On the Outside

Have you ever been in one of those situations where everyone around is having "inside" conversations" and are talking about things you have no idea about. (ie: Magazines, clothing stores, disliked teachers, methods of washing one's poodle, the real estate of boxes, various cute guys, favorite whiny soap opera plots, adorable pet tricks and high jinxes, favorite flavored water contests, bands that only they have heard of, etc etc.) It's really awkward, but seems to be a survival instinct in teen environments. It happens all the time and I think it actually becomes a subconscious reaction to feeling out of your depth. Being on the outside is extremely difficult and embarrassing, because no matter how much research you do, you will never know exactly what they're talking about, because truthfully neither do they. They just want to look as though they belong, because that's intimidating and safe at the same time. It's fascinating. But it sucks..

P.S. I wrote this for my health class and thought I might share it with you. Happy Belated Halloween!
Just a Taste

The appearance of the flickering fluorescent light threw the morgue into an eerie half light and for a moment, I pause in the doorway. I consider the slim white drawers to my right and left, labeled so carefully with their occupant’s names, date of death, and medical condition. I breathe in heavily, allowing that pervasive stench of morbidity and embalming fluid to soak my senses. But one must not linger on doorsteps. I glide down the stairs, tucking the brass key into my coat pocket. Mother and Father are far too careless with their things these days. I spin around gracefully in the quiet, and my fingers alight on a cabinet. I peer at the label. Poor Sarah Atwood, died of pneumonia, the dear.
I pull open the cabinet with a flourish and regard the lovely youth that lies before me. Her auburn hair is slightly fanned around her face and her complexion is as pale as ivory.
“Aren’t we pretty?” I whisper, and my fingers creep onto her face. I carefully peel off her left eyelid. “Maybe just a taste..”
As I chew on the succulent flesh, I think about my predicament, and about how it all began.
I had always been a rather impressionable person, easily swayed and not particularly confident. On the night when it all started, I was at a party. I was pretty tipsy, so it was no surprise that at about 8:00 I found myself telling Shirley that my parents worked at the morgue. I must’ve have said this rather loudly, however, because at the very moment the words left my lips, three heads turned directly to me. The one closest to me, a cold, pretty, black haired girl, raised an exaggerated eyebrow. She turned to the others who seemed suddenly so fascinated with me, and gave them a brief grimace. At this point, I demanded more punch and made my way, stumbling to the kitchen. As I wound my way back to the living room however, I was confronted by the raven girl.
“You’re parents work at the morgue, Hmm? Ever been in there?”
“Yeah once or twice. What’s it to you?”
“My friends and I would love a tour, dear. Could you perhaps….?” She trailed off, and her face became achingly hard to refuse. Her friends came up behind her and I briefly noticed that they were twins and that they too, were distantly and icily elegant. I wouldn’t- couldn’t- disappoint them.
“Okay.. sure. Let me get my coat.”
* * *
I drove them to my house, and fumbling with trembling hands I unlocked the door. The house was silent, my parents were evidently asleep. I stubbed my toe on the doorstep. Biting my lip to keep from swearing, I slipped the familiar brass keys, the keys to the morgue, off the hook in the mudroom. Then I was out again and sweeping into the car, starting up the ignition and speeding away into the night.
When we arrived at the morgue, the three girls acted as though I had just fulfilled all of their heart’s darkest desires. They slid open the cabinets in obvious and frightening delight. The raven girl, who introduced herself as Maeve, turned to me.
“Have you ever wondered what blood tastes like?” She asked innocently. I shook my head.
“Really? People have said that it tastes like chocolate. Hey- Why don’t we just try, one, tiny, single, drop?” She paused, and my mind deliberately processed what she had said. Curiosity thrummed in my heart. The alcohol made everything slow.. What would it taste like? Surely, a minuscule spatter wouldn’t hurt anyone. And I wanted to show them that I wasn’t repulsed by such an idea. Maeve opened up a drawer and slid one perfectly manicured nail along the cadaver’s neck. Blood, like a liquid garnet dribbled out. I reached out my finger, and touched it to the wound. I raised my finger to my lips and licked the blood . My brain sped up, and suddenly I was ecstatic. I had never felt this way before. I concluded that the blood made me feel this way. Maeve, reached down and took some too. She smiled and giggled. “Mmmm, delicious……”
* * *
Three days later I found my self creeping into the morgue again, my new friends tailing me. Once we were all safely in, we fell upon the bodies. The twins, named Kei and Reine, who rarely spoke, shared the blood of a rakishly scarred teenager about my age. Maeve sucked on the blood of an old man and grinned at me, and I noticed that her two eye teeth were subtly fanged. I smiled back as I squeezed the precious red fluid out of a middle aged woman into my palm and lapped it up. Ah! That glorious feeling! Seeking it was so natural now. I felt so confident and beautiful when I drank the blood. I was no longer disgusted by my new own habit, either. No one could stop me from doing what I what I wanted. Not my friends, not my parents. No one.
I vividly remember when I first blacked out. I had been drinking blood for two months and my mind was fixed on when I would next be able to be invincibly confident. Blood and cadavers entered my thoughts often now, and I was okay with that. But the blackout was a result of something that would change my feeding experience forever. On October 31st of 2007, I peeled a fingernail off of Emily Jenson. Some skin came off with it and curled lusciously and appetizingly. I thought for a moment and then I popped it into my mouth, chewing. Maeve was aghast. We argued that night, she saying that eating flesh was going too far. I screamed back, desperately, that I had not gone too far, and that if they didn’t want to join me, then they could go home. Minutes later I collapsed, the need for more flesh claiming my mind completely.
And they did go home.. They never came back to the morgue again. And so I was alone.
* * *
I continue to chew the eyelid, and but the feeling I’ve come to expect is rather distant. I only feel a vague shiver at the back of my skull now. This is shame really, but my habit is no longer bloodlust, but instinct, for I cannot survive without flesh and blood. I no longer enjoy the company of the living. They do not need me, nor I them. When it comes down it, actually, I never really needed them in the first place. I feed whenever I can. People find me distant and rather intimidating. I hear them speak about me in muted voices, but I gave up caring when I first drank blood. I close up the cabinet and leave Sarah Atwood to her endless slumber. And then I whisper into the sleeping white room.
“Just a taste….”