by Kim Fielding
I guess you can say music is my religion. So that makes the lyrics my bible. Like the man says, “Don’t stop ’til you get enough,” right?
Used to listen to the Dead, back when I was a teen. Went to their concerts. I was a real Deadhead. Ha!
All the hippies got old—but I didn’t. One stoned night in the alley behind a club, one smokin’ hot man whose face I’ve long forgotten but whose bite mark’s still on my neck, and I never aged.
I started listening to punk, or sometimes metal. Slayer. Megadeth. Morbid Angel. Yeah, it was a long way from Jerry Garcia, but I couldn’t resist the irony. Besides, looking like I do, skulking in the darkness with my pale skin and too-bright eyes, I fit right in with those crowds. When I picked a guy out and dragged him somewhere private for a bite to eat, he’d never have second thoughts. Not even when I bit the tender skin of his inner thigh. Hell, they’d get off on that, their mouths going slack with pleasure and their cocks bumping up against my face. And when their corpses were discovered, slumped and cold, the authorities assumed they’d OD’d. Which they had, in a sense. They’d OD’d on me.
But that scene got boring after a while. It’s a problem with my existence—lots of time but narrowed opportunities. I switched to grunge. The boys wore their threadbare flannel and, heroin-tinged, they tasted as fuzzy and distorted as Kurt Cobain’s vocals.
Grunge went commercial. People listened to Nickelback, which made me gag. I stopped looking for angst in my music and went for pure sex instead. I’d slip into a club where hundreds of sweaty, nearly naked boys gyrated and humped to house music. Their blood sparked and crackled on my tongue, and sometimes they’d leave glitter on my skin and hair. I didn’t mind.
I could have been content like that for a long time, I think. Not forever. But I liked those boys, and I liked the mindless optimism of their songs, the abandonment of everything but hedonistic pleasure. That’s all I had left to me by then anyway—the thrill of fucking and feeding, the fleeting comfort of a warm body against mine. Just a few bright notes tossed into the night sky and then lost.
Then came the pandemic, known first as virus G43 but soon simply called the apocalypse virus. Everything closed. The music stopped as humans panicked, rioted, died. So much death, right? Put me to shame. I’d managed a few hundred killings over fifty years, but those invisible strands of DNA killed hundreds of millions in just months. Thousands of millions by the time it was done.
The stench was unbearable.
And now? A few humans remain, small desperate handfuls here and there. They don’t sing and dance. They don’t go out into the night, where I might lure them, sing to them, feast on them.
I’m starving, and I don’t know what I hunger for the most: the blood or the music.
I crouch shrunken in my dark lair, and I hum brokenly to myself. Country music of all things. Lyrics about lost chances and lost loves, and they’re my songs now, only mine. Because I’ve lost more than any human could imagine.
“Don’t stop ’til you get enough.” I don’t stop, I won’t stop, and dear God, it’ll never be enough.