by Cherie Ann Turpin
(30 Stories in 30 Days)
So, I’m on a plane headed to Santa Fe, New Mexico. Mind you, I’m in my traveler’s coffin, the one with the tacky sky-blue lining and extra pillow to help me sleep (I have neck and back issues). I don’t want to go, but my vampire posse staged an intervention and threatened to kick me out of the group house and report me to my maker, something I fear more than being homeless in a city known to be hostile to derelict vamps.
My drug of choice is heroin, or more accurately, heroin addicts’ blood. The first time I got high I was at a party and I ended up feeding on this frat boy who I thought was drunk. I didn’t realize he’d snorted some heroin/oxy party powder in the kitchen earlier. I almost puked the blood out the first time, but after a few minutes I felt like I was floating into space. He didn’t even feel me biting him again, but I was careful not to drain him. I wanted to keep my drug cow healthy enough to keep me high.
It worked for about two months. He’d score the drugs, and I’d pay him to let me feed on him after he snorted or injected himself. Then, after a two month run, the frat boy dropped dead from an overdose. According to one of his frat mates at the frat house where they found him, he thought he could do more of the drug and not get sick because he believed I was sucking away his addiction. Maybe I was, but if I did, I ended up with an itch that burned through my core stronger than my urge to drink blood all by itself. It set my hunger on thermonuclear, and made me a danger to not just humans, but other vampires who smelled like they recently fed on addicts.
When my friends found me I was staying at a motel with a recently deceased prostitute who, like my frat boy supplier, OD’ed after spending two weeks with me on a heroin binge. He sat on the toilet with a glassy-eyed stare, the needle still stuck in his arm. I’d already fed on him, but I guess he wanted to top off his waning high to augment what my feeding had done to him. He looked disappointed, a corpse not happy to be a corpse. The vamps quietly wrapped him in sheets and dumped him into the river.
Clearly, I am not the only one dealing with this issue: human junkies have been showing up in ER with gaping bite wounds and severe loss of blood by the dozens over the last six months. The human authorities still don’t know we exist, but it’s only a matter of time before that changes. If that happens, the Vampire Council will put me down like a rabid dog for sure. That’s why right now I am packed away in the baggage area, waiting for the plane to land so I can be transported to the vampire rehab facility just outside of Santa Fe.
I hear detox feels like you’re being exposed to the sun. So not looking forward to that.
No bloody sunscreen.
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