LUST FOR BLOOD

EROTICA

I lunged forward, grabbed her, and slammed her back against the wall. She drew a breath to cry out and I kissed her, hard, brutally, selfishly. I pressed myself against the girl, crushing her, the coldness of my body almost suffocating. She tried to pull free, but I held her tight. I gasped into her mouth, my hands slithering down her body until they reached the underlining of her buttocks. Then, with an effortless motion, I had her spread out before me.

The girl moaned pleasantly and wrapped her arms around the base of my neck to pull me forward, into another kiss. I pulled away, teasing her, forcing her to wait until I gave her permission. She thrust her hips forth and against mine, lusting access into a sensation never felt before. I chained my hands around her tender wrists and pushed her arms above her head, before kissing her again. When I pressed my chest harder against her breasts, she moaned, unlocking a wild flare of provocative tongue gestures to unleash in our mouths.

I released her, licked my mouth all the while, savouring the sweet taste of her lips. A low, seductive chuckle escaped me, from my throats deep confinements. The girl perceived this as another invitation and slowly slithered towards me, while swaying her hips rhythmically. She bit her bottom lip, smiled, and grabbed the front of my shirt with a look of utter desire in her innocent blue eyes. I stood silent, watching her every move with interest.

Without hesitation, the girls' adventurous hands found their way under my shirt and felt, curiously, what was being kept underneath.

The pulsation of the girls' veins echoed painfully in my ears, seeming to invite me for a succulent taste. I lowered my lips to her collar bone and kissed it gently. I savoured the arch of her neck with my tongue, and I heard her moan with satisfaction. Her arms found their way in my hands, as I prepared myself against any struggling from the predictable human.

I parted my lips, hearing, clearer than ever, the coursing of blood in her veins.

There was an abrupt knock at the door.

I stopped, and lifted my head. There was a brief moment where I sighed with discontent, as I was ill-affected by the sudden interruption.

"Come in." I hollered from afar, and watched the doorway for whomever to reveal themselves.

The girl patted herself, and picked at her hair.

A tall, looming man stepped through the door, and realized, then, that he had interrupted me. He took a moment to address the situation, and then spoke quickly and urgently.

"We found another one, sir." Said the man with a look of discomfort etched on his face.

"Really, now?" I marvelled, raising an eyebrow inquisitively. "Where is she?"

"London, sir." He replied, quickly glancing at the girl by my side.

I almost forgot about the wench.

"Who are you talking about?" She asked, although not entirely interested. She pouted noticeably, and tugged at the belt buckled against my waist.

"None of your business." I condemned, releasing an acidic glare in her direction. Stupid girl, doesn't know how to properly use her mouth.

"We best be going, sir." The man insisted.

I waved him off, tired of him standing fearfully in my presence. The man left then, all too gladly.

"London, my fair lady, you know my weakness." I smiled to myself.

I've never felt love. I would give up everything just to feel it once. To have that overwhelming feeling of importance as it overflows, not only the heart, but the body and soul, is a lost dream in my life. Every moment I live without love, I feel I have lost precious moments of time.

The pen stopped in my hand, and ceased to write another word. I sighed, and read over the text I finished composing.

I picked up the pen again.

"Evelyn St. Claire." I recited in a low, monotone voice, and signed my name at the bottom of the page.

I shut the small, brown book, marking my page with a glistening red ribbon. The cover was unmarked by a title, and instead, was plain, and unknowing. An unidentified book cover, it seems, gives the object a sort of, mysterious look about it.

Of course, only I would know what is being held in such a perplexing book such as this. A journal, holding my life's secrets and dreams, hidden away in pages filled with ink. I write about things I would never talk about to my family, or friends. That is, if I had either.

Footsteps could be heard in the hallway, the floorboards moaning under whoever's a foot.

With a swift swish and flick motion, I through my journal under my mattress and fell back into bed and closed my eyes. Though my heart was pounding rapidly under my chest, I managed to seem relaxed and as if I was truthfully asleep.

The doorknob turned and the door creaked open slightly. A shadowed figure stepped in the room, but only for a moment, before slowly, and silently exiting the bedroom full of sleeping children.

When I knew, for sure, that the presence was gone, I slid out of bed and onto the floor. The mattress smelt old and mouldy, and was, considering its age, surprisingly heavy, but I managed to lift one corner and remove the objects stuffed beneath its surface. I counted everything in hand, before thrusting the content into a small backpack. The journal - my life- was the last to go into the bag. I affectionately wiped any signs of dirt and grub from its surface. Once I did so, I placed it on top of my favourite red sweater. The backpack was still yawning, until I pulled a string to coil the opening, and tied it securely in place.

I rose to my feet, and sat on the edge of my bed, flinching as the mattress creaked under me. No one managed to hear me make a sound, so I continued dressing before my leave.

I slid on my weathered shoes.
Then, I pulled an old, tattered sweater over my flowing white nightgown, and did up the buttons.
Finally, I hooked one strap of the bag over my shoulder and stepped gingerly, towards the window at the end of the room.

How exhilarating this felt. The suspense in which I experienced was overwhelming, and exciting, at the same time. Though the situation that I so carefully positioned myself into was dangerous and terribly consequential, I couldn't help but feel no regret.

Peering over my shoulder, with my hands on the bottom of the windowsill, I observed the room of silent dreamers one last time, before pulling the glass ajar, and then, fully open.

The ground, as I found out, was farther down than I last remembered. No matter, I would still attempt my escape, nonetheless.

I slid my arms through both straps of my bag before sticking one leg out the edge of the window, while grabbing firmly, the windowsill for support. Then, carefully, I slid my other leg out in a slow, gentle motion. I prayed I wouldn't lose my grip, and fall to my demise. I also prayed that I haven't underestimate the distance between the ground and the floor of the building I was currently occupying.

I bared my teeth in resistance to the gravitational pull that pressured my limbs. If I did fall, while still managing to successfully escape, I would have to hold my screams of terror under wraps. Otherwise, there was a relatively good chance that I would be heard, and hunted for.

My fingers were pounding with immense pain, but I hesitated, and didn't let go as quickly as I would have liked. I paused and breathed deeply to calm myself.

I held my breath and released my fingers. The coolness of the night breeze whistled by, as I was temporarily found falling in mid-air.

Other than attracting dirt marks on my clothes, pain remained absent from the aftermath of the fall. It was relieving to know that I didn't die while trying to jump out a window. People would view the cause, one way, when, really, the reason was done out of the desperation for life.

That is to say, if I enjoyed living in an orphanage, and was being treated differently than I am, currently, then I would be happy and willing to stay. That was not the case, unfortunately. I was being mistreated by the owners of the orphanage, as well as the other children who lived with me. Apparently, dreaming of freedom and a future was preposterous.