The Blood

It started with my parents. Doesn’t it always? 

Or, more precisely with my father. If he’d been irascible and bad tempered before, he was positively cantankerous and violent after he came back from Trafalgar, sporting a crutch, a missing a foot and a naval pension which he strictly didn’t need.

Mother was unable to conceive after she had me and Father took this as a personal affront, further darkening his already pitch-black moods. Consequently, he largely ignored Mother and treated me with contempt as if it was my fault I wasn’t a son, or even his child - he was always suspicious of my dark eyes and hair, neither of which characteristics he shared. (Oh, Mother, what did you get up to?). 

When I was around twelve he began to force me to accompany him on his frequent hunting walks, roughly manhandling me into a heavy old waxed coat that smelled of damp and dead animals, before trudging out across the often muddy fields in search of prey.

‘Hi, Gen!’

That’s Molly. We often cross paths on shift changes. She’s a very attractive young woman, with sleek dark hair, which she ties up into a casual, yet immaculate pony tail while on duty. In another time and another place, she would be my lover but, rather unusually, she has a male partner of whom I approve: Josh; he’s smitten with her and is a genuinely good man. Like I said, unusual in my experience, and I’ve had a lot of experience.

Oh, yes, Gen. Short for Imogen, it’s the first time I’ve used my given name for, well, two hundred years or so. Where was I? Yes, hunting.

Everything was fair game to my father; deer, foxes, rabbits, hares, and all manner of wild foul. He always took three hunting pieces with him, one to use and two that his valet and footman reloaded between shots.

The first animal I saw him kill was a fallow deer that had emerged from the Southern Woods on the edge of the estate. His first ball felled the animal, but didn’t kill it, and it shrieked in pain as Jackson handed Father his loaded piece to put the animal out of its misery. Father was taking no chances and finished off the young buck at point-blank range, dragging me along to witness the slaughter at close hand. We were both sprayed with blood and offal, which caused me to topple backwards in alarm and repugnance.

Now, I know what you’re thinking (I actually do); That’s the moment! That’s where she gets her taste for blood! But you’d be wrong; that would come later, and if you are of a delicate constitution, or easily repulsed, you may want to exit my story here. I have warned you.

Father hauled me from the wet grass and had Jackson hold me while he sliced open the buck’s chest and rummaged around in its innards until he pulled out the still steaming heart, and proceeded to wipe his bloodied hands on my face. I expected to be further revolted, but bore the marking passively and with what I can only describe as a morbid curiosity.

You might be thinking that I am not painting my father in a good light, and you would be correct. He was, quite simply, an evil bastard. More of that later, too.

One moment. 

I’ve just caught sight of my reflection in the locker mirror (yes I have one, you mustn’t believe all those stories), and noticed some of the grey hair colouring on my ear. Hopefully, Molly didn’t notice, I’m usually more vigilant. However, it’s probably time to move on again (one of the downsides of infinite longevity), I can only keep up the pretence of ageing for so long before it becomes obvious that I don’t. OK, you can believe that story. 

To be accurate, I have aged in years, just not in appearance, well, not since I was about thirty. Which is commonly more a curse, than a blessing. But I’m getting ahead of myself; this is the problem with over two centuries of memories, I have a tendency to wander off topic.

Indeed, an eventful day for a young girl, you would think. But it was the evening that was to prove somewhat more traumatic and, radically life-changing.

I retired early to bed that evening, complaining of a devilishly painful stomach. My father, having eaten and depleted the port decanter by some two-thirds, was already asleep before the fire. Mother, on the other hand, looked up from her embroidery with a sad smile as I exited the room.

As was customary, my maid Mary accompanied me to the bed chamber, then immediately bustled from the room, only to return at once bearing an armful of fresh towels.

‘Whatever do I need with all those towels, Mary?’

‘You have all the signs of it being your time, Miss,’ she said, touching me gently on my shoulder.

‘My time?’ I asked.

‘To become a woman, Miss. Has your mother not spoken to you of these things?’ My mother rarely spoke, particularly around my father.

I had no idea that ‘becoming a woman’ would involve such copious quantities of blood! It was quite fascinating how much there was, and for a while I became so transfixed with the process I almost forgot the cramping in my stomach, until the pain shocked me back to my senses.

‘Oh, my, Miss! I should get more towels.’ Mary said, again hastening from the room as I whimpered on the bed.

During Mary’s absence, I looked down between my legs and marvelled at the glistening red gore soaking into white towel. Then, all at once, it seemed the most natural thing to reach out and run my hand through the warm wet material, and as I marvelled at my scarlet hand I had the intense urge to thrust my fingers into my mouth. The taste! It was a faintly metallic, but with an overarching animal element, like well-hung game. My body was immediately infused with a tingling sensation; a hunger, desire, need, like pins and needles running in my veins, and I greedily devoured the remaining ichor from my hand as if it was left-over sugar from a favourite cake. I bent to try more but my body reacted violently and I threw up, staining my nightdress and further soiling the ruined towel.

‘Goodness, Miss. The first time is nearly always the worst, they say.’

‘First time?’ I croaked, wiping red tinged spittle from my lips. ‘This will happen again?’

‘Yes, Miss. It is the woman’s monthly curse.’

‘Monthly?’ I tried to sound appalled, but part of my mind held onto that taste, that sensation. Something fundamental had altered in my body, and although I didn’t realise at that moment, it was going to change me forever.

I know some of you are wrinkling your noses in disgust. How could she? That’s terrible, etcetera. Well, get a grip on yourselves. In many ancient cultures a woman’s monthly coming of blood was deemed sacred, bringing with it healing properties for those that consumed it. And if you think that’s bad, many of the same cultures fought over who would eat a new mother’s afterbirth, for its mystical and medicinal effects; which they thought came from the moon. You can see where the stories of Werewolves come from. And, no, they’re not real.

So, did I suddenly become a raging fiend, stalking the forests and turreted castles for the blood of virgins who, inexplicably, wandered outside dressed only in their nightwear? Of course not; you must stop watching those movies.

It was inevitably Mary, not Mother, who appraised me of the facts of life; first with some nonsense about birds and bees, before falling to coarser language, albeit in somewhat hushed tones. From that moment, Mary - who was only a few years older than me - became my confidant and I hers. We shared secrets and gossip, giggling in the servants quarters where I’d creep once my parents had retired for the night. There was, however, one secret she decided to keep from me. One which she kept to her grave.

Excuse me while I blow my nose. There, that’s better. A last glance in the mirror. yes, all good. I like to look smart, it helps to keep up the illusion.

My poor, dear Mary. It was one of the footmen that found her. She’d tied a rope from the stables around a branch of the old oak in the ten-acre pasture, slipped a hastily constructed noose around her neck and hanged herself. Father hastened to the tree, with me in anxious pursuit. He didn’t bother shielding me from the grisly scene upon our arrival, reasoning that I had seen enough death to render me immune. But this was Mary, my friend, the only person I could really talk to, and there she swayed, blood staining the legs of her stockings. I was inconsolable for days, nothing could relieve me of my misery.

During this time, as I lay in bed with my grief, I overheard the housekeeper and Mother’s lady conversing outside my bed chamber as they passed. They must have assumed that I was asleep, as they were talking quite plainly.

‘It would have been the Captain’s child, Mary said as much herself. Took her by force she said.’

‘I’m not surprised, he’s laid hands on me before now. I always try to be in the company of others if I’m around him.’

‘He’s not interested in me, I’m too old for the likes of him …’ The housekeeper spat a muffled curse.

‘Poor Mary. She thought she’d be thrown out into the street. But better that than what she did; God rest her soul.’ There was a stifled moan. ‘She’ll not be in heaven for doing such a wicked thing.’ She added as their voices receded down the landing.

My father’s child! I could scarcely believe such a thing, even of him. The new-found urgency in my blood, fired unconscious thoughts into my head, like firecrackers behind my eyes. I felt the tendons and muscles in my arms and legs quicken with potency. My body knew exactly what it wanted me to do but my conscious mind lagged behind, with terrible consequences.

It was not many days after my fourteenth birthday - the sweet flavour of strawberry jelly still ghosting my tastebuds - that my father came to my bed chamber in the night.

The first time I lay there in complete shock as he laboured above me, the intense pain playing second fiddle to the distress in my heart. My throat constricted around the scream it yearned for; I was unable to even breathe. For days I avoided him and sought comfort in my mother’s silence. But I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. I could only tell Mary, and she wasn’t there. I scrubbed myself raw, but the feelings of shame and guilt remained immune to my ministrations. I hated how it made me feel. I felt violated, dirty, invaded. What had I done to make him do that to me? I must have done something wrong. I wasn’t worthy to be alive. Perhaps I would find my own rope. My body tingled with a dark energy I didn’t understand.

For weeks I ate little and spent hours crying into my pillow. Even Mother became aware of the change in me, and whenever the servants fussed around, I often caught the housekeeper’s knowing look.

And, of course, he didn’t stop. The second time he was drunk, his port-sour breath fogging my face as he grunted in exertion. I tried to struggle, but his weight held me down and when I tried to cry out he clamped his sweaty hand across my mouth, all but suffocating me. Then it happened over and over again, each time I felt increasingly powerless to say or do anything. I became a lifeless vessel for his appalling twisted pleasure. Afterwards, buttoning up his flys, he would hiss a warning of silence and stagger out.

Mother, for I am sure she suspected, managed to contrive regular visits for me to cousins in London, in an effort to keep me from the house. How I was never with child at this time, I do not know. My blood had been regular ever since my first time, which I knew meant that my body was ready to bear new life, but it never did, and never has. 

And my urgent desire for that blood was equally as regular. I had taken to collecting some each month and secreting it into a vial I always kept about my person, to consume as I needed. 

An Aunt in Kensington offered to take me in so that I could study in London. She was a progressive sort and believed women had the right to use their brains as much as men did, albeit conceding that many men didn’t bother. Now in my seventeenth year, I had made use of many of my recent years reading in our library, at first to avoid my father, who spent most of his time drinking in his study, but then to do my own studying. I learnt of ancient history, myths and legends, physic, mathematics, botany and philosophy. It was an extensive library, much of which my father had inherited but rarely indulged in.

In the course of those first months in London, I began to notice changes in my person. My skin became flawless, while others of my age exploded in diverse skin conditions; I felt stronger; my eyesight and hearing became more acute, and I was able to distinguish the tiniest individual element in everything I tasted. But the most astonishing thing was I began to hear people’s thoughts. 

Yes, I know. How can that be possible? Well, don’t ask me, I haven’t a clue how it works. It just does. It’s not like voices in my head, or anything, it’s more suggestions that insinuate my consciousness. Like my other senses, it’s just there.

On one particular visit back home, this nascent ability suddenly blossomed. The moment I greeted Mother I knew that my father had been abusing her, I could feel it in her every unspoken word. And, Bess, the young housekeeper’s assistant, radiated the shame and fear of violation that I knew only too well. Mt blood fizzed in fury, and for the first time my brain caught up. The blood wanted me to kill my father. So I did.

Yes, this does sound blunt, but that’s what it was like. It was less a suggestion than an imperative.

I suspect you can see me using my bare teeth to rip open his neck and gorge on the arterial blood. More literary nonsense. Can you imagine how messy that would be? And hardly conducive to surviving the gallows. Plus, my teeth are much the same as yours, albeit not prone to decay. I haven’t got those mythical enlarged canines so beloved of horror writers and teenage vampire fantasy. I could hardly conceal my real identity if I look like a hybrid dog, and sound like I have a mouth full of boiled sweets every time I speak.

No, I poisoned him with daffodil bulbs (I did say I’d been studying). It was slow and painful, and, more importantly, undetectable in those days. But the greatest advantage was the physician called regularly to bleed my father believing he had an imbalance of humours. Thank goodness for modern medicine, I hear you cry. 

So, a little slight of hand, a subtle subconscious suggestion or two to the good doctor (yes, I can do that too), and I had a new supply of fresh blood. Drinking another’s life-force was a revelation; synapses popped in my head, my veins sang with ecstasy, my tongues danced with the flavours of alcohol and roast meats; the sourness, the sweetness and even the lingering effects of the deadly bulb, which had no harmful affect, but added an element of exciting danger to the experience.

It was easy after that.

Don’t ask me how many. Too many to count, but there were a few notable ones, and I am always careful to cover my tracks.

There was the doctor in Paris during the Revolution who was constantly abusing the whores in the St. Paul’s district; let me just say that when you cut off a penis there’s a lot of blood. A lot. 

And in London, Jack, of course. Well, not really Jack, but that’s another story. His butchering days were literally cut short by a sword I’d acquired from another army officer (English this time), who had a predilection for young girls and came to a sticky end, so to speak. Numerous male politicians, business owners, drug dealers, human traffickers, during the twentieth century. A woman who liked cutting other women into small pieces and feeding them to her dogs. A truly mad lawyer who bludgeoned to death three consecutive wives and hid them in the cellar, etcetera. All of them degenerates, murderers and rapists.

Do I enjoy the slaughter? I suppose so, but it’s just a means to an end. It’s the blood I crave, need, desire, but only from ones that deserve to die.

Ha! I hear you scoff, Some sort of immortal vigilante, I don’t believe a word.

It’s up to you, I can only tell it like it is.

Hold on.

‘Imogen. Can you see to the bloods for the patient in secure room 12, please? Broadmoor want him back in his cell as soon as possible.’

That’s Jenny, she’s my Sister, in a nursing sense rather than sibling sense, you understand. 

Right, I must get on, I’ve got a service to perform, and as a bonus the young prison officer guarding the room is coming home with me tonight, although he doesn’t know it yet. 

And, no, I won’t be killing him. 

I’m not a monster.