The following prompter was provided;

Write a story using the following components:
1) A Blind Female Vampire
2) A Bottle of Vodka
3) A River.

Title; Blood's Lament

As the moon reaches its zenith above Chicago's River East district, Denise de Frontiac can feel its presence. She can hear the moonlight, smell it's radiance. But for the 53rd night in a row, she can not see it.

She stands five foot ten inches, slight of build, her long black hair reaching the middle of her back. Though she can not see it, every other sense tells her she stands overlooking the river. Dressed in black to blend with the night, she slowly gropes her way to the riverbank where she can sit to consider her situation once again.

Has it really been one hundred and eighteen years? Was it the time that made her careless? Or was it the man she met that evening? No, she could not possibly become enamored with her food, for that was all he was, food. Yet, she did not take his life when she had ample opportunity during the evening. She did not take his life that night. She did not even take his life's blood as the dawn approached. No, she lingered with him, beyond any time that was safe for her. Then, before she could return to her sanctuary, she managed to catch only the slimmest glimpse of the morning sun's light. That was enough.

Where once her eyes drank in the world, empty sockets sit serving no purpose at all. Well, not quite empty. But what resides there is useless just the same. And every night she goes without the ability to see, is another night closer to being discovered. And with that discovery, she is acutely aware, her destruction will follow.

Perhaps it was that he reminded her so much of Marcel. Marcel who could make her laugh when she was sad. Marcel who could make her feel loved when she hated herself. Marcel who was her dearest friend for all of her, living, life. Marcel who was her first victim when she was changed. She never forgave Valentin for doing that to her.

"He must be your first victim." Valentin told her. "Or you will never be truly separated from those who live by the day."

"But I love him. I cannot do this." She cried. "I cannot!"

"You must!" He responded. "Or you can simply step back into that grave and stay there for all eternity.

"It is the only way you can free yourself of your previous life. You must do this if you are to step into the life of the night and be fully on your own! It is the only way."

In the end she gave in to her hunger and took Marcel as her first victim. She remembered the surge of power she felt as she subdued him. He fought valiantly, yet vainly. She remembered the feeling of lust as she opened her mouth, fangs extended, over his soft exposed throat. She remembered the ecstasy she experienced as the warm saline flavor of his life's blood crossed her tongue and filled her belly. She remembered the heady feeling as his life passed in her arms and she finished devouring his soul in her bloodlust. No other victim had ever given her such a surge, such a high since the night she took Marcel.

And now she is forced to wander the River East, among the dregs of society, because a victim reminded her of Marcel. And remembering Marcel she let sentimentality give her pause. He was food, and she treated him as an equal.

How could she be so foolish?

She who once strolled the Seine River by moonlight, selecting victims from among the lonely who had lost their loves or the artists who would never appear in a gallery, from among the young fools who came to Paris with visions of riches, only to find reality. She, who once dined upon people of distinction, was now reduced to this. The River East in Chicago. They call them the homeless today. She remembers what they really are. They are derelicts; they are good for nothing, not even food. Yet she travels among them forced to do the same as they, ravage among the garbage to find a meal.

She feels the item she is carrying. She can feel its hard smoothness under the irregular shape and texture of the paper bag that surrounds it. She pulls it out and runs her hands over it. A glass bottle, about the size of a quart. She unscrews the top and tastes the contents so she will know what to tell her next victim.

She quickly spits it out. Vodka!

She, Denise de Frontiac, a well known patron of the Moulin Rouge, seen many times sharing a cognac with Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, the funny little artist who hated people, and dancing all night on the floor afterward, must now drink the leavings of potato peels. Oh what she would give to enjoy another glass of cognac.

The smell of male interrupts her thoughts. The breeze is light, so she can only sense that he is somewhere close. She puts her bait back in the paper bag and starts working her way up river to where the smell of man is taking her.

She always prefers a male victim to female. The feeling of power it yields her is always too appetizing to pass up. She never feels the power with a female victim. Nor when the victim is too young. No, the heady feeling of power is always at its best with a man, especially a man in his prime. Sometimes, with a very strong man the euphoria will last until she is in her sanctuary, bedded down for the day.

There is, however, no euphoria among these victims found along the riverbank. It is all she can do to gather the desire to take a victim from among these itinerants. She takes them because she needs to. There is no desire in her. Were it not for the dangers of allowing her hunger to go unsatiated she would not hunt among these riffraff at all. But her hunger unfulfilled will finally lead her to attack any human that moves within her vicinity, and such an event will be disastrous for her. It will almost certainly mean discovery. And then the end of her. No, she must continue take her victims from among these rejects. She has no choice.

As she nears the man she can feel her insides begin to reel as her senses acquire him. The smell of him assaults her. His sounds are abhorrent. Her skin crawls at the thought of his touch. She stops for a moment and steels herself for the coming encounter. She moves close to him slowly and softly, as if she were just out for a stroll along the riverbank, not even aware of his presence.

She stops a mere arm's length from him. She seats herself on the bank and pretends to stare out at the river. She can sense a barge headed up river. The smell of the strong working class men fills her with a desire and blood lust she hasn't felt in nearly two months. She craves the life's blood of those hard-working, sweaty, men on the tug pushing its charge toward a port, who knows where, on Lake Michigan. As the barge recedes from her senses she is engulfed once again by the aroma of her intended victim.

"Tain't sharin' none-o-what's mine. Jest move on. This here's my spot." He tells her.

She swallows hard and turns around. "I'm sorry, I did not notice you there in the dark."

"'smy spot. Go away!" He says.

"I said I was sorry. But I have a quart of Vodka, I can make this intrusion up to you." She says swallowing hard.

"Yew wouldtn't be snaking me wouldja?" He snaps.

"Not at all. I have a full pint of vodka. And if you've forgotten what it is like to be a man, I can be a woman for you too." She manages to choke out.

"I tain't been wit-o woman in so long…" he says.

"Whar's dat Vodker?" He snaps suddenly.

She holds the bottle out to him.

He snatches it away from her and quickly unstopping it. He tips his head back taking a long pull from the bottle. When he finishes his gulp he extends the bottle back to her. "Jew twern't lyin' isss the real stuff."

She takes the bottle from him. Now she has two reasons for not wanting to drink the wretched liquid. Yet she needs his confidence to wrap him in her embrace. She purses her lips and tips her head back. She allows none of the despicable fluid to cross her tongue. She will swallow not a drop of it. She hands the bottle back and sits close to him.

He takes another long pull from the bottle. She shrugs when he offers it to her. So he takes another drink. The vodka is beginning to have its effect on him and she leans close to him, feeling his body and its positions. She carefully orients herself to him so she can make her move. Need and instinct extend her fangs, sheer drive of willpower draws her mouth onto his exposed throat. She almost gags at the taste of his exposed skin. She holds him firmly as she sinks her fangs into his jugular and begins to drink his life into herself.

"Dwacha doin'?" Are his last words.

She feels his passing as she takes his life into hers. She releases her grip on him and finishes sucking the warm saline fluid from him. She pulls herself away from his neck quickly. She produces a kerchief and quickly wipes her mouth clean of him. She puts the pocket kerchief away and pulls out her tool.

She carefully lays out his body on its back, then feels his face. She works her hands up his cheeks and feels for his eye sockets. Then she feels along the side of his face and inserts her tool. The eyeball comes out with an extended sucking, popping sound. Then she removes the other. She then repeats the procedure on herself and places his eyes in her sockets. She puts the useless ones into his sockets. Having no further use for him, she rolls his lifeless body into the river.

She searches his hovel for anything that could be of use to her. She is ready to give up when she finds it. It is a tall bottle, a fifth she thinks, or maybe a wine bottle. She puts it in her carry bag.

In the darkness she silently walks back to her sanctuary.

She beds herself down for yet another day in River East. When she rises again she will know if she has found a match this night.

As the moon reaches its zenith above Chicago's River East district, Denise de Frontiac can feel its presence. She can hear the moonlight, smell it's radiance. But for the 54th night in a row, she can not see it.

In despair she realizes that she will have to hunt this ghetto once again.

{1,861 words}

[Back]