You awaken in darkness, lying on your back. All you are aware of is a musty, earthy smell. You don't remember how you got here. You try to raise yourself up, and are surprised to hit your head. Something solid is over you. You try to raise your lower body, but hit the same barrier. In frustration, you thrust your palm upward, and are surprised when the barrier breaks. Dirt spills down on top of you. Although the air is very dusty, you find that you are not having any trouble breathing. And even though it is totally dark, you find that your eyes can see clearly. You are surrounded by a soft cool fabric - silk or satin. Above you, where you pushed, you can make out jagged edges of wood.
You push upward on a different part of the barrier, feeling it yield before you. Your hands and wrists are getting cut up, but you don't care. You finally break a hole in the barrier big enough for you to crawl out, even though you are now crawling up through soil. Lifting yourself up, almost as though you were swimming, you plow through the earth, until your hand finally breaks into the open air. Grabbing to the side, you pull yourself out of the ground and into the cold moonlit night.
You blink a few times as you slowly recognize where you are - the town cemetery. You try to remember how you got here. You remember walking back from a piano lesson. You remember being grabbed, thrown against a wall, sharp pain, weakness, then nothing. You look at the hole you crawled out of, noticing, for the first time, the sombre granite monument at its top bearing your name. "Beloved Daughter, Devoted Friend." You shake your head in confusion, trying to sort everything out. You look down at your wrists. Before your eyes, the cuts and scrapes close, the skin heals over. Within seconds, you're good as new. You're dazed, bewildered, and now that you think about it, a little hungry.
You hear a noise nearby. On somewhat shaky legs, you walk towards it. Beside a nearby gravestone are two young men, smoking. They see you, and look at you with lecherous eyes. Though you're offended, they smell positively . . . delicious. They greet you in a foreign tongue. Spanish? you think. You stutter that you don't answer. With devilish grins, the taller one approaches you. Though his words mean nothing to you, his meaning is clear. As he approaches you, you instinctively back against a nearby gravesite. He puts his arms on either side of you, trapping you against the headstone. He's continuing to make propositions to you. Without thinking, you suddenly lunge your head towards the side of his neck. You feel yourself bite down, and your teeth break skin. He screams, but you continue to hold on, feeling the hot blood splash into your throat. But, surprisingly, it seems like it's draining into your throat, not just spurting from an open wound. It tastes amazing - better than anything.
His screams start to go quiet as you feel him going slack against you. Finally, the fluid stops flowing, and you casually push his lifeless form aside. You lick your lips, and are surprised to feel that your incisors are long and sharp. You turn to see the young man's companion running away. You give chase, and are on him in seconds, amazingly fast. He screams and pleads as you turn him around and sink your fangs into his throat. Like his friend, he screams at first, but slowly goes quiet as his life drains into you.
The hunger has ebbed now. You feel amazingly strong and free. You slowly understand what has happened, what a gift you received. And, as you do, you think of me.
Looking back at your grave, you realize how sad I must be. Losing you so soon after losing your mother. Blows no father was meant to absorb. You start to head towards home, excited at the prospect of telling me that there was no longer any reason to be sad.
Within minutes, your feet barely touching the ground, you arrive at the house. Looking in the window, you see me sitting on my bed. In my hands, is a picture of the three of us - your mother, you, and me. You're six years old, and we're at Disney World. You loved that trip. We were all so happy. Even ten years later, it was one of your favorite memories. You see that I'm crying. On the nightstand, a bottle of scotch stands half-empty. You remembered that bottle. It was a special one, that was going to be saved for a special occasion. Now, it's just being used as a balm for an unquenchable pain.
You watch me through the window for a few moments, as I fall asleep, the picture falling from my hand and tumbling silently to the floor. You walk around to the back door, and, digging the spare key out from its hiding place, you open the door and walk in. As you stride through the door, you casually think about how the part of the myth about needing an invitation was apparently just a myth.
