This story contains questionable religious themes of a sexual nature, as well as mild to graphic gore, and scenes of a very erotic nature. Do not read on if these are things that you may find offensive or upsetting!
I could be literally anyone. My life before Norra is blurry, the odd shatter reflecting a memory that I'm not sure is even real; all I know is every lie she ever told me.
Norra Malikai was my adoptive mother of sorts. She definitely wasn't my real mother, no matter how much she claimed she was. She was the opposite to me in every way; her head bore the auburn waves of a mythical thing, with bright white eyes, speckled cheeks and a prominent nose. No amount of demon blood could convince me that I didn't get any of her features, as fascinating as they were.
For a long time, I didn't know my real name or what colour my eyes had once been before their violent blue. All I heard was old Locust stories, how we came to be, why our eyes changed like a mood ring when we were angry, or hungry, embarrassed or impassioned. She told me I was her child before she was turned. She said she kept me safe, and human until she was attacked one night by a monster in a red coat. She feared the beast would kill me, and so she passed her blood through mine. She made me into this to save me. She also told me how she nearly died in childbirth, and they tried to take me away.
Folk tales; based on some old truths but altogether lies.
Norra liked to do that a lot. Lie, I mean. She would chastise me for praying to God and call me One of the Devil's Children. But then I would see parts of my past behind closed eyes; a man and woman with dark hair like mine and brown eyes. I knew somehow that these people were my parents. In other visions, I would see sunlight leaking in through coloured glass above Christ's carved wooden head as He looked down on His people, eternal bloody tears varnished on His face. The images were short, erratic, like light forcing itself through moth-eaten curtains. And whenever I saw these things, I felt a stab in my chest; regret, anxiety... These were painful memories.
Now when I run my fingers across the beads of my rosary, I feel that same sensation. It's a burning, nauseated feeling. But not one of these dusty memories explains why I was torn from my God-fearing mortal life and thrown into darkness. Darkness in every sense of the word: Darkness when I open my eyes, and when I close them, and in my soul whenever I feel the Thirst. The darkness of this eternal, lonely Hell. Even the darkness in my heart, that deep wound left by Johann, my first love, and Norra's betrayal, spreading ever further until there is nothing left but that ugly ragged scar across my chest.
Twenty years with Norra had passed before I met Johann. It hurts now to recall the night I first saw him; his long burgundy trench coat made from elegant velvet, long almost white hair dusting his back, black shirt with its collars of ruffled lace. I was taken over by his magnificent attire that clashed with the sketchy slums of Fallenshire. Being so young then, I hadn't developed telepathy with humans. With his thoughts so isolated, I assumed him mortal - an incredibly stupid one at that, flaunting his money so openly - and so I initiated the hunt. Lured in by the scent of his wealth, one which cloaked anything unearthly, I followed him for a mile at least. When the surrounding streets grew quiet, I struck, pulling him into a nearby alleyway. But as I pushed against him and held my teeth to his neck, I felt him laughing. He gripped me tightly, and I heard his voice. "Yes, drink from me, young one. But I assure you it'll be the last thing that you do." My heart stopped, taken aback by this threat, and I tried to wriggle myself free from his grip. He held fast, enjoying my struggle, but I was incredibly frightened by his strength over me. After a few seconds, he released me. He continued to laugh at my expense as I fell to the floor. He crouched down and stared into my eyes. I could see now his ivory skin, heather eyes, and the sharpened canines peeking out of his curved pale lips. Again, I heard his voice, with its faint European accent: "And where did you come from, little boy?"
Johann was a lot older than I was and so mysterious and I wanted to know everything there was to know about him. He'd been twenty-seven when he became a Locust, and though he'd been on this earth for over two hundred years, he still considered himself a fledgeling. I instantly loved him. He introduced me to two different pleasures, both a quest of the flesh. Every night after, we would hunt together before feeding on each other's lust. The way he'd perform on me was ecstasy, and every meal was perfect. To this day, I'll forever remember what it felt like, having his hands grasping my neck and his fluid inside me; his blood, his saliva, his come.
He was my only real teacher and Norra grew jealous of him, and whenever I mentioned his name, her eyes glazed green. She invaded my thoughts, my precious memories of him, trying to manipulate me into believing whatever she told me about him. As the months passed, she became increasingly resentful, and eventually, I could no longer stand to be around her venomous aura. I left her then to be cultivated under Johann's wing.
But I was not free from her for long, and my new life with Johann did not take long to unravel. One horrific night after feeding early and alone, I returned to our home, a grand basement flat in Chelsea that he'd procured using his preternatural charm. As soon as I unlocked the door, I could sense some kind of horror awaiting me.
It was Norra; sat upon one of the grand armchairs, illuminated by the subtle glow of the fireplace, she was toying with Johann's pocket watch. She had a sickening look in her eyes; what should have been white was red, the way a victim's eyes will turn when the breath is squeezed out of them. Johann was nowhere to be seen, and it worried me that I couldn't feel his presence in the room. I took a step further as my vision adjusted to the darkness. I saw a leg hanging out of our shared coffin just behind the chair. A pool of blood surrounded it, and I immediately knew what Norra had done. She stood up, reached down beside the armchair and grabbed something from the floor. All the time, she was rambling. Where had she gone wrong? Why had I turned out like this? What had happened to her sweet boy?
She held up Johann's already separated head by his hair, blood dripping black, frayed entrails hanging from his severed skin; the same beautiful neck I had not long ago nibbled, purple marks still visible on the white flesh. His face still held an expression of dreaming, lips slightly agape as if he wanted to say something. Bloody tears fell from my pleading eyes, and I stumbled, reaching desperately for the head of my love, but she pulled it away.
Norra's expression grew soft as she'd held Johann's face close to hers, the redness in her eyes disappearing. "He's still very beautiful," she'd said as she kissed his white cheeks. Then she snarled, "But he's dead now." I watched as her eyes brewed with jealousy and she threw the head on the fire; his beautiful features burst into flames, and I stared as my heart cracked, my face now blood-stained by tears. In my distracted anguish, I didn't see her pick up the heavy axe from beside the chair.
I felt the blade hack into my chest with a sickening squelch, and I fell hard across the floor, narrowly missing the fireplace, hitting my head on the marble. Suddenly, Norra was on me, pushing down on the axe, blood spurting from my mouth. The hatchet still lodged firmly inside me, I raised my leg and kicked her, feeling the crunch of bones as my foot hit her chest with surprising strength. She stumbled, knocking over the opened coffin and Johann's dead, headless body rolled to the floor. My eyes turned red as I pulled the axe out. Bits of my right lung decorated the sharp edge like lace, and I began to feel lighter as the blood cascaded from the open wound. But the sorrow of heartbreak far outweighed the pain in my chest.
Wielding the axe in my violent, shaking hands, I killed Norra that night.
For hours I lay with Johann's pocket watch in my hands, strangled by anguish, wishing I could turn back time. I'll always think that if I'd waited for him to awaken before going out to feed, stayed with him, protected him, he'd still be here. We'd still be haunting the cities together, and I wouldn't have this hole in my heart, the pain as fresh as it was then.
Since that night, one and a half centuries ago, I've been more or less alone; wallowing in a dark room or cave somewhere, wrapped in Johann's jumper and velvet coat. They were the last things he wore, and I curl up in them still, breathing in the faded perfume of his dried blood. As I travelled across England, I'd see couples, Locust couples; an attractive man and woman, white as the moon with eyes like granite with flecks of blue, violet or yellow. They'd stare at me, and they'd know instantly. I hate them for what I cannot find. But I'm not like the others.
It was late November when I found myself in Gravebrook, stumbling my way towards the only safe place I could think of. I hadn't fed for days, and the nights were getting longer, and my skin was sinking in my cheeks. Unable to stand the increasing sense of loneliness, I took refuge beyond the heavy oak doors of the Catholic Church. Part of me feared I would burn instantly, and that part also hoped for it.
I knew there would be somebody there. A priest, someone who could hear my sins and stop them from permeating my soul. I spied a light on in the Confessional, and instantly descended past the intricately carved pews and, holding my rosary to my chest, entered the booth.
I told him everything; how I enjoyed sex with men before draining them in every sense of the word, that I had murdered the closest thing I had to family and held my lover's dead body in my arms, crying before burning them to ashes. He said nothing. The silence that followed was overwhelming; as I waited for the full extent of my sick deviance to register with my confessor, I felt crushed by the pressure, like a ball of paper, slowly tearing before I realised what I'd done.
I darted up to leave, sliding the door open, stumbling as I hurried out, but he stepped in front of me, showing me his face. My immediate instinct told me, Kill him, kill him before he kills you. But I couldn't. We stood staring at each other, his mind entirely open for me, the moment seeming endless.
He was younger than what I had expected, with blonde hair and a youthful visage. When he looked down at me, it wasn't in fear or pity; he knew what I was, but it didn't seem to frighten him.
I began living in the steeple after that, earning my keep with odd jobs and other things. But I discovered my confessional Father had a secret too: I was not the only one. Every other night, even now, I see different boys in their late teens or early twenties leaving from the Confessional. But I know I'll always be his favourite.
It's been nearly a month since I first saw Nathaniel. Every morning before school starts, I see a quick glimpse of him before the sun rises over the school. And every morning I feel the same jolt in my heart that I felt when I first saw Johann. And I want to feel more.
He occupies my mind the most as I try to sleep. With coffin lid sealed tightly, I try to study him while he sits in his English lesson. He's closed off though, and all I can hear is sections from "The Beach", hardly anything about his own self at all; When you develop an infatuation for someone you always find a reason to believe that this is precisely the person for you… Sometimes, thoughts of a party, snippets rising from his imagination cross his mind as he reads the words, over and over again.
The longer this feeling lasts, the more I want to see him closer; to touch him, feel his glossy hair in my fingers, breathe in the scent of his blood… I feel myself reach under my jeans as I think of sinking my teeth into him but stop myself. He is only a boy. He can't understand what a Locust needs.
There's an uncertainty in his thoughts, visions becoming clearer, detailed. Another boy… toned, dark olive skin, black hair, charming and alluring... Elias..? Who the Hell is Elias?
I feel my eyes grow jade, and my fangs grow long, digging into my lip.
Elias... is his boyfriend.
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