Death, the only immortal who treats us all alike, whose pity and whose peace and whose refuge are for all - the soiled and the pure, the rich and the poor, the loved and the unloved. - Mark Twain
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How a monster was made
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It was true for me.
The saying that goes, 'just before you die, your entire life flashes before your eyes'. It was true for me. As his teeth sank into my shoulder, and my flesh parted, my life as a vampire flashed before my eyes.
Death, blood, hunger. That insatiable hunger that remained constantly. No matter how much you drank, it was always there, always begging for more. It could never be sated. Never be stopped. It was a force of it's own. A force I was happy to indulge.
As I started to feel the fire, my other life flashed before my eyes, and I saw it all. Despite the decades passed, I saw all the memories I thought had faded and died with my mortality...
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I didn't live in exact poverty, but something close. My 'family' was not a traditional one. I had no siblings; my father deserted my mother soon after she fell pregnant with me. As a result, my mother and I were shunned by 'proper' families living nearby. My mother was good at sewing, weaving and the like, and that is how she – and when I was older – we earned our living.
I thought I was content until I met him. Everything changed then. I didn't know what he was at first, he kept it hidden. He was so mysterious about everything, and maybe that just drew me to him even more.
I was raised as any other child of those times. There was always something different though. Something dark. Lurking beneath the murky depths of the picture I presented to the outside world. The image I learned to project at the tender age of five. Because nice girls did not poke dead birds that fell out of their nest with sticks. They did not get their best dress dirty by crawling through mud to follow the ants, and angle their glass toward them, imaging their screams of pain as the sun's scorching rays blistered and peeled their skin.
Nice girls did not kick the little boy that lived next door.
Nice girls did not day-dream about hurting their mothers.
Nor should they be fascinated with the scarlet drop that pooled on the edge of a blade after cutting their thigh. They should feel pain, remorse, guilt. They should hurt when they felt these things. When the cold bite of metal or glass caressed their skin, it should hurt. It was wrong. It was bad. I was bad.
My mother saw the darkness in me, when I was just a newborn babe. She told me many years later – frequently – how she loathed me on sight that first day. How much pain I had caused her as I tore from her womb.
She tried her best to erode the darkness. At first she took me to church, made me sit on the hard seats as the priest droned on about evil and how evil evil was. She realised the futility when I was seven. Amen for that breakthrough.
After that, she attempted to beat the darkness away. That didn't work either, but it made her feel better, so that way we continued. It was then I saw my love of pain. Not just inflicting it, but receiving it. The harsh drive of her relentless fists. The hunger pangs of a two-day fast. I didn't mind not eating. I fed on the pain – it made me strong, gave me all the nutrition I could ever want. The fact I took each of her blows and taunts with reverence seemed to infuriate her more, but how could I not be in awe of the creature that rained blows upon me? The sweet savagery of her slightly pointed boots, making contact with my stomach, causing blood to spew from my mouth, landing in a beautiful pattern on our cold floors. I dearly hoped I could make art like that one day. Everyday.
Our bonding would last for hours on occasion, usually until she wore herself out or I passed out. I fought such weakness with all my might, all the strength she hammered into me, but sometimes it was too much for even I to bear. My body's fragility tormented me. That captivated and moved me far more than her kicks ever could. Weakness was not acceptable.
I grew. I remained fixated on pain, and my mother remained fixated on her beatings. The only time I ever thought my mother looked beautiful was when her thin lips pursed as she decided what to do with me, how she could adequately punish me, her shrewd, smart eyes drew together in a glare as she looked at me, the anger simmering, bubbling to the surface before the white hot burn of it scolded me. She was an angel. Sent from hell.
I started to cut myself when I was twelve. It started after my mother slit open my shoulder with a sharp knife. She had cut me before, obviously, but this gash was different somehow. The crimson that cascaded down my arm entranced me. Blood. The sight of my life's blood rolling delicately captivated me and I realised how heady the smell was. Later, on my patch of stone floor, I used a sharp rock to re-open a small portion of the delicate wound.
I had been intoxicated earlier, but inflicting this upon myself, knowing I was the cause of such raw, untamed beauty and power sent new thrills through me. Not even the sting of the hot metal my mother burned me with (fire was my ultimate vulnerability, bringing forth the screams her blows could not muster) could compete with the glorious surge of power I felt. Delectable.
Then I met him. Jack James. My wonderful James who taught me of love and lust and desire and hate.
Cats were the only animal I wouldn't hurt - unless truly incensed. I admired their regal bearing, their slow gait and brilliant posture. Most of all, I admired their ability to hunt. The stealth with which they tracked their prey, played with it delicately before killing it. It was sitting outside one night watching a pure black cat toy with it's prey that I met James.
"Hello Victoria."
I continued to focus on the cat as he chuckled. It was a deep sound that stirred me. He moved softly next to me, so softly he didn't even scare the cat, I was awed at his grace. Captivated once more.
"How did you do that?" My voice was rough and husky, I rarely spoke, neighbours sent their eyes to the floor when they saw me and I was only to speak to me mother when spoken to. Sometimes I spoke to deliberately ignite her wrath.
"Wouldn't you like to know, little girl." I felt something building in the pit of my stomach. Anger, I realised with shock. I had never been able to muster much emotion, but that silly comment brought it directly to the forefront. After all, I was hardly a girl, I was seventeen! Old enough to wed, should anyone want me.
"I am not a girl." I replied tartly. He only laughed once more, birthing more feelings. They built in my stomach, rose when he took my chin to look gaze into his eyes. Red, like blood and so devastatingly beautiful.
"So full of passion" he murmured, "overwrought with fire"
Surely he had the wrong woman?
"You are wrong. I am dead inside." I replied, using one of my mother's favourite phrases. I looked back to the cat, who was ready to stop playing.
He chuckled again.
"I'm dead completely." That raised my head, too late though He was gone.
For some unfathomable reason, I crept outside the next night and waited. The next night too. He showed on the third night.
"Waiting for me?" his eyes were a startling red. I didn't reply, I was too busy looking into the dark depths, seeing the building anger. I shuddered in anticipation.
"Why do you let her do it?"
"What?"
"Hit you. Hurt you. I can still smell the blood on you."
"I like it."
And so our conversations started. He was intrigued with my fascination with pain, and I was intrigued with him. He started to come every night. A month later he told me what he was, and why he had to move on.
"I bet it's beautiful." I sighed wistfully, "Watching them take their last breath. Feeling their blood. What does it taste like?"
He growled low in his throat. It wasn't a bad sound, it sent shivers all through my body. I told him how it made me feel.
"Desire," he said huskily, tilting my head to the right. Gently, so softly, he sank his teeth into my neck.
Then the flames spread. A burning, boiling, raging inferno built it's way through my body, creating layer upon layer of absolute, acute agony. I have no idea if my torn scream was of pain or pleasure. Both? Neither? I lost myself completely, all I knew, all I was; tore from me violently, then rearranged in order to create a new being. A better one.
Sometime later, I opened my scarlet eyes, wrapped in my lovers embrace. And I was ravenous.
With I was born, and with fire did I die.
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A/N -
Firstly, I know it's not a Death's Daughter update, and I know I suck and I'm super sorry. I've had writers block that has been killing me. This idea came to me and I had to release it, hopefully my writing drought it over. There will be a DD update though. I promise.
Second, this is new for me. I've always played about with main characters, and everything so far (even ideas) have revolved around them, so I have no idea where this came from. Possibly it was because I got thinking about Victoria. She's evil and horrible, but there is some sort of love inside her, and I wanted to know why she couldn't love properly; fully. I have no idea of the time this is set in, I couldn't find an exact birth/death date online for her, so the history of this piece is purposely vague. (If anyone knows when she was born, I'd love to know!)
Lastly, I'd love to know what people thought of this. I might get worried if people think it's really canon though, is it a good thing to be able to channel a serial killer well? Lol. Was it too dark? Too vague? Too violent?