Reviving Sam

Aug 8, 2006

I miss Sam. Now she’s Samantha, a clean, pure, professional, adult woman. I tried to invite her out for drinks, but she said she was too tired and too busy. On a Friday night? It’s not that hard to believe, especially considering the way she ‘s been living lately. She’s been working three jobs while trying to make that one big decision: What will I do with the rest of my life? At least she knows that she can’t go on like this. It’s sapping the life from her. When I do get to see her she’s a shell. There’s no fire in her eyes anymore, not like there used to be. I just can tell that she’s not happy. I hate seeing her like this.

I wish I could have her back. I wish she could be young, fresh, and vivacious forever. Is it a crime to wish that your best friend could be twenty-two forever? It seems a lot longer than three years ago, but it’s only lately that she’s seemed to change. I don’t mind her growing up as long as she doesn’t outgrow herself, but that’s what she seems to be doing. At this rate she’ll be one of those women who are worn out and used up by the time they’re thirty. I never thought it would happen. Other people, sure, but never her- she had too much life, too much spunk for adulthood to take away.

I wonder if I could give it back to her. I always feel so alive after a bloody steak or a few drops from scratching my boyfriend to bits. Maybe it would work for her. Why does it work for me? Is it just in my head, some bizarre sort of placebo effect, or does the blood really do something for me? Am I really going absolutely crazy? All I know is that after a drink, I can do anything: the world is mine.

Mother wants me to see a doctor or maybe a priest. She thinks I’m not only going crazy but also going to hell. It never seemed like too bad of a place; the company at least would be pretty interesting…. that is if I’m to assume that heaven is filled with law abiding citizens who lose themselves in their work and never go out for drinks. I’d rather not be one of the good people of the world. I’d rather be a blood-drinking fornicator, and I’m not being selfish for wanting to drag my friends down with me. I’m not immature for having an open relationship. I’m not a freak for being more jealous of Sam’s job then of her boyfriend who probably sees her only a little more than I do.

I wonder if he’s part of the problem. I know he doesn’t like me, and he knows I’m trying to convince Sam to not be swayed by his house in the suburbs with the damn white, picket fence. Ok, so maybe it doesn’t have a fence. I’ve never even seen the place, but I know that it would solidify the transformation she’s making. I would lose her forever to the adult world and all of its fucking rules. I wonder what he would think if her walked in on her lapping blood from my fingers. Would he be afraid of the fire in her eyes? Could he handle a real woman instead of just a doll for his plastic house? I don’t think he could. I think he’d run, and she would just laugh.

She would shake her head of wild dark waves and laugh at him, at life, at the world and all its fucked up rules about how we each should be. She would be a vampire like me, not the undead, the living, the only living among all these zombies. The two of us would wander through the bars and clubs late at night. The crowds would part for us like the read sea - sounds delicious. Their eyes would be on us, only on us, with our long, lean bodies. Their minds would fill with fantasies, and we would give them sneaky half-smiles, nothing so much as a hint to fuel their imaginations and libidos.

By day we would zoom through out work, completing every assignment perfectly with time to spare. More and more clients would pour in because of our inexplicable magnetism. Nothing would ever faze us. When things get too hectic, we would just curl up together for a snack. After a few drops each of ruby immortality, we would rule the world again.