Blood looks red only in the daylight. Blood looks red only if there's air.
Filling the coffin took hours, five or six liters at a time, opening their throats and draining human after human, until slowly viscous red lapped up and over my paralyzed body, lapped up and over my face. With so much food, it was clear Mother wanted me alive— just well under control, far underground, for an unspecified amount of time.
At least without air, the slaughterhouse smell no longer filled my nostrils. At least in the dark, the red became black. I wondered briefly what She did with the bodies, but it didn't matter. Likely burning, but I couldn't smell it, so it didn't matter.
Eventually the box shuddered as the lid was nailed into place, each impact ticking down to my long sleep— that wouldn't be all sleep.
The paralysis wore off after some time. The more I tried to will myself into a deathly sleep, the more agitated I became. I supped, almost unintentionally, and was able to use my unhuman speed to exhaust myself by vibrating my legs. I wondered if I could break the coffin and escape.
I couldn't.
The pressure of the earth surrounding me, lying on top of me, was too great. I realized if the box collapsed, I would live eternally, crushed and starving.
The black blood swallowed me, cushioning me, cradling me, nourishing me. At last, Mother had left me alone.
All alone, with only my grief and my mind spinning.
Ell, if only. If only Ell. Ell? Ell, what if? Well, well, Ell. Welcome to Hell, Ell. Trip into this bitter chasm and abandon your soul for the best, Ell.
I held onto her gait, her posture, for the longest. But her face faded, tiny swatches remaining, the crook of her mouth, the narrowing of an eye. Shortly my usually eidetic memory fragmented. Holding onto only the last thing— my betrayal. My allowing her to be in reach of Mother even for an instant. My failure— to save her.
My failure to keep her.
Time is elastic without a reference. Centuries, millennia, decades may as well be the same in a blood soaked coffin six feet under. Centuries, millennia, decades in the black black dark. Coated in black, bludgeoned by black, comforted in black. Black became my refuge— from memories of Ell, memories of failure. Inadequacy. Naïveté. Hopelessness.
No sound, no light, and for so long even no vibration. I was bodiless, though tethered, caught in the bloody box, lifeless, deathless, a meaningless construct with unfortunate consciousness.
Along the Möbius strip of timeless ticking, my fear dissipated. Anger crowded into its place. And for centuries, millennia, decades, I began to plot my revenge. It would have to be a slow slow burn, the red and black ember at the heart of the fire. The kind that when fed and fanned ignites to consume any nearby fuel.
And at the heart of the ember, Ell.
Ell became the heat in that long cold night. Piece by piece I reconstructed her. Saving her— or joining her— grew into the possibility of my redemption.
Redeeming a vampire. Now that's tragic comedy. If only, Ell. If only I could redeem myself, could I have you back? Even just a little? Please don't laugh at my heroic vampire act.
Clearly I needed to destroy the Monster. And to do that I had to destroy Mother. What would it matter if I destroyed the monster She'd made? Back to Ell, whatever the cost. A devil's bargain.
Back to Ell. To Ell and back. I tried to take the stake, Ell, but that was a plan that didn't make it.
Je suis ici. Elle est là. Ell est là, et je suis ici, perdu. Ell est perdu.
Ell's lessons with Madame drifted through me. Ell's lessons with Mademoiselle clanged inside me. Wanting the words, somehow the words to say: Ich bin ein Blutsauger. Liebe mich trotzdem.
Ich bin hier, verloren. Ell ist da, auch verloren.
So much language lost— perdu, verloren— when there's nobody to converse with. I sank into that billowing black as once I sank my needles into Ell's breast, neck, shoulders.
All lost.
And all of us, forgotten, over centuries, millenia, decades.
Having existed for centuries, I can say for certain that each loss calls up every other. Big things— her life, my life, my mother. Little things— pets, dolls, shoes outgrown. I will never forget Ell, though. All the others may be dust, but I have her here, part of her anyway.
Reuniting with the rest of her became my tether to the world. Each instant I endured became about her. All the darkness surrounding me, suffusing my heart, penetrating the thing that had taken the place of my soul, all of it focused on returning to Ell.
And after centuries that felt like millenia that were really only decades of mourning, mourning and planning, at last I was able to rest. If I ever escaped, if I were ever released, I had a clear direction. Until then, then, rest, rest and sup, and rest.
It's funny to think that before my death, I enjoyed color. I wore color, reveled in color, felt color, smelled color. Chiefly red. I loved red. My father loved me in red. I wore red to the ball where I died, and when I died, I was soaked in blood. It was hidden in the folds of my dress, but how ripe I smelled!
I swore I'd never wear red again.
But, as you know, I did. Vampires are allowed to break promises— it says so in the big book.
Explosions rocked the earth where I lay. Fire consumed the old schloss. And the coffin. But it could not, it would not consume me.
Borne from the earth, courtesy of the RAF, I was reborn, with new strength and purpose. My path was clear. Crows scattered at my approach.
Coming, Mother.