Sunday Morning Addiction

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic
Cameron's not your average teen. He has a wicked addiction. For blood, that is.

Submitted: July 11, 2017

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Submitted: July 11, 2017



Seattle, Washington 1976
Seattle inhaled deeply, the air of another exhausted day of frigid december, and exhaled frozen breaths as night descended upon the sleepy city. Downtown boasted buildings of old, capable of belonging only to a prestigious mausoleum with rotting molds, decrepit streets and the familiar smell of war squeezing life out of the inhabitants. Most of the United states felt the gloom of the mainstream Vietnam War, but Vietnam only came to the minor surface in the collective, conscious mind of the seattle people even though they lived in the state capital of their democratic nation. In order to flush away the madness that was the world, music ate away at the  soul of Seattle, in lieu of the angst felt by civilians. Protests against sending soldiers to war came in the form of loud, rebelling sing song voices that poured satisfaction to the older generations of the city. However, opposite their aging forebears, youthful acolytes and the likes took to a more affectionate way to heal the dying world: Free love. These were the flower children and Hipster individuals who roamed the streets and music clubs of Seattle with flowers hung on their heads, ties without shirts, whilst hair was long and unkempt. These all encompassing preachers of love tattooed their identities with static and guitars; only screaming through the mellow sounds of a flute instead of a mouth. Healing instead of Hurting their fellow man in rage or otherwise. LSD burned in their blood like  water poured from the skies, and they were outcasted in the city. Nomads who looked upon their own and traveled accordingly. So it was for an 18 year old flower she-child who road the S.L.U.T (South lake union streetcar) to the hospital, headphones bandaged around her ears, drugs slowing the blood and distorting the world around her. She had bleached blonde hair that smelled of oranges, worn jeans and no jacket to cover her tank topped upper body, no shoes and a stretched stomach that sat painfully upon her knees. The streetcar stopped at the hospital downtown, and she got off into the dark night, unable to comprehend the voices of “Are you alright?”, “Where’s the father?” and “Do you need help”. She just shook, bobbing her head to and fro, listening to Donovan’s “Season of the witch”.
“When I look out my window, what do you think i see. And when i look through my window, so many different people to be.” She sang as she drudged every step. The darkness around her was thick, the streetlights were dim and no wind pursued nor whispered in the darkened city. All was silent and shadowed as she made her way to the hospital: smiling, tripping, and holding her swelled body.
“You’ve got to pick up every stick, oh no. Must be the season of the witch!” She giggled absentmindedly as she came upon the hospital and went in, strolling up to the front desk where a lady in white was scribbling obliviously on a chart. The woman looked up and then gasped as she took in the flower she-child. Her water had broken some time ago and dripped down her legs as she smiled. Wasting no time, the woman rushed the teen to the operating room. Somewhere in the room the NBA finals was playing: Washington vs. Seattle. Queen was also playing in her room, as she was placed on the emergency bed and the doctor came in. Her clothes had long been stripped away into the nightgown she now wore, and her headphones taken off her head. Suddenly the room was clear when that happened, Freddie Mercury's velveteen voice squealed  delightfully in her ears as the drugs started to wear off, and the pain kicked in. The doctor was trying to say something. “We can’t operate with the drugs in your system.” Something like that? She didn’t care, or couldn’t care. The LSD was gone, and the world turned back to grey instead of its beautiful, vibrant rose colored hues. She struggled, whined, screeched for something to take the pain away. The doctor had no choice but to comply or risk losing the child. So they stuck her with the epidural and the high started again. Freddie’s voice died away suddenly to make way for the  mellow metal song “Beast of Burden” by the Rolling Stones. She slipped in and out willingly, happily, mystically. She thought she could hear the sounds of someone screaming “PUSH!” so she did...just so she could get back to listening to the guitar riff that sounded so beautiful. All she could feel was the sound of the guitar scraping away at her body, the simple high that was getting her higher. Then, the sound of a wail, then nothing. The doctors and nurses stood quietly, as they gazed in wide wonder at the bundle of joy. The lights had started to flicker, and the tv was static. Curiously, the hospital seemed strangely like a ghost town in itself as the child, coated with its mother’s blood, was twitching and shaking furiously in the arms of its saviors. Open bloodshot eyes, purplish, whitish skin. An atrocious thing, doped on smack. The girl felt nothing as she listened, tears started to slide down her face as she listened to the lyrics. Such beautiful lyrics. The doctor, with a pale and serious face, placed the monstrous looking child on its mother’s chest. She looked down at the small body, covered in her blood, interestingly, its bloodshot eyes turned pure black and its mouth opened and closed as if tasting the sour blood. She cackled. 
“It’s bad blood.” She said, as the tears rolled. “Oh, you had many papas. We’re all bad blood. Cameron.” That was the child’s name.The small newborn did not respond to this identifier, for he could only look up at the white washed ceiling, the light blinding and his body still shaking, wanting the drugs. Needing the drugs. He tasted the blood in his mouth. It tasted just like drugs. Just like drugs. He opened his mouth even wider to seep in more of the liquid, not wanting the milk, but the blood and the action earned gasps from the hospital helpers. As they stared at the evil looking thing with its mouth open wide, they noticed he boasted a set of perfectly white teeth. The incisors themselves looked as sharp as shark teeth only tinier and slightly less jagged.
“It’s bad blood.” She said again and died there, with her hungry abomination lusting for the taste of the drugs. Like an addiction. It was bad blood.

 Seattle, Washington 1994
Seattle awakened in the 80s and even more so in the early 90s. The days of wars were far behind, and the spirit of the country had become more vibrant. Colors flourished in fashion; nikes,  doc martens, body suits. Bill clinton was in the office helping the african american community, malls and shops were the hang out spots and culture was welcoming to all people.  However, still sleepy Seattle had an onset of rock music claim the hearts and souls  as music had before in the 70s. But nothing like this. Nirvana, Alice in chains, Riot Grrl, Soundgarden. These underground bands gave rise to the confusion of the youthful enterprise and questioned the meaning of the world. In a sense, their music prompted a  punk and emo style within Seattle that meant to unravel the age old identities of the 80s and 70s. In addition, the youth resounded themselves to the music style the bands had adapted to: Grunge. In mimicry, teens wore flannel shirts and vans, khakis, ripped jeans, a crop top and loose fitting clothes to symbolize their separation from the normal world. This was the soul of the Seattle city and youth in the 90s. And the evil looking crack child that was Cameron Anderson was no exception to this inevitable wave of music. In fact...the thought of anything else cascading mildly into his brain and into his body almost sickened him to the point of pure illicit aggravation. Cameron was now eighteen years of age; a high school senior living in a foster home attending Washington high in Fremont. He sat in the basement of his foster home, shared jointly by five other children, in the darkness surrounded by rock albums in his oversized white shirt and baggy ransacked jeans. An electric guitar was strung over his body, in the darkened room he strummed the amplified guitar and played “My own prison” by creed while he puffed absentmindedly on a joint. Crack had made an unexpected turnout in washington, and Cameron, rumored to be a drug child, true to his name, had his ways of getting the best of the dope.
“Should have been dead on a Sunday morning, banging my head.” He sang aloud. “No time for mourning, ain’t got no time. And I said, ooohhhh. So I held my head up high, hiding hate that burns inside…” He sang the lyrics of the song through puffs, his eyes illuminated by the small spark of the joint. Just like when he was a child, his eyes were slightly bloodshot red, the irises casting a deadly crimson aftershadow on his black guitar. The smoke dazzled out from the roll and made a cloud of  fog in the air, casting a mysterious mist that shrouded him within it. His messy brownish, blonde hair covered his eyes and laid on the tips of his shoulders, undisturbed, as he strummed in a trance. Somewhere far, far, far over the rainbow lost in the haze of the joint and the accompanying music. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, then slowly let the smoke venture out of his mouth on its own as he parted his lips to reveal the extremely sharp, shark like teeth he was born with. Still pearly white. He was never told about his mother, but he was told he inherited some kind of disease from her that made him desire a drag. He was informed, although, that he and his mother shared the same crazy obsession for rock music that made them both go into a trance as if doped way off the line. That was all he was told about his birth parents-his father to whom he, the foster care people, and perhaps the mother herself didn’t know- and he was never told anything else. Cameron grew up already cursed from the ill awaited fate of his unfortunate birth. He grew up with the air of one that was conceived by individuals without morals or common sense. He was a child that was outcasted in the downtown seattle foster care facility. Not only for the fact that he was born addicted to drugs, but because of his black eyes that changed to blood shot red when he was given any kind of medicine; any kind of drugs. As a child, he would OD on his pills for the high, swipe the alcohol from the adults and drink it for a buzz, and even try and steal some LSD that was still being used albeit discretely by the older and shady characters of the foster care facility. He wasn’t any kind of problem child, but he was known to stay indoors away from the outside and away from people in general. Most people found him strange and stayed away. He also had a foreboding appearance . His skin was so sickly pale it showcased the blackish,bluish purple veins throughout his entire body. He wasn’t skinny but he didn’t have much muscle, and yet his physical checkups and health related visits showed he was perfectly healthy. Just a very strange boy. As a child, he once had a cruel foster home of religious fanatics in the late 80s. To get him to stop doing drugs, they shut him in his room without food, water, drugs or music. When they opened his room several hours later, they found the room ransacked with claw human markings, books everywhere, the bed overturned and the windows broken. Cameron was sitting in a corner shivering uncontrollably with the withdrawls so much that he had bitten into his arm in order to get some kind of taste into his mouth. In that moment of madness, his blood, he thought, tasted like drugs. Just like he thought his mother’s did when he was a baby. He was returned to the foster care facility after that, and the events were recounted to the staff. From that point on they tried to ease away the drugs by limiting him to an hour of no drugs per week to keep him from biting himself...or anyone else. This all happened when he was eight. The only thing that kept his addiction under some kind of control was the rock music. It was enchanting and sent him far away from the world. So he loved the Seattle world he lived in because it offered him a catalyst for his addiction in the form of the haunting guitar, drums, and vocal instruments. Truly, the music itself was an addiction. Sometimes, though when he plays his guitar or listens to a Queen or Black Sabbath album, he feels a compelling need for a drag even more. Only...a drug that tasted like blood. or blood itself. He didn’t understand it, but his own blood would rush at the thought of sucking anything dry of its energy, the taste of blood in his mouth, like when he was a child, the taste of drugs like no other. He didn’t really understand himself at all, and the world didn’t either. This is why he played his music and smoked his joint in silence. Just like a nomadic creature of the darkness, he was doomed with the disapproval of society. 
“Cameron!” Cameron opened his eyes and came down from his high to bring his attention to the knock on the door. He unplugged his guitar and took out his cigarette and disposed of it in a nearby ashtray as he ascended the staircase and opened the door. He took out a pair of dark sunglasses from his large pockets as the sunlight hit him from the open door, where a woman of forty-five stood with his backpack and jacket.
“Time for school. Here.” She handed the backpack and jacket to him and he took the items with a grateful nod. 
“Why do you always have it so dark down there?” She nagged  as he came out into the hallway of the house. It was a nice house, with two stories and six bedrooms. It was comfortable. He liked it. 
“I wish you wouldn’t smoke in the house. You know I don’t like that.” Cameron had walked to the front door when he turned on his heel and looked at the woman through his shades. Behind her in the kitchen, his five other foster siblings argued over who would get the first dibs of banana bread and apple pancakes. He liked this woman. 
“Sorry. Can’t help it.” He said to her concerned tired face as she sighed. She sauntered up to him, and he stiffened, he didn’t like anyone to come too close to him. Even his foster mother. She took out a pack of cigarettes and gave them to him.
“Remember, you’ve just smoked. You have an hour of no smoking that starts when you get to school. After that, you can smoke two more off campus but save the rest, because I’m not buying you anymore. You’ll set the wrong image for the others.” Cameron took the cigarettes and put them in his pocket. He really liked this woman. Not many could understand him. Somehow, she was patient. He nodded again and took a last look at her sad, tired eyes before he left. Cameron took the long scenic route to school that passed through to the bridge linking Freemont and Seattle. Underneath the bridge there was a troll. Literally. An 18ft tall giant that was sculpted on halloween in 1990 that crushed a car in his left hand and grasped the dirt in the right. He had one glassy eye that he swore watched him. He liked to visit the troll, simply because of the familiar frightening feel it gave off that he did. It was like a master or a guardian that looked over under the bridge in Fremont. He felt safe under its watchful gaze. Like a gargoyle protecting its castle. Cameron took the SLUT to school and arrived on time to gaze upon the large institution. People walked around in backwards hats, jock jackets and had the familiarity of a clicky prison. Jocks, cheerleaders, it was all the same. However, people were slightly more friendly and vibrant even for the sleepy city of Seattle. Cameron breathed in a harsh, sharp wisp of air. Ever since that incident he had as a child, his window of time before he cracked was very short. Without his drugs or cigarettes or whatever, the desire was ten times stronger. And then once it reached its peak, he would start craving blood. his blood, animal blood, any kind of blood. Thankfully to counter this, he had his cassette tape of rock music to distract from the need to get a hit. So now, as he entered the school he prepared himself for the agonizing first hour of class. 
The first hour had passed with painstaking sluggish movement. All through the lecture he fiddled with his fingers, tapped his pencil and tried to hum along with the music until his teacher told him to put away the music. This was when he caught the scent. after the class ended it was onto the next one and it was going on two hours. By this time, his eyes had gone pure black and his veins were starting to show. The scent he caught, was the smell of his own drugged blood flowing through his body. But he couldn’t bite himself in public. He could now smell the scent of everyone else, though he didn’t understand how. He thought he could hear the rush of pumping blood, the sound of breathing and hearts beating. He was going off the deep end. Thankfully, he lasted up until lunch. He ignored the looks he got as he walked to the back of the campus to a secluded area under the shady bleachers where he took out some crack and sniffed it immediately. Bliss. He lit a cigarette and puffed lovingly, glad for the familiar taste. He thought for a moment, the drag tasted like blood, but then he dismissed this as getting off of the withdrawal moment. He sat in seclusion and took out his music. Now he was in his perfect high again. Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a girl walking up to him. He didn’t remove his headphones or cigarette as she walked up to him and crouched down to stare through his shaded eyes. It was Selene Monroe, a girl he often saw around school who liked to talk to him, though he never made an effort to return the conversation. Student council president, a grade student and class president cheerleader. She was around his age with brown hair held in place by a large scrunchie and a barrette on the side for decoration. She wore one of those snap bracelets and had a nice top and short skirt on.
“Smoking again?” She asked softly through full pink lips a happy shine coming into her brown eyes as he looked at him. He stared off into space. She gave a half smile.
“Can I ask you to please stop smoking on school grounds?” He lifted the cigarette from his mouth and breathed out slowly.
“Overlook it this once.” Cameron gruffly asked. Not feeling up to arguing. Selene gave a small laugh and shook her head. 
“On one condition.” She said. “You have to join an after school club. I’ve been watching you  these three years and you haven’t made one friend besides me. I think you’ll like the music club.” She stood and smiled then walked away where her group of friends was waiting for her. Cameron breathed out again. He didn’t like the idea of going anywhere near people. He didn’t care much for their stares and whispers. Selene was a saving grace for some reason, she latched onto him and hasn’t let go since. Her angelic frame and personality put him at ease, as if watching an angel. He felt a single flame of love for her but that was overshadowed with a desire to keep her far away from his depravity. He had no choice. he doused his cigarette in on the concrete. What was it that she said? The music club? After school had ended, Cameron found them huddled together in a secluded band room all listening to different types of music: pop, latin, indie, etc. However there was one that reigned notorious; rock. He scoured over the five members all clad in black. Black hats, black sunglasses(like his own) black jackets, black gloves. They could have been attending a funeral. As he walked in, neither of the group members stirred to greet him. As he approached he suddenly noticed that they crowded around an album he had never seen before. On the front a man stood with this head held back in a triumphant roar, and behind him were the words “Sonntag Morgen Sucht”. He coughed, starting to feel the menacing need starting up again and wished to get off the campus so he could get it under control. One of the members noticed him and took off his headphones and handed them to him, he took them and placed them over his own head. Immediately he felt as if he had Overdosed on almost every kind of drug you can think of. The voice of the man sung out in half Bulgarian and English, while the guitar riff actually meshed with the symphonic sound of a violin and the chaotic sound of the drums and an electric guitar. He laid his head back and closed his eyes, starting to drift into another world as the lead vocalist coerced his mind into blankness.
“You like it, dude?” he heard someone say. He came back for a moment, a smile starting to form on his face, his eyes starting brighten to that bloodshot red. Luckily for him they had their glasses on and couldn’t see the change.
“Yeah.” he said. The members all looked at each other and nodded. The one closest to Cameron, who gave him the headphones gestured for him to take them off and he complied.
“Welcome to the brotherhood. We serve the true one.” he said and lifted the album. Up close, Cameron could see the man had long brown hair, and the album was covered in red. A member pointed at him and said.
“Drake, the Dragon. He is the true one who will lead our mortal souls to enlightenment.” The members agreed. One stood, and the others followed suit so that they all faced Cameron.
“Only the chosen, who submit to the will of the Dragon can become part of the brotherhood. We-” He gestured to his members, “are the chosen people, destined to serve Drake. Will you join us?” Cameron felt a sting in his soul, and his heart beat faster. He could smell the blood again. But this time, it was a subtle pang. Not desirable but it was there. He put the headphones back on and heard Drake sing.
“Kruv is dusha. Follow me into the night…” Blood is the soul. follow me into the night. He felt an unheard of lust for more of the words, more of the music. They were hypnotizing. So he agreed to these strange looking peoples terms, and became a member of the brotherhood. In the coming weeks, Cameron’s soul was filled with enlightenment unlike any he had ever known. He stayed with the brotherhood on a daily basis listening to Drake and his band “Sonntag Morgen Sucht” learning that the man was born in bulgaria and his members vincent, wesley and theodore were from germany, philadelphia and russia respectively Adding to the cultured vibe of the band. The title in fact was german, meaning: Sunday Morning Addiction. This band had mysteriously become known, although it’s unknown how. They had a huge fan base with almost everyone old or young, though teens and tweens were more apt to know about them. They had toured all over the world and were finally making their way to the sleepy city of Seattle in Washington. Cameron, had never felt more delight than the first time he sampled his first drag. In fact, he hadn’t noticed that in playing his guitar and listening to the sultry sound of “Sunday Morning Addiction” that he had not desired to drug himself up. He only felt his blood boiling. His foster mother was so proud. Even Selene showed happiness after stumbling upon him playing “Danse Macabre” from the album. One day after school, the music club group leader informed him that “SMS” would be performing at the Crocodile Cafe, the birthplace of Nirvana in a tour in Seattle that would last a week, and they were invited to come to the show for free. Cameron, finally, felt a twinge of happiness. In the week leading up to the arrival date of the band, the states that the band had visited reported breakouts of lethal plagues or epidemics. Some states even said that when the band arrived the weather changed. Snowstorms, fogs, heavy winds and the likes. Strange of all, was that after the band left, a number of people who had attended the concerts had disappeared. Cameron, of course, dismissed these things as just circumstance and when the time came that “SMS” made its appearance in the small crocodile cafe, he and the the brotherhood were there front and center. In the crowded music cafe, the lighting was toned down for effect as the band members entered onto the stage with a standing ovation to cheer them on. Drake, the leader, wore a black vest and shades and was tattooed on both arms, blowing the crowd kisses as he made his way to the mic. Wesley, had curly blonde hair and also had sunglasses and made his way, with an electric guitar to the second mic. Theodore had a bald, scarred head, with rounded John Lennon sunglasses and he traveled to the back where the drums were. Finally Vincent, with a nicely combed afro took the third mic with a bass guitar. All the members were present. Drake was even more impressive up close. He emitted a strong sexual confidence, and his nails were slightly shaped to spike at the tips. In fact all the men emitted the same pheromone that made the girls scream, but Drake’s was the strongest. They began. And the lights turned blood red to match the scene. Screams everywhere arose. The energy in the air was like fire. Cameron, seeped in the smell of sweat and the sound of Drake’s voice. He was singing his songs in german and english this time around. Suddenly he stared right at Cameron and smiled, Cameron felt a sudden voice in the back of his head whisper:
“Blood” He felt his eyes start to brighten to that bloodshot red as his sight became crimson. What was this? This hypnotic subliminal message. Drake stared directly at him as he sang, the words hitting him from everywhere.
“Blood” it said again. Where in the hell was that coming from. Suddenly the need for a drag hit him full force. He panicked, he thought he didn’t have to worry about that. The music was helping this time. And he wasn’t allowed to bring his drugs in with him. He was completely without a way to control this desire.
“Why control it?” The voice asked. Who the fuck was that? He doubled over about to spit up, in fact, he barfed a bit, and the red liquid came gushing out. He could smell the drugs in them. God he needed a hit. He needed a drag. He needed-
“Blood” Time slowed. Now the whole band was looking at him, in the midst of the red lighting in the cafe, with large pearly white smiles they stared. He was talking. It was his own voice. But it was different. He sniffed the blood on his hand, it didn’t smell like drugs anymore. But he wanted it. The lust was stronger than it ever was before. What he needed was-
“Blood” as he lifted the blood to his mouth, he found that he was right. What he wanted, what he had always wanted from the beginning...was the blood. The ecstasy of the music was the last he heard as he collapsed to the floor. He awoke again in the empty room of the crocodile with the music club members, Selene( to whom they members had called) and the band themselves.
“You alright, kid?” Vincent asked in a deeply rough voice. Cameron nodded. As he sat up, he noticed he could sense the blood flows of everyone in the room again. and the need to taste was strong again. Drake took off his sunglasses and revealed the darkest crimson eyes he had ever laid eyes on.
“We just hate that this happened.” He said in a seductive, professional voice that captured the attention of the members, Salene and Cameron himself. “Why don’t you guys come over to our party after the next gig, as a favor?” The club members agreed unanimously and Cameron, a little dizzy, did as well. Selene took Cameron the to Troll on behalf of his request, stating he needed to clear his head. And he was right. As he walked his every step, he could smell and feel the blood of every living thing near him. Including Selene. Noticing his distress, Selene ventured closer determined to hug him...or kiss him...But Cameron smelled the delicious sweet scent of the rushing liquid in her veins and bade her go home. He could take the streetcar back home. After Selene left, every time Cameron closed his eyes, he saw Drake’s red eyes and felt his smile. The music danced in his stomach fueling the...thirst. He clenched his stomach for a moment and slept under the comfort of the Fremont Troll. Two days later, was the second gig and after the performance, the band was hosting an after party for the fans faithful fans and staff members in a large mansion reserved for the band solely. Cameron and the band members were allowed into the vip lounge room filled with fans wearing “SMS” t-shirts and other accessories. The band members were busy conversing with the people and the music club members. Cameron felt a shiver down his back and turned to see Drake behind him.
“Sit with me.” The command was meant to be a question but even so Cameron sat down with the leader of his favorite band. 
“Now tell me, why are you so interested in our band?” Drake face to face, had a handsome face and sharp nails to match his silky brown hair.
“It’s the music. the music is enthralling.” Drake smiled. His eyes suddenly glowing. Cameron felt sleepy too, or dizzy. Was the room starting to spin. Drake seemed to lean in closer to him.
“We call ourselves, Sunday Morning Addiction. Do you know why?” Cameron couldn’t focus on the question as he was starting to fade in and out of conscious. Drake grabbed him by the waist and pulled his chin up, smiling and revealing his pearly white fangs...wait...fangs? Are those props.
“Music is an addiction. Especially this genre of music. So why not succumb to the addiction...Cameron.” Drake’s eyes glowed deep red and he opened his mouth wide then lunged forward and plunged his fangs deep into Cameron’s neck. Cameron screamed and his mouth flew open...showing off his lovely pearly white teeth that he was born with. His most sharp and wonderful incisors had grown three inches, turning into sharp pointed fangs. The last Cameron felt was his energy draining and watching as the rest of the group members plunged their fangs into the innocent fans. Screaming and the smell of blood is what he remembered and then he felt his heart stop and he feinted.

Images rushed to and fro through his mind. He saw himself playing his guitar, smoke encompassed him and shrouded him. The club members wore masks across their faces, and crosses against their chests as they screamed “Hail, the Dragon! Hail, the Dragon.” Selene came up to him, her angelic face covered by a white veil. She lifted the veil to reveal two bite marks on her neck, then she collapsed. Finally, he saw himself in a mirror. His reflection smiled deviously at him with his fangs coated with Selene’s blood as he held her. “Why control it, Cameron?” He asked and laughed as the reflection changed into Drake.
“Music is an addiction. So is blood.” He said. Drake lunged forward mouth open, fangs bared and straight into Cameron’s neck once more. Cameron woke up right as he felt the pain and grasped his neck. The blood had dried. But he could feel the two holes. He suddenly gasped and choked and wheezed, why couldn’t he breathe? He placed his hands on his neck and found that he had no pulse. He was dead. And where was he? He looked around and found that he was buried underground. He tunneled his way out and realized that he was behind the mansion. He looked around. There were one hundred graves dug. All for the people who attended the party. Including the music club members. Cameron found his senses heightened and he sensed two of the band members and quickly, using all his strength jumped straight into a tree. He had increased strength and agility now. Vincent and Wesley approached talking in low raspy voices.
“Only reason we’re here is to find the incarnate of the mother of vampires. Some legend he believes in.” Vincent scoffed lighting a cigarette. Wesley nodded.
“We killed a lot more than we should have these past few months. He even used his powers. He needs to be careful, or he’ll drain himself. He needs to rest.”  So the plagues and epidemics and storms were the fault of Drake. Cameron narrowed his eyes.
“He thinks that girl that was with that kid is the reincarnated lilith.” Cameron froze, they were talking about Selene. He had to warn her.
“Wait! Vince, look at this!” Wesley had found the dug up grave and was looking wildly around.
“Yo, Drake said that none of them should be awakening yet.” Vincent said nervously, as if knowing what this could mean.
“Man, what if that kid was already…” Cameron not wanting to hear anymore jumped into the air and somehow transported himself back to the familiarity of the Troll. He landed on its hand, hacking and wheezing. He was so thirsty. He needed blood. The thirst felt almost natural to him. As if something dormant was awakened. Almost as if the drugs was a means of keeping his blood addiction under control and not the other way around. His eyes had turned crimson and would stay that way this time. His nails had grown as well, sharp just like Drake’s. Why? What the hell?
“It’s because you were born that way.” Cameron Wheeled around to find his foster mom standing behind him.
“What?” he said weakly, backing up as he smelled her blood. However she wore a silver cross, and he found he wanted to go nowhere near her with that thing around her neck. “The Doctor’s told me about what happened when you were eight. And what happened when you were born. You were born with fangs. You were born with the taste of the blood.” Cameron found he needed to feed soon, he was so hungry. His mother suddenly took a struggling cat out of her purse and threw it at him, he caught it and sunk his teeth into it. The taste of the red liquid ran through his body and quenched but did not satisfy his thirst. He threw the cat away and sat down under the troll and stared at his mother.
“How’d you know? Did you always know.” His mother nodded. 
“I knew.” She said. “Because my family has hunted vampires since the beginning days. We knew what the signs were. I knew what you were. But only death could awaken your vampiric powers.”
“I was bitten.” He said. 
“By Dracul.” His mother added as she nodded taking out a cigarette and putting into her mouth, and tossing him one as she came and sat down next to him. He sucked on it. The taste of it burned his mouth this time. Funny he once relished the taste of a drag. 
“Drake. The dragon. He was a bulgarian thief my great-great-great grandfather prosecuted and killed but didn’t bury properly. So he rose from the grave and became a 2,000 year old vampire.” Cameron nodded. He found it funny how Drake stole the name of Vlad Tepes the third. “That’s just how some vampires are born. A person can be evil or a thief in Drake’s case, be killed and rise a creature of the night. Strange, but that's how it goes.” She stopped a moment to cough, then continued.
“I knew it was him the moment I saw you watching the news about the band. I knew it was only a matter of time.”
“Why didn’t you stop it?” Cameron asked as the smoke left his mouth. He still appreciated the comfort smoking gave him. “Why didn’t you just kill him.” he said, then added “Or me.”  His mother took a long puff of her cigarette before blowing the smoke out. 
“You’re awakening was inevitable. I could’ve killed you and you still would have risen. It doesn’t matter that Drake killed you.”Cameron sat in silence, a little glossy eyed.
“And...I’m no vampire slayer like my ancestors. I’m just a historian.” With that she put out the cigarette and stood.
“You can take care of yourself now, Cameron.” She said. Cameron held the cig in his hand and stared at her through lidded eyes. Remembering the warmth he had given to him knowing that he was the monster that he was. He was grateful for her hospitality and parenting as a surrogate mother. “You’re gonna have to choose to save the town or save yourself.” She began to walk away, but cameron had one more question.
“What does that mean?” He said, as the sun began to rise. He was starting to feel tired. She turned and smiled.
“Drake wants to rule the world. Wants to take Selene as a wife. Wants to make an army of vampires using that hypnotizing music of his. Either way, you’re damned if you do, you’re damned if you don’t.” She turned and made her way up the hill. “The kids and I will be leaving for California in a few days. There’s books at home to help you control your powers. I’m sorry I can’t help, but I have to think of the little ones first.” Cameron nodded and put his hood up. With that she was gone. And Cameron, had a choice to make. 

His foster mother was true to her word. In two days, the family had left for California. During the moving process Cameron found himself playing with the little ones and spending as much time with them as he could. As thanks for the care he was given. His mother spoke to him about losing his shadow, having no reflection and pretending to breathe so no one would suspect anything. The books that she gave him were accounts of vampirism, origins of vampires and vampiric powers. After a sorrowful goodbye from the five other foster children and a comforting hug ( he finally got over his innate dejection of human interaction) he studied the books furiously. His mother had generously donated the blood of herself and the five foster kids to last him until he went dry with thirst again. Holed up in his mother’s former house, he watched the news. The band had suddenly taken over almost the entire city. An account of the one hundred dead bodies, excluding his, was broadcasted but it seemed that the city after hearing the songs and lyrics and broadcasting of SMS was in a trance. This was Drake’s power that he used to his advantage. As a 2,000 year old vampire that sucked blood to perserve his youth his age made him all the more powerful. And now, he was after Selene. The final day that SMS would perform had a record attendance, with Selene as the guest of honor and the only one that wasn’t hypnotized by Drake’s music. That night, the band took off their glasses and revealed their intentions and their fangs, while bringing a struggling, fearful Selene on the stage. The 100 killed had risen and become vampire slaves themselves that would bite the rest of the people attending the concert. It would be a bloody massacre, straight out of Dracula. 
“Tonight, we celebrate my marriage to the reincarnated mother of Vampires and celebrate my future broods. Here’s to the new age of Vampires!” He took the now crying Selene by the waist and smiled with his fangs. Selene cried out asking what he did with Cameron, but he ignored her and was about to bite into her when Wesley’s head came clean off. Then Vincent’s. Then Theodore’s. Drake dropped Selene and then was immediately picked up by Cameron whose hands were red with the three men’s blood after slicing them off. Selene smiled weakly at Cameron, not phased by his transformation,and fainted on the spot.
“So, you were a vampire before I bit you.” Drake laughed as Cameron put Selene down out of harm’s way. He stood straight and his eyes flashed crimson. Suddenly the wind started picking up and rain begin to fall, Drake was using his power. 
“Very well, then. There can’t be two powerful vampires in the same vicinity.” The 100 vampire slaves were already biting the unsuspecting attendees and some even lunged at Cameron as Drake willed the wind to push harder. Cameron dodged a few attacks from the vampire slaves, growing out his bat wings he learned to use and flew through the air. Drake cackled and followed suit only transformed into a wolf instead as the two met each other in the parking lot. Cameron willed snakes to him as per was his power of control and made them attack Drake, but it did no good. Drake laughed and returned to his human form, which was starting to age rapidly as the rain and wind picked up in the storm. He lunged and swiped at Cameron who dodged and stabbed at Drake’s chest to get to his heart but he dodged as well. Drake called his slaves and they came running at Cameron, but Cameron merely turned them on one another. Drake at this point had aged and breathed hard as his power started to drain him. And Cameron was after this all along, knowing he didn’t stand a chance in a physical fight lured him into using up his energy. Drake, panicked swiftly transported to the stage where Selen lay and lunged at her but was met by Cameron’s hand to which had stabbed into the back of his head and all the way through. He cut upwards and Drake’s head was torn into two. For good measure Cameron tore out his heart and through into the crowd of vampire slaves to feed on. Cameron bent down in front of Selene who had just woken up.
“That was stressful. I guess you’re a vampire now.” She laughed nervously. Cameron gave a weak smile and bent down and kissed her. In the process he wiped her memory of the entire occurrence and the fact that he was a vampire. 
“Thank you.” he whispered and transported her back home, where he left her. 

Santa Cruz, California 1999
“Oh the early 90s were better for the spirit, don’t you think?”
“The music was definitely better, not all this hop and hop.”
“And these teenagers nowadays are such troublemakers. Too many gangs.”
“Don’t have much to do, don’t you think Jane?”
Jane Anderson was minding her own business in the bingo hall watching television as the rest of her group bickered about the 90s and the youth, until she heard her named and turned, her brownish curls now slightly curled.
“You have five sweet children, they aren’t bothersome and they’re tame.” The women around the table nodded and agreed while Jane yawned and stretched not sure what the fuss was about.
“And they aren’t even related.” One said.
“Yes they aren’t, foster kids. Jane’s got a good heart, she does.” Another chided.
“Yes but I hope they stay sweet. You can’t handle them in the teen years. I know.” Said another in empathy and the group collectively agreed while Jane slumped her head on her hand and watched the tedious pop culture news media coverage on the tv.
“Well she’s raised them this far.”
“I’m sure they’ll grow up to be fine.”
“Have you had much trouble with them now, dear? do you think you’ll be able to handle five teenagers?” Jane shifted her tired gaze to the chattering women who all stared at her now.
“I once had a teenage son.” She said simply. The woman looked around at each other as if hearing the best gossip ever. Jane looked at the Tv, as it was suddenly moved to San francisco in front of a large crowd of people. “The Seattle underground band “Sonntag Morgen Sucht” or “Sunday Morning Addiction” Has made its way to California on a two year travel date” the reporter said. Jane shifted her gaze back to the ladies.
“He’s up there.” She pointed at the television and the women squealed as they laid eyes on a beautiful looking 23 year old wearing all black clothes and sunglasses. His blonde hair was gelled back and  he had the most extraordinary red eyes and sharpest teeth you’d ever see.
“He’s the leader of a band. Crazy ain’t it. It’s all bad blood.” She joked as the women stared at her in amazement. Jane looked out of the building in the parking lot out on the Santa Cruz beach wharf where her five children played in their “Sunday Morning Addiction” shirts that had Cameron’s face.
“Yep, it’s all bad blood.”



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