For ProfessorRabbit's vampire contest
It was cold. Megan hated the cold. She hurried through the streets, hands stuffed into the pockets of her heavy coat; a stream of frosted breath following her trail. The cold stung her cheeks and flushed them pink, and whenever a snowflake landed upon her nose she would sneeze. A sharp gust of wind rolled towards her, knocking her back onto the heels of her feet. Grunting, Megan pulled up her scarf to cover her face and trudged onwards; cursing each of the cars that drove past and sprayed her with icy slush-water.
"Donations?"
A shiver shot down Megan's spine and she froze in her steps.
"Donations?"
Slowly, she turned her gaze. The beggar was like any other; haggard and unkempt, a mesh of matted hair hanging down from underneath a moth-holed hat. Cheeks sunken, gaze dulled. He reached out a wrinkled finger and asked again.
"Donations?"
Megan did not like the way he was staring at her pink cheeks, and inside her pockets small hands curled into fists. He scared her, just as always like all of them did. They were nothing but pale shadows of their living selves and they filled her with fear. Yet despite going against her better judgement, and all natural instinct that screamed nothing but terror, there was something within her that desperately wanted to help, to ease their suffering even if it was just in the slightest of ways.
"Well..."
"Megan!"
She spun around and met an equally flushed grinning face.
"Alan," she exclaimed gleefully and hugged him tightly, "I didn't expect to see you here!"
"I was sent out to go do some shopping," he sighed and rolled his eyes, Megan giggling at his expression.
"Donations?"
Her laughter stopped, and a sombre silence fell over the two.
"Excuse me," Alan frowned, glowering at the wrinkled man before turning his glare to Megan, "donations? Donations? Were you going to... Jesus Christ, Megan, I thought you had more sense than that!"
"I didn't do anything, Alan, but sometimes I see them and I just..." She trailed off as he took hold of her hand and pulled her along; away from the broken beggar. His grip was tight, and the desperation behind his anger made her feel a little guilty she had even thought about donating.
Alan continued pulling her along until he reached the town hall. They'd passed others as they went; women in tall shoes and short skirts, young men with broken noses and frayed tempers. All of them after the same thing.
He sat her down on a bench and Megan waited for his lecture, for the take care of yourselves and the don't be stupids, instead he reached into his rucksack and pulled out two cans of instant soup.
"Here," he said and tossed one over to her, popping the button on its base and waiting for it to heat up.
Megan did the same with hers, holding the can between her mittened hands to warm up her fingers.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Alan asked, sitting himself beside her.
"Sometimes," she began slowly, taking a sip of her soup, "I just see them and it reminds me of him."
"Your brother?"
Megan stared at her hands and nodded slowly.
"I think if someone had given him something, then maybe he wouldn't have gone mad like he did, maybe he'd still be here; not locked up like some wild animal. And when I think of him I... I just want to do something about it."
"But why? Why not give blood to the living rather than the dead?"
"The dead?"
"Well you could hardly say it's living." Alan said, leaning back on the bench and shaking his head.
Megan rose to her feet, brushing moisture away from the backs of her legs.
"Didn't you have some shopping to do?" She asked softly.
"Look," he sighed, "if you're serious about this, I'll come with you down to the bank. If you're going to do anything at least do it properly. I don't treasure the thought of you offering yourself on the street."
Megan said nothing, but offered him a hand.
---
They surrounded the bank, all of them pale and gaunt with ill looking faces. Their eyes watched hungrily, and as Alan and Megan walked past them a few licked their lips and shuffled closer.
The lobby of the bank was filthy, just as it had been every time that Megan had ever ventured inside. She'd gotten this far before, but the stench of rotten meat would always turn her stomach and she'd run out of that cold building and in to the snow, which somehow felt warmer. There were more people curled up along the creases of the walls, each a pile of ragged cloth that was only recognisable as a living being when they moved, shifting underneath the folds of cotton.
"May I help you?" They teller asked as they approached. Perhaps, Megan wondered, within this building, it was a requirement to look so withdrawn, have such sunken features; the appearance was ubiquitous. Even though he was normal--natural-- the teller's expression was no different from those hunched up in the corners.
"Yes," she said quietly, "I'm here-"
"Unless you've a medical note, at the moment I can't give you anything." He replied in a long droll, as if even speaking took up too much effort.
"Oh, no, no, I'm here to give."
The shrivelled beings under cloth twitched.
"Sorry, sorry," the teller sighed and slipped off his chair, "I forget people come here for that too. It's been so long."
Megan swallowed nervously, and reached for Alan's hand as they followed the teller.
---
Behind the cool glass, behind that barrier that separated them from the dead, the hospital was surprisingly clean--clinical. It even had that same smell which Megan had found all dentists seemed to have, and the juxtaposition of such cleanliness next to such squalor was a little unsettling.
"Have you given before?" The teller asked, leading the pair into a small side-room. Within it was a low hospital bed, and beside that a steel dish laden with delicate instruments.
"No, well, not for this anyway. There was a drive when I was still in school but I think that was just for medical reasons, like accidents or something."
"Hmm, I don't think I've seen any drives for a long time now," he replied, distantly, as Megan slid up onto the bed, "but this is pretty much the same procedure and we'll be taking pretty much the same amount."
"Well, that's some relief," she said and rolled up the sleeve of her shirt.
The needles were bigger than Megan remembered, and she flinched when it dug into the soft skin of her inner arm and pierced a vein. As much as the sight disgusted Megan, the fascination was too much for her to avert her eyes. Rich dark blood seeped down the thick rubber tube to where it collected in a plastic bag just beside her. There was nothing to do but watch and wait until she had been drained of as much as was needed.
"Thank you very much for the donation," the teller smiled, and carried the bag of still warm blood with them back up to the front desk. No more piles in the corners, they were all standing, waiting in front of his seat, each eager to be the one that would receive her gift.
"Look at them all," Alan said nervously, Megan still holding cotton wool to the puncture would in her arm, the teller informing everyone that there was still no blood for those without a doctor's note.
"I know, I know," she replied, and shivered, "but what can we do? I mean, everyone needs to eat, don't they?"
