The Sell-Out

The Sell-Out








The hunger is agonising, the headaches blinding. Around me the scent of blood is strong, seeping from windows and pub doorways, and lingering in the air over cobblestoned streets. Some is thick with alcohol and nicotine, poisoned by vices and repulsive to taste. There is also pure, sweet crimson ambrosia coming from the unspoilt youth of the city. I feel myself becoming drawn to a nearby window ledge, the scent of a particular teenager too much for me to ignore.

The thirst for blood is nothing like the thirst for water. Imagine an advanced stage of dehydration moments from death, then multiply it by one hundred. And the relief when you finally quench that thirst... it is incomparable to anything else. A thousand orgasms going off in your body at the same time, combined with a hundred shot’s worth of heroin, wouldn’t even come close.

I am not an evil person. The thought of killing someone was, to me, completely outrageous yesterday. The ability to take someone’s life just wasn’t in my instincts. However, the pain began to seep in within twelve hours after I was changed. Fourteen hours later and I collapsed on the bathroom floor during a shower, a kicking and screaming fetus, my body in spasm and shuddering with stabs and waves of unprecedented pain. My bowels went, and the bile in my stomach spilled over my face until I was vomiting nothing, over and over again, just retching and hacking and crying.

That changed me. That pain. There aren’t words for what it done to me, but when I regained my composure I was almost normal again, aside from one of my breasts and my ribcage aching from where I connected with the sink. It served as a reminder, a confirmation that what had just happened would come back, and no doubt with greater force. Quivering and red-eyed I got dressed, cleaned myself up and left my home. In search of food, I staggered like a drunk on the way home from a night out.

I guess it is akin to the downfall of a junkie. Slowly losing your respect for your family. That first time you steal stealthily in the night, then later in broad daylight without caring. The people you used to love not mattering anymore, the syringe the only thing that counts. Needle-like teeth sinking into a warm vein. The thought alone is enough to make my mouth water.

The air around me is cold, but welcoming. Everywhere I look there are shadows, and where there are shadows I feel secure. I know I can blend in seamlessly, like a droplet of black paint rejoining its palette. Being caught is the least of my concerns. My feet make no noise as I drift over the cobblestones, and for a moment I am convinced I am a ghost returning to its haunting grounds.

I can feel someone watching me, and know right away who it is. The one who turned me, who made me ache for blood the way I do now. Probably making sure I make the kill and do not chicken out, perhaps helping me if I fail this preliminary test, cleaning up after a mistake. I can still feel his cold breath on my neck, the tiny stabs of his teeth as he went through my flesh, more like an embrace of a lover than an attack. Then - a vacancy, an indifference to my approaching death, just a lulled head and tired eyes. The feeling of being drained is the most peaceful feeling I can think of. More relaxing than a glass of wine, a joint, or a Valium. I find this thought somewhat comforting as I approach my victim. It’s good to know they will not suffer.

Suddenly, I catch a stronger scent. I turn from the open window, away from the scent of young blood and perfume. Someone is making their way towards me, a young man, around my age and good-looking. His blood smells clean and unpolluted, and he is hygienic too. I quickly slip into the shadows behind a bin and await his approach, my kill already confirmed, my excitement untameable.

There is no reason why I was turned. I feel the one who changed me done it because he desired it, perhaps on a whim, I don’t know. So far, life hasn’t been so bad on the other side, apart from the painful cravings. But I feel they will become a thing of the past once I familiarise myself with this new way of existing. I no longer feel depressed, anxious, unfulfilled and angry. If the medical community knew of this miracle I could imagine they would line everyone up for a cure in moments.


They say vampires are cruel and heartless, but the one who turned me had such gentle eyes. He took care of me until I was strong enough to walk again, and taught me how to make a kill. I know for certain he is watching me. A beam of darkness across a wall. A spectator in this test. I am determined to not let my instructor down, a respect I do not share with even my own parents.

I approach my victim as he passes, my feet still soundless and my presence undetectable. That’s the thing about being a vampire, you essentially become invisible. Whenever you feel someone watching you when you’re at home at night, or when suddenly you are gripped by a presence in the room, you’d be surprised the amount of times your instincts were right. There are a huge number of people who have barely escaped being drained and left for dead in the streets or their home, and will never know it.

His collar is flapping in the gentle breeze, fanning his scent towards me and carrying it down my nose in a pleasant wave. His exposed neck is tinted amber from the streetlights, a shimmering gold. I approach him with quick footsteps, taking pride in the fact that he is unaware, impressed with my own abilities. My reluctance to kill is a thing of the past, the thought of his blood in my body too exciting to ignore, like a Catholic drawn from celibacy by their primal urges. There is a definite sexual attraction, as though it is a kiss I am going for instead of a kill. If my heart were able to still beat, I’m sure it would be accelerating by now. The pace of lust.

I push him against the wall and snap at him hungrily with the appetite of a predator and the passion of a lover. I catch a glimpse of his face as I go in for the kill. There is no fear there, just confusion, and perhaps a minute intrigue. For a moment he probably thinks I am some horny drunk from the local pub, and to be honest that is a little bit like how I feel. I bite savagely at his skin before he has a chance to really react to the situation, the excitement in my body peaking and sending shivers through me. He lets out a howl of pain and topples over, but I am still attached to him, a beautiful parasite.

I have not broken through the skin with my initial bite so I bite harder and start chewing. Almost at once warm blood rushes into my mouth from a great tear in the skin, a maw of flesh vomiting crimson into me. I drink hard, letting the liquid rush down my throat. A caustic bitterness overwhelms me, as though someone has jammed four fingers down my throat and spread them.

I let go of the man and stumble backwards onto my bottom retching and coughing his blood and more bile. He kicks at the ground in agony, his screams ringing out into the night, beacons for anyone nearby, an instinctual alarm. I am aware that I should probably run, but my stomach demands to be emptied. I vomit up nothing again and again.

For a moment I see the gaping wound in the man’s neck, the savage tear that I have opened with my teeth, a mess of tendons and muscle and arteries burst open and spilling everywhere like a retching choir of worms. It looks nothing like the discreet puncture marks on my own neck. All at once I am gripped by an intense feeling of gloom, a bubbling blackness in the pit of my intestines. I take off, still coughing up bile, and don’t stop until I am far away.

Later under the cover of darkness I have wiped most of the gunk from my dress but am still coated in a ruby bib. My neck and mouth are sticky and my hair is now in wet clumps. What went wrong? What the hell happened? The image of the torn throat and all the ripped spaghetti is vivid in my mind, a dark sign for things to come. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in a window, and for a moment it appears that the puncture marks on my neck have disappeared.

He is beside me suddenly, smirking. The one who turned me. I gaze at him, his face cruel and no longer sympathetic, his laughter quiet and foreboding. I realise all at once what has happened. I do not have time for anger, his piercing aura sending cold waves through my bones.

My God. You didn’t turn me at all, did you?

He does not answer, just nods slowly, his mouth still curled in a smile.

It can’t be.
It can.
But all I could think about was blood!
I’ve been watching you since I found you. You’ve made a lovely little puppet.
Oh my God.


I cross my arms over my chest, his gaze making me feel naked. His smirk is as invasive as sexual abuse.

Good luck with the police.
He softly makes off into the darkness, folding into nothing. A memory. Only the ringing in my ears remains. A deep horror stabs at my chest again, a reminder of what I’ve done. A thousand consequences shoot through my head. I fight the urge to vomit once more, to cast the crusted remnants of my meal from the inside of my throat and mouth. I take off, heading for my home in what I presume to be a vain attempt at escaping this situation, wanting to cry and hold my mother and father, but knowing fine well that those days are over.

It is a grim few days, waiting for either the police or the vampires. Each night, my light stays on. My cabinet is bursting in spare bulbs just in case. Knowing that those dark creatures exist, that they really do exist and you are not one of them, is enough to send anyone into a paralysis of fear. I do not undress anymore, and I cannot sleep with the lights on. I know he is somewhere unseen, and all seeing. His gaze comes through the window like freezing sunlight, laying over me and forcing my breaths out in short gasps, so strong it is almost visible. Sometimes I wish he will just come for me, that he will get it over with and end it all, to cut short this relentless anxiety and terror that I carry with me every day.

Other times the thought of his horrid eyes are enough to send me into spasms of tears, my heart pulsing with rapid motions, my mind begging for mercy.

Jail will bring me no respite, of this I am sure. If the police come for me, I feel I have no choice but to end my life. The thought of spending my life in a cold cell under his watch is terrifying. Hateful white slits forever taunting me between steel bars. A fate no amount of pain can match.

A knife lies in my top drawer, a sharp kitchen knife that I have played with for hours, considering the easy way out over and over. I suspect death, however, will bring me no escape. I can feel him inside me, waiting for me to die so that he can play with my soul the same way a cat toys with a mouse before it eats. He has infected me with something, a dark disease that even death cannot cure. I can feel it spreading through my veins, blackening them with ink, poisoning me.


To know that there is nothing I can do to escape this evil is the most terrifying sensation in the world. I have only one wish, and that is to not exist. To just simply disappear and to never be traced again, to have never been and to never be.

To escape.










2130 words