Started writing this on Burnes' Night (may the Gods bless and keep that great bard), it may be a short story or it may be the begining of a novella, time shall tell.
CALEDONIA.
‘What are you drinking?’ the young man at the bar asked her.
She looked him up and down. Dyed black hair, red contact lenses, too much make up, painted nails, long, black PVC coat. Underneath all that he might have been handsome.
‘Whiskey on the rocks,’ she replied, it would save her from queuing.
She returned to the table in the corner, not far from the bar and on the other side of the room from the dance floor, where her friends sat. It was dark in the club, except for a few spot lights over the bar and a U.V. light on the dance floor. E.B.M. played loudly. It spelt of sweat and beer. She loved it there.
A minute later, he came over to her, presented her drink like a trophy, and pulled up a chair next to her.
“Thanks,’ she said.
He smiled at her, then looked at her friends- Molly and Charlotte. Staring for a little too long at Molly’s corset. He smiled again, too much smiling for a Goth. Its was clearly his lucky night.
“What’s your name?’ he asked her.
‘Caledonia,’ she replied.
‘Pardon?’ he leaned closer.
‘Caledonia!’ she shouted above the music.
‘What?’
‘Its too loud in here, I’m going out for a fag,’ she stood up. ‘Do you want to join me?’
He didn’t quite catch what she was saying, but he followed her outside anyway.
There was a big balcony for smoking. It was quieter and lighter out there.
She took a cigarillo from a packet in her handbag and lit it with a silver lighter. As she took the first drag of the dark, rich smoke she seemed to forget all about him.
He took the opportunity to look her up and down properly. Long red hair and a petit build, pale skin and bright green eyes, high cheek bones and long neck, black leather corset, black leather trousers, black boots.
‘Caledonia,’ she said, ‘my name is Caledonia.’
He looked confused, as far as he was concerned she could be called anything she liked.
‘Do you want a smoke?’ she asked him.
‘No thanks, don’t smoke.’
‘Do you want to live forever?’ she asked, more scornfully than she had intended.
‘Yes.’
He was struggling to keep his eyes on her face and it was beginning to annoy her.
‘Then what are you doing out here?’
‘Talking to you.’
‘So you are. What’s your name?’
‘Damien,’ he said proudly.
‘Is that your real name?’
‘Yes, my mum was a Rocker. What’s about your name? It’s pretty, but I’ve never heard it before.’
‘My parents were kind of Scottish.’
Were kind of Scottish, he thought about it, but not for long, because he was quite drunk. She looked even better with a smoking cigarillo stub between her blood red lips.
‘Do you want to dance?’ he asked.
‘Aye, why not.’
She took his hand and led him to the dance floor. Fake smoke drifted through the darkness and the pounding music pumped out of the P.A. system.
As they danced, she let him put his hands on her waspish waist, and was glad that he did not put them any lower. She put her hands on his broad shoulders and they danced the mad, tortured dance of The Goths.
After the song he went to the bar and she went to smoke with Molly.
‘What do you think of him?’ she asked Molly as she lit her cigarette.
‘He wants to be a vampire,’ Molly replied.
‘Aye, that he does.’
‘He’s a complete muppet.’
‘Aye,’ Caledonia blew a smoke ring. ‘But he is cute, and he will please me for the night.’
‘Caledonia… You can do better.’
She thought about this, the serene expression on her face turning sleek and predatory for a moment, then she smiled and crushed the stub of her cigarillo under her heel.
‘True,’ Caledonia said as she stalked inside.
They danced and drank until three in the morning, and then the lights were turned on, the music stopped, and they had to leave.
‘Would you like me to walk you home?’ Damien asked.
‘How about I walk you home?’ said Caledonia.
‘If you like,’ he replied with a smile.
He linked arms with her and they walked out into the night. The air was chill and misty. Street lights cast double and triple shadows behind them as they strolled along the streets where people staggered drunkenly and vomited kebabs into gutters.
Damien led her to a flat near the broad, slow, filthy river. He invited her inside and she followed, along a hall way and up stairs which had not been hovered in years, until they reached his room. Predictably, his walls were painted black and hung with heavy metal posters. There was a small wardrobe, a shabby table with draws under it and papers cluttered on top of it, and an unmade bed.
As soon as his door was closed, he put his arms around her and kissed her. She kissed back, more passionately than he had expected.
When she finally stopped, she kissed her neck, then he bit it. Just hard enough to hurt, but not enough to leave a mark the next day.
She pulled back violently.
‘What are you doing?’ she demanded.
‘Biting you,’ he said, awkwardly, half ashamed and half mad with lust. ‘Some girls really like it.’
‘Don’t do it like that,’ she said sharply. ‘Do it like this…’
She put on hand on his shoulder, and the other on the side of his face, then she snapped his head to one side to expose his neck. Then she bit him, cutting through flesh with unusually sharp canine teeth.
He struggled, but he was too weak. She tore through skin, through his jugular.
Blood flowed, and she drank.
He died.
She wiped her hands and face clean on his shirt, opened his bedroom window, and climbed out.
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