Blood Dogma

No human lovers, She had told me, only food for flesh undead, but She did more than drink them dry, would keep them laughing on Her arm like courtesans, in the end, Her eyes—upon me—hard, and gelid. Of me this flock knew nothing, or else thought me a mere familiar, a fumbling servant to their regent God.

“Why must the world know of our relation?” She would say, coldly, whenever I made to plead my case. “Do not seek to command me, creature. Be satisfied that I hold you in this regard and do not make arid your mortal form to slake my endless thirst. Is this not care enough to sustain you, you who takes so much?”

She had forgotten that, once, it was She who had come to me with lips vermillion and full with love, had wound me into Her velvet web with overtures of Her affection. I had loved Her instantly, of course; in all partnerships I adore with ease, but She compelled me quickly in mind, and blood, and matter.

Her hair was a November forest, Her eyes slim shards of ocean glass, Her body all pale voluptuousness, with its scent of cinnamon night. Even had She not the skill to charm through the chords of divine magic I think I would have loved Her, although I knew from that regretted start that She was truly wicked.

I had believed I was Her miracle exception, the one that She would keep. Forgive me: I was human, and had then my youth and the potential for mistake.

“All life is foul,” She’d say, “and worthy of derision. So many are the beasts of such nauseous ugliness, writhing and breeding upon reeking beds of their own filth. What care have I for their senses and emotion, I, who have lived so long, I, who have outlasted the taint of my earthly start, and risen a queen of walking dessication, to make such beauty of it?

I take from them without hesitation. I take from them as their emperors did from feasts, or women, or boys, only a mere moment ago, a beast of unrelenting greed, glad of my freedom. I take them to my breast and allow them their belief, in so trite hopefulness, that they have earned my love, and that I do not see in them the porcine spirit of the human scourge.

And then, oh, then I dispense of them, and always there is another, for none have seen me yet that have not known the sickness of desire, nor would not lay their willing form down under my heel and die for the cause of my happiness. Those that I keep close, and for whom I make myself sweet, are others of my own kind with whom I share this doctrine, or else presume, through my facade, that I am good, and so I am, for I am never wrong.

If what I do is evil then this world is all softness and rot. If my handling of the lice a Lord once scratched upon cold earth is an act to be condemned, then I am the villain they make me, but what do I care? There are worse than I, in this land, and truly we are all foul beings, with our conflicts and our harm.

There are those of us who scrape, and kneel, and make their apologies, and those who step on the bared necks of the weak, and rise to wear our crowns. Pick your side, sweeting, or life will choose it for you.”

All this I heard, and merely thought Her a jesting cynic. I tricked my shallow eyes to see a kindness, somewhere, a hidden grain of saccharine that I, alone, was privy too. But as my blood lost its freshness to Her so, too, did my clinging love, and I quickly became an irritation, a commitment for which She held a scarcely concealed regret.

I do not know what it was in me that She was first drawn to, if any feeling She had confessed was any more than a wandering whim. My vulnerability, perhaps, was a mere hurt to exploit and entertain, and then deflect from Her when, at last, I found in me bravery enough to name that She was cruel.

“I mislike this paranoia,” She then announced, withdrawing from me as though my blood was rank as piss to Her, as though my scent repulsed where it had once inspired the scorch of yearning lust. “I deal with you as I do all others. And what of this envy? Did you not say that I might do as I liked, that our union required no title?”

I had believed that She would keep her word, when I declared this; I had thought that She concealed me through fear of condemnation from such kin that might not gladly favour our union. But with the quickness of autumn turning to frost the falseness of this came to light, and I was left grasping and mumbling like some lunatic stranger in the eyes of those who witnessed my tumble from grace.

What would have become of me if quietly I had endured this treatment? Would I cleave to Her shadow, still, scarcely touched, looked on in helpess cuckholdry as my mistress, in shrouding black, engulfed the moaning figures that so bore my jealousy? I hated them, although nothing I suffered was their crime, and this, too, my lady criticised through much grinded teeth.

“Take fault not with them, but me.”

Yet if I dared answer this command She would turn harsh and unrepentant, and nothing would change except the vastening of that fell distance between us.

At last She parted from me, so sickened by my voice—my need, my blood—that my ejection came by correspondence alone. By then She had taken other mortals to Her bed on the eve of St Valentine, shunning me with a grimace unconcealed, and had stoked in me numberless the disagreement in which I, bewildered, became the instigator, although I had only jumped to the stirring of some stick.

She could not be argued with, never convinced. She cut me from Her as She might a lethal tumour, and on to other lovers She moved with an agony of quickness, walking with them proudly, caring not a whit for the judgement of Her fellows, if this would ever have come. I questioned, then, why She had hidden me, and thought that I must bear a canker, that all the flaws that She had lined within my character were unworthy of Her association.

Yet, once, at some event at which we were both present I felt the playful latch of teeth in some black corner and turned, aghast, to find Her over me, those perilous eyes fastened to mine. We talked of surface things, so estranged from one another since our parting that little was left to discuss but vapid gossip, a bitter, stunted thing. Then She was gone, and after this returned to Her loathing of me again.A

A test, I think this hour had been, to determine if I still yearned for Her touch, for all that I had sworn against Her. I confess that my heart did beat with wild rapidity, although my innards churned. Yet I had also felt Her falseness, and questioned what but the lures of figure and vampiric thrall had once kept me so loyal to Her side, why I had lapped the minimum of love that She had deigned to give.

Three years have passed, in tides of pain, and I have suffered since, sometimes of my accord, sometimes at the mercy of others, for I have made, in drought of self awareness, a victim of myself, apt to fall for the same play as I have seen stepped out on the boards, before.

I saw, in one low month of crisis, that as much as She had wrought me bloodless I, too, was at fault for my hurt. I dashed too quickly into the arms of those ill-suited to our coupling, attended not to my reaction to things that needed not so ready a heat as I so often gave.

So I withdrew from that society, and from the night, and nursed myself beneath the healing sun. Only when I had outgrown my wounds did I again make my descent, for in this long repose I learned much of my desire and the wants of individual purpose. At their heels I followed in the chambers and warrens of evening, baring my throat only to those with whom I felt safe.

In this way, at last, I became of Her particular kind, treader of moonlight, taker of substance ichorous, but I have vowed to do so with my code, and never that of others.

When I take it is of the deserving. When I take it is without a promise I cannot keep, and though I am not without fault or failure this vow unto myself has kept me upon a prouder path. Where once was shame and insignificance I rise in my dark power—

Yet I must own that dreams in daylight vex me, still, the memories of myself as Igor to a genius whose influence spanned far beyond my being. Such servitude, uninvited, left a canyon in the soul I cannot seal with blood, and so I wear it, the brooch of hours a strapling, thin and naive.

For none of us stride into this red night all-knowing, nor can we always veer the shadows of ourselves, no matter the shape we take when, from our box, we rise. And so I say in parting phrase my work is never done, that She has no futher hold on me, but in the furthest vertices of my mind.

We cannot sluice ourselves of all our darkness, merely shield ourselves against it, and I am armed so, now, to the very teeth.

Published by (Not actually a Lady) Ruthless

I'm a 26 year old horror writer! Non binary. Stuck with this domain because I'm lazy

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