DEAR DIARY,
Wine gets better as it ages. That’s what I’ve heard.
Ever since I was cheated and only got half of Winks’s delicious nectar, I’ve had this gnawing hunger. It’s as if drinking Winks’s sweet blood only stirred my hunger instead of satisfying it.
Seeing Liam and Zane and my new girlfriends makes my mind spin, and it’s all I can do to keep my truth from them. I have to work so hard not to let them inside.
I have to feed, Diary. The urge grows more powerful, more overwhelming every day. So tempting . . . So tempting . . . But I don’t want to cause any more pain to my friends.
I feel so bad for Liam. He is crushed by the horror of how he lost his mother. All of his personality seems to have been drained. What he saw when he found her on the kitchen floor lingers in his mind. He says the picture is there every time he closes his eyes, as if it’s printed on his eyelids.
The funeral was unbearable. Liam and Jim, his father, sat and wept, sobbing loudly, so loud they nearly drowned out the minister. I felt so bad for them both.
And at the same time, my hunger made my whole body ache. I had to leave the funeral parlor before the service was over.
I can feed on a stranger, I decided. Maybe someone as old as Liam’s mother. Someone not related to anyone, who wouldn’t frighten my friends or bring them more sadness.
But blood isn’t like wine. It doesn’t grow sweeter and tastier as it ages. Blood goes sour and thin.
So unsatisfying.
Is there any greater disappointment than being unhappy with your meal?
But I couldn’t help myself. One feed leads to another. One unsatisfying meal makes you desperate for the next one to be good.
I waited till the funeral ended. I watched from behind some shrubs across the street as people came out, all of them grim-faced, some faces tear-stained. People with their arms around each other’s shoulders. Some shaking their heads, standing in small groups, talking quietly.
A picture of total grief. I felt so bad.
I watched the solemn pallbearers carry Mrs. Franklin’s coffin from the chapel and slide it into the back of a long, black hearse.
I waited . . . waited for everyone to drive away. Waited for the chapel doors to close. Then I crossed the street and entered the building. I found the dark-suited funeral director arranging the chairs in the now-silent chapel.
He was short and overweight, his belly pushing against his white shirt. A red-faced man with a fringe of short, black hair circling his round head.
Lots of blood. I could see it pulsing in veins at both temples.
Old blood but I knew I couldn’t be choosy.
He stood upright, surprise on his face, as I approached. “Yes, miss? Can I help you?”
I nodded and spoke in a meek, little voice. “Did I miss the cars to the cemetery?”
“Yes, I’m afraid you did.”
I lowered my head. “Guess I’m too late.”
“So sorry,” he said. “They left about five minutes ago.”
He bent down to pick some wadded-up Kleenex from the floor, and I jumped onto his back.
He uttered a grunt of surprise. I heard the air shoot out of his open mouth.
Riding his back, I forced him to the floor on his stomach. He hardly struggled. I think he went into instant shock.
I straddled him, keeping him down. Then I leaned forward, lowered my face to him, and punctured the back of his neck. The skin was taut, and it took a few bites to open him up.
Then I drank. The warm nectar flowed into my mouth, splashed over my face, and I drank sloppily. The blood wasn’t sweet. Old blood. But I didn’t care. I didn’t care about anything but getting my fill.
I squeezed his neck with both hands, making the blood pump out faster. He was like a water fountain now. I sucked and slurped and practically bathed in it.
Sorry, sir, but at least you won’t have to travel far for your funeral.
I always have strange thoughts when I’m feeding. I wonder if everyone does.
Ha. That’s kind of a joke, isn’t it, Diary?
Always leave them laughing. That’s what I always say. Especially when I’m full.
