The Monster: From Bridget's Nights

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Just once she let the demon inside run wild.
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patricia51
patricia51
1,906 Followers

(Warning! Most Bridget stories contain sex and fun and adventure mixed together. This story has none of those things. It is dark and contains extreme graphic violence. Bridget apologized to me but this is a reminder that nightmare things bubble deep inside of all of us and no one, human or vampire, is immune to them. Civilization is sometimes a very thin cloak.)

*

My name is Bridget O'Brien and I am a vampire.

This isn't usually how I introduce myself. After all, what do you think of when you hear the word "vampire"? You think of crumbling castles in Transylvania, men in capes, "I never drink... wine". You see Bela Lugosi, Frank Langela or Gary Oldman playing Dracula. If you're younger you think of tunnels under Sunnydale, California. You think of the Master, Luke, what's-his-name the businessman vampire in the first episode of Angel. Or Dominic Purcell playing Dracula in "Blade: Trinity".

Okay, granted you might also think of James Marsters, Geraint Wyn Davies and David Boreanaz. Especially David. Wow. At four hundred and fifty years old (give or take) I don't usually get that carried away but boy would I like to trade neck nibbles with him.

Anyway, here's my point. Vampires are not generally classed in the solid citizen group. You don't see them as friends. You'd be out picketing if one tried to move into your neighborhood. Although there are a few exceptions to the rule, believe it or not, most of us would just as soon raid blood banks if we could and we rarely, extremely rarely kill anyone. I'm speaking of the ones I know of course. Some embrace the monster they think they've become. They didn't become one though, they already were that monster somewhere deep in their hearts.

I have always thought of myself as "good" and tried to act accordingly. I have to drink blood and it has to be human blood. I'm sorry, that's how it is and no moaning will change that. But I don't murder for blood. I'm very careful who I bite and how much I take. I have killed certainly. But I don't revel in it nor do I think of myself as a murderer. I have served the forces of my native Ireland and the forces of my adopted country the United States. I'm not a monster.

But I am. Oh yes, I keep it deeply buried inside of myself. I rarely acknowledge its existence. And when it threatens to get out, as it does sometimes, when I see innocents, particularly children, hurt or endangered, I try to maintain control over it. Sometimes it slips. The control I mean. Then I have to force the monster back inside me. I don't let it run wild. But...

Once I did. I not only called it forth, I howled with it as it gleefully ran amuck. And, what frightens me, what causes me to spend nights on my knees praying for forgiveness, is that even now, I'm not sorry I did.

(Ireland, 1649)

I could smell the smoke long before I could see the flames. I ran, ran as I had been doing since I had awoke and freed myself from the collapsed vault under the city of Drogheda. I had been attempting to hide a group of civilians from the Ironsides sacking the city. Fires raging through the area had weakened the supports and the vault had collapsed. A stone proving even harder than my head had knocked me unconscious. By the time I had come to my senses and struggled from under the rocks that imprisoned me but also had protected me from the sun it was all over. Darkness had thankfully fallen, hiding the bodies of those I had tried to save. Searching the city, a cold hand gripped my unbeating heart as I realized that at least a portion of the invaders had left a trail indicating they were taking the road that would eventually lead them to the village where I had been born.

They moved by day, I moved by night. They were mounted, I was on foot but my greater than human strength and endurance allowed me to catch up. I was moved to nearly frantic speed by the glimpses I caught of what they had done to the people they had found along the way. The merciless invaders had spared no one, regardless of age, sex or station.

I don't hate England or the English. I did at one time though. I couldn't separate the acts of the self-righteous "Saints" from the multitude of English people who never raised their hands against my homeland. It wasn't until I met the English as people, one on one that I began to shed my hatred. You can hate a race or a nation. It's much harder to hate a person.

By the way, if you think I exaggerate the brutality to and sheer hatred of the Irish by the Ironsides, well I don't. Solemn reports were issued in England describing that many of the Irish had tails. Massacres were joyfully reported by the Lord Protector as deserving all praise to God for working such marvelous wonders. The Irish were depicted as less than human, deserving whatever happened to them. Indeed it was considered "A marvelous grace" to dispatch them.

Of course hatred breeds hatred, scaring the land and those who live on it. My poor homeland. Centuries later the wounds are still open. The bitterest curse from an Irish Catholic still is "The curse of Cromwell be upon you."

As night fell I dug myself out from under the collapsed thatch roof of a mostly burned out cottage that had sheltered me during the day. I ran now, hard, for I could see a glow on the horizon. The landmarks hadn't changed much in the last seventy-five years and I knew I was nearing what once was my home.

On the outskirts of the village I passed the cemetery, the place I had died and been reborn undead. It was also where my parents were buried. I was going to pass it by when I caught a glimpse of a lantern and heard the ringing of hammers on stone. I veered into the graveyard.

There were two men there. Their weapons were laid aside but their uniforms showed me they were Ironsides. The sounds were the result of them methodically shattering each tombstone as they reached it. I was so dumbfounded by this senseless action that I stepped into the feeble glow of their lanterns.

"Excuse me. May I be asking just what you think you are doing?"

Both men jumped. I suppose they weren't quite as confident in their armor of righteousness as they believed. They seemed to have thought for a moment that they had been approached by a demon or something. Little did they know that they were right.

One drew himself up. "Do you live here?" he demanded. His partner moved to his side and then began to circle me.

I didn't exactly lie. I smiled sweetly and gestured towards the village. "I grew up here. I made my First Communion in the church over there."

That was all they needed to confirm I was a Catholic. The one circling sprang forward, swinging his hammer at me. That was unfortunate for him. I spun him all the way around and threw him against the other man. Then my eyes lit on the tombstone they had just violated. It was my Mother's.

I left the pair of them behind me. Both were dead of course. Since they were so enamored of headstones and hammers I had arranged it so they would be covered in the remnants of the rubble they had created. As for the hammers, I just left those where I had put them. The handles sticking out sort of ruined any similarity the guys had to classically handsome faces though.

That was when I really smelled the smoke. I rushed into the village proper and saw flames licking up the side of the church. The soldiers had barred the doors from the outside. Screams came from the inside. Someone broke one of the stained glass windows trying to create an escape. One of the Ironsides moved to that and slashed out with his sword.

"Back you Papist dog. Greet the fire. You'll know more of it in hell with your sows and your whelps."

I grabbed his arm and broke it, his sword falling from his nerveless hand. I decided the window idea was a good one but it needed more room. So I whirled him off the ground and slammed him through the shattered glass. He disappeared inside and I was willing to bet he wasn't coming out again.

People started to climb out. I helped the first couple and then ran around to the front of the church. There were a dozen men in breast plates and helmets standing there. Their muskets were stacked to one side and they had swords in their hands. In the middle of the group an impressive man stood. His arms were raised, a Bible in one hand and a sword in the other. He was exhorting the soldiers to smite the Canaanites and let not one unbeliever escape.

Several broken bodies lay before the church doors. Most were men, the remnants of pitchforks and other farm implements in their lifeless hands. One body still moved feebly. I saw that it was not a man but a woman. Something moved under her. I stared in horror as I realized that something was a child. A broken pike pinned them both to the ground. Nausea swept over me. Then one of the men kicked the pikestaff and laughed.

The red haze that had clouded my vision before was nothing compared to what I felt. Something was loose inside me now, something so incredibly dark and evil that I couldn't believe it was part of me. I tried to dampen it. Then I realized that I didn't want to hold it back. I wanted it to get free. I embraced the blackness. With a demonic howl of pure pleasure I sprang forward and the men in front of me screamed in terror at my face.

The first man I came to didn't have time to lift his sword before I sprang on him. I tore his throat out with one swipe of my fangs. I drank from the blood that poured from his severed jugular and it was good. I ripped his sword from his dying hand and turned to the next man.

This was the one who had kicked the shaft that impaled the woman and what I was to later find was her child. I hurled him against the smoldering church wall and drove the sword all the way through his stomach and the wood planks behind him, pinning him like a bug in a science exhibition.

Of the others, some gaped at me as though I was only some fantasy out of a dark story. Others rushed me. A thrusting sword gashed my side and a thrown dagger impaled my shoulder. I tore the dagger out and the wound healed. I used the knife to disembowel the man that had cast it. I seized the swordsman and snapped his back. A leap carried me to one of the still dumfounded watchers and I sank my fangs into his neck. His futile struggles as I drank his life only drove me on to my next victim.

Now the screaming from inside the church was no louder than the screaming from outside. The noise here dwindled rapidly though as the living population shrank each time I reached another soldier. Two attempted to flee. I dragged one down twisted his head until he looked backwards. The other I hamstrung and then gutted after he fell. I used my bare hands.

The preacher stood frozen as I made short shrift of the soldiers. By now I KNOW I looked like a demon from Hell. And I felt like one. I smiled at him as I walked up to him. I could feel the blood dripping from my fangs, from my hands. God I was soaked in it.

He fell to his knees. He babbled. He cried. He begged for mercy. I knelt with him, caressed his cheek with my bloody hand and buried my fangs in his neck. It was all the mercy I could show him.

Screams from the church and the roaring of the growing flames brought me back to reality. I sprang from the body of my last kill and rushed toward the barred doors. One man had run around to try to open them but he wasn't having any luck. He gasped that the fire had cut off escape through the window I had shattered.

I saw the problem immediately. The now dead Ironsides had placed a timber across the outward opening doors, pinning them closed. It must have taken half a dozen men to have secured it. Would one slight man and I be enough to move it?

I flung myself at the wood. I pushed, I pulled. I turned around and braced my back and shoulders against the bar, my legs bent. I could feel the power churning inside me from all the blood I had taken. I gave a grunt and lifted.

The bar moved. Not much but it rose from the cradles that had been nailed to either side. One end was a bit higher than the other. I gestured for the man to come help me and used my head to indicate what I wanted him to do.

He put his shoulder under the bar and heaved. I straightened, giving every ounce of my stolen energy on the effort. The bar rose, teetered and then fell free. Hastily we dragged it out of the way and jerked open the doors.

The people ran past us. I turned to thank the man. He was young and with hair as red as my own. I realized that he reminded me of Seamus, the boy I had first kissed. Long ago dust I was sure. I smiled at him in thanks.

And he fainted. Puzzled I pulled him away from the fire and looked around. The people fleeing the burning church saw me and screamed, screamed as I had not heard Irish people scream since I first rose as a vampire and tried to return to my family.

I touched my face. My fangs were still showing and I knew somehow that my eyes were still glowing red. Of course I was drenched in blood from head to toe. I tried mightily to will my face to return to normal. Usually it was no trouble. Tonight I couldn't change back. Sick inside I knew why. I had surrendered control of myself to the Darkness and it was keeping me, maybe forever.

I screamed "Nooooooooooooooooo" and fled from the firelight. Running as hard as my inhuman muscles would allow I found myself back in the graveyard. The sight of the two men I had killed first literally sickened me and I threw up. Then I drug them away before returning to fall weeping over my parents' graves.

I wanted to ask God to take me right then but I was afraid. Afraid? I was terrified. I knew that I deserved to go straight to Hell for what I had done. Not that I killed those men, after all, that particular Commandment reads "Thou shall not murder". But I had enjoyed it, delighted in their death agonies, reveled in their fear and terror. I was as black and as evil as they were.

I cried. I begged my parents to forgive me. I wanted to ask God for that but I couldn't. What if He said "No."? Then a soft Irish voice pierced my fogged mind and I turned.

I had been so wrapped up in myself that I hadn't even seen the glow of the approaching lantern. Now a man stood over me. The light the lantern cast showed me an elderly care-worn face. It also showed me the cassock he was wearing and illuminated the tonsure his hair was cut into.

"Are ye alright lass?" The priest, for that was what he was, knelt beside me. There was no condemnation in his eyes, no fear in is demeanor. Indeed, he reached out one hand to me.

"Father, no, no, no. Don't. I'm an unclean thing and unworthy to be having a man of God touching me."

"Nay lass, I think not." he replied. "I saw what you did. Not the dead men in the churchyard but the men, women and children who are alive because of your efforts. Since I'm one of those I would be hard-pressed to condemn you for anything you did." He took my bloodstained hand. "Who are ye lass?"

"My name is Bridget O'Brien and I am a vampire."

Light dawned in his eyes. "So the old legends are true. Amazing. Then these must have been your parents."

"Yes." I wiped my eyes with my other hand, not caring I was smearing the blood that caked there. "They thought I was a monster when I came back. I don't know that they were right."

"Remember, there's a monster in all of us," he replied. "That's why our Savior paid the price for us. He paid it for you too."

"It's not that I killed them," I tried to explain. "I WAS trying to save the people in the church. But when I saw that woman and her child and the pleasure those men showed in their death, I lost control. No I surrendered control. Father I did what I did gladly, with joy. As they slaughtered in the name of God I did so in the name of pleasure. I enjoyed it; enjoyed their fear and their pain and horror. And," my voice broke, "And I'm not sure but that wouldn't do it again, in just the same fashion and with the same song in my heart."

He shook his head. "Ye cannot know that. Somehow I think that if comes upon you again, and God forbid that it does, that you will at least try to hold back. That's all ye can do, each time try to resist."

"But what if I don't?" I burst out.

"Then the time after that you'll have to try harder."

"It can't be that easy."

"Oh no, it's anything but easy. But if you try, if you promise to TRY, then that's all that can be asked until ye can conquer your monster for good. Now then lass, let me be hearing your confession."

I knelt beside the priest and began. "Bless me Father for I have sinned..."

The old priest absolved me, there in the graveyard by the desecrated headstones of my parents and with the blood still red upon me. And something gave way when he did. My face returned to normal. The villagers hid me when the sun came up and fled into the hills with the next nightfall while I carried off the bodies. That was part of my penance, to look on those cold dead faces again while I built a funeral pyre and burned them.

It would be a long time before I returned to Ireland again. I was to voyage over seas and cross continents before returning to the land of my birth, and my death. That priest had been taken to heaven I have no doubt long before I came back. But his words stuck with me. I kept an eye on my monster. It was because of his faith in me that I was able to resist when that mad scientist tried to make me kill an innocent.

Not that I never lost my temper again and not that I never killed again. I did. But even in the throes of anger and grief, as when I avenged my lover Ling's death in Manchu China I kept my monster under control. Perhaps that contributed to the day I awoke alive again in that same graveyard. Who knows?

My name is Bridget O'Brien and I WAS a vampire.

(The End)

patricia51
patricia51
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rgraham666rgraham666over 15 years ago
I love it

When the so called 'righteous' beg.

Good one, as always, patricia.

AnonymousAnonymousover 15 years ago
Good

Patricia,

You are still one of the best writers on this site. I truly enjoy your stories.

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