An Unorthodox Valentine

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
Afraid of the dark.
In love with a heart of darkness.
A fork in his path, a decision that will lead to eternal happiness, or eternal damnation.

Submitted: March 07, 2008

A A A | A A A

Submitted: March 07, 2008



An Unorthodox Valentine
It is a curious thing, fear. It can be nothing more than a disgust that has been blown out of all proportion. Or it can be a great serpent that lies curled around the heart, slowly constricting its blackened coils until the spirit is crumbled to dust. Fear is a bloodied thorn whose roots grow deep into the wellsprings of greed or spite, or the simple, undeniable truth that there is something superior to our race in that it can elude the groping claws of mankind’s endless quest for power.
There are some amongst us who greatly fear death, not because of greed or spite, but because they cannot influence or exert their will upon it, no matter how steely that will may be. It strikes without warning, without a sound, without mercy or compassion or pity. Mankind has no power over death. We can cheat it, perhaps, for a short time at least; or wield it for ourselves to deal it where we have no right, but inevitably we cannot escape the dreadful knowledge that we are so terrified because there is a force more powerful than us, a force that could raze our empire of steel and stone and electricity to the bare earth in mere minutes.
He was not afraid of death, did not dread its cold embrace like so many others. When the sands of his time ran out, he would accept that the universe had grown wearisome of his being, and he would rejoice that his soul would be returned to the outstretched arms of nature. But when his sands ran thin, he would fight for life like a drowning man clutching at straws. For that is the most ancient and primitive of instincts, embedded deep within the human genome: the sheer, unyielding will to survive, to adapt, to fight for the future of their race no matter what the cost. But when it came for him in the dead of night, he would not fear death.
No, it was a deeper fear that rotted his heart. It was a fear that lent his mind ghastly apparitions and his eyes a wide, terrified lustre. Nothing more than immaterial night, the darkness engulfing him as his blood ran as ice. He did not fear a pain, or something that could wound or maim him, because his fear was of an absence of something, of light. He was terrified of the dark.
A moonlit breeze rustled through the grass- a free spirit that danced through the silence of the night. An ancient oak groaned softly as its heavy boughs creaked, shielded the two shadows that sat huddled beneath it from the bitter cold. But they did not feel the cold air as it teased their skin. They did not care for the trees or the grass, nor did they hear the distant call of an owl, perched solemnly upon its branch, watching its domain with its glassy amber eyes. All that mattered or existed was the warmth in her hands as she stroked his skin, the soft brush of her lips against his own, the overpowering love that beat in both their hearts, blazed within them as the hottest of flames, the brightest of stars.
He pulled away slowly, reluctantly, and looked upon her face as the moonlight etched it in quicksilver and shadow. She was so beautiful: her graceful features slashed with long copper hair as it fell across her face; eyes the colour of a crystal mountain lake, shimmering with a thousand shades of blue, gleaming silver in the moon’s ghostly luminescence as it danced across the heavens.
“Do you know how much I love you?” he asked softly. An odd question, perhaps, but her lips drew back into a smile. She nodded, and suddenly the moonlight was glinting on milky white fangs as she moved with vulpine grace towards him.
A slow, steady fear crept into his heart. He did not fear death, but there was a subtle darkness that tinted her eyes, a quiet and yet unmistakable glimpse of death in her demeanour that was suddenly so hauntingly alluring. His path forked, a decision he had not desired to make, but one that was now thrust upon him. The left fork arrowed into light, into normal life, but a life without her kiss in the darkness. The right wound and twisted away into the dark, to become a stalker of the night, a fiend that preyed upon the lifeblood of mortals. But a fiend wrapped in her arms nonetheless. She kissed him again, and he felt the cold deadliness of her long, slender fangs.
He had made his choice long ago, and he knew now what he must do. A strange smile flickered on his lips.
“I would rather live an eternity in your arms, albeit in eternal darkness, than a mortal lifetime in the sun’s glare without your kiss. Bite me.”
He cried out as her fangs pierced the soft flesh of his neck, his dark, hot blood drawn out between those velvety lips. Life and light ebbed away, sank into the earth and into her. When he opened his eyes, a deep, unquenchable thirst for blood, an inextinguishable lust consumed him.
To feed.

© Copyright 2018 TomWilliams. All rights reserved.

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