A bite of Bite Me

  Baby Vamp 

I am a vampire. Yes, you read that right. A vampire. With the long teeth and the blood hunger and the aversion to daylight. Not one of those sparkly Twilight-shit ones that you’re probably picturing right now, but a real one. Which also sounds ridiculous, even to myself, but it’s the truth. 

I’m as pale as paper, because fake tans don’t even look real on not-dead people, and my nails are freakishly long. Long enough to pass as faux press-ons, if you catch my drift. They’re sharp and pointed, sort of like the ones in the creepy Nosferatu films I’ve seen in drive through theaters. My hair did turn weirdo-white, so there’s that, which sucks- pun intended. It’s cropped to my shoulders now, which makes it look intentional, even if I miss the rich brown I used to have. My teeth don’t retract for some reason, so the media got that wrong too, unless I’m a subspecies of blood-sucker that was never mentioned. 

I show up in mirrors, because mirrors nowadays aren't made with silver, which is where the original myth came from. And I also appear in photos, since old-timey cameras had silver filaments in them, as well. Sensing a theme here? No one suspects anything, which is nice. No descendants of Doctor Van Helsing trying to hunt me down, which is good, because my cardio? Sucks. I can run about two minutes without stopping before I feel like I’m dying. 

Of course I can’t, since I’m undead, but it still feels like it, okay? 

Even if I went to the gym, which isn’t a priority for me since calories don’t really exist anymore, I doubt it would get better. I bet I would get on the treadmill, hit the incline to a steep hill, and still sweat my metaphorical balls off in two minutes flat. 

Being a vampire in 2024 is a wild experience. 

First off, the world is more accepting of people that are different. I can’t imagine if this had happened to me in say, 2014? Ten years ago? It would have been a lot harder to walk around in plain sight and blend in. Though, that was when the Twilight Saga was still somewhat large, so who knows. 

Want to know the secret to being a vampire in this day and age, and getting away with it? 

Be goth. 

No one suspects a thing beyond the fact that you reaaaalllyyy love vampires, to the point where you want to be one. Never mind the fact that you are one. 

Honestly. 

It’s the most obvious way to hide in plain sight without putting too much effort into it. Better for me. It’s not like I ever went out in broad daylight before, but now? One of those cool parasols from Amazon and I’m good to go. Sure if I mess up and accidentally expand outside the shadow of the sun-brella, then my skin starts to smoke, but it’s usually a pretty fast reaction before I could explode into flames. 

Not sure if that is what would happen or not but also not willing to test that theory. Most of being a vampire has been touch and go, learn as it happens. It’s not like there’s a support group for vampires in Chicago, though that would be nice. 

And my sire is fuck-knows-where. 

At first, I thought it was an intentional turn. 

Now, I’m not so sure.

A Tinder date that was alright to begin with until he had way too many cosmos at the bar (what kind of grown man drinks cosmos?) and got drunk. He insisted on walking me back to my place, which I lied about the location of since I didn’t trust him at all, and when it was dark enough for him to pounce, that’s what he did. 

Originally I thought he was trying to grab ass or get some sloppy french-kissing in, but then it became obvious that that wasn't his goal. 

I fought back. 

A quick slice of my nails to his cheek, a bite to his neck in return for the hundred he left on mine, his blood in my mouth and then he was down and out for the count as soon as I punched his dick. I left him there, unconscious on the sidewalk like I thought he originally planned to do with me. 

So if anyone knows a Kylenator420, avoid him at all costs unless you want to become a social pariah like me. Also, he kisses like a dog. 

Whatever. 

I’m cool with it now since I did think that blood-suckers were awesome in my teenage years and it’s not like much has changed with me now anyways. The transformation process was horrible, though. I should have watched more gothic-romance movies like Dracula to prepare me for the next three days. 

Not that I had gone out with Kyle Faire with the sole intent of becoming a vampire. Though, now his shittily-dyed blond hair makes way more sense. At first I thought it was just a bad-dye job. Now I can laugh with myself over the fact that it’s a bad cover-job. 

Maybe I’ll do the same eventually. 

I won’t lie, the white’s growing on me like a fungus. It’s cute and I can always live this phase out until I’m bored with it, then dye it an exceptionally vibrant purple or something. 

Weirdly enough, I’ve always been partial to rose-red. 

And before you try to argue with me, no, it’s not pink. It’s the same colour as rubies, and rubies are known as the blood-stones. Blood is red, fight me. 

A few days passed where I was violently ill in bed and unable to keep any food down, a quick doom-scroll through the internet and a freakout in front of the mirror when I saw my transformation- then the answer was clear. Which, then I pinched myself all over to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. 

I wasn’t. 

I am, in fact, a vampire. 

It’s not all bad. 

Honestly getting my new diet isn’t as hard as I thought it would be. A few adjustments to my Tinder profile and some men are down to be bit repeatedly. It feels a bit whorish but I don’t do anything beyond what I’m comfortable with. Usually, I can do that about once a week and I’m good until the next one. 

Thankfully, I live alone so there’s no roommate to judge my sexual appetite and the amount of men that come parading in and out. No slut-shaming here, thank you. I’ve only engaged in sex stuff with a couple of them and well, if you’d seen their profile pictures, you would understand. 

I don’t have a coffin, either. 

Though, I can’t imagine that they wouldn’t be comfy. 

A tall box specifically made for a comfortable death? With cushy velvet lining all around and a frilly, little pillow? Not to mention the fact that I bet they stay very warm in the winter with all the thick materials used to create it. Still, I don’t have one. 

Just an average sized bed in an average sized apartment. I did however, put sun-blocking panels on all the windows and tinted my car to do the same. Driving and getting sun-burnt to death doesn’t seem like a fun way to go in my opinion. 

Is there really a fun way to go?

I’ve found that my humour has become more deadpan as well, which is fine. It wasn’t like any of my jokes before were hitting. A lot of jokes about death now, but that’s a given. My godparents hate it but whatever. I think it’s funny. 

Oh yeah, I was raised by my godparents with my twin, Yvette. Our parents died in some freak car accident where a bridge collapsed and they were unfortunately on it. I handled it a lot better than she did, but maybe that’s why I joke about death so often. We were young when that happened and my mom’s good friend came to pick us up from school. 

Yvette didn’t understand at first, but I did. 

I wonder how she would react if she found out that her sister died, too.

It might not make sense but I felt it. I was in the middle of English and a cold chill ran through me to the point where I couldn’t focus on the lesson. Something had shifted in the air that day, in my gut. I guess that’s why she cried enough for both of us while I didn’t cry at all. 

I still haven’t. That’s probably not healthy and I should maybe see someone about that, but I don’t care enough to now. It’s been over fourteen years. 

She sometimes goes to the cemetery to talk to their graves as if they’ll pop up from the ground, Beetlejuice style, and continue the conversation with her. Everyone handles death differently and we all have our grieving methods. Mine was drawing. 

For months after they passed, I drew in everything. My homework, my textbooks, the walls of my new room at my godparents house, even with sticks in the dirt when I was forced outside for recess. Apparently having a kid sit in the library and read isn’t a good thing? 

Don’t even get me started on that. 

It got to the point where my godmother, who we started calling Aunt Isabelle, enrolled me in art classes. As many as the schools would allow. I got quite good at it, too. Mostly still-life, with ball-jointed dolls as a reference, or the nature around me. Enough so that I’ve got multiple notebooks, sketch pads and even an iPad specifically designated for my drawing apps all laying around my apartment. I haven’t touched them for a while, at least not since I was killed by Kylenator420. 

God, what a horrible username. 

I should have known it wouldn’t have ended well, but do you ever just get into one of those moods where it’s been long enough that anything with abs causes a little drool to fall out of your mouth?

If not, then fuck you. 

Not everyone can be as perfect as you. 

The streak continued for a while after him though. Eventually I did find another ab-packed guy on Tinder that didn’t question my freakish Hot-Topic looks and was down to do some filthy things. We kept the lights off, like I always do when turning a quick bite into a sex-night so that my fangs aren’t visible and he was down for that. He was down for a lot of fun things that I occasionally miss. Normally I’m not down to listen to a man tell me what to do, let alone pin me under him, but I can shut my mouth like a good girl for the right guy. 

It didn't hurt that he was massive. 

Fuck me, even just thinking about his hands around my wrists has my thighs quivering like Elizabeth Bennet when Mr. Darcy runs through the rain to speak with her. 

It definitely helped and I’ve been fine since. I may or may not have his chat saved in my favourites, instead of deleting it right after like I usually do. 

Normally, two-timers are a no-go for me. 

The more they’re over, the easier it would be for them to discover what I really am. I don’t go around flashing my fangs, usually (that’s another story) but some of the Tinder-heads aren’t morons. Most are, but some aren’t. I’ll give credit where it’s due. 

Also, I’m not sure what uncovering a vampire would even look like nowadays. Back in the 1400’s it would be pitchforks and wooden stakes and fire.

 Now? There’s nothing to go off of as a reference. I’m not exactly concerned about it but I also would very much like to avoid becoming some weird science project in the basement of the totally not obvious Area 51. 

Even if I’m dead, I do have a life to live. 

It’s not as lively or flamboyant as others but I enjoy it most days. 

I don’t have any pets, especially not now. I feel like they would tempt me in the worst ways and even if I’m not above snatching a squirrel in a park to snack on, sinking my fangs into an adorable dog with floppy ears or a sassy cat with a flicking tail just seems so wrong to me. Is that messed up that I have a line? I guess it’s like that one billboard that asks where you draw the line between food and pet and everyone on Reddit put it right after the rabbit, and before the chicken because it’s the obvious answer. 

Honestly, I hate rabbits so I’d eat the rabbit, too. 

It’s their weird, beady eyes and buck teeth. 

They give me the shivers. 

Yvette likes to make fun of me for it. She used to laugh and save up all her allowance to buy the creepiest stuffed animals of bunnies before hiding them in my room. At least we didn’t have to share. I would always throw them in the garbage before they could give me the heebie-jeebies but she would always pluck them out and keep them. 

Once, when she was extremely mad at me for something I can’t remember but something I probably, definitely did, she got every single one from her closet and placed them all around my room. I remember walking in, turning on the lights and screaming so loudly that Aunt Isabelle thought a murderer had broken in. 

We both got a week without dessert for that. 

It’s fine. 

She would hide creepy rabbits in my room when she was angry with me, and I would use her electric toothbrush to masturbate. Don’t make that face, I would leave the plastic cap on. Nothing would actually go in her mouth. 

Sister things, am I right? 

I don’t care if you think I’m not. 

Oh, my name is Yvaine, by the way. Yvaine Bordeuxlaire. A French-mouthful because my parents were French. I have absolutely no idea why we moved to the stupid United States of Absolute-shit, but here we are. I’ve never lived anywhere else. 

There you have it. 

Yvaine Bordeuxlaire, a vampire.