfriend…?” she asks, and the hope in her voice quavers, unsure. I slowly shake my head. Swinging around behind her I cover her mouth with my hand, muffling any sound she might make. I slash a sharp nail across her neck—not enough to break a vein, but enough to draw blood—to make that sweet, savoury scent fill the air, fresher than the blood that’s still pooled in the bottom of the bathtub. With my hand still covering her mouth, I push the girl closer to Ishaq, hoping that some kind of new instinct will take over.

[Ishaq (DELETED 4744)]

He didn't speak. Not a word at least. He made sounds, which made Ishaq only wonder about the man in front of him. He smiled at him and exposed in such a smile were sharpened canines. The wordless man gestured to his mouth. Running his tongue along his left canine, he flinched and was met with the familiar iron-flavored taste in his mouth. Moving toward the sink, Ishaq leaned against the cool piece as he prepared to look at himself in the mirror. He raised his left hand and hooked his index finger under his lip, pulling up to expose the teeth hidden behind the flesh. His eyes grew wide as he stumbled back from the sink; a look of horror had taken over his face.

It had to be a trick or he had to be hallucinating because what he saw wasn't what he should have seen. The man rubbed at his face and groaned. He needed to be sure. He stepped back toward the mirror and stared, really stared. Sure enough, it was him in the mirror. He lifted up his hand and saw his reflection mimic the action. It was him yet it wasn't him; he looked like an extra from The Walking Dead. At least to him. Ishaq closed his eyes and shook his head. I don't even know....he thought. This was just too much. Everything was brighter. Everything smelled stronger. Everything sounded louder. If someone knocked on the door once again, he was going to flip out.

He kept examining himself into the mirror but paused when he heard the door being unlocked and opened clear as day. "What are you doin'?" he hissed out toward the silent male, who dragged the girl into the bathroom. He stared at her and his stomach rumbled. He paid no mind to that at first. His eyes watched her gaze at the dead girl on the floor. He too looked at her. What could he say about this? Was his voice strong enough to lie? Luckily, he didn't have to speak. But that only meant her luck had taken a grave turn for the worse. From the corner of his eyes, he caught the movement of the man and lifted his head to see what the commotion. His hand covered her mouth, muffling the cry of surprise. Ishaq's stomach rumbled again. It had been hours since he's eaten.

The man couldn't possibly tell you when her throat had been slashed by the other. He couldn't tell you because perhaps, he had blinked when it happened. But this aroma filled the air and it drove him insane. It was sweet; it made the bathroom smell like a bakery. It made his stomach rumbled more and more. His teeth began to ache; his mouth watered. His eyes felt like they were going to pop out of their sockets.

The girl was inched toward him. Before he could stop himself, he lunged at her and the man. Oh, he couldn't control himself. His teeth sank into the present wound and the blood rushed into his mouth. It was like drinking the cherry syrup used to make slushies. The blood poured down his throat and he wanted to stop. Ishaq knew this wasn't normal, but he couldn't stop. He couldn't stop. His fingers gripped her shirt and he ripped her from the hold of the man. He was going to drink her dry. He was going to take everything he could from her. Oh..why was he so hungry?

Backing up with her in his grasp, he tripped on the dead girl, who was always in his way. They tumbled onto the floor and for a moment, he stared into her eyes. He knew that look. She knew it was all over for her. He knew it was all over for her. He covered her mouth as he laid on top of her, sinking his teeth into the widened wound.

He lied earlier: this was going to be the best high he's ever experienced.

[Jesse Fforde]

If the sight of his own visage (or lack thereof) in the mirror does not convince this guy of his new state of being, I know that the taste of blood and the ensuing high will do a lot to set him on the path of belief. I’m expecting that the guy would have no reflection. What he sees, however, surprises even me. There is a reflection there. The reflection of a dead body. Fascinating. I suppose that’ll be a clue about what I’m dealing with, when I have to inform this guy about the different ‘paths’ we all end up on.

As the singer latches onto the bleeding girl like a man who hasn’t eaten for months, I start to wonder whether I’m ever going to end up with a dud. One of these days, I suppose, I’ll make a mistake. I’ll pick someone to change who’ll freak out completely, and who’ll fight against their new instincts, and their new urges. Thus far, however, they’ve all done exactly as I’d hoped they’d do. I suppose there’s always time for freaking out later. For the moment, though, the singer takes the girl right out of my hands, takes her into his own, pulls the blood from her without pause.

I watch, as I always do. The voyeuristic pleasure is something that I cannot explain; I have an insatiable hunger, a thing that is always present, no matter how often I feed. It’s even stronger now, given the fact that I’ve just given quite a lot of my own blood to my newest minion. There’s something about watching others feed that both inspires my own lust, but also satiates it, somehow. I stand by the door, my back to it, as I watch, and as I wait. The door is locked, and there will be two dead bodies in here before we are done.

I’m not going to stop the singer from killing the girl, either. It’s better if they’re killed, in my opinion. Better for me, anyway, because I now know that every ****** I sink my teeth into will remember me, after a while. Will remember and what I have done. Will know about vampires, if they’re willing to believe their own memories. And that I cannot have. I think I would prefer it, if all my progeny killed their prey rather than let them live. Though I do know, later, I’ll let this guy know his options. For now, I’m letting him feed.

It is only when the girl is dead that I pull him away. It’s high time that we get the hell out of dodge. The window is small, but it is a window, and it is a way out. I do not like the idea of leaving two bodies bereft of blood here in the bathroom, but I am less impressed with the idea of leaving two bodies, and a bunch of witnesses to us leaving two bodies.

I push the singer toward the window, indicating that he should climb out – and once he’s out, I’ll follow right behind.