And this, all this, was now for the other. Even her blood, it seemed, did not bestow immortality, only longevity, at last coming to a stop for Vasyelu Gorin. And so, many many decades from this night the other, too, would come to the same hiatus. Snake, too, would remember the waking moment, conscious another now endured the stupefied thrill of it, and all that would begin thereafter.
Finally, with a sort of guiltiness, the old man left the hygienic kitchen and went back towards the glow of the upper floor, stealing out into the shadow at the light's edge.
He understood that she would sense him there, untroubled by his presence—had she not been prepared to let him remain?
It was done.
Her dress was spread like an open rose, the young man lying against her, his eyes wide, gazing up at her. And she would be the most beautiful thing that he had ever seen. All about, invisible, the shed skins of his life, husks he would presently scuff uncaringly underfoot. And she?
The Vampire's head inclined toward Snake. The dark hair fell softly. Her face, powdered by the lampshine, was young, was full of vitality, serene vivacity, loveliness. Everything had come back to her. She was reborn.
Perhaps it was only an illusion.
The old man bowed his head, there in the shadows. The jealousy, the regret were gone. In the end, his life with her had become only another skin that he must cast. He would have the peace that she might never have, and be glad of it. The young man would serve her, and she would be huntress once more, and dancer, a bright phantom gliding over the ballroom of the city, this city and others, and all the worlds of land and soul between.
Vasyelu Gorin stirred on the platform of his existence. He would depart now, or very soon; already he heard the murmur of the approaching train. It would be simple, this time, not like the other time at all. To go willingly, everything achieved, in order. Knowing she was safe.
There was even a faint colour in her cheeks, a blooming. Or maybe, that was just a trick of the lamp.
The old man waited until they had risen to their feet, and walked together quietly into the salon, before he came from the shadows and began to climb the stairs, hearing the silence, their silence, like that of new lovers.
At the head of the stair, beyond the lamp, the dark was gentle, soft as the Vampire's hair. Vasyelu walked forward into the dark without misgiving, tenderly.
How he had loved her.
Hunger
by Gabriela Lee
Gabriela Lee is a graduate of the University of the Philippines with a B.A. in Creative Writing, and received her Master's degree in Literary Studies from the National University of Singapore. She is based in Singapore and works for an online gaming company, developing content. Lee's fiction has appeared in the anthology A Time for Dragons, edited by Vincent Simbulan, in the Dark Blue Southern Seas 2009 literary anthology from Silliman University, and in an anthology of Filipino fiction called A Different Voice, in which this story first appeared.
"Hunger" deals with the vampiric mananaggal myth, which, in Philippine mythology, is a blend of old-school Western vampiric myths and native superstition. "In myths, she's a beautiful woman who can separate the upper half of her body from her lower half," Lee said. "The lower half stays rooted in one place while the upper half goes on a feeding frenzy—usually sucking the unborn fetus from a pregnant woman. If you look at the duality of such a creature, it serves as the perfect metaphor for adolescent hunger."
You feel like a small star orbiting around a center of gravity as you step out of the car and instinctively move towards Kian. He smiles at you: that kind of smile reserved for best friends and childhood confidants, and for once you wish that you hadn't known him since first grade, when you squished a sugary ice cream cone into Joseph Bulaong's nose because he was beating Kian up in the middle of the school playground.
"Good gig," he says, giving you a thumbs-up sign. "Your rendition of that Buckley song was amazing." You blush and grin, batting away the compliment with one blue-manicured hand. He is the bassist for Hands Down; you are the lead singer. You see him three gigs a week, the last of which is usually at Hole-In-The-Wall, a small smoky bar with faux 1960s American diner-style interiors and a bathroom that flooded every fourth toilet flush. You resist the urge to step closer to him; instead, you wait until Lia and Paolo step out of the car and make their way towards Ababu. It is past two in the morning, and you're sure your parents will have a hissy fit when they smell your clothes (they reek of cigarette smoke, courtesy of the patrons at the Hole) but that it's all right: more time spent with Kian is definitely time spent well.
The small neighborhood Persian-esque eatery is filled with students and other night owls—your group has to stand at the curb for ten minutes before a free seat emerges, floating like an empty glass bottle in the middle of the sea of people. You move towards it, quickly manipulating an extra chair to fit the four of you around the monobloc table. You already know what you want, and wave the waitress away. Shawarma at this time of the night is always a treat.
Paolo and Kian immediately fall into conversation regarding the set: Paolo you've known since your freshman year at the Ateneo, where he mistakenly thought you were a high school student looking for the Office of Admissions and kindly directed you to Kostka Hall. Both of you were in Comm; Lia, whom you met through friends of friends, was a part-time model and no-time student. Kian, you've known since forever. (A Sarah Geronimo song suddenly plays in your head, and you want to smash your internal radio for even considering such a cheesy song to describe. . .oh never mind. Forever really isn't enough, anyway.)
The food arrives, courtesy of a sleepy-eyed waitress in shorts and a pink cotton shirt. Another rerun of a bad Filipino action movie plays on the TV mounted at the corner of Ababu, where nobody pays any attention (well, except the manongs who would usually sit at the proper angle, just to watch the rapid-fire exchange between Fernando Poe Jr. and Max Alvarado). Paolo scarfs down his food, occasionally squirting the fiery-hot red chili sauce liberally across the mound of white rice on his plate. Lia eats delicately, drinking her Diet Coke with a pinky slightly raised in the air; if you didn't know where the place was, you're sure you'd have thought that Lia was eating at one of those five-star restaurant chains that her father owns.
Surreptitiously, you watch Kian scoop up the rice and meat into his spoon and put it in his mouth. You watch his lips surround the neck of the spoon, the silver giving way to warm pink flesh. You watch his tongue swirl slightly around the depression of the spoon, cleaning the surface and making sure that the savory white sauce was gone from the utensil. You feel a shiver run down your spine. (God, am I being turned on by watching him eat?)
"Rachel, are you all right? You're not eating your food." Paolo peers into your face, his eyes wide behind his glasses. Despite his pudgy, well-dressed exterior, he was the best damn drummer you had ever met; drum sticks were lightning bolts in his hand, hurled at the next beat with deadly accuracy. Kian glances at you sideways but doesn't say anything. His eyes are dark behind the long, stylish bangs.
"Oh, I'm fine," you say, flustered. You cover up the fact that you've been checking out your best friend for the last five minutes by grabbing the chili sauce and pouring it into the shawarma. "I was just thinking—"
"We all know what you're thinking," cut in Lia suddenly.
"We do?" Paolo asks, raising an eyebrow.
You feel panic rise inside your throat, acid green bubbling just up your windpipe. (Fuck.)
"What are we thinking of?" Kian seconds. You feel like you're suddenly part of a hive mind.
"That Rachel fudged up the second verse to that Jack Johnson song. She went too fast. She was half a beat early."
(Breathe. Breathe. Everything's fine.)
You mentally count to ten, and then turn to look at Kian. His eyebrows were slightly raised, the corners of his lips curved slightly in a smile of suppressed mirth. You are briefly reminded of one of those battery-operated dolls that grinned (evilly, you think) when
ever you pressed a button. He doesn't suspect a thing. Grinning, you bite into your shawarma, savoring the bite of onions and tomatoes and lettuce/cabbage (you're never sure which is which) and the sweet, sweet essence of the meat. You wonder briefly if that is how Kian will taste in your mouth: a riot of flavors, clamoring for attention, slipping/sliding across your tongue.
You don't have a gig tonight.
You open the windows of your bedroom and let the night breeze play with the tassels of your curtains, the tips of your hair. You parents are out late; another charity event, this time for the pediatrics ward. You managed to excuse yourself from tonight's festivities, claiming a headache. Your mother tells you that maybe it's the pain from not doing anything (except that "damn band"), but you barely hear her. Tonight, the winds are calling. The stars are now within your reach.
You lift up your shirt and run your fingers across the smooth line that neatly bisects your stomach, just below your navel. The cut is clean and there is almost no bleeding now. You close your eyes and allow everything that is dark and bright to resurface. You can't see it now, but the slice of pain across your mind tells you that your wings have emerged from beneath your skin: warm and leathery, smelling of old streets and older shadows. You give them an experimental flap, feeling the gust of wind lift you slightly off the ground, your toes scraping the floor. Your shoulder blades complain of the exertion, and you return to the surface, your heels conforming with the flat wooden surfaces.
Carefully, you inch your way towards the window. Your wings beat faster, and you hear a swift crack as your bones sever themselves. You feel lighter suddenly, half flesh and skin, the human side stripped away as you abandon yourself to another creature, feral and wild. A scream rips from your mouth, and you hear others answer. The wind whips around you, invisible fingers running through your hair. Pale and wide-eyed, you prepare to fly.
You take a deep breath. Hunger returns: stomach pangs stronger than any need for human food. (Well, there is such a thing as "human" food.) Your mouth tastes imagined blood, sweet/thick, and you know that tonight will be a feast.
Candy-coated words dribble out of your mouth as you lean into the microphone, your hands running around the slender neck of the stand as you would encircle your fingers around a lover's arm. Around you, the stage lights sweep across the tiny stage, creating a chiaroscuro effect. The beat consumes you: everything moves from one melody to the next. The riffs leave you sweaty, your heart pounding to song. You know that everything you do is dictated by the cycle of words and music—every thrust of your hip, every movement of your head, the flow of your arms and legs. This is the closest you can get to heaven, to a high, to falling in love.
You know Kian finds you beautiful when you sing—some residual psychic abilities remain at least twenty-four hours after you feed. You give him your patent come-hither look that you use whenever you sing "Hanggang Saan." That was the latest song you guys had penned, and your most popular to date—NU 107 has been playing it constantly, rumor has it that labels have been wanting to snap up your band. The ripple of excitement from hardcore fans (they were with you ever since college—orgmates and classmates, high school friends and indie audiences) was palpable. You and your bandmates try to downplay it, but even (the ice-queen) Lia can't help but break into a silly grin once in a while.
But tonight, you are focused on Kian. You run the tip of your tongue across the edges of your teeth, and pretend you aren't looking at him while he's looking at you. He's dressed up for tonight's gig: pressed midnight blue jeans and a button-down polo (you were with him when you bought this at People Are People) with a Tasmanian Devil tie. His sneakers are newly washed, and he smells like soap and deodorant, clean and smooth, like clear river water constantly washing over the shiny pebble shores.
You are feeding more often now, at least once every two days. The siren call is harder and harder to ignore. Your mother finally notices the dark circles under your eyes, fingerprints of a night spent without sleep, and your chalk-white cheeks. You wander around your house barefoot, dragging your legs, tired. Your father presses the back of his hand on your forehead, an act of concern. You try and stop yourself from tilting your head back and forcing his fingers into your mouth, a small snack in the middle of the day.
Your back is constantly sore, and drops of blood pepper your sheets. Your mother asks you if it's anything she could help you with, and you smile sweetly and tell her no, perhaps it's just dysmenorrhea. (You know you're a good liar.)
You tell the band that you're having a case of the stomach flu, and if Lia could sub first while you deal with the pain. They acquiesce, understanding that pain is a part of your life. Kian visits you often, bringing rolls of ensaymada from Red Ribbon, and complimenting your mother on her new hairdo. She simpers and smiles and asks him if he has a girlfriend, and you know where the conversation is going and start wishing a hole in the ground would open up and swallow you alive. Or your mother. Your stomach starts hurting again, like there is an invisible dwarf with a silver knife that is slowly peeling away layers of flesh, and dammit, you know that tonight, you have to fly again.
Until when are we going to walk
Arm in arm, hand in hand, friends?
Are we only fooling each other
Because neither wants to speak?
—"Until When," Hands Down
When Kian first introduces you to Katherine, it is all you can do to stop from breaking her delicate little fingers in your grip. She gives you a Barbie Doll smile and tells you that she's happy to meet you and that Christopher (Christopher? He had never used that name since high school.) has told her so much about his best friend Rachel. You want to roll your eyes so far into your head that you might be drowned in the dark, but Kian quickly steers her away from you and towards the small round table near the amps. Lia passes by and takes you by the elbow, then frog-marches you towards the girls' toilets.
Inside the ceramic-tiled room, she proceeds to tell you how much she hates Kian's new girl and that if she had it her way, she would allow her latent Chinese side (the side that loves pain and torture, which then makes you wonder just how is hers and Paolo's sex life, and if the rope burn rumors are true) to take over and just slice off Katherine's flesh, one sliver at a time, until she's flayed a million times over and blood is dripping on the floor in heart-shaped droplets.
You kindly thank Lia for her thoughtful words as you lean towards the counter and position your hands underneath the sink. Water automatically gushes out from the tap and you turn your wrists, letting the cool, clear liquid wash away the memory of Katherine's touch. A part of you feels that this is a dream, a hallucinatory experience. Your stomach feels like a thousand tiny balloons straining against a net, and you're afraid that you're ready to explode.
There is a knock on the door, and you can hear Raffy, your manager, asking in his disconcertingly nasal voice (even though he says he's not gay) that it's five minutes before the set starts. Lia hollers that you're ready, that you two are just freshening up. You grip the edge of the sink with both hands, and watch in detached fascination as the color of your fingernails slowly seep away, almost matching the pale egg white surface of the sink.
You feel Lia's strong hands on your back, and you dry heave into the sink. You tell her it's just nerves, that you can't remember performing in front of an audience this large, and in a venue this popular—the Hole was like home, but a newer, larger venue, with possible scouts is something else—but Lia just rubs your back harder, until you feel the balloons carefully pop.
You now feed with a vengeance, your wings ripping through the air like sharp claws across a stretch of fine dark silk. Your tongue continually snakes out from between your lips, tasting invisible molecules, your body constantly angled, a stubborn compass needle pointing towards the next prey.
Before, when you were just starting out and you were unaccustomed to the taste of meat, you decided to just have a meal a night. You were careful to choose only the mothers who never
wanted their child, or those who prayed fervently each night that they would be a good girl, that they would never allow that man into their beds and inside their hearts, those who were too frightened of the hilot or the Quiapo vendors who sold herbal concoctions beside the church. You would listen carefully to the susurrus of voices in your head, carefully separating strand from strand, allowing the most fearful to surface inside your head, like a drop of oil in a bowl of water.
By Blood We Live Page 39