Fiction by Elliott Baas
Becca and Martin walk together on the sidewalk, not holding hands. The light of a full moon shimmers against her black hair.
She taps him on the arm. “This is my building.”
“Great. See ya.” He starts to walk away but she pulls him back.
“Thanks for dinner. And for walking me home.”
Martin shrugs. “There are a lot of creeps out after dark.”
“Tell me about it. Just last week I got flashed.” She keeps her hand on his arm, holding him to the conversation. “This guy dressed like a priest came up and flashed me his big crucifix. Then he starting yelling at me in Latin.”
“Sounds like a nut.” Martin shakes her hand off and backs up.
“Would you like to come upstairs? Have some dessert?”
He looks her up and down and says, “I’ve always had a bit of a sweet tooth.”
She grabs him by the hand, and they race up three flights of stairs, feeling each other up along the way. Becca unlocks the door and they burst into her one-bedroom apartment. The apartment is clean save for the dirty clothes strewn across the floor and the dishes in the sink stacked higher than the eye can see.
“Are you gonna kiss me?” she asks. He steps forward and leans in for a kiss. Her lips graze his and she quivers and grips him tighter. Blood drips from his nose and trickles onto her lips.
“Sorry,” he says, “pretty girls make me nervous.”
“It’s okay. That’s my fetish,” Becca says. She gives him a seductive simper, causing blood to drip into her mouth. Martin shivers as she takes him by the hand and guides him into her bedroom, which is dimly lit by the fire of slim, tapered candlesticks. She rubs her painted fingernails across Martin’s chest with one hand and picks up a candlestick with the other.
“Were these candles lit all day?” he asks. Without answering him she pulls him in for another kiss. When their lips break she licks a drop of blood from his nostril and grins. Using the candle as guidance they head towards the bed, which is a casket with chipped black paint and a mattress inside.
“Do you sleep in that every night?” he asks.
“Every day,” she says. “I’m a fangy. I’m attracted to blood and vampires.”
Martin looks around the room. The windows have Victorian bars across them. Bats hang from the ceiling. Mostly Louisville Sluggers, but some Eastons too.
“Oh, I get it.” In his best Dracula voice Martin says, “I vant to suck your tit.”
She scowls at him. “This isn’t a joke.” She deepens her voice and adds a thick Romanian accent. “You, you must call me Vampyra. I am empress to the underworld of this city, where I have ruled for over 500 years.”
“Your Tinder profile said you were 26.”
“Silence,” she bellows. She hisses at Martin, flashing her plastic fangs. “Do you not desire to see what’s under this dress?”
Martin nods, and she lets the dress fall to the floor, revealing a long black cloak that is somehow larger and less revealing than the dress.
“Wait here. I must obtain the necessary items to commence our copulation.” She scurries out of the room hunched over.
“Yo, I got condoms in my wallet,” Martin says as she leaves. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a generic blue condom, the expiration date rivaling only Vampyra in age.
She returns a moment later carrying a plastic goblet encrusted with the finest diamond and ruby stickers. She looks at Martin and glares at the contraceptive in his hand. “Put that away this instant.”
“Sorry, I just want to be safe, ya know. We don’t need a Nosferatu Junior running around here.”
“Please, my womb cannot be impregnated by the seed of a human male. Drink this.” She thrusts the goblet into Martin’s hands, and he looks down at the thick red liquid, swirling it slowly within the chalice.
“What is this, tomato juice?” he asks.
“Something like that. Drink.”
Martin takes a sip from the chalice and swishes it in his mouth.
“It’s expired blood donations,” Becca says.
Martin spits the drink out, aiming for the cup but hitting the carpet. “You made me drink blood?”
“Relax, you can’t get hepatitis from drinking blood.”
“This is hepatitis blood?”
“The results were inconclusive.”
He wipes his mouth and looks at the empty chalice. “Where did you get this?”
“I like to poke around medical waste bins. One man’s trash, as they say.”
“That may be fine for you, but we’re not all immortal here.” He unbuckles his belt. “Are we ready now? And you better take those fangs out, they’ll just be in the way.”
She walks up to him and starts pecking his neck, her cool breath tingling the hairs on his chin. “I’m ready.”
Martin pulls his pants down. Becca backs away and sits down on the coffin. She sticks her hand underneath the pillow and pulls out a steak knife. Martin pulls his pants up.
“In vampire culture it’s customary for a couple to cut themselves before intercourse. It’s to show dedication to each other.”
She holds the knife over her wrist. “The tradition originates from ancient human societies.”
She places the cool blade on her pasty skin. “The men would cut themselves open to prove their virility to the women. Those that could survive blood loss proved to be the best mates.”
She slices her wrist open horizontally. “Ah, fuck that hurts. That really really fucking hurts.” She shakes her wrist to numb the pain and blood sprays across the room with the synchronization of an automatic sprinkler.
“That’s gonna need stitches,” Martin says.
“Owie owie owie,” she whines. She holds out the bloodied knife to Martin. “Your turn.” He doesn’t move toward her or the knife. “Do you want this to happen or not? You seemed horny. I thought you were into it.”
“I don’t know. Call me a pervert, but I’m only into chicks without gaping lacerations. I’ll just pay a visit to old Jennifer Handiston.” He holds up his palm as he backs up towards the door.
“Wait,” Becca shouts. Martin spins back around. She dips her fingers in her own blood and smears it across her cheek. “Take me, Martin. Be my Van Helsing.”
“Listen, you look pretty pale and you’ve clearly lost a lot of blood. I’m not sure how lively you’d be anyway.”
“You can’t.”
“Why?”
“I’m feeling a little lightheaded, and I can see my wrist bones.”
Becca collapses backwards on her mattress. Martin approaches her bed and looks at her body, her eyes closed as she lies motionless. He tries to shake her awake. “Vampyra?” She doesn’t move. He leans in closer and puts his hand on her neck: no pulse. He stands up, and her eyes spring open. She sinks her fangs into Martin’s neck, dragging his body across hers.
Elliott Baas is a basement dwelling millennial. His hobbies include chain -drinking Mountain Dew, leaving mean comments on YouTube videos, and casual Myriapodology. In addition to writing fiction, he also writes about baseball for Fantasypros.com and Thefantasyreport.net.
