Searing pain shoots through my torso. Time seems to slow as I lower my rifle. I glance at the blood trickling down my gray uniform. I stagger backwards and hunch over at the impact of a second bullet hitting my lower stomach. My rifle drops, and I slowly fall to the ground. I lie there, my breathing labored, baking under the hot July sun. A stain of blood spreads across the front of my jacket, turning the gray into a deep burgundy.
The sounds of the battlefield come back; loud bangs of guns and cannons, men and horses crying out in pain, others shouting orders at the top of their lungs. Finally, after two years of this war, I feel a twinge of fear. Not the usual fear; not the fear for my fellow soldiers; not the fear I felt as we realized the advantage the Union had from the hills. No—I am afraid for my own life. Afraid that I will never see my young sister marry, never see my parents grow old. Of course I have been injured before, but never like this. I have been grazed by bullets and other minor injuries, but never like this. Who knew what the bullets had punctured? I will die here and now, on July 3, 1863 in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania.
Then a small voice in the back of my mind says, no. I didn't become a major in the Confederate Army to give up from two bullet wounds. I have the ability to stand up, and I will. I fight back the fear, and feel around for my rifle. Gingerly I stand up. My head spins and my stomach burns. I ready my rifle and get out the gun powder. A loud bang sounds above all the others, and everything goes white.
I am burning, I can't breathe. It feels as if my skin has been burned off and sharp nails are attempting to scratch at whatever is left. I don't know what to do. I can't think. I don't even know if I'm alive or not. But how could I not be? Death can't be this painful—at least not at first. There is a loud hum in my ears, and I want to scream but I don't know if I can—or if I already am.
And then everything goes black.
I hear a rustling sound and whispering. I can barely make out what they are saying though, they speak so fast.
"What about that one?"
"Is he alive?"
"Of course he's alive; can't you hear his heart beat?"
The pain starts to come back as a dull throb in my torso. I must be in Hell. I know that that is where I should be; all of that life lost at my hands. Even though at war, it can not be accurately justified. Recently I had begun to think about why I was fighting this war, and with whom I should be siding. When the war began I knew I would fight for my home, my Texas. But as it progressed my nationalism faltered. I began seeing the Union as the good guys, even though they were my enemy. How could it not be a mortal sin to have people who did nothing wrong but be born into a Negro family, work as slaves? (Another reason I should be damned,) but I had gone too far to turn back—I was a major now.
If this was Hell, they weren't doing a very good job at torturing me. Maybe I am supposed to think I am crazy; hearing voices in the middle of a desolate battlefield.
A rustling sound to my right wakes me from my thoughts. A cold, smooth hand strokes my cheek, and I try to open my eyes. After a few seconds, I manage to slowly open them a bit. My vision is hazy, but I can make out the outline of a woman against the night sky. At least I think it is night; it could just be my sight failing.
The woman's lower lip trembles, and I hear a chuckle come from somewhere behind her. I strain my eyes to see to the side of the woman and the silhouette of a man comes into focus.
"Do you want to live?" The woman softly asks. When I hear her voice it is as if she is singing me a lullaby. She has the softest, most beautiful voice. For some reason I am reminded of the Sirens' song from Greek legend; beautiful but deceitful. I can not believe how this woman can be deceitful, though.
I manage to choke out a sound that is a mix between a sigh and a grunt, ghastly in comparison to the strange woman's beauty. She leans in a little, and I can see her face. It is the most beautiful face I have ever seen. Her skin seems to be illuminated in the moonlight. She has a heart-shaped face with dark eyes surrounded by long, curved lashes. Short, jet black ringlets frame her face, falling out of a bun atop her head.
"My name is Maria," she breathes, and I catch the scent of her for the first time. It is the sweetest aroma I have ever come across—sweeter than any French perfume.
"Would you like to come with us?" She asks. "We can help you…unless you want to stay here, and leave the world." I don't want to go to Hell. This angel is giving me the chance to redeem myself, and I want it. I stiffly shift my head down in a nod, and Maria smiles and leans over to place cold lips to my throat. I feel a prick, and a second later Maria sits up, her lips red with blood. For a split second I am confused as to what she did; how she could have saved me.
But I don't have the time to think, because once again I am in pain.
Fire erupts in my throat. I twist and writhe, screaming in agony as my stomach erupts again from my struggling. Maria and her companion just sit and watch, and I am once again reminded of the Sirens. I fell for their song, and this is my punishment.
I feel cold arms slip under me, and I am floating in my pain. As I float, the fire spreads up my neck to my chin and ears. I can hear nothing, can think of nothing but the pain. The fire spreads to my cheeks and I want to rip them off. I would be clawing at my face, but the cold iron grip supporting me won't allow it. I can feel myself being lowered onto a feather mattress, as the fire spreads to my eyes. My screams increase, and I can faintly hear someone's attempts at soothing me.
Over the next few days the pain increases. It is worse than the cannonball pain—much worse, though I thought that was impossible. There are no metaphors to describe it, except that instead of being on fire, I am fire. The fire is inside me, and there is no way to quench it. Instead of passing out from the pain, it keeps me awake, and it won't end. I must be dying, but why won't death come? I wish for it, pray for it constantly.
Then finally, the pain starts to ebb away, replaced by a new, powerful feeling. I open my eyes. My vision adjusts itself and I can see Maria looking at me, smiling, relief painted in her eyes. I can now see what I couldn't in the dim light of the moon a few night ago; her skin is incredibly pale, and her eyes are a shocking burgundy—the color of blood.
"Feeling better?" she asks. Her voice doesn't strike me as it did when I first saw her, and neither does her beauty.
"What...what did you do to me?" I finally ask.
She smiles and says, "You wanted to live, and I gave you that chance. Well, in one sense." She pauses for a moment, then asks, "Can you guess what I am?" I try to think, but all the knowledge from all the books I have read seems to have flown out of my mind. Maria chuckles darkly and says, "I'm a vampire." She looks at me apprehensively, trying to read my expression. I try to wrap my mind around the word, and vaguely remember tales of blood drinkers with long, sharp fangs who burn in the sun.
"Wha—Am I—" I stutter. I see Maria frown.
"Y-yes," She answers. My confusion seems to have flustered her for some reason.
Questions explode in my mind. What about my family? What about the war? How do I…eat? Maria seems to get just as anxious as I am. Why is Maria upset?
"W-How are you doing that?" She breathes.
"Doing what?" I ask.
"I was fine a few seconds ago, and now I can't seem to calm down…" Her eyes frantically seem to search for something on my face, and realization dawns on her. "Oh," she says quickly and quietly, but to my surprise I can hear her perfectly. I become confused again and she becomes anxious again. "Stop," she moans. "Just…try to relax. I know it's difficult, but please; let me explain." She turns her burgundy eyes to mine, almost pleading. I try to calm myself, but it is awfully hard when I don't know what it is I'm doing to make Maria so stressed.
"Some vampires," she begins, "have special talents. A sixth sense, if you will. Yours is very interesting…it seems you can control the feelings of people around you." She looks at me wonderingly, and I look back bemused. "You have much to learn," she says, and smiles again.