By Michael Mulvihill
A deadly appetite for life
He slept like a log. Every minute of sleep rejuvenated Drogol,
and his nature, never fully repressed, began to erupt within him, making him ready
As his rest deepened and his unconscious mind
revived, he relived flying to Harare, passing security, and touring Africa. He
recalled the sound of Victoria Falls and the dream that blood, not water,
poured down there.
Dreaming of necks helped him to rise—necks laid open by sharp
fangs, wounded, dripping or gushing blood like oil from a well. No way would he
restrain himself from his preferred fare. He could not remember being human. Unlike
them, his face was white as the snows of Kilimanjaro, his skin so deathly pale
that his fingernails looked grey. Opening eyes coal-black and pitiless, the ancient
rose from slumber without a human soul.
His body stretched and relaxed when Drogol realized he was
no longer in the confined space of a coffin. He had improved sleeping
arrangements since abandoning his old ways. Ratlike, he sprang up. His
eyes now burned crimson, his teeth grew razor sharp, and his appetite for blood
was that of a raging lion. This was a magnificent rising, an emerging eager to
pounce on and drink prey to death.
He looked toward the window of his apartment. Like a tiger
who never thinks twice, he leapt at the window, smashed through the glass, and
landed on his feet, running at breakneck speed.
Rain fell in buckets, but this never deterred one whose
hunger was ever before him. His body needed the sustenance peculiar to his kind.
He stalked streets filled with potential victims. All those humane philosophies
he so admired were forgotten in the thrill of the hunt. He was going to rip
throats and gouge eyes and devour!
Drogol paused before a large puddle that held no reflection
of his immortality. He quieted, breathing deeply. He pondered who, precisely,
his next prey should be. He climbed up a wall, clung upside-down to the ceiling
of a vaulted arch, and scrutinized the passers-by. Immersed in a murderous
trance, the predator visualized slitting some throats now and herding others,
mesmerized, into rooms for later, where he could toy with them first.
But no, how could this
be all he was? Panting, he saw two choices—to be heartless, or decent and
Drogol clambered up a tree. He had resisted his horrible
instincts, and found himself in a mood more peaceful than he had ever experienced.
He chose to awaken to a new path. The demon within him was asleep, but he
needed it to die and never return.
Drogol silently called out to God for mercy, to help him finally
emancipate himself, just as Haitian slaves had all those years ago when they
became the first black Republic to wage a successful slave rebellion. He would
no longer bow under the yoke of brutality. He would break the chains of his miserable
nature and begin to feel freedom.
He would wait for daylight, right where he was. It was as
if the wolf within was utterly repressed (although wherever repression exists
opposition remains lodged in the subconscious). Let morbidity find him.
Drogol brooded about this. The thought of an end haunted
him, compelling him to another course of action. He would walk the streets of
Dublin one last time, then return to Michelle at the address she’d written on the
piece of paper now crushed in his hand. Let true love decide for him, once and
Michael Mulvihill, firstname.lastname@example.org, &email@example.com, of Dublin, Ireland, wrote BP #80’s “Rise” (+ BP #79’s “Drogol
the Nosophorous and the Calf of Man”; BP #78’s “Self-Immolation,” BP #77’s
“Lupine Savagery”; BP #76’s “The Watchers”; BP #68’s“The Toasters’ Tragedy”
“Ziggy’s Afterlife Analysis”; “Homeless” & “Why the Hell Siberia?” for BP
#67; was featured author for BP #65’s “Ethagorian Evidence (Parts 1 & 2)”
& “Uninsured Assurance”; VAMPIRE HORDE, Ch.1… for BP #63; BP #61’s poems, A Love Story Beautiful, Capitalism’s Modern Architecture of
Brick, The Securocrats, and Toxic
Addiction; the poems,
“Fatigued,” “O Mother,” & “Spike-Inverted Hearts” for BP #58; “The Cleaner
and the Collector” & all 6 BP #56 poems; BP #50’s “The Soul Scrubber” and
as featured vampire poet with A Vampire’s
Dilemma: Love, Becoming a
Vampire, Vampire Insomnia, and
Vampiric War in The Kodori Valley;
wrote BP #49’s poems—I, the Vampire, The Reluctant Vampire of Tbilisi, Vampire Observations, and Vampire Psychoanalysis). The 30ish author published a short story,
“Ethagoria Nebsonia,” in BP in ‘98 and had a poem, “The Bombing,” in The Kingdom
News about a domestic tragedy in
Ireland. He has two 2007 poetry books out with Exposure Publishing: Searching
for Love Central and The Genesis and Anatomy of Love, and has
written the horror novels, DIABOLIS OF DUBLIN & SIBERIAN HELLHOLE.