You are lost, scared, confused. It is late. Your friends have abandoned you at the latest party, leaving you alone for darkened kiss on a dance floor. The music pounds inside your head, brains screaming for a moments peace as you grab your head to try and soothe away the agony, but it is of no use, your hands are hot, sweaty like the rest of you, feverish frenzy of dancing, hormones and alcohol, manic activity as you dance alone to the beat of a tribal pop tune.
It is then, it is always then when He finds you.
Is he the spiky blonde with the clear aqua eyes, tattoos of ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics etched into his arms and chest, white kimono top and piercings?
Is he the tall black gentleman caller, leather trench coat and tinted glasses, muscled chest and slow smile that reveals sharp pointed fangs?
Is he the aged film executive in Vivienne Westwood, who believes spirits haunt his sleep and lives in a converted boys orphanage?
He takes many forms but in one thing He is constant. He always comes when you are most alone, most afraid, most angry and most self-destructive. He always offers you a drink, a drug, an escape, a promise.
A meaning to the universe, and a reason that you are here, that you met Him, tonight. There is always a reason. You were meant to fight with your boyfriend, you were destined to go to that club where he just so happened to be there. You knew you were meant to find something, someone, that night. Him.
He enchants you with talk of magic, of chaos theory, of chakras and world travel, of tai chi in Beijing, of healing, of energy and how everything is one. In his world, you are beautiful, you are fully connected to the earth and air and sky and him, forming a perfect circle, never alone.
He seduces you with passionate rhetoric on vampirism, how he is a dark and dirty creature of the night. He whirls you around on the dance floor, he invites you to Paris, to fabulous balls, to his flat after the party.
He flatters you with compliments, showers you with gifts and praise. You are stunning, gorgeous, thin, lovely, better than Her, always better. You are talented and perfect and interesting and what I wouldn’t give to be with a girl like You. You deserve champagne, cocaine, ecstasy and designer clothes, Chanel and Dior and dinner at Nobu, cocktails at The Mandarin.
And yes, you are taken in. You want the religion, the magic, the feel that maybe he really is healing you with his energy, your aura is glowing, purple and red and green. The sushi and sake and fish oil pills, the valerian root to help you sleep, the paintings and travel that he offers you, the way that he seems to worship you when he looks into your eyes.
Or else you want the travel, the seduction, the sex. The feel whirl of the dance, the feel of his fangs biting into your neck, your lips. The sensation and the pleasure, the decadence of knowing you are forsaken but uncaring, eager only to embark in the next event, the next feeling, the next embrace. You don’t want to be healed by the light, but luxuriate in darkness. Lust.
Maybe you crave the leather, the silk, the feel of expensive clothes draped on your body, the perfume and diamonds making you feel like you are worth something, for that day, for that minute. Worthless girls don’t walk around in clothes worth more than most monthly rents, worthless girls don’t sip candy-coloured drinks and nibble delicately at appetizers, the white powder suppressing your appetitive, helping you to fit into your size 0 jeans. Opulence.
It is so easy to slip away, losing yourself completely in their world. They have chosen You because you are different, unlike most girls, beautiful and valuable in your own right.
You are the ultimate actress, changing yourself completely as they mentor you, in universal consciousness or metaphysics, physic vampirism or how to improve you, make you a star.
They are always intelligent, well spoken. Stacks of books and films and theories and debates. They do not simply want money or sex, not always. They want to seduce your mind, your soul. They see you, attractive but sad, a lost girl or boy with no family, dressed up but alone. They are only to happy to provide the escape that you seek.
And sometimes you see through the bullshit, the smokescreens and the lies. Sometimes when it is late and you are sober, somehow, and they push you and grab you and force your mouth to theirs, their ugly hands pushing up your dress, and you are screaming inside. And this is wrong, so wrong, and you don’t want this, yes you want the fame or salvation or whatever they have promised you but not this, anything but this.
But something inside of you freezes, grows cold and hard as a stone, and you cant do it, you are too weak and scared to fight, still tipsy on his promises and you know, you just know that he wont stop.
It is better to submit than be violated.
And then comes the day when you walk away.
Night. 6AM at the strangers flat. Morning, now. You are with your partner but he is weak, wasted on the wine and champagne. You are half-asleep, lying on his bed, also drunk. The vampire is smart. He has not been drinking. He strips naked and flexes his chest, coming onto your lover first. He kisses his lips, runs his nails down his body as your boyfriend looks at you, and you silently mouth “no”. He tries to protest but submits, in the end, and see him and think of you, how you have been used and drawn into the fantasies of so many other false prophets.
Not again. Never again.
But the vampire is clever, as they always are. He licks you, caresses you, draws you into pleasure but for once your mind is stronger than your body and you leap off the bed. He grabs your arm, restraining you and you are scared, and think, for the briefest moment, of submitting once again. But something in you snaps and you wrench your arm free, throw open the door and sprint down the stairs.
New Year. New Start.
You are outside, shivering and furious, angry and cold. You are naked underneath your coat, feathered shoes clutched in your hands. You are still drunk and lost, but proud, so proud that for once you had the strength to resist, the courage to walk away.
And then you hear the footsteps behind you.
It is your lover. He has left the vampire and his pleasures and ran instead to follow you, tears and makeup streaked down his face, eyes silently begging for forgiveness for not protecting you, not sheltering you.
But he is here and he has come back for you, and together you find a lighted pathway leading home.
The entire night he holds you close, whispering his love, how he cares more for you than himself, that he would do anything for you. And you clutch him tightly, seeking solace and warmth in his arms. Falling asleep with your head on his chest, listening to the sure and steady beating of his heart.
And for all their glitz and glamour, all the prophecies and promises in the world could not live up to the strength of your love.
Alison Adventures 