Bring Me to Life

by Scarlett Parrish

  "Not gonna happen," I mutter, pulling my hands out of my pockets as I advance, all pretence of nonchalance gone.

  "Oh shit," the woman mutters, and she gasps in shock when her attacker shakes her by the throat.

  "For Christ's sake..."

  "Funny how people always invoke his name when I show up," I comment. "He's the last person you'd want to meet."

  "And what are you? An avenging angel?"

  I laugh under my non-existent breath. Angel, indeed. Hardly the worst thing I've ever been accused of being. "Her knight in shining armour." I nod at the woman, who's ceased trying to fight.

  Her attacker still has his hand on her, but his grip evidently leaves enough room for her to breathe, and she looks on with interest.

  "How romantic. Anyone would think---"

  "I'm not really one for allowing this to go on. You know, all this against-her-will nonsense. Rather gives us undead types a bad reputation, you know? I mean, I know we're legal now, but---"

  "Yeah, as long as we're registered."

  Ah, he's one of those. A vampire with a grudge and, most likely, a superiority complex.

  Why should we bother registering with human organisations? We shouldn't have to fill in stupid paperwork to exercise our right to exist. It's one step from registration to demands to show our papers to some government jobsworth.

  "We're legal now, but, " I go on, "there are still some people who aren't enamoured of us. For instance." Again, I nod at his chosen companion for the evening. "I hear there are some mortals out there, puny humans, who have issues with non- consent."

  "Imagine."

  "Look." The woman's voice emerges as a helpless whimper. "Just let me go, and you two can have it out between you---"

  "Exactly my plan," I assure her.

  "But not mine. You don't get to act as judge, jury, and executioner just because I've learned to accept what I am, even if you haven't."

  If I had a heartbeat, it would stop at those words. Words so similar to what someone else used to say long, long ago when I was still alive that something inside me, the remnant of whatever makes me human, shivers. And the chill of hearing them again, even from a different person and phrased in a slightly different way, spurs me to action.

  He slams up against the wall, and I hear the thud, his grunt of attempted speech, before seeing my hand on his throat. Mirroring the chokehold in which he'd held the nameless young woman who now cowers, some distance from us. Cowering when she should be running.

  I thought earlier that no human would be able to take me on, even if they came armed. Now I knew no vampire would be able to overpower me either. Not when he'd uttered words that made me angry and something else at the same time.

  I watch him, feel him move, but the casual nature of those oh-so-familiar words lend me just the edge I need to keep him under control. In a split second, I realise familiarity is what's caused my rage. I've been here before. I'm there again. Back then.

  "Are you still here?" I ask, turning only my head in the direction of the third party. My body still faces this other vampire I plan to deal with.

  And I don't think she'd want to witness it. It's polite to check, at least.

  "What are you going to do to me?"

  "Nothing, if you get the hell away from us and thank your lucky stars that it was me passing by this evening."

  "Maybe I should start carrying garlic with me," she mutters, hauling herself to her feet and smoothing down her clothes.

  I'm about to speak, but the other vampire does so for me, even with my hand clawed around his throat.

  "Not that old chestnut." Even overpowered and held against the wall, he's still unrepentantly scornful, his voice holding that note of disdain he no doubt directs at anyone human. Perhaps he envies them that which he once had. More and more, he reminds me of someone I don't want to think of. "Garlic. " He says it with all the contempt normally imbued in the words "bitch, please," and I wonder how many years, how many decades, he's had in which to develop such dislike of humanity.

  "It doesn't work," I throw over my shoulder.

  "You should read and re-read H.M. Government's Handbook for Undead Social Integr---" But a preparatory intake of breath and echoing, fading footsteps tell me it's no use. She's gone---thank God, if He's listening---and we are, at last, alone.

  "So," I say, studying the other vampire more closely.

  "What are you gonna do now?" He speaks without fear. Without apparent fear, anyway. He may well be masking worry, and admirably so. His upper lip curls in defiance, in contempt.

  "I'm feeling rather thirsty."

  "Oh, shit."

  Yes, definitely hiding his fear, but the wall he's constructed crumbles as soon as he realises with whom he's confronted---a vampire who hasn't drunk in far too long. I turned down Alyssa because she's been ill. The blood of a convalescent would have no ill effects, on me at least. It'd be a tad sweeter than usual, but it would keep me going. Alyssa, on the other hand, would weaken further. Simply not an option if I had anything to do with it.

  "You might change your stance on drinking without consent after this," I murmur. A ripple of conscience tells me I shouldn't return like for like; he didn't actually drink from that woman. Then again, he intended to, and the only thing that stopped him was my intervention.

  Doing to this vampire what he threatened to do to her only serves to make me just like him, surely? As bad as him?

  But dead or alive or somewhere in between, I'm still a man, and I still have needs. His Adam's apple bobs in anticipation of what's to come, and I contemplate tearing his skin. I come oh-so-close to brutality, but something holds me back.

  Even when my fangs extend and push through his skin slowly, as gently as a lover, something holds me back. He drank recently, I can tell. His blood, the blood of the person or persons from whom he drank, still holds some warmth. And it's enough to give me strength. He weakens, his struggles fading, as I'm revitalised.

  And thank God, but not only do I have strength, but self-control too. I don't tear at his flesh, only taking what I need. I don't do anything but withdraw once I've drunk my fill, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand as he slumps to the floor in a mesmerised heap.

  Fucking drama queen, I think. I didn't take enough to weaken you that much.

  It's my turn to sneer in contempt now. He'll be lightheaded, not wiped out. A live human being might occasionally feel tipsy after donating blood, but a fellow member of the undead can take it.

  They'd be mighty pissed off unless they offered themselves willingly, but they can take it.

  I know I stopped before causing this nameless vampire any lasting harm. I just don't want to look at him any more. He's served his purpose, and all I can do is turn my back and walk away, knowing--- and herein lies the pun---life goes on for both of us.

  See, Adam? I say to myself, to my own past.

  I'm not like you at all.

  Chapter 3

  I LIVE, IF ONE CAN CALL IT THAT, in a sparsely-furnished basement flat that doesn't even contain a bed. There's a saying humans like to bandy about when aspiring to feats of greatness, when scorning the need for repose: "I'll sleep when I'm dead."

  Well, I'm dead, and therefore able to confirm: you might sleep when you're dead, but if you're unlucky enough to get only halfway there, you'll be awake forever.

  Oh, it's like breathing, really. Possible, but unnecessary, and often a waste of time. Sleep has restorative qualities, but it takes a lot to get a vampire to the stage where he needs to be restored while unconscious.

  So I spend my spare time---of which I have a lot---sheltered from the daylight behind blackout blinds on every window, reading. During the night, I spend time with Alyssa; I believe the term is "socialising," a word that makes me shudder with distaste. I've never been what one could call a gregarious vampire. When I was human, maybe so, but things were different then.

  Artificial light causes me no harm. I use a dim corner lamp now, just enough to cas
t a circle of illumination on whatever book I happen to be reading at the moment. Lately, I've favoured French novels, though translated into my mother t o ngue : The Count of Monte Cristo, Les Miserables, Les Liaisons Dangereuses.

  A while back ("while" perhaps having a different meaning to someone who has the potential to live forever), I had a dalliance with a librarian.

  Male. Tall, slender, a shaved head and designer stubble. We'd talked about books in between doing other things. "I prefer Russian novels," he'd said. "Everyone dies in the end. Much more true to life."

  Life imitating art.

  I decided not to be the one to bring his story to a close; I never did have a taste for cold- blooded murder. There are ways and means to get rid of the evidence, pass the buck onto someone else, make people forget what they think they saw, but it's all too much bother, and I'm one of those undead unfortunates cursed with a conscience.

  I'm not sure he was too enamoured of the age- old, "It's not you, it's me," excuse I used. I had to underline it with, "No, really. It is me. I might kill you."

  It was a lie; I don't accidentally kill anyone. I just had to make him think I might.

  Being part of a couple isn't something I'm good at. I don't do relationships. With mortal humans, they inevitably ask for more. Just out of curiosity at first. The questions come. "What's it like being a vampire?" becomes "Just out of interest, have you ever transformed someone?" becomes the inevitable death-knell for our liaison, "What if I said I wanted to be a vampire too?"

  The obvious solution would be to seek out one of my own kind, but no.

  Just no.

  I make do with Alyssa and, to a lesser degree, one or two others, who satisfy my need for human companionship and yes, yes, all right, my need for blood too. As long as they consent from a position of health and sanity, that's good enough for me.

  Other needs? Well...

  It's just as well I'm not epileptic and that I don't suffer from migraines. The music's loud enough as I walk into the bar, but combined with neon swirls on the wall, their light bouncing off the mirrors behind the bar, I'd be in trouble if I were prone to such illnesses.

  The things I do. The things I'm driven to.

  Guilt and shame crawl over my skin like insects I can't shake off. Alyssa always tells me there no need for either, but she can't possibly understand. Being a child of the eighties, she's never lived in a time when being like me was something to hide.

  Hell, in a way, it brought me a death sentence.

  I take a deep breath, even though I don't need to. It's habit. A way of bracing myself for the ordeal ahead.

  Enough of the angst; you're a walking, talking cliché. You're a supernatural being in your still-human form and have the potential to live forever. What's the problem?

  It must be written all over my face. The barman sidles over as soon as I take a seat.

  "You look like a fish out of water tonight, Nathan. Mind, you look like a fish out of water every time you come here." Mark shrugs. "Makes me wonder why you bother," he adds with a cheeky grin.

  "Are you trying to talk yourself out of my custom?"

  "You never buy anything anyway, so who cares?"

  "I bloody do, " I insist, before adding quietly, "sometimes."

  Mark grins. "Looking for anything in particular? Any one?"

  I can never work out if he's flirting, or if this is just his barman shtick, designed to put patrons at ease, make sure they keep coming back. Not that I'm much of a customer anyway; he said I never buy anything, and he's nearly right. I'm usually too jittery to stay much longer than an hour or so, unless there's someone I know here, or a barman like him to chat to. He knows I'm a vampire. The only times I've drunk something he's offered, it's come in a glass or a bottle, not an artery.

  "Maybe I can get you something on the house."

  I raise my head sharply; he'd offered me drinks gratis before, but there was a note of teasing in his words this time. He's not even looking at me, but he nods at something over my left shoulder, and I turn to look.

  Sean hovers near the wall across the room, the angle and contours of a decorative column casting the upper half of his face into shadow. I still recognise him though, the shape of his jaw, his stance. One hand in his jeans pocket, the other curled around a glass. He raises it in salute before draining it and setting it down on a nearby table.

  I turn back to Mark, but he's moved on to someone else farther along the bar, either to flirt or serve. Possibly both. He catches my eye for a split second, winks, and I'm forgotten.

  "Hey."

  Sometimes, I long for the days of, "Good evening," or "Mind if I join you?" but people call me old-fashioned for that. Alyssa makes fun. Or even "takes the piss" as she calls it---I still can't get used to the vulgarity of women swearing these days. Indeed, even men do it far too much for my liking, and it's a habit I'm prone to picking up myself, despite attempts to resist.

  Sean takes the seat next to mine and leans on the bar, his other hand resting on his knee, occasionally finger-tapping it as if he's nervous.

  "Fancy seeing you here," he continues.

  "Just felt like getting out of the house." I shrug but know my fake casualness doesn't fool anyone.

  Last night, I'd headed straight home after drinking from that nameless vampire, slightly ashamed but at least with a satisfied thirst. My own company got to me; I could only take so much of sitting in an armchair reading Les Miserables before going mad. So here I am, in a corpse-friendly bar being chatted up, I believe is the phrase, by a...oh, how I despise this nickname...a previous fuck-buddy.

  "You thirsty tonight?" He's not talking about beer.

  "Not really." I stare down at the scuffed wooden bar, wondering why I bothered coming here in the first place. A furtive wank and shame- filled afterglow would have the same effect as being with Sean, only with less preamble.

  "Fancy going outside?"

  Okay, forget the preamble then. This, I can deal with. I lift my head and must look some kind of surprised, because Sean laughs.

  "Well, if you're not thirsty..." He shrugs, looking away for a moment, his eyes losing focus.

  "What else are you here for?"

  Yeah, but with you, though? I want to ask, immediately regretting my inner cruelty. He could be anyone; it's not his fault I hate my life and almost everyone in it. He could be anyone indeed.

  "Boredom." I shrug, wondering if that inner cruelty has bled into my voice. Wondering if I care. "Needing to get out of the house."

  Sean bites his lip, narrows his eyes. I know exactly what he's thinking of. He's just uncertain of whether or not to voice it. How to phrase the proposition.

  And I hop off the barstool, deciding to atone for my, albeit hidden, malice by saying it for him. I keep my eyes on him so he knows the fact that I head for the door isn't a deliberate snub. "Aren't you coming?"

  No, he's not.

  Sean's on his knees in an alleyway somewhere near the bar we've just left. I don't know how we got here, but it's surely only taken a couple of minutes to find a semi-secluded place for him to suck me off.

  I don't need to wear this long coat or the scarf; I don't feel the cold after all. But the folds of the coat mean if anyone does stumble this way, at least Sean won't immediately be identified.

  Someone walking in on us wouldn't have time to put a name to his face before turning away in shock and embarrassment, muttering an inarticulate apology for having disturbed us. It's happened before. One gets used to it. The simple solution would be take him back to my place, but that's an intimacy too far.

  I won't let him into my flat, but I will let him suck my cock. He's so good at it, after all.

  Enthusiastic. And the guy's got no fucking gag reflex. My balls practically hit off his chin as he swallows another couple of inches. I'd think he was trying to eat me alive if I weren't already dead.

  "Oh fuck." It takes a few seconds for me to realise it was me who spoke. And my fingers tangle in his hair, holdin
g him in place. Not that he'd dare move away or stop before I finish, but it's automatic. A couple more flicks of his tongue is all it takes to make me shoot my wad down the back of his throat. A word of exclamation or relief catches at the back of mine. It doesn't make it.

  As soon as I lift my hand away from the back of his--- Sean's. Fuck. I can do him the courtesy of using his name---head, he hauls himself to his feet. By the time he makes a show of wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, I'm already doing up my belt.

  "Thanks." Ingrained politeness makes me say something, but it comes out wrong. Thanking someone for a blow job seems like the right thing to do, but it's also the perfect way to silently add, you whore. "That was..." And I give up. Fuck it; there's no point. If Sean was that offended at my post-cocksucking etiquette, he wouldn't come back for more. I say thanks, I never reciprocate, that's the way it goes.

  Well, what man would let a guy with fangs suck him off?

  Unless we were talking about two vampires; they'd be on a more equal footing then.

  I shake my head and push myself away from the wall, only then, as always, recognising how sleazy this all is. The desire, the denial, the speed of it all. That's the only part I enjoy, really---how fast it all happens. I get off quickly so I can slink off home and feel dirty in private.

  "I'll see you around, then?" Sean shoves his hands back in his jeans pockets, waiting for the payment of approval, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He won't go until I've tossed him compliments as coins.

  "Yeah. Soon." Adjusting the unnecessary scarf, I half-turn away, listening for the sound of his footsteps scampering back to the bar. I wonder if he'll find someone else who's a bit more giving than I am, then I realise I don't particularly care. It wouldn't be cheating if he did; we have an understanding, and if it means a third party takes him off my hands, well, I'll find somewhere else to stick my dick.