I Crave Blood

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is a short story I wrote just for fun. I was feeling blood thirsty :) I am continuing this story for a book, in which this was only the first chapter. I might upload that version some day, I don't know.
Enjoy, anyways!
x Darcy

Submitted: December 26, 2012

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Submitted: December 26, 2012

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I Crave Blood
A short story by Darcy Foster
Dedicated to all readers

The dirty boy entered through the creaky doors of the small bar. He was incredibly skinny. You could see his ribcage popping out of his body, had you been there. Despite his appearance, he didn’t look very hungry, which he was. The bar was filled with crooks, assassins and escapees. They were either having a laugh with their mates, drinking beer or both at the same time, which didn’t end well. It reeked of unwashed clothing.

The boy slowly walked into the bar, passing angry men who were glaring at him and an occasional swearword came to his ears, but other than that the room was completely quiet. He sat down on one of the bar chairs –he had to climb up, because he wasn’t very tall- and rested his arms on the surface of the bar. The barman had a towel on his shoulder and was cleaning an empty glass. He was a big bloke with scars on his arms and an ugly beard sprouting from his chin. When the boy sat down, he smiled, revealing two golden teeth in the midst of rotten green ones. He placed his now clean polished glass on one of the many shelves and looked at the young boy.
“Aren’t you a little too young to be in here, son?” he spoke with a deep, growling voice.
The boy didn’t look up at the man when he responded.
“If so, would that stop you from giving me a beer?”
The barman laughed a loud, bellowing laugh. It made all the other villains laugh hard, too. They said things like: “Get out of here, you filthy child!” and “Go back to your mother. She’s not done raising you yet!”
The barman felt sorry for the child, but the boy didn’t seem to care. He did not speak, nor did he move. The barman answered the boy with a big grin on his face.
“One pint of beer, coming up!”
The bar now fell into a cheery trance. Everybody went back to talking and drinking. The barman placed a big mug filled with beer in front of the boy. The foam overflowed and was dripping past the mug and onto the bar. The boy took the mug and drank from it slowly.
“So, little chap. You’re not from around here, are you? Care to tell me where you’re from?” the barman started. He seemed cheerful, quite the opposite from the little one.
“Classified” he answered. The barman laughed again.
“Classified, eh? You’ve got some balls, kid. Alright, I’ll start. My name’s Bill. I grew up in Canmania and moved to Bordent when I was twenty. I have two sisters. They’re the ones that gave me this bar. I am grateful for life and for music. Now you.”
No sound came from the boy. He didn’t even bother trying to be friendly to the barman, who was now forcing his fat pinkie finger into his ear.
“You do have a past, don’t you? A home to return to?” he said.
The boy answered with the same answer as before.
“Classified” he said, taking a sip of beer.
“You’re not one for talking, are yeh? Is ‘classified’ all you can say?” He turned around and walked down to the far side of the room, where someone was ordering another glass of ale. The boy’s stomach growled. He looked down at it in surprise. He seemed to be deep in thought. It took him a while before he realized he was hungry.
“Excuse me, Barman? You wouldn’t happen to have anything to eat here, would you?” he said politely.
“You finally willing to talk, are yeh?”Bill said.
“Do I have to in order to get anything to eat?” the boy answered.
“Maybe.”
A deep sigh came from the youngster’s mouth.
“Alright then” he agreed.
After half an hour Bill came back with a plate of spaghetti and the boy took handfuls of it and stuffed it greedily into his wide open mouth.
“Woah, slow down there, mate. If you eat that fast, you’re going to throw up, and I don’t want that nasty business in my bar.” Bill made a face as he watched the boy finish the spaghetti, lick the plate clean and held it up to Bill’s face.
“Seconds, please” he said with an emotionless expression.
Bill didn’t want to refuse the poor boy. He seemed so hungry and helpless that Bill gave him everything he wanted. Strangely the only thing the boy asked for was food. He didn’t ask for water, clothes or shelter. Bill wanted to offer, but felt drawn back by a feeling. There was an eerie tension hanging around the boy, as if there was a darkness inside of him that needed to get out. He and all the other men in the bar watched as the boy gulfed down six plates of spaghetti, not leaving a single spot dirty. Once he was satisfied he let out a deep sigh and dropped himself onto the bar table.
“So, kid. Care to tell me where you came from?” Bill asked again. He was interested in the small creature and its past. But it still didn’t seem to want to talk much.
“I come from a long line of adventures” he said with eyes closed.
“Adventures, eh? What might they be, then?”
“I have a lot of stories I keep with me, but I do not share them with anyone. That means you, too, Barman.”
“The nerve you got! Coming into my bar, eating my food, which I am letting you have for free, by the way. Are you not grateful?”
“Extremely grateful, Barman.”
“Then show some respect to your elders! Now tell me where you come from, or I’m kicking you out. I’ll do it myself, I mean it.”
The boy suddenly sat up, placed his hands on the bar and leaned in close to Bill’s face.
“Why so interested, Barman?” he whispered with a bloodthirsty smile. Bill was uncomfortable and took a step back. Then he checked himself. Why should he step back to the likes of him? He was just a boy, a kid. He had probably run away from its master and seeks guidance, a new master or even a whole new life. Bill walked forward and pushed the boy’s head away with his own. The man was a big guy and had a lot of experience with bad customers. The boy was still a bit weak and backed down into the chair.
“Listen here, young man. You keep your fowl tongue to yourself...”
“I don’t remember swearing, Barman.”
“Don’t be so bloody cheeky. You know exactly what I mean. And stop calling me Barman! It’s getting on my nerves.”
The boy glanced around the room, then jumped onto the counter.
“What the bloody hell do you think you are doing?” Bill growled. The boy bent down, placed his head close to Bill’s and groped his neck with his hand. Bill felt himself unable to breathe. Where was all this strength coming from? This tiny kid was choking him! He reached to pull away the boy’s hand but it was no use. The damned kid was too strong.
“Listen close, Barman, because I’m only saying this once. Who do you work for? Are you with the police? Are you a spy? I’m not going to let you capture me, so spill it. Who do you work for?” Bill tried to pull the kid’s hand away but it was in vain. He would not budge.
“I... Don’t work... For anyone...” he tried. The kid let go of his neck and the man fell to the floor, gasping for air. He watched as Bill clasped his hands around his throat, hiding the red marks he had left on the barman’s rough skin. People around them were starting to shout.
“What’s this, Bill? Defeated by a mere child?” they sneered. The boy turned around at this remark.
“Is that a challenge I hear?” he said, trying to provoke the men. It worked. They were all getting up from their seats and came over to the kid who’d made them look like a fool.
“All right, then” the boy spoke. He grinned, revealing sharp, white, pointy teeth he now ran his tongue over.
“This should be fun.”
Ten minutes later the boy stepped out of the bar looking quite satisfied and well fed. He looked up, sniffed the air, walked off down the street of the tiny town, and left, leaving behind him a trail of bodies, all of them covered in blood that was gashing out of a hole in their chest. Not one single person who lived in that town survived that night. They were all slaughtered by a little child, roughly ten years old.


© Copyright 2019 Darcy Foster. All rights reserved.

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