The Fangs

by Jessica Wider

Frances stood in her cramped and cluttered studio apartment looking through her sizeable wardrobe, which spilled out of the closet and onto the chair, couch and floor. She inspected each piece of clothing, first with her eyes, and then, if an item was interesting and potentially suitable, with her nose. All the clean and dirty clothes had been thrown haphazardly together.

She was searching for the perfect outfit for a special occasion. Frances dug through piles of fabric that reflected all the styles she had been a victim to over the years; Gothic, punk, glitter, indie, metal-head, hippie, "grunge," emo, scene. She lived for music and her clothing always reflected whatever genre she was listening to most at the time.

Clothing helped to define Frances. She knew that clothing affected one's life and life affected one's choice of clothing. Her attitude changed when she wore certain pieces. And she had been treated differently because what she chose to wear was not what the others around her did.

People were constantly forming misconceptions about her based solely on what she happened to be wearing at the moment. Because she was not some uber-feminine stereotype, there were those that knew Frances, or thought they did, that believed she was a lesbian. And how many times had Frances come out of the ladies bathroom as another woman was walking in and watched as the woman looked up at the sign on the door that read "ladies"- double checking because she thought she was walking into the wrong bathroom; she had caught sight of Frances coming out and assumed she was a boy.

As she burrowed through the piles of clothing, shoes and accessories, Frances stopped to examine garments. She picked through all manner of sneakers, shoes and boots, from ragged Converse high-tops and dirty Vans slip-ons advertising now defunct punk bands, to skater sneakers, Nike Dunks and knee-high leather boots with silver buckled straps, Creepers and other pairs of shoes that had taken her through years of her life.

Frances began to feel a sense of nostalgia as she remembered the strange hairstyles that had graced her head over the years and the makeup she had worn that was intended, not to enhance her beauty, but rather, her freakishness. There were the odd accessories she had worn that had caused people to stare in awe or horror; items such as upside-down pentagrams, bondage bracelets, chains, and studded and spiked collars which most assumed were made for dogs but had actually been fashioned for humans. Frances had had eight separate facial piercings at different points in her life but only one remained, a thick, silver septum ring. And she had recently acquired her sixth tattoo, a large bat on her upper back whose wings extended across her shoulder blades.

But the reason why Frances was searching through the chaotic mass of fabric in her room was not to relive any excitement over the past. She had to find some arrangement of clothing that would be right for the appointment she had in a little over an hour. Frances was going to a fang maker to have a pair of customized fangs made especially for her. Not the kind made out of plastic, but the kind that was real enough and strong enough to bite with.

Frances had long held a fascination with vampires that bordered on the insane. For years she had wanted to have fangs made, but never seemed to get around to it. Sometimes time was the issue, sometimes it was money or lack thereof. Fang makers' shops could disappear and she could find no one who could make them for her. She had once petitioned her dentist to make her a set, but he told her to leave and never come back. Frances had not seen a dentist in over a year.

Today she would finally have them made. She arranged an evening appointment with someone that called himself Tom the Misfit, who had a small storefront in "alphabet city" in Manhattan. Frances hoped that he did not turn out to be a serial killer but not because she was afraid of death. To the contrary, she told anyone who would listen that she was already dead. I would like to at least fulfill my dream before I die, she thought. I can wear them when they lay out my corpse in the casket. The mental image made her grin.

Frances realized that the Nirvana CD she had been playing was finished and that made her remember the time. She was still sitting in a pair of ancient sweatpants riddled with holes and an old tee shirt that was way too large for her small and skinny frame. With all the clothes I have, it's ridiculous that I can't find something to wear. I have more clothes than everyone else I have ever known, combined, Frances thought. Maybe that's the problem. I have too much.

And with that, she quickly and mindlessly assembled an outfit.

A half hour later Frances was walking the blocks surrounding the fang makers shop, looking for the address. She had decided on wearing a long flowing black coat, tight black jeans that looked as if they had been painted on her, and knee-high black Doc Martins that matched her black hair, black eye makeup and black nail polish. Dressing head-to-toe in black was perfectly suitable for anyone buying vampire fangs. And she had pulled out a special favorite, an old necklace with a rather large inverted cross hanging at the end, to advertise her fascination with the occult.

Frances was running a few minutes late for her appointment but she was not in a rush. It was a chilly yet comfortable fall night, a few days after the clocks were pushed back an hour so that the darkness came earlier in the day. It was her favorite time of the year.

You should call this guy and tell him you're going to be a little late, Frances thought, as she exhaled smoke from her cigarette. She hated talking on the phone, preferring only to text. She used the phone only when absolutely necessary. Not that there's anyone to call. Frances only had one friend in the world; a chunky Puerto Rican girl named Alesana, who had large breasts and worshipped Frances and copied everything she did, albeit not as well. She was simply not that intelligent.

Frances finally stumbled upon her destination, twice checking the number on the door to see if it matched the address she had typed into her phone. "Seems a little vacant, doesn't it?" she mumbled to herself and sighed.

She had thought it was supposed to be some kind of shop where she was having her fangs made, but there wasn't any sign of life here. Or un-death. There was what appeared to be a doorbell though. Probably buzzes straight to Dracula's coffin so he knows his guests have arrived.

Frances pressed the button and waited. When no one answered, she peeked through a tiny area of the large window that was covered by a thick and heavy black cloth. It was completely dark inside. Frances sighed. Maybe I came here for nothing.

Then a light went on in the back. I'm going to be killed, she thought. One can hope. Frances grinned. At the very least I'll have my fangs done.

The door of the would-be shop opened. Frances pupils dilated when she saw the man that was stood at the threshold. He seemed to be in his mid-twenties. He had short black hair, wore black eye makeup, a velvet black jacket that looked like it once belonged to someone in the eighteen hundreds, black pants and black shoes. The first few buttons of his black shirt were unbuttoned. Frances scanned the parts of his body that were exposed and noticed he was covered in tattoos. Around his neck he wore an ankh that morphed into a dagger, which hung on a long, thin, black rope. In the center of the ankh, under the loop, was a shiny blood red jewel.

"Greetings. I'm Tom. And you must be the girl who is having fangs made tonight."

"That would be me," Frances answered.

"Well, come inside then. I don't bite."

She rolled her eyes but smiled her cutest smile for him.

She followed Tom inside. He turned on the main source of light in his small workspace. He did not own the place, he told her, rather, he just used it when he had appointments. But it seemed that no one was actually using the shop now. It was a storehouse for a bunch of odd, abandoned items; tee shirts, posters and knickknacks, all with a dark and creepy context. Curios emblazoned with skulls, bats, spiders, coffins, ornate crosses and the like were strewn throughout the dusty room.

Tom set up his laptop on a counter and put on some music. Then he pulled up two stools.

"Sit down, Frances is it?" he said, as he motioned to one of the stools. Even his spidery hands showed tattoos. And chipped black nail polish.

As Tom prepared the tools he would need to make her fangs, Frances continued to inspect the room from her seat. There was a black couch in the room where a cat sat licking itself. A black cat, of course. Frances loved cats.

Frances wished she could make conversation with Tom, but she could not find the words. And even if she found something witty or interesting to say, she would be too afraid to say it. She feared that she would stutter trying to get it out. Frances never felt good enough for guys like Tom, people she thought better than herself because they were better looking or more interesting, perhaps more intelligent. Therefore, these people made her uncomfortable.

"Open your mouth," Tom said. Frances hesitated for a moment. She was embarrassed of her teeth. They were crooked and yellow and for a second she wondered why she had decided to have fangs made at all. But when she finally opened her mouth, Tom quickly shoved a plastic tray with some type of mold inside it, without inspecting her teeth, and told her to bite down. Frances sunk her teeth into the putty. "Now just sit there and tell me when it gets so hot that it becomes unbearable."

She did as she was told, happy she had an excuse to stay quiet.

"Would you like to see some of my work?" Tom asked.

Frances nodded her head. With that, Tom turned his laptop to face her and began showing her digital pictures of individuals wearing all manner of fangs.

"I also sell costume contacts and do makeup."

Most of the women in the pictures were Gothic or punk, but they still looked like models. They were wearing sexy and revealing clothing that Frances could never pull off. This made Frances feel even worse than she usually did. Stupid female stereotypes.

"Do you go to the Goth clubs?"

Frances nodded yes, even though it was a lie. Who would I go with? The thought of standing in a club alone was excruciating. She certainly could not bring her one and only friend as a companion. She would not understand the Gothic scene and she would never fit in there.

The mixture in Frances's mouth began to burn. She tried to get Tom's attention but he was busy with his laptop, picking out songs to play as he worked.

She began wildly waving her arms and eventually caught his attention. When he tried to pull the mold from her mouth, it would not budge. Frances thought he looked a bit worried. She definitely was.

When he finally managed to pull it free from her mouth, Frances was relieved. Tom pulled two small blocks of the hardened substance from the mold and walked over to some type of tool hanging on the wall. He turned it on and a wheel attached to the end began to spin. Tom began to carve the fangs out of the small blocks of hardened putty.

Frances worried that the sound the instrument made was not enough noise to make conversation impossible.

"So, where do you work?" Tom asked.

Oh no, here come the questions, Frances thought. "Umm, I don't actually," she said.

"Do you go to school?"

"I used to, but I dropped out."

"Well, what did you used to go to school for?" Tom pressed on.

"I was going for writing, creative writing. A degree in English." Hopefully that would be enough to shut him up. It wasn't.

"So why did you stop going?" he asked.

"I was crappy writer, that's why."

"So how do you survive then, financially?"

God, this asshole should have been a fucking interrogator, Frances thought.

"My father died and left me some money and an apartment where my grandmother used to live before she dropped dead," Frances snapped. And my mother is dead too and I have two brothers, one in prison and the other in a nut house.

"Oh, I see. So you're just going to live off the money. Must have been a lot if you don't have any plans for the future."

Oh, I have plans, but they don't include living.

Finally, Tom turned off the machine. He picked up a thin, black Sharpie permanent marker and made a tiny dot on the back of one of the fangs. Then he handed them to her.

"Okay, put these over your teeth. The one with the dot is for the left canine and the one without is for the right one," he told her and she obeyed. "How do they feel?"

"They feel alwight," Frances said with a lisp. She supposed they were meant to be tight, or else they might fall out and she could swallow them and choke. Death by fangs.

"Well, I'll have to shorten them a tiny bit, unless you enjoy being a vampire with a lisp."

Very funny.

Frances pulled them out and handed them to Tom. It did not seem like a sanitary procedure, handing fangs back and forth between two sets of dirty hands and then putting them in her mouth.

Oh well, it sure isn't the worst thing I've ever done to myself. Visions of several different self-destructive behaviors danced through her mind.

"Here, try again," Tom said.

Frances put the fangs back in.

"Well, say something..." Tom demanded.

She could not think of anything to say for almost thirty seconds and the silence became awkward. She decided to comment on the music, but then thought better of it.

"How do I sound now?" she said instead.

"Much better." Then he picked up a small mirror with a handle, like the type they give you after you get a haircut, so one can see the back of their head in the other mirror in front of them. "How do you like them?"

Frances held the mirror up in front of her face for a half second and glanced at herself too quickly to actually examine the fangs. Still, she burst out,"Oh my fucking God! I love them!"

Tom smiled. "Well, that'll be a hundred dollars. I usually charge more for the kind you can actually bite with, as opposed to the ones that are just props, but business has been slow. It'll pick up around Halloween though," he explained. "Do you need anything else? Theatrical contacts maybe?" He looked hopeful. "I'll give you a great deal. Half off what other stores charge."

When had he become Tom the Salesman?

"Maybe some other time," Frances said. She hadn't brought enough money anyway.

"Well, you got my number when you're ready. Oh, and here's a little container you can store them in when you're not wearing them, free of charge." Tom smiled and Frances remembered how good Tom looked.

She put her fangs into the little box, put the lid on and slipped it into her pocket. She wanted to wait until she got home to put them in again.

"Okay, thanks a lot," Frances said and she meant it. She wondered why she had waited so long to have them made. Maybe it was because she was not too fond of her teeth.

Frances hopped off the stool and walked out of the decrepit hole-in-the wall that might have been considered a shop in another lifetime, stopping to pet the sleeping cat on the way out. She felt bad that the cat probably was left alone at night in this horrible place. The thought made her sad. I would never treat my cat like that. Frances worshipped her cat the way the Egyptians used to.

Frances stepped outside. As the cold night air surrounded her, the depression Frances had suffered for too many years subsided and her mood improved. It took a lot to change her from the miserable being she was to one that was content or vaguely happy, but there was life in her step that had not been there when she had slumped towards to the shop earlier, head down, practically dragging her feet. Yet Frances had always been privy to mood swings.

Later that evening, perhaps an hour later, when Frances returned to her Brooklyn apartment, the excitement, or the closest she had felt to excitement in a very long time, was still fresh and potent. She rushed in, set her bag down on the couch, petted her cat a few times and kissed her head, then ran to the mirror.

Frances stood there, staring at herself. She became entranced with her appearance. She both loved and hated herself; she imagined that she was better than the ordinary people she passed everyday on the streets and sat next to on the subways, yet she believed there were certain people out there who were better than her, though she seldom came across them. But when she did, she immediately recognized them. She had thought for a minute that Tom was one of them, but then thought better of it.

But still, Frances imagined there must be rare people out there living exciting and interesting lives, creative and intelligent people who were truly different, people who loathed the mundane world as much as she did. Frances was not of the same race, perhaps not even from the same planet that all ordinary human beings were. Her idiosyncratic personality, narcissism and delusions teetered precariously on the thin edge of mental health.

Her mind snapped back into reality, and she continued to stare at her reflection. She noticed everything as she looked. Her hair was as black as a raven's wing; short, but long enough to obscure the ears she was not fond of, and crooked, sideways bangs that covered one eye. She was constantly brushing it away from her face; it was a nervous habit more than a necessity. Her face was round and her skin pale, almost translucent. Her chocolate eyes had dark circles underneath them and spoke of experiences that one should never have to have. She sometimes ringed those eyes in black kohl. Then there was the nose she thought was too long and she wished she could have fixed, and lips she thought were too thin.

Her eyes then moved up and down the length of her body, judging every inch. Frances was not tall. She was very thin but in her mind she was not thin enough. Her breasts were not big enough, not attractive enough. Her arms were now obscured by her long black shirt but she could see through it to the scars that would never disappear after years of abuse with a syringe, and those left by cuts she had inflicted on herself long ago. The only aspect of her appearance that she could not criticize were her feet.

The cat rubbed against her leg and broke the spell of self-loathing.

She took the small cube that contained her newly prized possession out of her skinny black jeans and held it in her palm. Frances took a deep breath and removed the small caps that fit so perfectly over her canine teeth from the container. She dumped them out into her hand and set the container down on a small table.

Frances felt like there should be a prayer to say or a drum roll that should sound before she put them in again by herself, such was the significance of the act. She sighed and then slipped on the snug prosthetics.

Suddenly Frances felt a jolt flow through her entire system. It was painful at first; like being fried in an electric chair. She cringed and wrapped her arms tightly around herself, letting out an agonized sound. But slowly the discomfort faded and she could breathe again. Pain was replaced with bliss. Manic energy coursed through her veins. For the first time, Frances felt truly alive.

When she looked up at herself again in the mirror, Frances was transformed. She was no longer a mere human. She was not the weak and helpless, hopeless creature that had stumbled through the metaphoric darkness for far too long. She no longer felt like herself.

She was beautiful, achingly so. To humans, she would be irresistible. Her features had rearranged themselves into perfection. She looked different; her eyes glowed and radiated. Frances imagined that next to her, a supermodel would look absolutely ordinary. The looks of an angel with the heart of a demon, she thought. She smiled a demented grin at her reflection, the points of her fanged teeth visible. Her insides tingled.

Then she walked to the window and stared out into the darkness that had always called to her. It's time, Frances thought, time to go outside into the night and meet my destiny.

She climbed out of the window of her thirteenth floor apartment and made her way down the fire escape. When she reached the bottom and looked around, she saw the world with a new set of eyes. Nothing would ever be the same again. She was no longer held by the restraints of being human. As she walked through the dangerous city at night, alone, everything she saw that had once been dead now seemed to be alive. The world that used to be in black and white just a few short hours ago was now in vibrant color. As she stalked though the large and empty park near her apartment, Frances was elated with the thought that she would never have to be afraid again. Now that she was a vampire, she had all the speed, strength and agility she never had as a human being.

She sensed a human approaching.

She hid at the sound of her prey. It was a lone female and it was late at night. So vulnerable, Frances thought. Frances could smell the human's blood and the scent began to overwhelm her. She fought the desire to let the frenzy completely overtake her. She could not be sloppy; it had to be done right. She did not care who she attacked. But she had to be absolutely sure that there would be no witnesses to her supernatural abilities. Frances calmed herself a bit and then stepped out from behind the tree where she had been hiding and crouched in front of the girl, ready to pounce.

"Oh my God! You scared the shit out of me!" It was Frances's one and only friend, Alesana. "What the fuck are you doing out here?" Alesana always feared for Frances's safety, telling her that she was much too little to go outside at night, much too fragile to go outside alone. Frances suspected there was a lot more to it than just that.

She did not answer Alesana's question. Instead she just stood and stared.

"What's wrong with you?" Alesana asked.

Frances just smiled back.

"Oh, let me see!" Alesana said. "I can't believe you finally had them made! They look amazing!"

Frances continued to stand there in silence, leering.

"Are you okay Frances? Say something!"

"Something."

"Oh my God, you are so lame."

Frances, still staring at her friend, shrugged.

"Um, can we go inside? It's cold out here."

"Why did you come?" Frances asked.

"I came to see the fangs, to see you. I would have called but my phone service got cut off." Alesana knew how much Frances hated unannounced visitors, but that never stopped Alesana from coming anyway.

The couple rode the elevator up to Frances's apartment in silence. She stared at her friend. Alesana's plump figure and skin the color of light coffee was partly obscured by the clothing she wore; clothing that looked as if it could have been taken from Frances's own wardrobe, albeit in a larger size. The band that Alesana's tee shirt advertised was one that Frances had introduced her to and she doubted if Alesana knew even one fourth of their songs. She knows nothing of good music. Or good anything.

Alesana caught Frances checking her out, from head to foot, and began fidgeting with her black, shoulder length hair. She had the same crooked, sideways bangs that Frances had. She wants to be me so badly. Why doesn't she get her own fucking personality? Frances thought.

"What?" Alesana asked and smiled. "Stop staring at me like that."

"Staring at you like what?"

"Like I'm something to eat."

She wished that I would desire her enough to want to eat her.

When they arrived in Frances's apartment, Alesana stood in the living room awkwardly.

"Well, aren't you gonna give me a hug?" Alesana asked. It was a ritual that she had come to expect. Alesana had always demanded she be greeted by Frances with a hug and a kiss.

Frances acquiesced. As she hugged the girl stiffly, she sniffed her hair and then dug her face into the girl's neck. She could not help herself. Frances wanted to kill Alesana, wanted it so bad that if Frances had had a dick, it would have been rock-hard. She was crazed with the need to bite the girl and to drink her blood until there was no more. She needed blood to survive now, to flourish. And Alesana represented much of what Frances hated about people. They are all sheep. And dumb as dirt.

Frances opened her mouth and readied herself to bite down with all her preternatural strength.

"Frances!" Alesana yelled and pulled Frances away. She held Frances at arm's length, gripped her shoulders and looked deep into her eyes.

Frances gazed back and noticed a twinkle in her friend's eyes and a greedy smile on her face.

"I thought you weren't into me like that?" Alesana asked.

Frances pushed the girl onto the couch and got on top of her. She sat on her knees, with one leg on either side of the girl. The craving for blood was an obsession, a compulsion she could not deny one second longer. Frances grabbed Alesana's breasts roughly and squeezed them hard. She watched Alesana's face to see the pain but Alesana did not look completely displeased.

"Be careful Frances. You'll rip my nipple ring out."

Frances imagined blood dripping out of the tear that would be left in Alesana's nipple and licked her lips, then licked them again. Alesana smiled and giggled.

Frances put her lips on Alesana's and kissed them hard, nibbled on them. And then she went to her neck for the second time. She placed her lips on the hot pulsating flesh.

"Your lips are so cold," Alesana said.

Frances opened her mouth wide, exposing her weapons, and bit down on Alesana's neck, tearing her flesh.

Alesana screamed and the sound excited Frances. The blood began to leak into her mouth as she sucked on the ragged wound. She was in ecstasy as the warm liquid dripped past her tongue and down her throat. Alesana tried fighting Frances, tried to tear the smaller girl away from her ruined skin, but she could not. The effort only aroused further passion in Frances. The blood made her feel high. Her head swam and slowly began to spin, but she kept drinking.

And then she heard Alesana began to weep. The bigger girl became limp in Frances's arms. What if I kill her? I have to stop. I can't kill her. Not her.

Frances stopped and got off her friend and sat down on the couch next to her. Alesana continued to sob as she took in uneven breaths. Frances could not look at her.

"I'm sorry. But it's not my fault. This is what I am now," Frances said softly.

"What are you talking about Frances?" Alesana managed through her tears.

We can't be friends anymore. We are two different species now and incompatible.

"Please, just go. GO! Get the fuck out of here!" she growled.

"Please, Frances, please don't do this! I love you! Please."

Frances could not stand to hear the girl beg. "We'll talk more about this tomorrow," she lied. "Please, just go now."

Alesana stood up. Frances looked at her and saw the two clotting wounds she had left on Alesana's neck.

"You should put something on that," Frances whispered.

Alesana felt the cuts with her fingers and looked at the blood left on her hand. Frances handed Alesana an old tee shirt and Alesana pressed it against her neck. She gave Frances one last, longing look through her tears and then turned and walked out of the apartment.

Frances sighed. Next time I'll choose someone I don't know.

The following night, she prepared herself to go out. She put on one of her more spectacular, black Gothic outfits, complete with a favorite shirt that had a collar like bat wings, tails, and flowing sleeves. I should acquire a cape, preferably in velvet and with red or purple silk lining. Frances smiled. There was no need for corpse paint make-up. She looked preternatural.

Tonight she was going out to search for other vampires. She knew there must be others of her kind out there in the world, living in secrecy, and she vowed to find them. She needed to quell her loneliness, to find others like herself and know them. She had to ask them how they handled their bloodlust, how they controlled their thirst, their need to drain humans of all their life force and kill them. Frances was overwhelmed by her vengeance against the apathetic world.

As she walked down the darkened city streets, each time she passed a herd of humans, she was tormented by the scent of the blood that was her sustenance. Her throat and veins burned. She felt sick, like a junkie in withdrawal from heroin. Fighting back the impulse to attack and devour every last luscious drop of their blood was nearly impossible for her. It was against her nature.

Frances had never felt love towards the hideous race of creatures that walked the earth, those that were now her food. She had become hateful towards all human beings from a very early age. Children at school and on the playground and in her neighborhood had picked on her mercilessly. Even now Frances was still mocked by kids and adults alike.

It seemed so easy for everyone else to get along and have empathy. It was so simple for them to live the life that Frances found so difficult. She had long held a suspicion that most people were dumb and desperate to gain each other's approval.

Life had been cruel to Frances and so had people. She felt nothing but rage towards them. She had never understood them. How did they live their endless, mundane and meaningless existences, day after miserable day, and yet still manage to be happy?

No, there had never been a place for Frances in their normal world and there was nothing in the human world for her now. There had never been anything for her to look forward to in the ceaseless days she had seen ahead of her. She would no longer have to worry about the problems that came with living life as a human being. Frances was finally beyond all that.

She walked in the shadows for what seemed like hours. She found herself in Queens. There were so many graveyards in Queens, one after another. Frances had loved to sit in cemeteries as a human, but since most of them closed when the sun went down, she was breaking the law when she stayed after dark. Of course laws no longer applied to Frances.

She passed the cemetery where her parents and grandparents were buried and took a detour to her mother's grave. As she looked down at the plot with nothing but a small stone marker and earth covered in grass and she imagined how her mother had rotted right there beneath her feet. The worms had crawled through her body and the maggots had devoured her flesh and everything inside her. There was nothing but bones there now.

And horrible memories. Her mother having hallucinations of dead babies on her pillow. Her mother screaming and begging for a young Frances to take the rats out of her hair. Her mother dragging Frances outside when she was a child, to see the monsters that were in the back yard. Her mother popping so many pills each day that she had lost count and either took too many or not enough.

And the illness had not stopped with her mother. She had passed it on to Frances's brothers. Perhaps their illnesses had different brand names, but they were sick all the same. When her brothers had violated five-year old Frances, who had there been to tell? The crazy mother that raised her? The cold and unemotional, apathetic father who was never home?

Frances snapped back into reality and quietly left the graveyard that housed her mother. She went through all the other cemeteries and called out into the darkness. She imagined that she would eventually come across an old and decaying graveyard where other vampires would be celebrating their evil in the night in between rotting tombstones and crumbling statues of crosses and angels. But when she did not find anyone living or undead, she decided to go to Manhattan and seek out her brethren in the Gothic-vampire clubs.

The scene had slowly been dying in New York City and was gasping its final breaths. There were a few pathetic clubs that catered to losers. The die-hards went to more private and elite events. It was there that Frances continued her search for vampires.

One such place that seemed suitable for actual immortals was a place called Sanguinarium. It was by invitation only, but Frances used her powers on the doorman, and dazed, he let her in.

The club was filled with elaborately dressed Goths of all ages, sizes and races. Frances would never have had the guts to enter a club like this alone in her former life. But now she stalked through the crowd of pseudo-freaks with self-assurance and determination.

The atmosphere in the club was purposefully gloomy. There was a strobe light and a fog machine. Dark music being played by an aging DJ thumped out of large speakers. Revelers danced and twirled. Suitable props filled the club; bats and cobwebs hung from the ceiling, tombstones had been drawn on the walls, and gargoyles sat in corners.

Frances searched the crowds. She passed a coffin and wished she could afford one of her own to sleep in. Then when it came time for her to be buried, no one would have to buy one for her. Who would anyway? She continued looking at the club-goers, searching for other immortals. She saw some aging Goths standing by the bar, sipping red wine. I'll never grow old and decrepit, Frances thought, I'll never get sick with disease and I will never die. I will be young forever and live for eternity.

How odd it was for Frances to revel in the thought of living forever when just a few, short days ago she had wanted to die. I was already dead, she thought. I was numb, just a zombie going through the motions of life. Living for eternity as a mortal would have been unbearable, but living forever as a vampire will be glorious. I feel more alive as a member of the undead than I ever felt when I was alive. Yet, her search was yielding no results. She was frustrated. There were no vampires among this crowd, only humans. Her thirst was driving her wildly insane and needed to be satiated. She had waited long enough. She could not control her addiction any longer.

It was then that Frances noticed an extremely young looking boy sitting alone on a velvety purple couch. Something about him reminded Frances of herself as a child and the thought made her heart heavy. She glided over and sat down next to the child.

"Hello," Frances said. The young boy looked at Frances and smiled shyly. It took all the control Frances had not to attack right then and there. But she had to be careful. She could not succumb to her desire completely; she could not kill the boy, not here.

"Hi," the child murmured and smiled shyly.

Such a cute little thing. So innocent. The boy was a miniature death rocker, all decked out in his corpse-like best. Frances wondered how such a young child was able to get inside the club. He could not have been more than thirteen.

Frances smiled back at the kid, her fangs showing.

"Are you really a vampire?" the boy asked with wonder.

Frances nodded her head in assent.

"What is it like?" he asked.

Frances answered only with another smile. The boy had the bluest, most hypnotic eyes Frances had ever seen. They drew her in. She moved closer to the boy.

"Can you turn me into one?" he asked.

Frances slowly shook her head up and down. If he believes he will wake up as a vampire after I bite and drain him, all the better.

Frances motioned with her finger for the boy to move closer to her. She took one furtive glace around the room to make sure that no one was paying them any attention.

The boy slid on the couch, closer to Frances, and bent his head, exposing his neck to her. The gesture made Frances wild with desire but she held on to her composure; she did not want to terrify the child nor did she want to play with her food tonight. She slowly put her lips against his neck and he shivered.

Kill him. Kill him before he has a chance to grow up and suffer. Kill him before the world destroys him.

Frances opened her mouth around a chunk of the boy's flesh and bit down. The boy moaned and his blood began to squirt into Frances's mouth. She sucked on holes she had made that were gushing with the boy's essence. The blood made her swoon.

This is what I am now, Frances thought. I am a vicious predator. A powerful hunter. A force of nature.

When the boy stopped moving, and then breathing, Frances stopped drinking his blood. She set his limp and lifeless body down on the couch. She took one last look at the bloodless holes she had made in his neck.

Frances was horrified. The boy was cold and dead and she had killed him. Her mind raced. She began to sweat. Fear paralyzed her. She sucked in uneven breaths.

What have I done? What am I going to do now?

In an instant, she snapped back. She was standing and looking at the empty couch where the boy sat undisturbed.

I didn't kill him. I didn't kill him, Frances thought.

She felt hot tears spill forth and run down her cheeks. She turned from the scene and ran. She ran and kept running.

Back at home awhile later, Frances became hypnotized in her mirror once again. She gazed at the fangs in her mouth, the ones that she had had customized for her teeth only the night before, an eternity ago.

She grabbed the right fang between her thumb and forefinger and pulled. The fang did not budge. She pulled harder, with more force and it finally gave way. Next, she removed the left fang. It took all the strength she had. With the fangs removed, she was instantly exhausted. Drained.

Had there even been a boy there? Frances thought. Without the fangs, her delusion subsided and it all felt like a nightmarish hallucination. She could not believe that any of it had happened.

She took the fangs from her hand and put them back in their container. She went into her bedroom and hid the tiny box on the top shelf of her closet, all the way in the back corner, behind a bunch of abandoned items. She was afraid of the two sharp fangs, of their evil magic, power and allure. Frances was afraid she would lose control and really kill someone if she were to continue to wear the possessed, pointed prosthetic teeth. Deep down Frances recognized that she was truly a troubled and disturbed individual, one of the lost.

If I really killed someone, and if the police came looking for me, and if they caught me without my fangs on, I wouldn't have the power to fight them off. I'd be the only vampire to ever go to prison. I wouldn't even be able to break out of confinement without my fangs. Frances laughed aloud although it was nothing to joke about. Compared to prison, life did seem to be a precious freedom that Frances was not prepared to lose.

Still, one day, she might be compelled to put the fangs on again. One day. Perhaps.



Jessica Wider is an undergraduate student at The City College of New York. She receives her B.A. in Creative Writing in May 2010. This is her first published work