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Bloody Valentine

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A floorboard creaks beneath my feet and my body goes rigid. There seems to be no response, though, so I continue forward. Daylight is just on the horizon, so I must act fast. It is imperative that I complete my task. My mind is spinning, but only one word continues to resurface: blood.

My heart was ripped out for the third time when I was seventeen. It happened in an abandoned gas station’s parking lot, and nobody was around to care. The fact of the matter is that I had been planning to leave the boy before things got too serious, but he got to me first. That, to say the least, was a big mistake.

“Poor fool”, I think to myself as I slink along the shadows. “If he had only waited, like this one.”

The first time I had my heart ripped out, however, was brutal. Bloody, even. Those who say immortals don’t exist are complete idiots. I had spent the better part of my life searching for love. Trying to get someone to understand me, but that never happened . . . and on the rare occasion that I simply enjoyed the presence of someone of the opposite sex, it always ended badly. The pounding sensation of my heart was too much for my first boyfriend to bear. I’ll give him credit for being quick to rip my heart out fast. At least he had the decency to explain himself . . . his thirst for my blood; my veins; my body.

It ended graphically. My heart lay on the floor in a heap of gruesome flesh and blood, beating along with his as he breathed a sigh of relief. The bite he took out of my neck was the most painful and delicious sensation I had ever felt. It was revitalizing, like electricity, but greater.

The poison coursed through my veins worse than any type of morphine. I felt drugged, but so, so alive at the same time. He leaned in and whispered my death in my ear, trailing his lips along my neck in soft caresses. I nodded and swallowed hard. This was the best feeling I had ever had. He smiled at me, wiped the cold sweat from my forehead, and kissed my forehead. He promised me he would return to claim me, but after he left, I knew he would not be coming back.

Ever since then I have longed for love, but then again, who could love a monster so cold and hard as I? Every relationship I had ever wanted ended in tragedy. Somebody would die, and it would not be me. I could never die, and I still can’t. That’s why I always ended things early. But when the boy broke it off . . . That was the worst feeling in the world. So I would make a vow to rip out his heart and present to him the opportunity to stay with me. I’d give him the chance to change into an immortal, undead being. But he never said yes. The comments were always the same: “You’re crazy! How can I live if you--” And their sentence would be cut short with the delicious, sweet sounds of their gurgling mouths as they gasped for their last breaths.

Now I make my way through the darkness, up the stairs, and into the room of my sleeping lover. This is the first boy who has stayed with me for over a month. I brush the hair off his forehead and watch as he sleeps. How nice this is. How wonderful it is for a creature to be able to sleep at night, whereas I cannot rest.

“Seth,” his name passes through my lips like a cool breeze.

His eyes snap open, and he looks alarmed. Then he smiles a bit. “Mona,” he says through the smile, “what are you doing here?”

His tired voice is too much for me. I lean down and kiss him for a long moment. “Do you remember,” I say, “what I was talking to you about the other day?”

“What? Those immortal stories or whatever? Vampires, right?” he rubs his eyes.

I pull my shirt over my head.

“Mona,” he says, as if trying to stop me.

I push his hand away and roll my eyes. “I have a tank top on. I just want to show you something.”

He raises an eyebrow as I brush my hair away from my upper chest.

“Mona,” he gasps, touching the discolored, bloated skin where my heart would be. “What happened?”

“Remember in those stories,” I whisper, “When the boy would rip the girl’s heart out?”

He looks at me. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am. And I’ve come to do the same thing to you.” I offer him my hand, where my nails have changed to claws.

“You can’t,” he moves so his back will be against the baseboard.

“I need to. This way I can’t hurt you or drain you. We can be together forever. Don’t you want that?” I caress his face and he sighs.

“More than anything,” he whispers.

I smile and bring my hand to his bare chest, laying it flat against the skin. “You’re mine,” I say quietly, as the sound of his tearing flesh and muffled screams break through the night.



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