Prize Winner for the Written Category Of The Damien Molony Forum Creative Competition, shared here after announced, for feedback and comments.

'A Transformation In Letters' by sangate

----------------------------------------------------------------------

A Transformation In Letters

1941

Tears. Always. He never tried to stop them; he wanted them to fall. But not on the paper. The recipients were not to know he had cried. No sympathy. No excuses. Just repentance.

He noticed the tip of his pen was hovering over the paper, unsure of where to begin, what to say. He dipped the tip back in the ink pot. It still did not come to him. So he started with the easy part.

Dear John

His pen stopped. He tried to remember, took a deep breath and stood up from the chair he had been sitting on and walked to the window next to his desk. Outside, London was quiet. A street lantern struck a small stroke of light to the right, away from the flat he was currently residing in. It was heavily clouded and no moonlight could penetrate the cloud cover.

He stared at the mirrored window in front of him. The candle on the desk next to him flickered its reflection in it. But it reflected no figure.

Sometimes he saw himself. From the corner of his eye. In a passing window. But never a full reflection. He could not shave without at least one cut or an uneven spread. Often he was mistaken for a drunk because of it.

He heard steps coming along the road and stepped forward to see who it was. A child of about ten ran by. It pulled him back to reality.

The letter. He looked at it, laying on his desk. The almost empty parchment.

He turned away from it and lay down on his bed. He closed his eyes and tried to envision himself sitting on a bench alongside the Thames during the day, watching the current empty his mind.

1901

It had just been a game. That is how it started. But of course, being the creature, venom, that he was, it had gotten out of hand and someone had died.

He had seen the boy at the tearoom he visited daily. The boy had sold him the Times, had sat with him for a few minutes, and had had his own cup of tea. They started talking. About the boy’s parents. His activities. His dreams. His name was John.

After the boy had left, they had ran into each other again that very evening. The boy was heading home, after a special had come out that he had sold on the streets, announcing the death of Queen Victoria. John was cold. Snow had fallen that day and the boy’s clothes, torn in several places, made him shiver.

He had taken John to his flat, which was not much warmer than the boy’s own home probably had been. But he wanted to be nice to him. That was truly all he had wanted.

He fixed the boy up with a cup of tea and put him in a chair next to the stove. As the boy warmed his hands on the cup, he heard women giggling outside. He lived in the worst part of town. He knew this and he knew it only made the chances of him losing control all the larger, but he did not have a choice. He wanted to hide. The best place to do that was here, with a low rent and the constant change of neighbours. This winter, ten of them had died of cold, starvation, drug addiction or violence. Seven had fallen victim to a combination of the last two.

All he fixated on right now was holding control. By focusing on keeping warm and finding out where his next loaf of bread would come from. His only contact with humans was the time he spent in the tearoom. He wanted to know what went on in the world, what happened in his city and over the sea, and the only way to do that was to visit the tearooms to read the newspapers.

But he felt it. After ten years of sobriety, he was slipping. It was not his surroundings making him lose control. It was just that time again. He always knew it would come back. No precautions would help. Every day without blood was another day closer to the one on which he would slip up again. And it was coming soon. He had already made plans. First thing he would do was escape town. If he could, if he still had the clarity of mind to do so. He wanted to run to the countryside. Near animals. It would sustain him for a little while. And a little while would still save a lot of lives before he would crave human blood and run back to populated areas.

John wanted to go home. He had given the boy half of his last loaf of bread to share with his five brothers and sisters. He opened the door to take him home.

It happened before he could realise the moment he would turn again was upon him.

The girls were all over John. How cute he was, how tall and how brave to be out at night, walking about all on his own in this part of town and in this weather. Was he seven? He looked ten, at least! Surely he could take down any bad men walking around.

He could not help himself. The veins stuck out of their bare necks, unbothered by the weather as they were.

He heard his heartbeat go faster, grow louder until he heard it racing in his head.

John screamed as he saw his eyes go black and showed the ladies his fangs. They tried to run. All three women and John. Together. But they ran into an alley. He could not believe he knew the area better than they did. Whores. Running around this street all day, but hardly knowing what was around the corner.

He had them for the taking. Two ran past him, back into the street. He knew he could not get them all anyway. Vampires were strong, but he wanted, needed, blood. Now. One was enough. He could always go after them afterwards. The third woman was protecting John, covering him as he held on to her from behind, crying, asking what was happening, what he was doing, why his eyes were black and why his teeth had grown pointy.

He made John watch. He dragged them to the corner of the alley. Both had nowhere to go. He remembered making a speech about how well he had done, being sober for so long, but that the slip always came. How the two of them were just unlucky. Wrong place, wrong time. It could have happened yesterday, and then he would have been long gone. Or tomorrow, and maybe then it would still have happened to them.

He had moved ever closer as he spoke. Licking his lips, stroking the woman’s neck. He heard John whimper, but he did not care. Not anymore.

Finally he put his fangs into the woman’s neck. She could not scream. His hands had covered her mouth. He could feel her heavy breathing on his skin as he sucked her blood. He felt the life grow back into him, felt the blood in his veins stream, felt his muscle power as he had never felt before. Or did not remember feeling.

All of that stopped, suddenly, as he felt a stabbing pain in his groin.

He looked down and saw that John had crawled under him, kicking him hard, and was now running away. He could hear the boy sobbing and wiping away the tears as he ran. He yelled profanities after John, but did not bother to go after him. He still had someone in his arms who was not yet sucked dry. Compassion was not part of why he let him go.

1941

He opened his eyes and looked up at the ceiling of his flat.

He remembered them all. But some were vague, situations had become distorted, memories changed. But those he always remembered the best. The ones that happened first after a change.

This change had only lasted six months. The shortest a cycle had ever lasted for him. As if the cow blood he had been on kept him lucid in some way.  After he felt himself again, he had fled overseas to London. Different country, different scenery. But also the same. He craved people around him. Needed to be entertained. Knew it was dangerous, but it was either this or being back on the blood within hours. He kept the streets clean. Which kept his head clean. Somewhat.

He had made a promise to himself. To all those he killed. Changed. He remembered all their names. Every lucid period he wanted to do penance for them. Remember them. Say sorry. But he could not.

So he had started writing letters. To his victims. Not for them. He had only sent a few, to fellow vampires who knew them or their families. The others he stacked up. And burnt during a dark period. After which he started writing letters to the victims from his latest period.

He sat up from his bed, took another deep breath and sat himself down at his desk again.

He stared at the piece of paper for a moment, hearing his upstairs neighbour rummage around. He knew he was treading a thin line right now, moving into this house, but he did not have to pay rent and the others left him alone. He knew the reason. They knew as well as the others that he would turn again and it was just a matter of waiting it out and then their Lord would be back.

He grabbed the piece of paper, ruffled it up into a ball and threw it into the corner of the room.

He put his pen onto the paper laying below.

John,

There was a knock on the front door.

He waited for someone else to open it. No one came and the knocking continued. Annoyed, he stood up and made his way to the front door.

He opened the door and saw a tall man facing him. His age, but with black curly hair.

“You Hal?” He said as he flipped a piece of paper around. Probably with the address on it.

“Who wants to know?”

“I’m Mitchell. John Mitchell. We need to talk.”

When the realization of who the man was that was standing in front of him seeped through, Hal felt the life being sucked out of him for a change. His legs went wobbly, as he let room for him to pass.

It was John.

But he felt John was different, changed. And he should be older.

He relived for a second time that evening, the moment when John was little, that moment where he last turned to blood. That time when John escaped his grasp. He had not fed on him. So who did?

“Why are you here? How did you find me?” Hal said as John walked into the room with the opened door.

“Herrick.”

Hal stared at John. Of course. Herrick. Herrick had led a group into the Great War, recruiting men on their death beds. John had told him he wanted to be a soldier when he grew up.

Hal watched John, as the boy who was now a man sat down on his bed. Upright, unmoving.

 “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“You were kind,” John said, voice breaking. “Before..”

Before it happened.

“Herrick told me who you were. How you.. deal with it.”

So rumour of him stepping out for brief moments of time had left the house and gotten around.

“Why are you here?” He sat down at his desk, suddenly remembering his letter on the desk. He tried to casually shove a book over it, but John was eyeing him intently and there was no way he could do it without arousing suspicion.

“I need help.”

“With what?”

“Dealing with it.”

“Why?”

“I have doubts.”

“I cannot help you.”

“You won’t help me.”

“I cannot. It is too dangerous.” He was silent for a moment before continuing. “It takes all my strength to manage myself. I am sorry, but I cannot help you too.”

“You owe me this.”

Hal looked at John startled.

“Is that really the card you want to play?”

“I have to.”

“You need to leave.”

Hal stood up to show his guest out, but John showed no intention of getting up. Instead he pointed at the letter on his desk. “What’s that?”

“What do you mean?”

“That letter. Is it for me?”

Hal returned his intent gaze. “Yes.”

“You knew I was turned?”

“No.”

John seemed to digest this information and then got up.

“Is there anything you can tell me? Any advice?”

Hal uttered both words slowly: “Kill yourself.”

John smiled slightly, thinking he was kidding. When Hal did not return the smile, John grimaced.

“You’re serious. And then what?”

“No more killing.”

“Why don’t you kill yourself?”

“I think you should go.”

John made his way to the front door. Hal went after him to make sure he left. Herrick was standing at the front porch.

“You know I can go just come in without asking right? I own the joint.”

“Then why don’t you?”

“I thought you and Mitchell might need a little personal time. Was he able to help you with your problem, Mitchell?”

“Let’s go.”

“I’m going to take that as a very poetic no. Till next time, Lord Hal. I’m sure it will come.” Herrick flicked his fingers and John followed in his path.

Breathing heavily, Hal closed the door and fled back into his room. He stared down at the piece of paper that still read John. He had no idea what he wanted to write, but he desperately wanted to write something.

He had turned the little boy away. Again. Owed him twice now. Owed him more now than he did then. And still had not filled his debt. But made it bigger.

He stood up violently, throwing his desk to its side and tossing around his chair against his bed until it legs broke off, screaming while he did it.

It was never going to end. Even when he tried to do his best, he still could not do it right.

Without thinking about it, he ran out of the house, onto the street where two women had just gotten out of the bar at the opposite side of the street. He felt it coming this time. And he did not care. All he thought to himself was that he wanted it to happen and he did not care how long this dark period would take. It could take forever, for all he cared. Sucking humans dry, women preferably, as long as he was sustained. The more blood he took, the less it bothered him. His heightened sensors noticed another couple coming out of the bar. They would be up next.

The two women did not even hear him coming up from behind. Before they could even scream, he had torn out the first one’s neck and had pushed his fangs into the second woman. He was sinking back into the night’s dark and he knew the daylight would be a very long way off.

From a corner of his eye, as he felt the blood trickle down his own neck, he saw Herrick and John Mitchell watching on from the shadows of an adjacent building. As Hal licked his lips and swallowed before taking another dive into the woman’s neck, he noticed they were both grinning.