2 - Crimson

Fraser

The dripping of water is a constant thing I have become accustomed to. At times it blends into the background, other times I count the echoey plops out loud. Plunk, plunk, plunk. I crave the senseless monotony as my brain deteriorates.

I lay on my back, staring at the crusted ceilings that look as though they've been here since the dawn of time. That ceiling may be as old as I am.

Rocks dig into my back, pebbles and dust coating my skin. I do not belong here.

My fangs prick my lip, hoping to have any taste of blood that I can get. My starved belly gurgles and groans in despair. I demand it to be quiet, craving some sort of control in this forsaken place. The burning urge in my gums to sink my teeth into anything is insistent, it's my constant companion aside from the water drops splattering the cobblestones.

Damn humans. They can't leave well enough alone. They absolutely can not handle what they don't understand. That is the way it's always been, I don't know why I thought that could ever change.

I close my eyes, the darkness comforting. For whatever reason, the human that trapped me down here thought leaving me in the dark was an appropriate punishment. I chuckle at the memory. I see better in the pitch-black.

A scrapping clunk tickles my ears, and I perk up. Something new. Something to disrupt the hours of nothingness.

Someone is coming down here. I set up a scene of false comfort. I put my hands behind my head, put my feet up and close my eyes with a slight smile on my lips.

"What do you have to smile about, monster?" The words are spat at me, but I don't move a muscle, not even at the preposterous insult slung my way.

"I am no monster. I've never hurt anyone."

"Lies!" Laird Sinclair yells, his voice is gravelly, and his round face is likely red from anger.

I crack an eye open to check, and I'm right. The stout laird is fuming, his skin inflamed and his neck bulging as he clutches a torch alight with flame. Silly, delicate humans and their light scourses. They can't go anywhere at night without them.

Going back to my earlier position, eyes closed with a casual sigh, I revel in the fact that it is indeed night. I know this based on my perfect internal clock. I love that it's night. I am stronger at night, even despite being weakened by starvation and lack of moonlight. And this man, this human male with chubby fingers and a god complex, he is weakened by the night. He relies on his little stick and flame like a caveman.

He may think that he is the one with the upper hand, but my strength gives me ease down here.

"Why do you seem so pleased with yourself?"

I don't answer him. I wouldn't dare allow him that satisfaction. A Laird he may be, but I am also a laird of my own clam. I too have had to fight to defend my title. He's not the only one with authority here. I've been called Laird since before his great-great-grandfather could walk.

He grumbles, rustling with his clothing as he swears under his breath.

"I brought you something, monster."

That piques my interest.

After more fumbling noises, the smell of blood attacks my nostrils and grabs hold of all of my senses. I dart up. My feet meet the floor in a low crouch, my palms flat on the solid ground as my fangs slide out of my gums against my will.

My predatory nature takes over, becoming a priority over all else as the sustenance I desperately need is offered up. I surge forward, a slave to my dark nature.

Monster of the night. Creature of the shadows.

A vampire.

I may be a laird, a leader, an ancient man who has seen human civilizations come and go, but at the end of every day the sun sets, the moon rises, and I need to feed on that life-giving liquid. Sweet crimson.

The sweaty human man grins, shaking a shiny silver flask in one hand, clutching his precious torch in the other. Sloshing noisily, the blood scent wafts around me like thick ambrosia. Saliva slicks my mouth, wetting my needle-sharp fangs.

It suddenly dawns on me that something is off about the smell. I've smelled blood nearly every day for hundreds of years. This blood is not untouched, it's tainted. I hiss under my breath, realizing that even if this blood is poisoned or altered in any way, I'll still drink it, even if I don't want to. I'm starving, my strength deteriorating like a crushed autumn leaf carried by the wind.

"You need this." Laird Sinclair mocks, tilting the flask side to side as it catches the light, observing it thoughtfully with his beady eyes.

I don't know how he knows it, but he's right. I do need it. A vampire cannot go more than 2 weeks without blood, and I'm going on 9 days without a single drop of crimson.

I'm not sure what type of blood it is, but by the smell I know it's not human, it's more than likely animal blood. It'll do fine enough. I've relied on an animal on more than one occasion to slake my never-ending need for sustenance.

"Yes." I growl, my voice no longer sounding even remotely human. I'm furious with myself for my own weakness, my own reliance on something the enemy holds.

One glance at him shows me he's more than gleeful at the situation. He grins, licking his lip disgustingly as he wipes sweat that drips from his brow.

He may be overjoyed at my predicament, but he's still afraid of me. That's one small victory that I can hold onto.

Taking a step forward, he holds out the flask, offering it to me.

I jump up, reaching desperately through the bars that keep my prisoner here. The flask is right out of reach, a hair's breadth away from my fingertips. I snarl. The animalistic side still has a hold of me, I have no way of fighting it off.

My stomach is empty, and my fangs ache, I need it.

The laird I once trusted withholds the food for a moment as if to continue taunting me with the fact that I'm relying on him for contaminated blood. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he takes a step forward, pressing the vessel into my palm and hopping back as soon as my fingers clasp greedily at the offering.

I'm on my knees then, an animal to my vise. I gulp and gulp, growing more ravenous as each swallow of contaminated blood slides down my throat. It drips from the corners of my mouth and dribbles onto the floor. I cringe, even as I moan in ecstasy because I know full well that I'll be licking each puddle that falls to the dusty ground. I'm not above it, even with this monster standing over me.

And monster he is, not me, no matter how many necks I bite, this man is pure evil compared to a soul such as mine.

The flask plummets from my lips, clunking as it rolls across the floor. I gasp for air. I didn't dare take a breath while I ate. Blood is more crucial for my survival than oxygen. I couldn't risk even one lungful while I guzzled.

Whatever was in the blood is already affecting me. My usual impeccable sight suddenly blurs, my head going light and fuzzy as I nearly collapse. It reminds me of when my brother Alec tried to create a new drink with a mixture of rum and blood, making me so intoxicated I was vomiting for a whole night. He never let me forget it, and now I'm unsure if I'll ever see him again.

My confidence dwindles, and I pant as I try to focus my gaze, falling forward to my hands and knees. I had convinced myself I would get out of here. The first hours I was imprisoned I laughed, almost amused that a puny human captured me. That was before he used his tactful knowledge to torture me. I still have scabs on my back from where his whip found its mark. That was when I realized it may be more difficult than I thought to come out of this unscathed.

Now, I sit drunkenly before a sadistic human, some unknown poison running from my stomach to my system. It becomes blatantly obvious that this could kill me. My pride didn't want to even consider it, but here I am.

Shaking my head, I roll to the side. My ears ring. My fingertips tingle.

"What was in that drink?" My voice slurs, gone is the gruff, feral tone from earlier. My hunger is partially satiated, but with a cost. I simply swapped one pain for another.

Laird Sinclair chuckles darkly.

"Just what I thought. It worked. I'll be damned." He sounds excited, but a bit surprised. Pleasantly shocked. "Ewan will be pleased to hear it."

Of course. It was all an experiment.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to keep my skull from spinning. I feel as though I'm on a boat, rocking back and forth. It's agonizing. My mind knows I'm lying still, but my sluggish, poisoned body can't keep up.

So, I am an experiment. It's an odd reason for imprisonment.

Those are my last thoughts before I slump to the ground.

How are you enjoying the story so far?

Don't forget to leave a comment and vote!

Your support means the world to me