(no subject)
He didn't tell me his name when we met, but we walked in silence under the stars and across empty streets, nothing but the sound of steps on pavement, mine so much louder than his. I'll bet he could have made them loud if he had wanted to; but it was enough, stepping lightly across even paths in a town that not many knew the name of, let alone how to pronounce. After all, I was one of them, before I had gone.
I met a Vampire in France but he didn't feed off of me, the way you'd think he would. I was, in truth, an easy target: No one knew where I was because I was never supposed to have left Paris. He had said I was coming with him, from that City of Lights, and I had agreed, without a desire to argue. If I had disappeared, body buried besides that river that ran through the town, no one but the rocks and Earth would have known. And, of course, him.
If he had taken me, the adoring, doting thing that I became in front of him and only him, killed me, there would have been no one that would have believed any differently if he had said I had left a half hour before on the train. They would have eaten out of his palm, a charming French smile with telltale teeth neatly concealed, force-feeding them his artfully woven lies in a smooth tongue I scrambled to keep up with.
But he didn't do anything but listen to me babble and smile when I made a fool out of myself, talking on things that I really didn't know about and speaking words I couldn't properly pronounce. He let me talk to him throughout the night, and I gave him my quiet in return.
I still didn't know his name when he left, the morning sun rising sluggishly over mountaintops that never let you see the sunset.
What a Vampire he must have been, to travel like that under morning rays, nothing but dark glasses and a reckless grin to shield him. He did not give me his name, he left me in that strange town where I could only say good-bye and thank you. He left me to those mountains that loomed outside the window of our room as he traveled, far and away, and gone.
I met a Vampire while I was in France, and tried to forget him, his nameless face and swagger that owned it all. Five thousand miles away, weeks later, I see his face in the panes of glass in the sheltered underground room I call home. Waking up in bed, fingers fluttering over scars that were not accidents and just as unexplained, I gasp to a vacant room, empty of an audience.
My blood still sings his name.