by Ian Hall
“She’s really very affable now,” Amos said delightedly. “I’m sure we’ll find her quite docile throughout these proceedings.”
A moment later, Mother returned with a carving knife. A blade I knew well, as it had been shoved under my chin on more than one occasion; most recently for tracking dirt over the freshly-steamed carpet.
Mother stood expressionless, silent and still as a mannequin, posed in a straight posture with the tip of the knife pointed downward.
“Sophia,” Amos said dispassionately, “give the knife to Alan, please.”
With a bemused expression, she handed the knife over.
“Alan, would you like to plunge the knife into her abdomen?”
I shook my head.
“Not after all those beatings?” Amos approached me. “Not after she’s slapped you, beat you, whipped you?”
It seemed that every one of the scars on my body began to hurt simultaneously. I began to boil, and Amos knew it. He pressed all the right buttons, and I allowed him.
“Go on. If you want to, you can get your revenge now.”
I gripped the handle tightly, and placed the tip just above the elastic waist of her slip.
“Go on, Alan; be a man.” He stood now so close, his breath buzzed in my ear. “Revenge for years of battery. Revenge for putting that pillow over your face. Revenge for murdering your father!”
I pushed hard, and felt amazed at how little resistance met the blade. I thrust the length of it through her soft belly. Her face grimaced at the pain but she did not cry out. Blood poured from the cut, soaking into her cream underskirt.
“You see,” Amos said empirically, “hate makes such heinousness possible, leaving no room for mercy or reason for justification.”
Amos rounded on my mother. “Again, Alan.”
I dislodged the knife only to repeat the infliction in a fresh spot. At Amos’s silent prodding, I did the same twice more. Her usual grace abandoned her as she pulled herself from the blade, and slumped onto the sofa. Blood now flowed onto the blue flowery pattern.
Amos smiled over my mother, folded in half and bleeding, as if letting me in on some inside joke. I dropped the knife onto the carpet. It splashed blood in tiny spherical droplets.
“There is no limit to what you can mete out if the measure of hatred within you is great enough,” Amos said to me, “and I believe that you have such a degree of hatred inside you, that you may just invent new ways of inflicting pain that even I could not fathom, Alan Rand.”
The sound of my full name spoken aloud washed over me in a bizarre, calming tide. Like Mother, still hunched over in that compromising position, I lay under a spell. As I took in the measure of her, bleeding and leaking, I felt as though a chord had been snapped, detaching me from her suffering.
Amos waved his hand out to Valerie, presenting an offering. “This one is yours, Alan Rand, to do with as you please.”
Like a lamb to the slaughter, she stepped up, disrobing.
“How do you want to take her?”
I, too, moved forward, stopping only long enough to pick the knife up again.
It wasn’t nice, and it wasn’t pretty, but I’d put up with worse from the old guy standing watching. Alan Rand didn’t have anything on Amos yet; probably never would be. Alan just launched himself at me, his penis finding its home between my legs like a pro. I half enjoyed it until he started poking my neck with the knife. I remember hearing Amos talking one day: ‘That which kills us makes us stronger.’ I believed it then. I had to.
To give myself willingly to the slaughter took a lot more than I’d thought it would.
To my relief, after he’d started with the knife, darkness fell quickly.
“She won’t stay dead, you know,” Amos said, standing over me as I admired my handiwork.
Valerie’s corpse lay in a bloody heap on the carpet. I had allowed her to pleasure me as my first cuts tore through her abdomen. Yet, it did nothing to stifle my arousal once her dead fingers released their grip. I took everything away from her then; all her beauty, her charm, the very breath in her lungs. Only the promise that I could soon do it all again brought more satisfaction.
“Do you know what we are, Alan Rand?”
I smiled. “You’re monsters. And I’m one of you.”
Amos’s appreciation was evident. As Mother lay dying, and Valerie reviving, we gathered at the table for a cup of tea and a long conversation.
“Sit here,” I said, pulling out the chair that had once belonged to my father. “It’s the place of honor.”
In silent rapture, I sipped and listened intently to Amos Blanche’s account of vampires, the intended uprising, his rise to power with me in his wake. My neck ached for his bite; the promise of it stirred in me urges Valerie could not begin to.
Amos must have detected my excitement. “If there is anything that concerns me about you, Alan Rand, it’s your lust for power.”
My teacup clanked and fractured as it slipped from my astonished fingers. “I don’t understand. I thought that’s what this was all about – dominance, power…”
“No, Alan,” he shook his head disappointedly, “this was about violence; violence for its own sake, an outlet for that hate you harbor.”
“Violence is power.” Even to my own ears I sounded like an impetuous child.
“It is only one form of power; the type of power a small boy wields as he holds his magnifying glass over the ant hill,” Amos poured another cup. “But, I see in you that you would never be satisfied with such useless endeavors; you and I are of one soul, Alan Rand – we both desire power over the minds and wills of others. Something, I believe, we each inherited from our disdainful mothers.”
I stole a glance toward the sofa. Mother issued another soft cry, blood now trickling from her mouth. It wouldn’t be much longer. So, I returned my full attention to the more important matter at hand.
“I should think you would appreciate such a shared trait,” I said diplomatically.
Amos’s brilliant eyes regarded me shrewdly. “Not where it might interfere with my plans, young man.”
“I would never move against you!” I pled, hoping he could feel my sincerity from across the table.
“To be certain, I will make sure to put certain safeguards in place.”
“Safeguards?”
Amos lowered his cup, his posture changing from conversational to business. “I will change you myself – a practice I usually reserve for tender females, such as Valerie here. In so doing, you will become my personal possession, Alan Rand; you will be beholden to me for the remainder of your existence and utterly incapable of disobeying my will.”
My body became charged with eagerness. “I wouldn’t disobey you now, sir. Use me as you like – I will follow you until the end of time!”
“I know,” he said tiredly, “and it is such a waste to make a promising ram into a meager sheep. All the same – you will serve me well.”
Amos rose and I followed. Mother had stopped moving, her bowels had already expended their last, and the faint cries had gone utterly silent.
“We must move quickly before she expires.”
I shrugged frivolously. “I believe she already has.”
“There’s still a slight pulse; I can hear it.”
As I bent low, straining to hear what he did, Amos advanced on me like a lunging tiger. His arms clamped around my midsection, his fragrant breath in my face, I fell limp like a lover in heated embrace. It felt the greatest ecstasy as his fangs sank into my throat, suckling the blood from my artery. I never wanted the moment to end.
As I grappled with my arousal, Amos pulled away from me and offered up his own wrist. The taste of sex and violence and power mingled together, everything Amos Blanche had promised me.
I drank while my mentor grappled with his own arousal. Once both my needs felt satisfied, Amos turned me again toward my mother.
“Drink from her quickly. Feed. She doesn’t have much time.”
I sat in the corner of the room, nursing my newest cuts, determined that he’d not take me like that again.
Alan implored Amos to turn him, to transport him to immortality.
He sounded sickly sweet, and Amos lapped it up like a thin, disheveled puppy dog.
I know that Amos thought he turned me, all those many years ago, and that technically I should be beholden to the thin wiry man, but I lost something that afternoon, and it wasn’t just Alan’s use of the knife.
As the two got down to the carnality of the ritual, I lost interest, instead taking in Sophia’s bewildered expression, as she too looked on.
When my boss forced his own blood down Alan’s throat, forming their bond, part of my beholding to Amos died quietly.
As Alan severed his mother’s throat and sank his mouth to the crimson wave, I closed my eyes.
Valérie Marneffe Berthier Lidowitz
By Ian Hall and April L. Miller
Florence, Italy, 1859
When I look back on my early days, I see them through a red veil of rage. It seemed the one emotion, the singular driving force that both encompassed and propelled me through that time.
I can only dimly recall my father’s face, weather-worn, drawn, and pale. I could not comprehend then his great, fierce love for me. To my childish understanding he held the warden’s keys, holding me against my will. No amount of affection could have tamed the torment within.
Those distant years of the 1860s come back to me in dreams. As soft as a butterfly’s wing, father brushes the hair from my moist, angry brow. “Valérie,” he says. “Be still, child.” Gingerly he pries the dead bird from my clutches, its crimson blood still coating my lips. I am scraped and bruised, the smell of my own blood increasing the never satisfied hunger. Father lifts me by the waist, tears in his bloodshot eyes. I kick and scream as I’m carried from the garden, my one sanctuary through the madness of those hazy times.
He is always so tired; Father can scarcely bear the burden of my small frame. Like small daggers, my tiny nails dig in and peel four concentric lines down the side of his neck. The wounds are deep but not fatal; still they serve their purpose. Out of shock and terror, Father loses his grip and I go tumbling onto the plush grass as he drops to his knees beside me. I am free to run but I’m held in place by the promise of a fresh meal. Instead, I lunge. Hardly the first trickle coats my tongue and the frenzy engulfs me.
It takes two servants to pull me from Father’s bleeding throat. They drag me to the dark room and secure me to the wooden post. Alone with the rage, I bellow into the cavernous space. I pull against the chains and bite the shackles at my wrists. And then I smell it – the coiled skin beneath my filthy nails. I chew at them until even the flesh of my own fingers hangs in shreds.
In this dream, I am looking down on myself from above. I know that it is me and that I am four. I’m wearing a blue silk dress with white lace at the collar and sleeves, a yellow bow and ribbon in my long, brown hair. Meant to be a lady, bred to good standing and high society, yet, beneath the fine garments beats the heart of a savage.
The slideshow of red-tinted images brings me forward. Below me, nearly a teenager, the young girl is now sheathed in a dirty cotton nightdress, hair matted. A Roman-Catholic deacon presses an ivory rosary to her forehead, christens her with sprinkles of blessed water, and prays mightily that God will exorcise the demon from within. Again, I am chained at the wrists, my knees purple from the hard stone I’m forced to kneel on. Three nuns hover behind the priest, crossing themselves for protection. I am laughing.
I will never know if these are true memories or a collage of moments my mind has pasted together. I only know the truth of my existence had yet to be revealed – even to myself. That came years later; long after all hope had been lost, believers had stopped praying, and I had been sent away to be forgotten.
My childhood in Italy should have been a time of play, a period of laughter and freedom. Instead it held nothing but restriction, my body bound in thick, starched canvas, short leather, and brass buckles fastened tight. Twice a day they prised my mouth open using a metal contraption, and a rubber tube passed between my straining teeth, down into my throat. Then cold liquid trickled down from a funnel held high above my head. Twice a day I struggled against its intrusion, twice each day I eventually relented, tired and weak from the fight.
Days after my tenth birthday, I left home for the last time. I remember Father’s sad, tear-filled eyes. He stood on the wide stone staircase as I got carried from the tall walls of my home. He waved to my struggling form, but I could not return the gesture, my body again encased in the stiff, starched canvas device. The carriage ride swiftly took me from the streets of Venice into the countryside. Through the small barred window, long lines of grapevines punctuated my journey to a small, secluded building. My new room held little light, only two high windows showed the sky of the outside world. The floor, walls, and door were padded in thick studded wadding. Two long glass panes sat high on the inside wall, but the dark glass never revealed the watchers that lurked beyond.
I spent my time running between the walls, propelling myself from one side to the other. I lived that way for a very long time.
I don’t remember when, but at one point, my days must have taken on a different routine. Each day, two strong men held me to the floor, and a man in a white jacket stuck a long needle in my arm; a painful injection that made me sleep deeply. When I woke, and lay still groggy from my slumber, the same men force fed me and changed my diaper. This went on so long, I almost forgot my previous regime. I have no idea how many days the dark shapes of the observers watched from above, but on one morning, it all changed.
Bound in my canvas contraption, the two men carried me to a small, bright room. They laid me carefully on the floor. A window looked out onto brightly colored green sycamore leaves. I lay on the floor, smiling at their beauty, and did not see the man enter the room.
“You can go outside, Valérie,” he said, his words suddenly spinning my head in his direction. “If you’re a good girl.”
He stood tall and thin, with closely-cropped brown hair and beard. He exuded calm from every pore of his body, and for some reason I listened to his monotone. He walked past me to the window and looked outside. “The summer here is very pretty. There are gardens and flowers, hedges, and so many birds.” He turned to me, returning my stare. “You could go outside. Are you going to be a good girl?”
For some reason I nodded. I had the notion I would pretend to be good, just long enough to get the buckles removed, then I would smash his face in.
But then he shook his head.
“You be a good girl first, then you get outside. You never struggle, you never try to bite us, you take your food without incident. Then you get outside.”
I shook my head in anger and roared my protest past the mouthpiece in my canvas suit. “Never!”
He walked through the door, into the dark corridor beyond, and the two strong men carried me back to my dark, padded room.
Each morning, they forced the tube down my throat. Each morning, I got taken to the room with the window. Each evening I rebelled.
Soon the leaves began to change color; subtly dimming from bright green to a paler, subdued yellow. As I lay on the tiled floor, I realized I wanted to see the garden.
That night, I did not struggle as they injected me. Instead, I lay still on the floor, looking into their eyes. For four days I exhibited no revolt against my captors.
The next morning, I woke not encased in my suit. I sat up, and flexed my arms and legs. When the men entered, they carried no tube or funnel. Instead they offered me a small cup, which I gingerly accepted. I drank the fluid from the cup, returning it carefully to the man’s hand.
I sat back and watched them leave. I had been a ‘good girl’, I now awaited my reward.
Next morning, the white coated men led me by the hand along the corridors to the tiled room. The floors felt good on my bare feet, although my leg m
uscles protested slightly. Arriving at the room, I walked to the window, and looked out onto the garden below.
“Good morning, Valérie,” The thin man said. “My name is Dr. Fabrini; you may call me Alvise.”
He came to my shoulder, but never touched me, pretending to enjoy the luscious view along with me. It seemed to be his gesture of trust, knowing full well the likelihood of my turning to attack. For the first time in my short life, mind overruled instinct; the small chance that I might feel nature beneath my feet offered an incentive a father’s approving voice never could.
“This view never fails to impress me,” he said whimsically. “I have worked at many asylums over the years, Valérie, and none offered such amenities. Most facilities I’ve seen could pass more for dungeons than a hospital; cave-like walls, dirty and crawling with infestation. You could never dream the horrors endured by the patients in those places, Valérie; less than animals and their keepers cruel beyond reason.”
“Being strapped to a bed and force-fed through a tube doesn’t qualify as cruelty beyond reason by your definition, Dr. Fabrini?” I clutched the window frame to contain myself, but could not disguise the venom in my voice.
“Alvise, please.” He forced a grin. “In the facilities I speak of, Valérie, the treatment you have endured here is reserved for only the most well-behaved patients. You would not want to know what becomes of the…less cooperative…inmates.”
Only then did I realize the doctor had successfully baited me into a dialog. I kept my eyes forward, unwilling to grant him any further victory.
He continued without my input, “You have your father to thank for your luxury accommodations, Valérie. Mr. Lidowitz has invested much of his wealth sending you here and insuring no harm befalls you. His devotion is something quite spectacular and quite rare, my dear.”
“You’ve spoken to my father?” I bit my lip, punishing them for allowing the hasty words to pass.