Young Writers Society

I watch as it scuttles from the passageway and into my cell. As still as the dead, I stay until the vermin, with its glistening fur, sniffs its way across the wall opposite me, blissfully unaware of my presence. Its whiskers brush my knuckles and I clutch it in one lightning fast flick of my wrist. It screeches in my grip as I lift it to my mouth and extend my fangs. I puncture its neck and it cries, trying desperately to break free. But I suck its blood until I feel well enough to keep my eyes open, and release it. The rat scarpers away into the darkness, out of sight.

Sighing in momentary bliss, I rest my back against the wall and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. The slight fogginess I had been feeling due to my wounds has waned but the clarity is not welcomed.

“I’m going to die, aren’t I?” I say, addressing the witch but I don’t look at her.

“I’m afraid so, laddy,” she replies. “Anything you’d like to get off your chest before that time comes?”

Now I do look at her, my eyebrow arched incredulously. “Excuse me?”

“Well.” She shrugs. “I know we’re not heading up to the golden castle in the sky but it’s nice to have a clear conscience when you do pass on to wherever. Don’t want that baggage weighing you down.”

“Have you taken your own advice?”

She smiles broadly, this one full of pride. “Indeed. I was reacquainted with my darling son recently. I had abandoned him as a wee boy to chase my calling. I had been selfish back then, so power hungry that I would have stopped at nothing until I was on top. And look at me now.” She gestures around her cell. “What have I got to show for it?”

“You say you’ve been meddling with dark forces for centuries – so am I assuming correctly that you are older than your body perceives you to be?”

She nods courteously.

“Then how recently did you mend fences with your son?”

“He’s still alive,” she replies. “He sold his soul and now he’s a demon.” Her lips form an impish grin. “I guess it’s true what they say, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

I think about this new information for a moment. Demons, like werewolves, travel in groups and are rather formidable foe.

“Couldn’t your son get you out of here?” I ask.

“Aye, if only he knew where I am. But the runes ward me completely. I can’t send a message to him and he can’t track me.” She waves me off. “I’ve been down here long enough to accept my fate. But what would be really smashing would be to help you here and now. You look like an old soul that is carrying a lot of weight on those narrow, little shoulders.”

A warmth spreads through my chest at the affection in her tone. She reminds me of my mother in this very moment and the thought of my family drudges up things I like to pretend I have forgotten about.

“I can see you have something on your mind,” the witch croons and she doesn’t remind me of my mother anymore. But she is right, and if I am to die, what is the harm in me opening up to this kind, albeit odd, stranger?

“We were on a family camping trip, when I was human,” I start, and she smirks a little. “Everything was going fine. Me and my little brother would entertain ourselves for hours just with a football or a frisbee. He was my best friend. We did everything together.” I smile wistfully at the memory of his happy, round face. But then it falls away.

“On the third night, we went to sleep as normal. The four of us tucked up neatly in our tent. But in the morning, my brother was gone. He was only four at the time, and I six. He wasn’t the type of kid to wander off on his own.”

I frown as I feel the emptiness inside me grow and swell and become a huge mass of nothing where my heart should be.

“We looked all day. Got the police involved and they searched for weeks. They found one of his socks in the woods. It was green with dinosaurs on it.” I smile again because I can’t help it. “He loved dinosaurs.”

My throat feels tight so I clear it and I find the witch’s eyes. They are dark and twinkling in her pale face.

“I wish I’d been able to figure out what had happened that night, what happened to my brother. Did he die out there or is he still alive today?”

“Grief is a tricky thing, especially in a situation where you are not sure if the grief is even necessary,” she says. “Did any of that uncertainty have any part in you becoming a vampire?”

I nod. “My family was never the same after that. We all turned against each other – against ourselves. Then I was attacked and I was scared but I was promised a new life and I took it.

“Ten years after my parents lost my brother, they lost me, too.”

“Did you go back at all?” she asks.

I shake my head. “I was warned not to. But I left them a note saying I had run away. I couldn’t bear the thought of disappearing without a trace, too. I think they believed it, I was a troubled kid so I guessed it was probably somewhat expected.”

“How long ago was that?” asks the witch, now with the soft, collected voice of the therapist.

“Thirteen years ago.”

“Do you think your brother is still alive?”

“Part of me likes to believe so, but the thought of him being alive but not with me is even harder to comes to terms with because it begs the question, why? I know my brother, he would never choose to not be with his family. So that means he has been kept away against his will and if he is living a life of suffering, I wish him to be dead.”

I rarely talk about my brother. I rarely talk at all. Living a life of solidarity it is easy to be mute. To not think too much. Only about the present. The here and now. The future if necessary, but never the past. Never about my life before.

But now as my life draws to a close it does feel somewhat satisfying to converse. To remember, and to allow myself to feel again.

Now I see his face. The fog I have shrouded my old life in is clearing, and he’s smiling. He’s running around in a huge field, arms outstretched to hug the sky as he gallops in circles with glee. Then he runs back to me, the sun is beaming. I’m surprised I remember the sun. His face is red with exertion but he’s still grabbing my hand and tugging at it, urging me to play with him.

I notice the birthmark under his left eye. We have the same green eyes. The mark is darker than his skin and looks like a collective gathering of freckles that have all combined to make one large one about the size of a ten pence piece. He’s four here, the oldest I know him to be. But when he was younger, the blot on his cheek was much larger. When he was born, it covered almost the entirety of his cheek. I often wonder, when I allow myself to think of Daniel, whether it would have completely faded as he aged.

“When I turned,” I continue, feeling the heavy burn of tears threaten the backs of my eyes. “I was introduced to this whole new world where the monsters our parents would tell us were nothing to be afraid of are actually a constant, lurking threat. And with that knowledge, the memory of that fateful night is even harder to bear.”

“It is a dangerous world out there,” the witch agrees. “That is why I strived to be a formidable opponent to anyone who crossed me.” She looks around and laughs, despite herself. “I’ve survived four centuries, I think I’ve done pretty well, considering my current situation. It’s just a massive kick in the teeth that I’ve been beaten by a bunch of humans.”

____________________

I jerk awake from my trancelike daze at the sound of the heavy metal door creaking open. The same metal door I had heard in my half lucid state when I had first been brought here. The witch, too, has become more animated by the noise. She looks at me, her eyes wide and fearful, then she flinches at the slam of the door.

Three sets of footsteps descend the creaky metal stairway. I watch, waiting for them to emerge. My cell is the first in the row so I can see the bottom three steps. The first set of feet I see are bare. They are dirty and wet and belong to a man. I can tell by the size. Following the barefooted man are two sets of booted feet. They are heavy and rattle the entire framework of the staircase as they stomp their way down.

The three men then appear all at once. In front, the barefooted man is cowering and shaking, his clothes and hair drenched. His t-shirt is torn and stained with blood. I can smell it, fresh fae blood. And then I smell him beneath it and my fangs press against my gums instinctively. Werewolf.

The werewolf staggers, his wrists and ankles bound by chains. Before he even has a chance to right himself after a near fall, he is poked in the back with a cattle prodder. The werewolf cries out in pain and tries to rush his feet along the smooth rocks.

The men behind him don’t look like much, with their shaggy hair and missing teeth, but it is clear that they know how to handle themselves.

Whimpering slightly, the werewolf passes me. I’m right at the back of my cell. His face is red with watered down blood and his long dark hair is pasted to his cheeks. I see his nostrils flare when he catches my scent but he doesn’t even turn to acknowledge me.

The witch and I hold eye contact when the three men pass us and we both react with flinches at the sounds coming from down the cave. The werewolf is being beaten. The humans’ sadistic cackles echo around the rocks.

“Gotta be remembered who’s boss around here after a fight, don’tcha, mutt?”

The thuds of those heavy boots against flesh make me close my eyes.

There are vampires that suffer with great delusions of grandeur which causes them to have a visceral detachment from everyone else. That detachment births an evil, an evil they relish. Werewolves are my enemy. My Maker told me to be aware of their cunning, their strength, and their persistence. But now, as I hear that werewolf being beaten, bruised and broken, I feel the tug of sympathy at my unbeating heart. He may heal in a day or two, but the humiliation will scar him forever.

Werewolves are not supposed to be alone and right now, I can’t help but compare that man to a lost pup.

I hear the electric hiss of the prodder one last time then heavy boots start stomping back my way.

Cold blooded murder is not in my nature but when my eyes lock with the glare of the smaller fellow, a hot rage burns deep within me and my fangs extend, ready to tear him apart. He sneers at me then cackles when he notices the tips of my fangs.

“Don’t you be getting any ideas. But if you’re getting antsy, I’ll get you out of there. Whaddya say?”

They both stop in front of my cell, blocking my view of the witch.

I say nothing as I have no words for these men. They are not men. They are foul crettin that I would not waste an unneeded breath on.

“Fangs against claws, always a good show,” snorts the larger one, nudging his friend.

“The best,” he agrees and jabs the cattle prodder against the bars of my cell. I’m far back enough for the sparks to not leap to me but the sight of the whole front of my cell sparking to life jolts me. They both cackle as they leave. It’s a disgusting, disjointed, wet sound that lingers on after the metal door is sealed shut.

The witch’s head is bowed. I want her to look at me. I want to share what I am feeling with her. And my feeling is anguish. Anguish for the lone werewolf whimpering out of sight. The Beast, I presume. That’s what the witch had called him. And yet right now he doesn’t seem so beastly. But werewolves are deceptive. Alpha’s can even transform fully by simply willing it. Beta’s and Omega’s can half-transform the same way – grow their claws and fangs out.

I gulp and press my back harder into the cave wall. If the Beast is an Alpha I have no chance at defeating him. I am not old nor strong enough to better an Alpha on my own.He would rip apart my body as easily as a knife through butter.

But if he’s an Beta or an Omega… I could do some damage. I run my tongue across my retracted fangs, feeling the points. I have never killed a human. Had bitten them when I was a fledgling but scared myself straight quite easily and painlessly. Perhaps it was because I was rather meek when I had been human and so I became a rather meek vampire. It has kept me out of trouble, well, until now. Although, my current situation comes down to being in the wrong place at the wrong time, it seems. Those hillbilly’s have nothing against me personally, just my kind.

I look to the witch, who has still not lifted her head. My kind and her kind.

The werewolf seems to move and then cries out in agony. My kind and his kind.

I have never killed a werewolf. Had been hunted by a pack a few years back but had managed to shake them by jumping off a cliff into the sea and staying submerged until they had given up and left. Almost the entire night.

That was the scariest night of my life. And still is. The thought of being thrown into a fighting ring with the Beast has nothing on having five werewolves chasing me through a forest on a full moon. I swear, if I could dream, the sound of their scampering paws and the feel of their hot breath on my heels would haunt my sleeps for the rest of eternity.

“I told you he would win,” whispers the witch. But her voice echoes across the rocks and feels too loud.

I glance in the general direction of the whimpering. “That is what you class as winning?”

“Well, losing is death.”

Is it though? Is death any worse than being locked down here, waiting for your next beating?