My neck didn’t hurt anymore. The wound seemed to have closed up much faster than expected, but I didn't want to lift the bandage to check. My stomach growled, a twisting feeling of hunger that felt almost painful at times. I was starving, without any exaggeration, but I couldn’t eat. I know I couldn’t, but I still tried. I had wasted my time pacing around the house in panicked circles, and now the hunger pangs he’d warned of were in full effect. Before I could deal with that I had to clean up.
The trash bag gave off a strong floral scent as I ripped open the box. I’m sure there was some perforated line in the cardboard that made for easy dispensing from under the sink, but I didn’t care enough to make the effort. Not that I had some plastic tub for cleaning supplies that I could put it in. That would make me feel more like a housewife searching for the small bits of control in a life that was no longer her own. I was close to becoming this woman. So close. A housewife with a bachelor's degree that she doesn’t use as she’s made taking care of her children her full-time job, her husband becoming her employer.
I feel like most people strive to be exceptional. To be the best at what they do and to make a name for themselves. But if that’s what everyone strives for then not everyone can achieve it. If everyone is exceptional, then no one is. And maybe that’s obvious, that for there to be winners there also have to be losers. And if there will always be people who end up as nothing but mediocre, maybe there’s no real point in trying. There will always be people who lack the motivation or don't have the time or resources to do more than just get through the day and then come home to get enough sleep at night just to get through the next one.
But from someone who put all their effort and energy into making sure they would never end up like that, coming to terms with the fact that you’ll probably never do anything of value in your life is quite a devastating yet humbling experience. Not everyone is cut out to become the best of the best, and it became clear I wasn’t even cut out for being mediocre. Reaching and reaching for this unattainable goal that’s always just out of reach. That’s how people break. And maybe I did break. It’s hard to remember now, back when the days all ran into each other in an endless train of monotony. Train car after train car, stretching as far as you could see in either direction, the occasional graffiti being the only thing to occupy your mind as you sit in your car, stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic with no way out.
Time feels so much longer the more you realize how confined you are. The longer you have to stare at that slow-moving train that just never ends, the more you consider just getting out of your car and abandoning it. Wherever you were headed, you're going to be late anyway.
But you can’t leave, no matter how much it feels like you’ll be stuck staring at that train forever. And maybe that’s what pushed me to let my mother finally have her chance to play matchmaker for her only daughter. An arranged marriage was my best shot for stability. Regular dating was completely off the table for me. I’d made my attempts with it and it was far too much of a hassle for me to contend with.
Maybe being in the driver’s seat isn’t what you wanted. Maybe sitting in the passenger seat would suit you better. Not having to pay attention to where you were going or having to stare at this stupid train until it moved out of the way. Just sit by until you reach your destination.
Why waste your time hunched over a desk only to lose it all to downsizing? This couldn’t have been a permanent job for you, right? It’s about time you settled down and had children. Just sit and look pretty. You have the face for it.
The house was quiet. The living room had only the bare essentials of a sofa set, a TV with a mess of wire that still needed to be hooked up, and a bookshelf with a few boxes next to it in need of unpacking. The entire house had felt too large. Too high ceilings, too wide door frames, too much space to fill. I couldn’t remember how many rooms there were, even as I walked through the hall to the master bedroom, but it felt like too many. It’s obvious why it felt that way after pulling the pathetic collection of items I could call my own from my room at my parent's small house. There was so much more I wanted to take but my mother had insisted I leave most of my things with her so as not to clutter up the new house.
I don’t think I’ll be going back for them. It was just junk. Another thing to connect me back to that fool I had been.
Just waiting for the stupid railway crossing sign to lift and let you continue on your journey.
And maybe that’s what led me to say yes to him of all people. Like everyone else, he seemed to be trying to move things along far too quickly. Yet his mannerisms being more on the strange side didn’t put me off like it probably should have. I had already come to this courtship dance with the intent of trying to scare him off. But the more I did the more it just seemed to endear him, and in turn, intrigued me.
Not to say I had fallen head-over-heels in love with him. I don’t think I’ve felt that way about any man, certainly not him. But he was tolerable. He was someone I could see myself living with. Someone to share a home and financial responsibilities with. Someone who would not be utterly bored or annoyed with me in a year. Someone to raise a child or two with to put up a show for the world. To show that I could play along with the expectations of society. Marriage, kids, a nice house with the white picket fence, a vacation once a year, family photos with smiles all around. Not domestic bliss per se, but domestic monotony that my mother had become accustomed to. The same domestic monotony she had claimed to be training me for by dumping half of the housework on me from the age of twelve. All while my brothers, both older than me I might add, rarely even did their own laundry.
I cautiously push open the bedroom door, barely pushing against it with the very tips of my fingers. I know that this ideal life has long since slipped through my fingers. About fourteen hours ago now, that idea officially died. When he died. Or was murdered, I guess? I didn’t mean to kill him, everything just sort of happened. And the more I think about it, the more I realize he brought this on to himself.
Actually, I think it was fourteen hours from the last time I thought to even glance at the time, which was in my car on the way back from the store with nothing but three rolls of black trash bags, a hatchet, and a plain bagel to see if I could still eat. I could not, as I found myself vomiting after two bites. Food had become entirely unappealing since the bite, but the feeling of hunger was still there. An almost ravenous hunger I hadn’t felt since middle school when I kept outgrowing my clothes often enough that my mother would have me shop in larger sizes so I could grow into my clothes instead of out of them.
It should have been more obvious how he never seemed to eat. I’d known the man for a few months now, I had more than a few chances to inquire about it. But seeing as we were never truly alone together I couldn’t linger on the thought for too long. I was already aware of what I needed to do to quell this hunger, but I’m sure I’d sooner cut off my own hand than drink it.
The time. It was maybe, I don’t know, maybe sixteen hours since then? Think of the time, or how cold it feels despite being the height of summer, or how you have to open this damn door at some point. The body will start to smell.
Two days ago I was engaged, a day ago I was married, and now I’m not. Or at least I think so. I would think it wouldn’t be easy to kill a vampire, but I somehow did. I’m not entirely sure how, like I said everything just happened. It’s different every time I try to remember. I’m still not entirely sure the man is dead. Maybe he’d spring from the ground after having the time to rest and recuperate.
And yet as the door finally creaked open, there he was, as still as I’d left him. Blood had pooled under him from his wound. A stab to the heart would have killed anyone, obviously. If he wasn’t a vampire, if he hadn’t bit me first, could I have still done it? Could I have still had the strength to stab a man in the chest and leave him for dead? Not just physical strength, but mental?
The sight of the blood made my stomach twist again. My mind felt clouded and saliva pooled in my mouth. I turned away and shook my head, hard, trying to clear it. I was craving it, I knew I was. His blood. It was less of a craving and more of a need, a primal urge I’d never felt before. It was worse that I knew I needed it. It made it so much harder to ignore.
Yes. I think I could have still done it. I would have had a reason to. Not tonight at least, but as the days of our marriage turned into weeks, weeks to months, months to years, I’m sure I would have found a reason. A good enough motive was all I would need. Biting me just sped up the process.
The time. Think of the time. Two days ago I was engaged, a day ago I was married, and now I’m not. I’d gone from bachelorette to widow in record time. My husband is dead. I killed him. It was the beginning of our honeymoon, and I killed my husband.
I dropped the bag and gripped the hatchet tightly. I stepped closer, more of a shuffle really, still poised to make a run for it in case the corpse who’d been motionless for hours decided to spring for my ankles. I stand over him now, my feet stopping just before the pooling blood, and raise the hatchet high above my head. An ax would have been better. A swift hit to the neck to separate the head from the body. That’s how you make sure a vampire stays dead, right? Of course–just like a stake to the heart–that would kill just about anyone.
But the hatchet stayed there, and my hands started to shake. My legs felt weak as though they wouldn’t hold me up for much longer. This was real. The body, the blood, the pangs of hunger, all real. The hunger. God, my stomach.
I looked away from him, only to catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Wild eyes and black hair escaped from a high bun. The hatchet over my head in trembling hands. A figure poised to kill.
This was real. There was no going back. No hope for a normal life. I could either let myself waste away in this staged house, or feed now and get it over with. Vampire blood. You needed to drink it to complete the transformation, or so he’d said.
Just drink it. Or feed, I suppose. There's no reversing this. What use is there in delaying the inevitable?
My foot tapped his head, nudging it for any signs of life. Any reflexes, any twitching. Nothing. I gave it a swift kick for good measure. Still nothing. He wasn’t getting back up.
I lowered the hatchet and straightened up. I felt it slip from my limp hand and fall to the floor, a loud clatter that rang through the silent house. I stood still as I let the sound ring out, and remained motionless until it returned to quiet. Although now it didn’t feel nearly as quiet as before. The sounds of the night seeping in the window, my labored breaths, my heartbeat drumming in my ears. How long had I been so out of breath?
I slowly lowered myself, careful not to let my shaking knees buckle under me. In a moment the hunger would be gone.
```
Driving with sunglasses wasn’t anything new. I always had a pair or two just sort of lying around for that very purpose. The evening light was a pain to drive through but I had a lot of ground to cover.
The sunlight hurt my eyes but didn’t burn me outright. I had partially expected to spontaneously combust as soon as the light touched me, and entirely expected for it to hurt like hell. It did sting a bit, like I could feel a sunburn coming on. I don’t I’ve ever really been sunburnt. The worst of it was getting a shade or two darker in the summer. Maybe it was some comfort to know that sunlight might not be a complete death sentence, but still something to avoid.
The small amount of vampire lore that I had absorbed in my life was all I had to go off of, and my transformation already didn’t fit my expectations. And even then I wasn’t really big on the genre, everything I had to go on was from cultural osmosis and skimming through Bram Stoker’s Dracula for a paper in college. It certainly didn’t help that my only guide for this process was dead.
And maybe I did mean to kill him. I had gone to such great lengths to leave no evidence. I think that someone who put in the effort to hack up a body and spend the night scattering the pieces around town wouldn’t be considered very remorseful. Sure he had his own horrible plans, but what right do I have to be judge, jury, and executioner?
Had I wanted him dead? In that instance, yes. And now looking back, even more so. It was a moment of anger. Anger that had sat and built for years now. Anger that would have kept building until I exploded onto someone else. Maybe it’s for the best it was him.
I feel strangely calm. A sense of calm I haven’t felt since– well I’m not sure when. When I turned in my last paper in college? Or the night with Miriam before her own wedding? Or back when I was a child and spent my summers reading nonstop until my mother forced me to go outside?
No, I don't think I’ve ever felt this sort of calm. I had just committed a murder and I haven’t got a care in the world. I have no idea where I’m going or what my plan will be from here. I’m driving just to drive at this point. I’d slept in the car for the past few days, tucked away under a quilt as my only protection from the sun. Sleeping during the day was a surprisingly easy adjustment. I just went to sleep when I was tired, which now fell between early morning and evening, sometimes until past dusk.
A man was dead because of me and here I was, no sense of worry or dread or even guilt. The small panic I’d felt on how I would possibly cover this up had long since dissipated. He had done the hard work for me. All anyone knows is that we’re honeymooning. No one knows where. “It’s more romantic that way, don’t you think?” he’d said. No one to check up on us.
They’d look for us soon, wanting to hear something back. Or at least I think they would. I wondered when either of us would be reported missing. Maybe never. Maybe we would soon be forgotten, assumed to be building a new life for us where no one knows us. I know I probably wouldn’t have cared much if someone I knew just up and left without much explanation. I had already had my fair share of friends who had gone radio silent after having a baby.
No one checking in would be for the best. And probably what he had wanted all along. He thought I was weak and desperate and stupid. And maybe I had been desperate. I had definitely been stupid. I could never have predicted “vampire”, but the man was giving off truly rancid vibes that I had been thoroughly ignoring. But who was I to judge? I hardly knew a thing about men. They were strangers you weren’t allowed to be friends with or even talk to, and then one day you married one.
He had expected someone who silently went along with his whim without question. To be someone to keep him company in
But I had not been weak. And that was his downfall. He hadn’t expected a fight.
He. I keep referring to him like this, playing the pronoun game even in my head. Maybe it’s for the best. He was dead and buried. Best to forget him. The last thing I was going to give him was the satisfaction of knowing he got to me. Even in death.