FSE

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It's hard to describe the sound of ripping fur. Even more difficult is the sound the flesh underneath makes when a vampire sinks in. You would not think your sense of hearing would be heightened when you are being attacked but I guess that is just one of the ways the body separates itself from the pain. I never expected to survive but I did and the experience has changed me in ways that I would never have dreamt.

I can not walk the streets at night without thinking of the attack. Even the silver cross at my throat does little to extinguish the terror that grips my gut every time a shadow flickers at the edges of my peripheral vision. What is going to happen to me? Why did I survive? Was I meant to keep living or will there be another monster returning to finish where the other one left off. My thoughts turn to the person that saved me.

Well, the thing that saved me.

The vampire had been too deep in the throes of it's feeding to notice the statue tipping over behind it. As death's final darkness began to eat it's way around my vision, the replica of the Mother Russia came swinging down, sword and all, and ripped my attacker from my throat, spraying blood in an arc across the floor. I remember staring down, fighting to stay conscious, at the remains of my assailant. Blood seeped out from her as well and I wondered how much of the blood coming out from her body was mine. No one else was in the room.

I slowly rise from the easy chair in my living room and head to the small bathroom in the hallway. The bare bulbs illuminate the shiny white counter tops and turn the dried blood around the bandages on my neck into some garish carnival makeup. Wincing at the pain, I bring my hands up to peel away the bandage and inspect the wound. It did not look infected and there was not just two tiny holes like the television and magazines make them out to be. No. This vampire had worried at my neck like a dog with a bone. Flesh and muscle were exposed and even my week stay at the hospital recovered little. I was going to have some hell of a scar. However, there was one thing the hospital did not do that I would have to knuckle down and do now. That was to purify the wound.

You see, if one is bitten three times by a vampire, one becomes something of mind-slaved cattle to said vampire. The one that did this is apparently dead but I did not want to get into the habit of leaving unpurified wounds on my body. I reached down and put the Dasani bottle full of holy water and my cross on the counter. Most of my resolve started to fade with the knowledge of what this would do to me.

I grab a paw towel from the hanger on the cabinet and open the cap on the bottle of holy water. Wetting the towel down, I dab at the wound gingerly. White hot pain lances through my nerves and I almost collapse against the sink. Filled with dread, I move my tools down to the tile floor and prop myself up against the tub.

Three hours later and with a tub cleaned of vomit, the cross is only a cool metal against my skin. The wound is purified. Hot water blasts away the dried sweat and tears while the soap cleanses the rest. Nothing can clean the violation, however. The loud ringing of my cell phone interrupts my serenity and I exit the shower, grabbing a fluffy towel to dry my claws off. Looking at the caller's name, however, I suddenly wanted to get back in and forget it ever rang.

"Hello?" I answer, regretfully.

"Cori?" A soft woman's voice from the other end. "How's the healing coming along?"

I think for a moment before replying. I knew if she sensed that I was feeling better that she would ask me to come back to work tomorrow. I do not know if I am up for returning to the restaurant quite yet. That meant leaving the safety of my thrice-blessed home.

"I've just finished purifying the wound." Luckily, I did not have to fake the ragged edges of my voice.

"Oh no..." she replied. "Well...just be sure to let us know when you are feeling better, alright? We're all worrying about you over here."

Guilt stabs me in the back of the head. They are genuinely concerned for me.

"Thanks, Myra. I should be alright by Wednesday. I'll need one more day to recover, please."

"Take all the time you need."

I hang up my cell phone and place it back on the counter. How does one triumph over an emotionally debilitating experience so that they can move on with the rest of their lives? I am not sure if I will pick repression or if I will strike out at the undeserving person.

Back in my room, I choose my comfortable, over-sized T-shirt and cut off summer pants as my pajamas. My room is cluttered as usual with junk. However, the windows all have the additional crosses hanging over them and a brand spanking new gun holster hangs on the headboard of my bed. One can not be too careful nowadays.

I grab a fresh bandage from my bedside table and read over the application of anti-scar cream that the hospital provided me with. After the dressing is applied, I curl into bed and grab a pillow to hold while I try to push the nightmares out of my imagination. It will not help but I try anyhow. The psychologist said it might take a while to get over what happened. I grip the hilt of a silver-edged knife stuffed in the pillow case. It gives me more comfort than anything the doctor said.