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Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

A New Day  
by R.A. Clarke 

He’s cute. Wavy hair, the deeply tanned skin of an outdoorsman, barely there stubble covering the cleft in his chin. I watched his chest rise and fall, his toned pectoral muscles twitching whenever he moved in his sleep. I ran my fingertips softly over those pecs, smiling as they danced in response. Don—no, it was Dan—mumbled something incoherent and brushed the places I’d just tickled.

In a different life could you have been my soulmate? My Mr. Right?

My stomach rolled and I felt the pull, an unavoidable, unquenchable need. I’d tried and failed to rid myself of it for seven decades now. My body, still appearing in its prime at around thirty, spasmed violently, nearly waking the man—this Dan—my screw for the night…

He’d been good in bed. I recalled the caress of his hands and lips. Phantom tingles of pleasure still teased between my thighs. Damn. Mornings were worse when the sex was good.

After numerous drinks and dancing that had promised so much more, I’d invited Dan back to my chateau outside of the city. He’d marveled in the renovated beauty of the early 1800’s estate, passed down through my family. I didn’t blame him. It was breathtaking.

I rolled away from my lover and reached for the nightstand drawer, pulling out a palm-sized glass bottle and a folded rag.

Sometimes I longed to let someone in, to share the forbidden part of me with them and start a family of my own. To let who be my choice. Last night, when Dan had pressed me against the wall, his whisky kisses making every nerve ending sing, I’d thought about giving in. To cease contraceptives and propagate as the curse bade me. The thought of having someone to share this tedious life with was tempting. So, why didn’t I simply accept fate?

Because I also knew the gnawing need—the craving—that accompanied both my strength and heightened senses.

It was a witch that cursed my ancestors generations ago as punishment for their hateful abuses, dooming our bloodline to pass this affliction down forevermore. A seemingly unbreakable chain. Resisting reproduction indefinitely didn’t work—my mother used to tell tales of others who’d tried. It seemed whenever one of us hit the age of seventy-five, the curse forced us to mate like feral animals. Every time. It was only via conception that the curse transferred, and unfortunately it passed to both the successful lover and the babe.

That witch demanded anguish, and what better way than to make someone lurk in shadows, to crave blood and sex, and to feast on both things in order to live in the world—to force us all to birth babies who’ll be doomed to the same fate?

I gritted my teeth, jaw muscles clenched.

No, I won’t spread it. Not by choice.

My guts twisted sharply, insistent.

Pouring liquid onto the rag, I held it firmly in my hand and rolled back over to Dan.

“I hope you had good dreams,” I whispered and kissed his lips.

His head jerked at first, then he must’ve remembered where he was, because he smiled against my mouth and kissed me back, before murmuring, “Round two?”

“I wish. But the sun is nearly up and I work early. Plus, I still need my blood treatment before I can step foot outside of this house.”

His brows pinched together.

Before he could ask any questions, I kissed him again, raising the moist rag to shoulder height, then pulled back from him and pressed it over his mouth.

His eyes flew open and he tried brushing me away. He then pushed and pried, but my grip was iron. Straddling his hips, I kept him pinned. Despite what my slight frame might suggest, I was quite well equipped to manhandle.

Dan’s eyes drooped as his fight faded.

When he was fully out, I removed the chloroform-soaked rag and caressed his clammy cheek. “I’m sorry for this.”

After tying his ankles with rope, I hit a button to close the automatic shutters, then slid a ceiling tile aside. I latched Dan onto a pulley, using several strong yanks to hoist him up. His unconscious form now hung upside down, and I stilled his swing, sniffing ravenously at all of the aromatic iron circulating in his veins.

I hated the need. But I wouldn’t be able to walk in the light until I fed… and I couldn’t not live in the light. It was the only thing that brought even a modicum of joy to my existence. I didn’t have enough strength to condemn myself to a dark hole and go insane trying to resist cravings.

Once I’d finished spreading a drop sheet over the floor, I retrieved an IV kit and an old jug from the room hidden behind the closet—my curse cave, as I liked to call it.

Pricking Dan, I watched as syrupy red liquid flowed down through the thin tube into the jug. His life-force would quench my hunger, feed my wretched need.

But even as regret and self-loathing caused tears to well in my eyes, watching that precious sanguine fluid fill the jug spurred an eager smile to play on my lips.

Dan’s eyelids fluttered a few breaths before they opened. He looked around, groggy and confused, then his gaze settled on me kneeling beside the container holding his blood. Panic slathered his pale face, and those once inviting lips released feeble shouts while his limbs thrashed to defeat his bindings.

His fight wouldn’t last long.

“I wish I could spare you, but my curse demands complete satiation. If I only take a little and let you live, it will automatically trigger my feral instincts. I just can’t stomach letting that happen. I can’t.”

“Don’t kill me. P-p-lease!” he warbled.

I sighed. They always beg in the end…

The moment Dan’s chest stopped moving, I closed my eyes, giving him a moment of silence. I’m so, so sorry.

A minute later, I lifted the jug and carried it into the kitchen, setting it down on the counter. Like usual, I’d lined it with just enough anticoagulant to keep my crimson treatments flowing for the next few days.

My body tingled with fresh waves of titillation that had nothing to do with last night’s vigorous activities. Licking my lips, I grabbed a mug and held it beneath the metal spout affixed to the container, flipping the toggle. The blood glugged, filling the cup to the brim. Anticipation screamed within. I padded across the carpet and out onto the screened porch. Sitting down in my favourite morning chair, I looked outside, soaking in the first rays of citrine sunshine escaping the horizon’s shadowy clutches. Their brilliance nipped at the heels of unwanted darkness swirling within, chasing it back into the depths where it belonged. It was enough to convince me this was a new day. Today, I won’t have to be a killer…

Sipping the warm blood, I sighed.

.

Fiction © Copyright R.A. Clarke
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com 

More from author R.A. Clarke:

SPREAD: Tales of Deadly Flora

GREEN THUMBS BEWARE
Plants are beautiful, peaceful, abundant, and life-sustaining…
But what if something sinister took root in the soil, awakening to unleash slashing thorns, squeezing vines, or haunting greenery that lured you in? Perhaps blooms on distant planets could claim your heart, hitch a ride to Earth on a meteor, or simply poison you with their essence.
Imagine a world where scientists produced our own demise in a lab, set spores free to infect, even bred ferns to be our friends only to witness the privilege perverted. When faced with
botanical terror, will humanity fight to survive, or will they curl and wither like leaves in the fall?
Read ten speculative tales ripe with dangerous flora to find out.

Available on Amazon!