The morning my husband drew his last breath, the funeral director came to the hospital to make final arrangements for the service. We talked about life after, of heaven and hell, the resurrection.
“Most people have the wrong idea about the resurrection,” he said. “They pray to an unseen god and await his bastard son’s return on a cloud. Sounds more like drug-induced delusions to me.”
“Blasphemy! I will hear no more of this!” my father shouted and stormed out.
I should have followed him, but my desperation to see my husband alive and well again overcame me.
“Just one bite, and he will rise and be yours forever.”
I nodded, and he bared his fangs.
Of course, the resurrection didn’t happen immediately. We buried him three days later, placed a lantern next to his grave so that when he rose again, he could find his way home.
Midnight, the fourth night, a knock on the door lured me out of bed.
He stood at the threshold, receding gums revealing sharp edges of newly grown teeth. “Won’t you invite me in?”
© 2022 Nortina Simmons
“Give me something to sink my teeth into…”
I was thinking steak dinner, but she watches too many horror movies, screams I’m a vampire and pulls her collar to reveal the throbbing vein in her neck.
“I’ve waited my whole life for you,” she says.
“Cut it out. I’m starving.”
“Have a drink. Turn me too. Please,” she begs.
It’s unsettling how desperate she is. I almost feel guilty to disappoint. “I’m not what you think I am.”
Even I’m in denial of the fangs I trace with my tongue, but biting her would mean instant death.
For us both.
© 2022 Nortina Simmons
The wedding was perfect. Her dress fit perfectly. Her mascara didn’t run when she cried reading her vows. There were no objections—she feared there might be at least one—and the caterer was on time.
Now as they waltz their first dance together as man and wife in the center of the reception hall, surrounded by adoring family and loving friends, she whispers in his ear, “I’m gonna eat you up.”
He chuckles. He doesn’t know.
Later that night, in their honeymoon suite, she mounts him and bares her fangs, drawing first blood with a nibble on the neck.
© Nortina Simmons
“I cooked you something.”
He cautiously sits across from her. He doesn’t have to cut into the steak to know it’s not rested. Blood pools on the plate, saturates couscous and collards served on the side.
“Eat,” she commands.
He saws with his knife, winces, feigns a smile as his tooth hits a piece of bone or rock inside the meat. He gulps it down with wine.
“More?” She hasn’t touched what’s in front of her, which makes him nervous.
“Aren’t you going to eat?”
“I’ve had my fill.”
It was then that he realized, she’s going to kill me.