Skeletons in the Cupboard

A Pounding in My Head

March 2019

I woke up with a pounding in my head, again. My eyes ached as I open them, even in the dark. My arms were sore, my legs nearly refused to prop me up as I pushed myself up. I dragged myself to the mirror, to see if it was time. The face that looked back at me was a haggard, hungry beast. My eyes were red and the fangs barely hidden. My head pounded. Something crawled up my throat. So it was time.

It was difficult to find food, as always, and always. Sometimes I hate myself for my indecision, but always I hate myself for not acting quick enough, as if ignoring it will make it go away. Mostly, I hate myself for not being able to end it, but also I hate myself for even thinking of it. The blood was raw and sweet and tasted like nothing. The man was an office-worker, blue collar, on his way home from a fruitful day at the pub. He was athletic, but overconfident. He thought he could take a shortcut through the alley. He didn’t know I was there, not quite waiting, merely trying to pull myself together.

Back then I would bleed them dry, and afterwards I would be like a king of the night. But blood doesn’t taste the same after the hundredth drink, and even killing had lost its meaning. Only the guilt remained, the indecision. Back then the pounding will stop after I feed. Now its ghost always remains, a memory of pain even when the pain itself has gone. When I was done with him, he was weak and haggard, like a man who has had too much to drink. He laid face-down for one second, and then he got up, groggily, and stared at me without looking at me. I dragged him out of the alley and pushed him to the light. He would find his way home, as everyone did. He would wake up with a hangover, a piece of myself, and he wouldn’t remember a thing.

I walked back to the alley, considering my options for the rest of the night. The euphoria of feeding had long since left me, and the ghost of my hunger remain, but I look forward to a couple of days where I could pretend that I was not a beast.

“You need help, don’t you?” said a voice up above.

An open window on the third floor. It was dark inside, but the girl didn’t seem to mind. I knew instinctively that she was a beast as I am.

“What’s it to you?” I asked.

“Oh no, I wasn’t being insulting, I was just-” She cocked her head as if thinking of what to say next, then she seemed to give up with words. She climbed out of the window and jumped. Like a cat, she arrived on both feet.

“How long have you been a vampire?”

“Five years,” I said, the words tasting like nothing in my mouth. I did not like to think of time, but it’s always there. “You?”

“Oh, I’m not a vampire. I’m a witch,” she said. “Same thing, mostly. Except I guess I get to choose what I want to be.”

She gave me a look, and I turned away. “What do you want?”

“I can help cure you of your condition. It’s not permanent.”

“I know.”

“Huh? Then why…?”

Why. Did she think she was the only witch to suggest that? I know what this means, I know where to go, I know what to do, but I don’t trust that it will help. Get rid of the hunger, but then its ghost will remains. Does she think we simply forget the taste of blood, the pounding in our heads? It has been years since I last know the euphoria of my first blood and still I chase it again and again, and each time I fail, the pounding increases. If even that I cannot forget, what makes her think I will forget everything else? The ghost remains in the flesh.

“Wait, hey.

“I mean it, you know. I can cure you.”

“It’s not a disease,” I snapped. “It’s not something you cure. It’s just what I am.”

“Do you want to stay this way?”

“I’m not one to run away from my problems.” Brave words for someone who ran away every day.

“Well if you ever need a hand…”

“Goodbye.”