Blood

The mattress was soaked with blood. Again. Time to get a new one -- again -- call up the department store and order another; call the 'special disposal' service to get rid of the old one. The young-looking men with the too-pale skin, who didn't think anything of the fact that this was the third mattress they'd replaced in the last month.

And it would be a good idea to order a couple dozen more sets of sheets: black satin didn't show bloodstains, that was true, but the blood never quite washed out, either. Far easier to throw them away and replace them on a daily basis.

The very first time she had awakened beside him and found her naked body covered with drying blood, she had nearly thrown up -- she'd thought she was prepared for this eventuality, after all, she'd known what she was getting into -- but the reality was very different from her fantasies. One thing to know, on an intellectual level, that a vampire's bodily secretions were comprised mainly of blood; another thing to experience it on such an, um, intimate level.

It was a nightly ritual, now: ducking swiftly into the shower before allowing herself to glance into a mirror, staring straight ahead as the steaming spray dissolved the crimson-brown fluid and sent it swirling away. If she didn't look, she could pretend that everything was normal; she could keep her equilibrium intact.

But despite the fact that she'd been dealing matter-of- factly with worse forms of gore for years... she had never gotten used to waking up covered with blood, and doubted that she ever would.

What else did she have to do? Grocery shopping: coffee, and cat food, and paper towels... And there were other supplies to procure, things that couldn't be found at supermarkets. She had three different suppliers to choose from, offering a variety of products at a range of prices; and if the rates weren't good this week, she could always liberate something from the morgue. Nobody in the household would go hungry tonight...

But first on the agenda was the issue of the mattress.

This was the thirty-seventh time she'd replaced the mattress since she'd moved in. At first, it had only slightly disturbed her, but with time and repetition she had come to loathe the task. It seemed to symbolize the essence of her relationship, in stark, horrifying detail.

First: leafing through a selection of bedding outlets throughout Ontario and New York State, to find one she hadn't used yet. Having to make the call, ordering the new items through gritted teeth. Then: calling the disposal boys, fuming at their lecherous smirks as they carried the blood-sodden mattress away. It had become an ordeal, one she could barely face.

And then the new mattress would be delivered, and for a little while she could imagine that she was in a normal relationship with a normal man...

....until the next evening, when she would wake up covered once more with his blood.

She had longed to be close to him, yearned for it, until at last it had ceased to matter what he was. One magical night, in the space of an instant, they had become one -- and there had been no turning back, not for either of them; not when they had wanted each other so badly, for so long. As a lover, a friend, a companion, he was everything she'd ever dreamed he would be...

....but there were aspects that she hadn't been prepared for, no, not at all.

Her hand reached up to the spot on her neck that was always slightly sore, and she remembered the feel of his fangs sliding in: the sharp, sweet not-pain that seemed to sear straight into her soul. The hot luscious ecstasy of his passion, soaking into her consciousness as he fed... at its maximum intensity, it was far better than lovemaking; which was perhaps why she'd only recently noticed that they hardly ever made love anymore. Most mornings, he was content to simply feed, and then fall asleep...

....and sometime during the long day, his arms would wrap around her, drawing her close; and she would awaken drenched in his blood-sweat.

She shivered. More and more often, it was occupying her thoughts. The blood... she'd thought she could ignore it. She'd thought that their love was so strong, so vibrant, that nothing else mattered...

....but she'd been wrong, heartbreakingly wrong.

With a heavy sigh, she forced herself to abandon her reverie in favor of practicality. There were things to be done. Time to order another mattress...

Her hand moved toward the phone. Stopped. Hovered in midair for a moment indecisively.

Then moved toward the phone again.

But when her fingers moved across the dial, she found herself calling the airport. Even as she wondered what she was doing, her traitorous fingertips were inquiring via touchtones as to the next departing flight. And before she had quite comprehended the import of her actions, she was in a taxicab, headed down the QEW.

Dazed, she stared out the window at the velvet night, at the raindrops that covered the glass in fat spatters. She could just barely see the reflection of her face against the darkness, and fancied she saw blood there, that each splattered drop of rain was another splash of blood on her skin...

Her hands rubbed together anxiously, as if scrubbing themselves clean; a nervous habit she'd only recently developed, that she wasn't yet consciously aware of.

She wondered what he would think when he came home to find her gone. She'd taken nothing with her but her purse; he would probably ascribe her disappearance to some sort of crime. Certainly, there would be no reason for him to suspect she'd left of her own free will...

Tears coursed down her face, crystal-clear saline tears; but in her mind's eye, they were tinged crimson.

How could she tell him? How could she confess that she could no longer tolerate his inhumanity? There was just no way she could find words for that -- and no way she could endure the sight of his stricken face. Her rejection would crush him... no, far better for her to simply disappear. That way, he would mourn her, instead of loathing himself for driving her away...

She had resources: he had made certain of that. Resources, and contacts: enough of both to make a new life for herself, somewhere secluded enough that he would not be able to locate her until well after she'd succumbed to old age. She would move on, just as he himself would someday; and he would never know the truth.

Such a cruelty to him, and such a kindness.

As for herself... she wondered if she would ever be able to look at herself again without seeing blood on her skin. If she would ever again kiss a man, lest she compare him to the only one she had ever truly loved -- and could no longer stand to love.

Wondered, briefly, if she would ever stop crying again.

The taxi sped her to the airport, to the plane that would take her away; and her tears slipped down her cheeks to drip onto her hands, as heavy and bitter as if they were drops of blood.

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