The Black House

Oh, how I love The Black House it captivates me, fun and debauchery abound, a den of indulgence and excitement. Every Friday I find myself drawn here, and my dastardly actions always go unheeded until I have had my fun and I’m well gone, then there is all hell to pay, I have left chaos in my wake. I am nestled as usual in a secluded corner, my little nook, where I secrete myself with a book until an interesting or exotic bird of the female persuasion catches my eye. I never actually read the book, but I find if you frequent any bar book in hand you can enjoy a reasonable amount of time in relative peace except for a few snorts of derision now and again, they just assume you are nerdy and have no social skills, but little do they know that I possess both a passion for literature and the ability to engage when I can be bothered, the desire rarely crops up.

I plan to accumulate a choice of whiskies, so I can survey my prey without showing my hand too early and I can surreptitiously survey the room. The bartender is used to my appearance so doesn’t flinch at my pale skin anymore and is happy with my custom as the whiskies don’t come cheap here. He doesn’t even attempt the petty small talk just takes my money and nods. We have a little arrangement, a mutual understanding, where if I identify something or someone of interest, I let him know and he, in turn, lets me know what the object of my desire’s chosen tipple is and he shares with me the preferred drink of my target. I often wonder if he knows exactly what I am up to, but if so, he never lets on.

If I just wanted sex, engaging solely in sexual encounters, it would be so much easier, as that’s what a lot of people come here for. However, I have a distinct craving for blood, its pulsating, pumping, flowing, essence. The exhibitionist in me needs the little scare that this time I just might be caught, ah the extra thrill of fellow drinkers breezing by as I indulge my taste buds. I have been known to get too excited and must retire to my little nook to remove the skin from my fangs to ensure they are still in pristine condition and replace their covering veneers. No, before you ask, I am not a vampire, I paid a fortune in dental work to get my fangs, to achieve my desired appearance. I will not die if I don’t get to satisfy my cravings, merely languish and fester in boredom, and misery .

Ah, there she is, an interesting, nice and petite woman. I used to believe that bigger women, big-boned girls, that their size would enhance flavor, make it meatier and tangier, but I was mistaken. All that excess fat and flavor only gets in the way of the pure delight of the blood. I tend not to waste my time, so I catch the bartender's attention to make sure he is aware of what she is drinking. How ironic that she's having a Bloody Mary, a drink I love. I gesture for the bartender to pour me a double Bloody Mary and it’s sent over, I pop in my little pill and am ready to go. It simply makes them a bit drowsy. I’m not doing any harm, but they never have the will or energy after partaking to stop my suckling, ensuring they will not resist my advances. They’ll explain away and rationalize any marks or cuts in the morning thinking the sex got a wee bit energetic and will be too ashamed to mention to anyone a one-night stand or as I find it much nicer to say, a fleeting romance.

She gracefully and gratefully accepts my offering, and together we retreat to my secluded spot. The bite she inflicts on my neck and the lump she takes out of it is sure to leave a leave a lasting mark that will undoubtedly become a permanent scar. The intensity of her sinking her teeth into my neck excruciating, and those fangs are absolutely real, it’s impossible to deny their authenticity. As I let out a terrified yelp, the bartender, seemingly amused by my distress, adds a small pill to my whisky as a gesture of kindness, although I can't help but feel unworthy of such mercy after what I did to his niece on his night off. I never intended to cause real harm, unbeknownst to me, I inadvertently ended her life, mistaking her stillness being from the effect of the pill like countless others I had met before. Now, her lifeless body lies in the cold, unforgiving and unyielding morgue. The specter of Revenge, as always, is on the menu and lingers, hanging heavily in the atmosphere and air of The Black House.

I can feel my inert and lifeless body being lifted and thrown onto a cart, I am fully aware that my ultimate fate lies within the morgue. I find myself positioned next to the bartenders niece; and apart from the marks and bruises on her neck, she retains a certain beauty I almost feel like partaking of her juices again and indulging in her essence once more. However, I suspect that her vitality has long since faded, making my lifeless form incapable of deriving any pleasure from it. I had hoped that my assailant might leave me to wander the earth forever more with real fangs this time but not a chance, I wasn’t that fortunate, she decided to finish me off and bring my existence to a permanent close.

I find it perplexing that the bartenders niece, whose name I need to inquire about, is smiling at me despite being in a similarly unfortunate situation, albeit appearing far more attractive. Are we destined to spend time in the afterlife together forever more.

I burst into laughter when I muster the courage to ask the question, and she responds, "Mary, my name is Mary."  

#reedsybewitched