Born Again
I. Memory.
When I was a girl, I used to play in the forest in summer. The forest was just what we called a pine copse near home: I went there and ran on their fallen needles until exhausted. I imagined I was in a space, and the pine canopy was the dome of a city.
When nobody looked, I liked to go a bit beyond the forest, to the railroad. It was an adrenaline rush, because it was forgotten. And of course, it was my favourite place. I stepped on one of the rails, and walked down the line, my arms extended, keeping my balance. One step, two steps, three. When I got as far as I dared, I changed tracks (oh, how I laughed every time I said it out loud) and came back on the other rail. Each day I reached a little bit further, pushing my limits, always watching my reflection on the polished surface of the rail, while my skin felt the warmth of the sun. I listened, trembling, waiting for the telltale whistle that would tell me a train was arriving, and would force me to jump off and run home, my heart thumping wildly.
Now I cannot walk under the sun, and I have no reflection.
II. Lament.
You cannot remember the day you were born, beyond a certain shapeless fear of light after the soothing darkness, but I remember the day I was reborn. I wish I could, but I cannot forget the party. It was one of those wild raves I had always heard about but never dared to attend. Obviously, I was thrilled. It had been years since I had felt the same adrenaline rush, back on the railroad. There was the promise of forbidden dances, music and drinks.
It was all that and more. Much more.
I drank. Not really a lot, but I had never been a drinker, so it certainly hit me. Heavily. Rotating floodlights illuminated the dance floor (no more than an abandoned factory warehouse) with intersecting laser beams cutting bodies, now in halfs, now in chequered patterns. My heart synchronized with the beating rhythm of the music.
I could feel the blood in my veins, pulsing wildly.
I was not the only one who could.
I recall his eyes. They attracted me immediately. Among the sea of a myriad sweating, swinging bodies that changed and metamorphosed, his eyes were an anchor. They stopped me. He swept me, and I saw the light of past lives in those eyes. I recall his embrace, his movements directing mine, and his mouth, and my own dizziness.
I recall his impossibly long fangs, whiter than any white I had ever seen.
And then came the spike of pain in my neck, followed by pleasure.
Reborn.
III. Resolution.
That was two years ago. Two years, three months and five days, to be precise. I can give you the hours as well.
Life has been hell since. Some of us adapt, some others… just cannot. I’ve been thinking about it, and I’ve reached the conclusion that you need to be a bad person in order to accept what you become. I was always kind of a rogue, but I never considered myself evil.
I felt the surge of power, but it scared me. And then came the craving, the everlasting hunger. Your body pushing you to do things you don’t want to. I had always been basically a happy person, and I was shown guilt, and pain, and remorse.
And so I made my mind, and here I am. As I walk down the rails in the receding moonlight, I recall everything. I allow myself to feel happy just one last time, when I see the first sunbeams over the remote mountain peaks.
~~~~
This is my entry for the Weekly Writing Exercise: March 8–13, 2016 on the Writer’s Discussion Group in Google+.
I loved this week’s entry. My friend Anna Harte dared me last week to write the following story in her style, which she defines in her site as dark speculative fiction. For a moment I was tempted to answer that it would depend on the prompt, but then I thought, what the hell, let’s do it anyway.
And we got the prompt above. Which didn’t remind me of dark or speculative at all!
So I worked on it, because I’ve learned that’s how writing goes, and this is my story this week. I hope it’s dark enough. Anna liked it!
