The Daughters Of Bloodwine

Once upon a time, a storm ruptured over a little town called Missoula, and in an ivy-glazed brick home somewhere in a maze of dark wet streets, someone was watching it. She was standing at her bedroom window making a game of trying to predict where in the sky lightning would strike next.

Lexi.

It was a pastime that grew quickly dull, but dull, she had recently decided, was to be her new lot in life. People, mostly friends but sometimes strangers, were disappointing to her. The city she called home had grown predictable, her job a monotony of automatic functions that left her mind to wander. There had been a time when she enjoyed losing herself in her head. That was back when she could always recall her dreams, when she could not just imagine, but drown in her fantasies. Back then, she'd been able to write. Now she couldn't hold onto a single thought long enough to be seduced.

Lightning cracked the sky over the peaks of mountains swirling with icy mist. Fall had set in and winter was imminent. Lexi stared at that brief reflection on the window that fleeted instantly back into darkness. She'd seen herself in that whitely-lit moment: serpentine waves of black hair, brown doe-eyes that blinked like dwindling candleflame from her pale face.

She was sad that she could not think the word "beautiful" when she saw herself. She was angry that her head, once so richly alive with color and characters, with demons and angels, had suddenly shut her out. She felt left behind by her friends who were moving on with their lives: getting married, buying homes, having babies, traveling the world (would she ever get out of Missoula?). She was disheartened that food, even delectable sushi or velvety chocolate mousse, did nothing to tantalize her mouth any more. The last time she could remember truly enjoying a meal, it had been a rare steak, and she'd surprised herself with just how rare she'd cooked it. Warm blood, thick with spices, had run over her white dinner plate in rivulets. The meat she'd torn between her teeth was so tender, the juices soaking her mouth instantly.

Later, she wondered why she'd left her meat so raw, why she ate it like a ravenous hound, why she'd poured the blood that pooled in the plate into a delicate crystal cognac glass and drained it dry in one sip.

Lexi rested her hands on the sill of the window and leaned in close toward the glass. Her lightning predictions were all wrong. Now she wanted to simply let the train of aimless thoughts roll through her mind. She wondered if the storm would wake her roommates, if she'd end up staying in for Halloween. Soon she found herself curious why the lesbians and trendy little bi-girls in Missoula were all either too butch or too superficial. Her cunt ached to be bathed by the mouth of a gorgeous girl, a stunning but naieve virgin just this side of twenty with luscious little breasts with soft, petal-pink nipples, curves on her hips and a spankable ass. A virgin with a tight pussy she could sink her tongue into and suck for hours. A sweet little asshole to fuck with a sleek, black dildo. A tentative, but eagerly curious mouth exploring her pussy. Lexi imagined long, shimmering hair and large eyes that would lock with hers while she flicked her tongue over the ecstatic girl's clit. She imagined her coming in a fit of tight spasms and short whimpers, like the yipping of an excited Terrier.

Lightning again.

Thoughts of nubile young girls submitting guiltily to her, for in her fantasies these trusting-eyed girls were always worried they were doing something "wrong," left her mind. There was her reflection again. Another flash. She saw not herself this time, but rather a ghost of herself staring back. It made her take a step away from the window. Flash. The ghost had her face against the pane now, fingers resting on the sill just on the other side of the glass. The thing had blood smeared all around its lips. It was chewing a mouthful of meat so raw it looked purple.

Flash.

Lexi watched as her phantom-self raised a dainty cognac glass as if to toast her. A lovely red concoction of spices and juicy blood sloshed inside. The phantom drained the glass. When the lightning flashed again, her reflection was back, and she met her own wild eyes in the glass.

Another random thought entered her head at that moment. It was a single word. She left the window after hastily drawing the curtains shut and sat down on her bed where a laptop had been left open. She Googled the word.

The Wendigo...is a mythical creature appearing in the mythology of the Algonquian people. It is a malevolent cannibalistic spirit into which humans could transform, or which could possess humans. Those who indulged in cannibalism were at particular risk, and the legend appears to have reinforced this practice as a taboo.

Wendigo psychosis is a culture-bound disorder which involves an intense craving for human flesh and the fear that one will turn into a cannibal. This once occurred frequently among Algonquian Native cultures, though has declined with the Native American urbanization.

Courtesy of Wikipedia.

Lexi closed her laptop and lay back on her pillows.

Outside, the thunder and lightning had chased one another out of the valley and they bickered somewhere over the mountains.