The
stage is set with shimmering lights. Into the haze, I step. Edwina
Stardust, gimp ballerina(1). Tonight is my big night. My shoes are
laced, my lips are red, my cheeks are rouged and all around me there
is silence. Anticipation. No one can stop me now.
It seems like a lifetime ago when I first set foot in this place. The mirror tells a different story. I see how much I’ve changed(2). Once so tall, so proud, so handsome, now I am beautiful, the queen of the dance. My sleek hair, now shiny obsidian, sparkles with orange streaks and golden highlights. Oh, how pretty my teal and cobalt peacock looks; a leotard of feathers bright; I shine with the rising dawn of the artificial sun. Orange filters across my brow, and the glitter strewn across me glows. I am ready.
A deep breath from the depths of my lungs sees me burst onto the stage. Like swans landing on water(3), I glide, floating, falling, soaring. My audience cheers. Tonight is the night; I am their nova. A thousand stars dazzle my hair overhead(4). The peacock has landed, the night is mine.
* * *
I
awoke. Disappointment coursed through my veins as the ordinarily
welcome gloom of sundown pierced the crack in my crypt and I rose -
plain old Edward Dust(5). How could it be that I had not yet
achieved my dream? The Moulin Rouge was calling me from across the
square. I had to find a way onto that wonderful stage, into those
fabulous, glittering costumes (6), into the hearts of the humans who
watched, bedazzled, below.
For
now, it was just a dream but I would find a way if it killed me.
Edwina Stardust would be a sensation. I just had to get my foot in
the door. As I pulled on my suit, the red thirst pulled at my
concentration, its crimson tendrils clawing at my eyes, throat and
heart, burning unbearably. I needed to feed.
The
street was greasy, gloomy. A million shadows flitted in the ochre
glow of the streetlights. I walked as calmly as any man night but
inside … inside the thirst drove me. I walked faster and faster
until I reached the red light district. A beautiful young lady of the
night(7) beckoned me into a dark alley. I followed her, my predatory
urge pumping through my body. Her last moments would be exquisite but
they would be her last.
* * *
A
throbbing, swelling, grinding. The press of flesh against flesh,
blood against dust. Dry, empty veins. Her life coursing through her.
Breathing, living. The rise and fall of her breast; the slow, gradual
build, now rapid. Her vision narrowing, her inner lust exposed. Baser
instincts ruling. Fire and water: fluids and heat.
I
was familiar with this rhythm.
The
press of lips against mouth, her tongue flicking, flickering.
Dancing. I let mine reply; in answer, she ground closer. Her fingers
moved towards her ache, bursting her buttons from their eyelets.
All
of it was false. A game. The printed paper, a face, a figure. Ten,
twenty. The notes rolled, stuffed between her brassier. A tease. My
fingers slipped under her thong, drawing her close from the sides.
Hers was mine to take, a service rendered, payment given, dues
received.
In
the streetlight, my teeth glistened. I saw the shock, the horror, and
then the sly smile. She believed them fake, a fetish, a kink. “One
of those,” her expression read, and with it, a shrug. She didn’t
care until they pierced skin. By then, it was too late. Her jugular
artery. Her eyes widened, her mouth twisted in silent scream.
Paralysed with ecstasy, only dim realisation in the darkest part of
her awareness realised her plight. She shook, then was still.
My
fingers tousled her mouse-brown hair streaked with red and flaxen
dye. Her yawning eyes, sandy brown, were pretty in death. I wondered.
There was still time. Should I?
* * *
A
moment later, I was trudging the cobbles towards the Moulin Rouge …
My Moulin Rouge(8). I would learn to sparkle if it killed me(9).
Just
at that moment, a bookshop caught my eye – a derelict old wreck
with a few moth eaten books in the window. One of the books captured
my imagination. Twelfth Night. How inspiring. A girl pretends to be
a boy. That was it! The genius idea I had been looking for. I would
disguise myself as a woman and apply for work in the Moulin Rouge(10).
I
retraced my steps, found my poor victim, pale and pasty on the
pavement. No-one had noticed her beautiful form, her now glassy
opaque eyes. I lifted her corpse and, pushing my knee between her
legs, propped her against a wall. I undid the zip on the back of her
dress and slipped it over her alabaster torso. My mind pulsed with
desire at the thought of what once coloured that porcelain skin. She
was still within me, giving life to he who stole hers. It was
peverse yet strangely satisfying. I would feed again tonight but
first, I had more important things to attend to. With ruthless
efficiency, I finished stripping her body of all its attire before
running into the street and hailing a cab to the Ritz.
* * *
My
erect nipples poked violently against the dress. I toyed with them,
toyed with the cold, with pinching. My chest was too flat, my abs too
smooth. The brassier did not fit. How could I flesh myself out? I
wondered this as I tweaked and twisted, slow awareness of the cabby’s
longer and longer stares from the mirror catching my attention. I
smiled sweetly at him, and motioned he drive down a side street. The
stage would wait a moment longer.
Cabbies
were not good prey, I reminded myself, licking my fangs. The presence
of hidden cameras, of being reported… my tongue licked my front
canine clean. He was far too fleshy, not firm or tough enough for my
tastes. Cheap cognac and tobacco stained his blood and it mixed with
the cheap perfume of the whore. It was an interesting, if vile mix.
I
took his wallet. Maybe my 'womanly' wiles were worth something after
all.
* * *
Once
installed in a luxury suite, I really missed the good old days when
mirrors were my friends(11). I guessed I looked a bit rough but I
couldn't be sure. I lay naked on the fine, Egyptian cotton sheets,
feeling the soft fabric against my hot skin. Blood memories stirred.
Female blood memories. She knew how to look amazing. I picked up the
bedside phone.
“Room
Service ... Beautician, hairdresser, make up artist, pronto ... Thank
you.”
I
lay back. This would be fun.
Within
half an hour, a crack team of beauty whizz kids stripped my entire
body of hair, added hair to my head, plucked, tweezed and exfoliated
me. The sensual experience was unfamiliar to me, yet delicious. The
only fly in the ointment, the make up artist … Sharon. From
Saafend. Even now, her name fills me with contempt.
“Awright
Daahlin!” her Essex drawl corroded my sensitive ears. For hours,
she droned on, glottal stopping and whining like a bitch on heat,
telling me how she made her way in Paris; how I missed England, in
spite of its repugnance, its lack of fashion and especially its
misery. I would shut her up for good … but not yet. I needed her.
She massaged coloured ointments into my skin, pinning back my new
strawberry blonde hair extensions before adding layer upon layer of
highlighters, blushers, eyeshadows and some inexplicable goop called
mascara. Manscara she called it. Manscara and guy liner. The girl was
as full of vile puns as she was hot air(12). My look was now
complete. She had to die.
* * *
Dying
was such an interesting thing to watch, I decided, licking the tips
of my fingers, and examining my nails. Sparkly, painted nails with
stars and glitter. I admired the side of my neck, my shoulders and
body. Glitter all over me. I turned back to Sharon. I wondered if our
kind considered themselves malicious. She lay sprawled on the floor,
eyes wide, begging, pleading. I strutted over to her, and those blue
eyes followed me. Her fake blond hair twisted between my fingers. She
tried to scream but her throat was silent. I knelt down, thighs
splayed and took her face in my hands. As my fingers stroked her
temples, she trembled. Pitiful. Mortals were all the same. She
deserved a kiss for all her hard work.
Ending
it all wasn’t as messy as I’d hoped(13). She had bled out too
much, and I spat what gushed between my teeth back into her face.
Filth.
I
left the room almost as I found it with one final addition. Sharon’s
fags on the bed, her leaking lighter, and the fire alarms triggered
overhead.
My
debut awaited.
Footnotes
by Igor
(1) So
you see … you haven't yet begun to see the depravity of Eddie's
fantasies. Just wait dear reader … you ain't seen nothing yet!
(2) Honestly!
That idiot chased his reflection away years ago.
(3) I
despair of his constant reliance on clichés.
(4) The
moron's indoors. If only I could give up.
(5) That's
not even his real name. Has he lost it along with his reflection. I
hate him.
(6) Will
he never realise that sequins and vampires do not go together. It is
a ludicrous idea.
(7) Isn't
he aware of the irony?
(8) Bloody
narcissist. He thinks the whole world is his playground.
(9) Please
see footnote (6) Gah!
(10) Will
he ever desist from his Shakespearean name dropping. He never even
ate Shakespeare.
(11) They
were never your friends.
(12)
Is she the lost reflection he called his friend?
(13)
Not enough he's a pyromaniac; he has to long to be a slob as well!
How can anyone take such a 'vampire' seriously?
