Note: This may start a little slow, but most of my stories take some build up. The vampire aspect of the story is somewhat subdued and presents itself fully more. I appreciate the usefulness of a quickie, but I've always found that hard to write. As always thanks for your interest.
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When I think back to my youth, I don't remember being all that sexual. Like so many girls in my day "sex" was something that I mainly learned from my mother. The more technical aspects were given to me in a dusty old book she gave me when it looked like I had a reasonable gentleman caller. Make no mistake: young women were having sexual relations with their men, but it wasn't talked about.
I was taught that it was something that I would do with my future husband. I fell in love, married, had the kids, raised them, sent them off to their lives, and was left with that accomplishment. Then my husband died. This was another eventuality that I was supposed to know was coming, but you never accept it. Michael was never a perfect man, but he was mine.
My children offered what solace they could, but they had their own lives. I was invited to live with them. On the surface that was very appealing. I loved them and my grandchildren, yet I never liked the idea of settling into the role of "grandma". I liked the companionship of my husband and going out as a couple. My family worried about me being alone. This is the ironic "second childhood" you experience when you get older. It's patronizing and rather insulting. Your loved ones do really care, which makes you feel worse. Did you ever want to know what makes old folks crabby? It's the helplessness in the face of sympathy. "You're old so we must pity and love you for it."
I didn't want it. My best solution was to find a new companion. A second marriage didn't appeal to me. Another woman though...She would understand.
I had friends of my age, but so many had their own problems. Eventually, with the help of an on-line program I found Helen. She was two years younger than I was: seventy. When you get that old you measure the effects of time differently. You compare the number of pills you both take and the different ailments that time or God has seen fit to levy on you.
Helen was a multiple divorcee, who had lived a relatively outgoing life until chronic illness took a toll. New medication steadied her condition, but the damage was done. She was Italian-American by birth, and in her old pictures had a thick mane of black hair and creamy olive skin. Age had weathered that, but she was still very attractive. I was rather envious of her really. I had been a rather average-looking pale blonde girl in my youth.
After two weeks of getting to know each other she moved in. My family said it was good that I found someone to spend my time with. I knew that they thought I was in denial, but I wasn't about to give them the satisfaction. Helen became my new partner. In the old days this was considered to be a normal thing, and so it was with us. It was probably easier than it would've been if my husband had lived longer. They say a man's mind goes before his wife's. That seemed like a great responsibility, but Helen was sharp as a tack. She reminded me of every pill and every doctor's appointment, which helped me maintain the level of dignity which I wanted.
I began to really love her in a way. Not like people talk about women loving women now, but of a love you only get when another person knows all of your weaknesses. They don't write poems about that.
"Grace," she said to me. "You're better than my first two husbands. You actually listen to me."
"Only because you're usually right," I said, and that was our life.
Then one night, just after the sun when down, Helen had a visitor: a tall man of probably twenty years old or so. I thought he was her grandson. She seemed very perturbed to see him, and asked for some privacy, which I of course gave her.
Two hours later the young man left and Helen was on the verge of tears. I asked her what was wrong, but she put up her strong front as always. I let it go. If you care for someone you give them the space when they need it. Three days later we were having lunch at one of our usual restaurants when she asked me a question.
"If you could have what you once had...if you could go back, would you?"
"Back to my husband? Probably, but I would still want you to live with us."
"No," she said. "I mean before that. When you were a truly young woman and did what you wanted."
I smiled at the delightful whimsy of it. "Maybe that was you, but I usually lived at the behest and service of others."
"That's why this is important," she said. "You and I know what it is to lose that freedom that we once craved."
I had to play along. When it's someone you care about you have to. "I suppose. Why? You seem odd since that boy visited you. Is he a relative?"
"No. A lover. I cheated on my first husband with him."
"Helen! Surely you must be joking. That boy is young enough to be your grandchild."
"He wasn't always though. I haven't seen him in almost forty years."
I shook my head at her. There was only so much I could take. "Impossible."
"I thought so too," she said, "But now I wonder."
I couldn't believe it. Helen, who had always been as grounded in reality as anyone and as sharp as a razor was slipping into the delusion of fantasy. I'd been certain that I'd be the first one it would happen to. Once again fate had proven to be cruel. I wasn't about to abandon her though. Helen dropped the subject, and we proceeded as we always did. One night I went to bed early as usual...
I woke up only a few hours later to the sound of screaming. It sounded like some gaudy horror movie at first, but after a minute I knew it was Helen. It was that moment that both of us had come to fear: the panicked moment when you realize that you're dying. I struggled to get up—my hips troubling me as always. This couldn't be happening to Helen. Not my Helen!
After fighting to get my robe on, I waddled down the hall to Helen's room, and knocked desperately at the door.
"Let me in, Helen. Let me help you."
"Stay away," she cried. Her voice higher than usual. "I need this."
I thought that it must be suicide. Sadly this is not uncommon among older folk. I pounded at the door, but to no avail. Eventually, exhaustion got the better of me, and I passed out. I'm not sure how long I was out. Hours or minutes. It didn't matter. When I woke I was certain that my friend was dead, and that I'd be stuck on the ground until my own screams brought a neighbor over to help.
