Sunday, April 12, 2009

Untitled Dhampir Short Story

Vampires have such a twisted history, but who doesn’t, right? Family trees… they’re specified histories, they give you tangible proof of where you’ve come from. It’s why we don’t keep them.

You see, contrary to popular belief, Vampires do not walk the night. Were they humans touched by the devil? Well, yeah. See that worked fine and dandy for them, too, until about 0BC. BC was a good time for demons because the sins of the father followed the bloodline right on down the generations.

The problem with being touched by the devil in the AD after: absolute forgiveness for sins. See, we offspring still carry the consequences of our forefathers, but we’re “forgiven,” we can’t be touched. Much as some of us might want to be.
0BC was a bad year for demons. Vampires all but disappeared after that, those they marked were no longer affected except by death. Instead, however, the were able to breed, their offspring were called Dhampires.

My father and I have been bouncing around for a couple hundred years. I’m coming up on 250, soon. And, in case you’re wondering about the whole clan mentality… yeah, that’s still around.

“I’m not going to be Partnered just because I hit my ‘expiration date’, Father” No way in Hell was I going to get stuck with some Clan picked stud just to reproduce.

“These are traditions kept in place to ensure our survival until we’re delivered, Amra. You will do as you are told and keep your mouth shut when the Order arrive.” He bellowed in that scary whisper really angry fathers use. After so many years, you kind of come to an equal footing with your parental units, but that whisper still gives me the chills every time.

“This is the end of the discussion, Amra, I mean it!”

Yeah, I might’ve slammed the front door and been halfway down the driveway but I still heard that loud and clear.

“You bet it’s over. You’re going to ‘tradition’ yourself right into your grave, old man.” It was a muttered comment, for safety’s sake. I knew I couldn’t take my dad in a fight, but my mouth had a way of not remembering that some days.

Strength, speed, seduction, as the bloodlines blended into the rest humanity, our “powers” were bleeding out of us and mixing with them (yes, that’s why the world records keep getting beat).

Some brilliant group of withered old men who couldn’t get it up anymore decided to start an in breeding program in an attempt to breed more powerful descendents. Yeah, that pretty much goes against every natural law in existence, but that’s what the Devil’s all about, right? Perversion of the Natural way of things.

Anyways, dirty old men aside, my father was always very family oriented. That’s why my mother left him. That’s also why she was hunted down, raped, and butchered. It’s that Tradition thing again. Geez, you’d think they were all Italian.

I took a walk to cool my head, and by a walk, I mean I kept going until I stopped fuming which, being the stubborn redheaded only child of an Order member’s favorite, meant I covered a few hundred miles before thinking about turning around.

My father loved me, I know that. He also loved my mother. She had taken me with her, made me watch as she was torn apart. I didn’t have to suffer her punishment, as I was only a child, a true child, but I was whipped for every outcry begging for my mother. I still carry the scars, if only slightly.

I took note of the closing night, the sun would be up in another hour or so, you could see the sky preparing to bleach itself out.

I headed back to our house at a trot then rocked into a full sprint. I liked running, it got my blood burning hot, my senses flared alive, each scent upon the humid air pungent, the coming sun already too bright for my keen eyes. The only pitfall was the hunger that snarled beneath the surface, pushing out from within the confines of my skin, demanding blood, demanding vengeance, demanding sex climaxing into gore.

I was almost home, if I could just make it home. I was never good with knowing my limits.

Spring was heady around me. My run slowed to a walk, the pains within my stomach growling at me, demanding degradation to animalistic passion. Mate. Feed. No!

I was almost home. My father was approaching me cautiously. We were not a family blessed with that telepathic link as some of the more preserved families, we actually owned cell phones, to our chagrine, but he must have scented me on the air.

The Thirst was the worst I’d ever experienced. The Hunger devouring me as it demanded to be devoured.

“Amra, I’m going to keep talking to you, but you need to get down into the basement, baby. I’m going to talk you down there, okay? Just focus on my voice, focus on your footsteps, we need you down in the basement, baby.” He kept his distance, he knew the pain of the Hunger even more so than I did, he was a full blood afterall, one of the few left.

I could smell him, fresh blood and decaying flesh. He’d fed while I was walking. Damn him!

“Hypocrite!” snarled a voice I thought was supposed to be mine. ‘Shit,’ I thought, ‘the Frenzy is starting.’ I was going to lose it. “Get back, bastard.” The mix of daughterly and ferocity changed daddy dearest’s tactics.

He was on me in a moment, pinning me against the dirt driveway of our little farm house. I hadn’t fed for a long, long time. I was weak, thankfully, but that weakness inspired the strength of desperation.

His arm brushed my cheek, and my teeth snapped out at him. I was lost. All I saw was red, everything in my cried out for satisfaction. One of us was going to die.

Tears were seeping down my face, smearing as we struggled. Anything I could reach… anything.
Blood! Life! It was mine!

I lost it. Completely. Don’t remember anything but blood, lukewarm blood, everywhere.

I woke up with a head ache and an upset stomach. It was dark, completely. I fumbled around, trying to find my bearings. Basement. I wasn’t knocking anything over, the basement was the only place that clean.

“Unh…” it was supposed to be ‘Dad’, I was in a bad way. I found my way to the stairs, my hands were sticky, not a good sign, smacked the light switch on after a couple tries.

I was smeared with blood, a damn large amount of blood. It was in my hair, smeared across my face and my hands. I leaned against the wall for support, wondering what I’d done. Turning about to rest my back on the cool comfort of stone, I saw an arm near the center of the room.

My mind froze, my breath stilled. I wanted to vomit, but there was nothing left to be refused in my demonic belly. I inched toward the limb. Definitely human, I didn’t need a nose for that. Arm! Definitely an Arm!

A sort of morbid fascination was tingling across my brain, as if it had fallen asleep like my foot during meditation when I was a kid.

I almost poked at it but some girlish squeamish-ness held my hand back. The ring on the hand caught my eyes, held them and burned into them. It was my family’s crest.

I’m pretty sure I screamed after that, something had my ears ringing, I couldn’t catch my breath. ‘God, no. Not my dad. Not my dad. It wasn’t possible. Where? Where was the rest of him?’

My mind oozed into consciousness. Light was crashing against my skull. No more basement.
Eventually, after several tries, I got my eyes open. I was on the dining room table. Our golden retriever was splayed out on my father’s chair… and between the dog and the chair was my father, lower arm missing, a tourniquet right above the elbow.

If I could’ve thrown myself at him, I would’ve. I was just so glad he was alive I was shaking.

“Dad” I croaked out, his eyes opened and looked at me with the oddest look I’d ever seen grace his features.

“Thank God.” He whispered.


It was the only question my mind could form before fading once more into darkness.

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