V is for Vampire

            During the silent nights, people could hear the rush of the wind through the trees in the little town of Tivoli, New York. Away from all the honking taxis, away from all the big city lights of Manhattan, and away from all the hustle and bustle of the big city. Away from the stories and myths of creatures. This is where he lived, where he grew up, where he changed. He was a normal kid, at first. His name was Mike.

            When he was seventeen, Mike was bitten by an animal. Well, at least according to his parents. The teeth-mark-scar on his pale right wrist confirmed this. All he remembered was that it hurt. The excruciating pain he felt was beyond anything an animal could inflict. He remembered a glimpse of the night he was bitten, but doubted his memory. It must’ve been wrong. But then how could he explain his sharp canine teeth and his keen senses? It left him paranoid to this day. 

*                                  *                                  *

            It had been a long time since “the incident” and he was now at school in Chicago. He loved it there. He and his two best friends had moved up from Tivoli to go to college and were excited to start playing gigs with their new band, “The Real Boys.” They were ready for anything and everything: the late nights, the college girls and the booze, of course. He had a charming presence, something the girls could not resist. There was something about him, or everything about him, that drew them in. Nobody could pinpoint exactly what it was.

            When he was seventeen, he had no desire to do anything but sit around and play video games with his friends all day. But there was something about the incident that changed him. He started spending more time alone, wandering the woods. He even took up guitar. That’s how “The Real Boys” started – all because Mike spontaneously picked up a guitar and started playing.

            His parents were surprised when he appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, with a packed suitcase and a guitar on his back and said, “I’m taking my guitar and moving to Chicago.” It was very unexpected, but with everything Mike had been through since the attack and its aftermath, they supported him and let him leave.

            The people Mike met were amazed by his talent. When they asked how long he’d been playing guitar and his response was, “a couple months,” their jaws dropped. He remembered one man, his name was John, maybe. When Mike explained this to him, John shook his head, “That’s impossible. Nobody plays that well after a couple of months.” He believed Mike was a creation of Satan. Everyone else just believed he was crazy talented.

            Mike didn’t know what to believe. He enjoyed his new found musical talent, but was scared by other changes that came along with it. The sight, smell, or taste of blood now drove him crazy. He remembered how one night at a show in Poughkeepsie, he was playing a song called “Pretender” when his friend cut his finger on the mic stand. The lights were shining brightly on their faces as they stood on the stage in this dark little club. As Mike looked over at his friend, who was bleeding, he took a deep breath. The scent of his friend's blood engulfed him. The metallic property of the blood overwhelmed him. All of a sudden, he stopped playing and everyone in the audience started whispering, wondering what had happened. Without thinking, Mike leaped onto his friend and pummeled him to the ground. People began to laugh and yell. One guy yelled, “Yeah! Fight man!” They thought this was all part of “The Real Boys” big show. Mike lowered his head to his friend's wound and took a whiff of the blood that was slowly coagulating on his finger. Thankfully, his friend pushed him off and snapped Mike back to reality, back to the show they were playing. He didn’t know why he was so sensitive to the blood, but he knew this was not normal.

            Mike often had flashbacks to that show – he couldn’t put it behind him. His friends would make fun of him for it, and often asked him what was going through his mind. They didn’t wait for his answer, they just laughed it off, like it was a stunt to entertain the audience. But Mike knew something was not right. He felt himself changing.

            Some time after, when the band had gotten more exposure, and was asked to audition for a label in Los Angeles, Mike found something holding him back. “Guys, we don't have to move out to Los Angeles in order to be successful. Hollywood isn't all its cracked up to be,” he said. Everyone looked at him.

            “Hey man, you're the only one holding out on this decision. Are you afraid of making a fool of yourself by going crazy at an audition or show again?” one of his band mates said. They all started laughing, not knowing the effect those words had on him.

            Mike felt an inexplicable anger welling up inside of him. “I don't have any problem with it. California is just too flashy. Do you want to sell-out?” Mike imagined himself in California, where the sun always shines. He could feel the light piercing his eyes. He blurted out, “You guys think that you’re going to make it big. Well you’d be nothing without me.”

            “Dude. Who doesn't want to live in California? You're such a freak.”

            “Don't call me a freak.” His eyes were like darts, aiming at his friend.

            “Dude, you're the one who jumped on me in the middle a show because I started bleeding.” His band mates all laughed, remembering Mike's actions that night. “You were out of control, man.”

            Mike hesitated. He was having difficulty separating his feelings from reality. He honestly didn't know what had triggered his behavior. Something in the air? The lack of sleep from being on the road? No, it was something greater. A force more powerful. But it sure made him uncomfortable. He couldn’t shake the idea that there was a force inside of him that he couldn’t control.

            He thought a long time, and didn't realize when his friends left. He got up from the couch and picked up his guitar. He looked at it and then at a framed picture of him and his band mates from back in high school, when they still lived in Tivoli. He then looked at the scar on his wrist. The teeth marks that remained in his skin, faded, but still visible. Small teeth, they must've been.  He slumped onto the couch, depressed and mad about the band’s inevitable disintegration. He fell asleep.

            As he drifted off to sleep, a powerful memory took hold. He was back at the shore of the Hudson River when he was seventeen. It was dark, probably close to midnight. He and his friends had been smoking pot in one of the trees when they heard a noise in the bushes below them. His friends freaked, jumped down and ran to the car to get out of there. Something made Mike stay. He laughed at them for being such wusses. Mike jumped out of the tree and into the bushes below, forgetting about the “scary” noises. As he climbed down, he fell, something heavy on top of him. He felt an excruciating pain in his right wrist, blood gushing. He was coming in and out of consciousness, laying in the bushes beneath that tree. For the first time, instead of unidentifiable shadows, Mike could see a gaunt, pale face with dripping blood from its mouth. The face that could only belong to one creature: a vampire.

            When Mike woke up, he knew what he had to do. The term “fighting with your demons” took on a new meaning that morning. He remembered reading stories about mythological creatures, blood-drinking supernatural beings. And although the stories fascinated and terrified him, he never believed they existed. He dreamt of the sharp teeth, and the blood dripping from vampires’ mouths when he was younger, waking up screaming, scared of those monsters. Was he really now one of them?

            He called his parents and asked them, for the first time, what exactly had happened that night. What had the doctor said about the animal that bit him? As he gathered the answers, he realized that the changes within him, the power of the scent and sight of blood, were connected to that creature. The only way he could see living with the new knowledge he had was through his music. He had to fight against the demon inside in order to gain control over it.

            He called the band together again, for one last meeting. He knew that they would make it on their own out in California. But he had to face facts on his own in order to defeat this mythological demon inside of him. He apologized to his band mates and told them that, although he would not be moving out to California with them, he supported them and believed that they would do something great with their music. He acknowledged the fact that they were, in fact, pretty great musicians, with or without him. He wished them the best and told them, that although he would love to continue on their music endeavors together, he needed to get to know himself, and learn more about himself, and his abilities. He told them not to worry, that he would be fine. Of course, they all laughed, making fun of Mike as usual for not knowing how admirable he really was, even if he did have some control issues. Mike just knew that from this moment on, he had to monitor his reactions to the people, to the humans around him and that he had to learn to maintain a normal behavior in the world in which he existed; the world in which vampires were still considered mythical creatures and his true identity could never be known.