The night my blood went black.
My life started out simple. Mom would bake pies in the kitchen, my brother would sit in the living room with his wooden cars and leave tiny tracks in the wool carpet, the dog would run all over the place as I chased after him. My pretty dress, the one that my grandmother gave me, would get mud on its edges. I still remember mom's face when she saw me in such disarray. Her lips would go white as they tensed, and her eyes would reach my hooves and narrow as she saw the caked on dirt and grass. She looked at me every time as though I would feel guilty, as though she was waiting for my face to twist with guilt so she could scoop me up in her warm hooves and rock me back to serenity. But I never gave her that luxury. Instead, I sat there with a smug grin plastered on my face, twitching like a bug on a hot rock in an attempt to get more dirt on the white tile of kitchen.
"Oh, Nigma..." She would sigh. With a shake of her head, she would send me off to the river to wash up. In all fairness, I would... eventually. Chances were, I would play in the mud some more, turning my pretty white dress into a tan rag by the end of the day. My mother, being a talented seamstress, somehow managed to restore it to its proper state. I'm pretty sure that's what pushed me to do it so often; the security of knowing that all of my mistakes would be erased by magic.
"That'll be four bits, Lady!" A mare shouted in my ear. I handed her my coin and grabbed my bag.
"Thank you, Miss." I mumbled, not really caring.
"Yeh, sure. Whateva..." She mumbled in return, showing the same amount of sincerity. "Mind movin'? Yer holdin' up the line!" I walked away, my eyes trained on my two front hooves. Keep your head low, mouth closed, and eyes down. Head low, mouth closed, eyes down. Low, closed, down. Lowcloseddown...
Memories kept bubbling up like dead fish in a decaying pond. My brother, waking me up in the middle of the night when the first snow finally fell every winter. My grandmother arriving during the summer to help me and my mother bake cookies and drink lemonade. Aunt May teaching me how to knit and sew so that I could be a proper lady. Sneaking into the living room in the middle of the night to sleep on that once comfortable spot on the couch that I never seemed to be able to claim during the day. My dog, Shell, running around chasing tiny animals in the tall grass that grew around my home. Life really was simple.
Until my father arrived home one night.
"Good evening, Scarlet..." The old stallion at the front desk greeted as I walked through his front door. He looked at the large grandfather clock that stood in the doorway like a keeper. It had just rung 4 times. "You're home early, something happen?"
"The store wasn't very busy this evening." I smiled at him. He may be old, but he's all I've got at the moment.
He nodded his head and licked his wrinkled lips, which were forever deprived of moisture. "Well, I hope you stay safe Aunty Nigma. Sleep well."
"I will." I made my way upstairs, my hooves never making a sound on the old wood. "Send the usual up for me tonight?"
"Like always." He nodded and looked at the book that sat before him. Brownish red drops decorated its edges. "I'll send it up in a few hours."
"Good morning, Juniper." I waved goodbye. He really should get more sleep.
I made my way up to my room, which sat steadily at the top of the large Victorian mansion. You couldn't get more cliche than that. Two generations ago, my second cousin turned into a bed and breakfast in order to keep me safe, the sweetheart. It was one of the only few buildings in Manehatten that still blocked sunlight without all of the pesky remodeling and modern stone walls. Wood was good, wood was safe. A few pieces were actually salvaged from my old house that once sat by a river on the outskirts of Fillydelphia before it burned to the ground. Pitchforks and torches ablaze, angry ponies, confused and scared, tore it down piece by piece. It was a shame, really. Mother told me that I could have my wedding ceremony in the back yard.
My bedroom door closed with a faint click, and with a deep breath, I released all the tension that had built up in my shoulders. My throat burned. Oh, Celestia, did it burn! Juniper better hurry. I was reaching my limits. Wandering about my room, desperate to keep my hooves busy, I fiddled with papers and adjusted the numerous books on my shelves. I made my bed, which hadn't been disturbed in a week's time, and made sure the sheets were wrapped tightly around the mattress, my pillow freshly fluffed, and my separate blankets folded neatly at it's foot.
My father was a very clean stallion. You wouldn't think that, what with him coming home every night with the moon highlighting his disarray. He had a harsh life, and it showed. Mother and I sometimes would joke about how he would clean things, almost obsessively, like that of a house maid. He wanted security, and he wanted some form of order in his crazy life. We couldn't blame him, nor did we want to stop him in his tendencies. It just got a little funny when you saw a grown stallion, normally covered with fresh battle wounds, wearing an apron and cleaning the wooden floors with a soggy sponge.
My thoughts about my father continued to bubble up, uninvited and not at all wanted. But I couldn't help myself, and was left standing there, folding my laundry for the millionth time that week, with a glazed look in my eye. I remember him, coming home with a mixture of expressions. Sometimes he would be full of life, a smile splitting his harsh face in two and causing his eyes to light up like blue crystals. Other times, his eyes would be dead stones, and his wings would droop by his sides like soggy pieces of cloth and drag along the ground. Strong and resilient, he would never give up in his fight. But once his eyes seemed to go dead permanently, that's when we all started to get worried.
I looked down. A button-up was tangled in my own hooves. I shook my head, failing to untangle the spiderwebs of memories that could never be dusted away.
I remember him, sitting at the table in the kitchen, with a bottle of scotch and a growl for a voice. I was so young, too young to truly understand what was happening. He had just come home from a job, and was angry with how he had let them escape. He kept complaining about how they were so powerful, so smart.
"They sound really strong, daddy." I had said innocently. My father didn't say anything, not for a long while. I had grabbed my glass of milk and wandered out of the room, back to my cozy bed and stuffed bear. But after I had just passed the door frame, I heard my father mutter.
"Yes... yes they are, sweetie." There was a sound like glass hitting glass. He had just downed another shot.
Night after night he would come home empty-hooved. Mom had grown worried, not out of financial stability, but out of his own well-being. For you see, his dead eyes grew less and less dead. Something sparked inside them towards the end. It was now that I realize that he was enjoying his loss. He was glad he didn't kill them. I look back on my little filly ways and scoff at myself. If anything, I had set all of it in motion. I wasn't even that young then- I was just getting out of school, about to enter the world as a lady- and I had said those words. How foolish!
It wasn't until that night, that horrible, dreadful night, that it all changed. We were all sitting in the kitchen about to eat dinner when we heard the door burst open. The doorknob slamming against the wooden wall of the living room caused all of the picture frames to swing and tremble. My brother and I were silent, sitting at the table with wide eyes and empty bellies. Our mouths were hanging open, surprise and childish dependence on our mother causing us to be completely dumbfounded by what was going on.
"S-sweetie..." My mother swallowed. Her eyes were frantic, though full of love for him. "You're home early."
"Yep." My father entered the kitchen. His face was covered by his scarf, and his long mane covered his eyes. "Send the kids to their rooms, June."
"W-what...?" My mother reared back and my brother and I were about to shout in protest.
"Go!" He shouted, and I tried to walk to my room with as much dignity as my trembling legs could carry me. Fear twisted my insides, along with hunger and anger. I remember pressing my ear to the door, hearing things that I'd never thought I'd hear. I expected secrets. What I got was something entirely different. Instead, I heard the crash of breaking plates, a horrible thud, and a scream cut short.
I was young, reckless, and naive beyond reason. I didn't put the pieces together, I see that now. Back then... I couldn't comprehend what my father was or what he was doing. I couldn't understand that I needed to run. So instead, I stayed put and made sure all of the windows in my brother's room was locked as well as my own. I curled myself in my bed sheets, my warm blanket holding me like a cocoon of warmth and soft cloth, and I huddled in the corner of my bed frame and tried in vain to make myself small.
My father entered my room that night, the hallway candles making his silhouette look as black as ink. I couldn't see his face, only his hulking form from years of fighting and training to do what he does.
"It's all right, honey." His voice sounded hollow. "It's only me."
"D-daddy...?" I remember my stupid decision to reach out to him. I wanted to desperately for him to scoop me up and hold me like a newborn foal. His hooves pounded against the floorboards of my bedroom.
"Your brother... he's in his room right?" He asked, his face still eclipsed.
"Yes, daddy." I smiled a faint, foolish smile. "I made sure he was nice and safe. I locked all of his windows and everything."
"Good girl..." He whispered. "That's my good girl. You wanna do daddy another favor?" I nodded eagerly. It was all over, I thought. The scary thing that happened downstairs was gone! Daddy had taken care of it like he always did!
He held out his hoof in a motion that welcomed embrace. Forgetting everything, smothering the inexplicable feeling of dread, I ran to him. His body smelled of smoke and the sweet scent of tobacco. He was himself. He was my daddy. The stallion who had slain a hundred vampires to keep us safe.
At least, that's what I thought.
"You see, Enigma, you taught your daddy a valuable lesson." He took a knee and looked at me. I still couldn't see his face, but I could smell his breath. It was rancid, like rot and something evil. "You taught me the power of strength."
"Daddy... I-"
"I know you don't understand, not yet!" I saw his eyes then. They weren't blue anymore. I still remember the horror and dread that filled my stomach to the brim when I saw his sickly black eyes. You couldn't tell his pupil from his iris. It was like a hole that drilled down, into his being, revealing a disgusting emptiness. A lack of a soul. "But you will, I promise! Soon, you'll be as powerful as your daddy! Soon you'll realize the power of true strength, and how much you need to survive." I struggled. Though, at the time, I couldn't comprehend what he was, I was still afraid. A natural instinct that was drilled into me from the moment I was born and brought into this world by a slayer.
He had tears in his eyes. His voice cracked. "Soon, you'll understand how weak everypony is. This is the only way you can survive this world, Enigma." His grip was like iron chains. I felt the bruises forming. When he bent down in a movement so familiar, a kiss on my forehead or a fatherly nuzzle of comfort, I felt my struggling cease. There was a desperate part of me thinking that he was fine: he was just drunk out of his wits.
But he wasn't. He was as determined and his mind was as set and narrowed as it had ever been.
He bit me then. Even now, while doing the simple task of folding clothes, I winced. Words couldn't describe the pain that would coarse through your body when you were bitten. It would only last a second, but the pain itself was so intense that it would feel as though it would last for years. It was like being covered in red hot coals, unable to brush them away as you body laid still on the ground. You heart would burn as your blood would turn into something diabolical. You could feel your soul rejecting you, trying to fly away and find someplace safe, away from you and whatever was going on. You couldn't even scream away the pain. You couldn't convulse or twitch or move. You would just lay there, the last traces of red in your body would eventually find their way into your mouth, only to dribble onto the ground and stain the wood a burnt burgundy.
I don't know how long I laid there, on the floor of my bedroom that night. I know my father watched me with a blank expression in his cold eyes the entire time, but that was it. That was the only thing that I truly remember after I was bitten. Everything else was blurs of color and whispers of screams. I was hungry, starving! By body ached with need to fill my mouth and swallow something I couldn't name. Something I couldn't place. It was like a white-hot iron was in my throat, and the only thing that could cause it to cool was...
I heard my brother move. My sensitive ears heard his breath hitch as he almost fell out of bed. His heart, his thundering heart, would skip. I heard every second, every possible pound and quake of the organ in his chest. It squeezed and expanded, stretched and pulled. The blood that would flow through him seemed so warm, so delectable, that I forgot what I was doing. I don't even remember going into his room, opening his door, or even seeing his big blue eyes as I bit into him. I didn't bite into his neck, he was struggling and I suppose I found it difficult at the time. So I held him down and went straight for the source: his chest. I do, however, remember my teeth slicing through his skin like a hot butter knife through melted cheese. I remember by body feeling so good that I shivered as I drank from him.
I remember how I stared at his corpse when I was done. I remembered how I didn't care.
From that point on, my new life began. A life where I could no longer forget anything, where I could run at unnatural speeds, hear things nopony was supposed to hear, and craved things nopony was supposed to crave. I suppose the most sickening thing out of all it was how normal it felt. My wings, no longer feathered and pretty like those of a proper lady, were now leathery and covered in smooth skin and a thin layer of my ivory fur. They folded against my back as natural as my old wings. In fact, the first few nights, I would've even had said that I liked them more.
"They were weak, dearest." My father walked up to me that night. All I did was sit there, my teeth still deep in his tiny chest. Euphoria filled my senses and clouded my thoughts as hot blood bubbled and oozed from the outskirts of my mouth. "They wouldn't have made it. They would've wanted us to grow stronger, to give us what we need."
I didn't deny his words at the time. The only thing I truly processed was the fact that my brother was dry, his body now stiff and shriveled. His skin was like thin paper, and was stretched and contorted over his bones in a way that would traumatize any young lady at my age. But instead, I looked at him and thought about how unsatisfying it was. He was always small and therefore provided very little to quench my newly developed thirst. My teeth marks, looking like a cookie-cutter accident gone horribly wrong, made a near-perfect circle in the center of his chest. Tiny bits of fur clotted with my saliva and fibers of torn muscle made their way inside the wound. My sensitive eyes saw the pale, sickly muted blues, plums, and pinks of his organs which were now shriveled and cold. His eyes, now no more than hollowed sockets, were covered with paper-thin skin that crinkled and caved. The teeth that he always refused to brush now showed in a permanent look of horror. He didn't stand a chance.
My father buried them in the backyard. He said he was giving them dignity, placing them in the same plot as mother and son. I don't remember feeling sad then, only thirsty. Dad said that would fade. I was young, and felt as though I needed more when I really didn't. After the first few nights, the thirst dulled, and I was left trying to tackle the pigs that would occasionally wander into the woods along the outskirts of our home. Dad was both supportive, and rather strict about this fact. For the village knew us as this happy family with pies on the windowsill and fillies playing in the river. If he and I were caught with blood dribbling from our mouths and a freshly dug grave in our yard, things would get messy. Things did get messy. But it was only because we wanted it to.
"We need to cover our tracks." My father said one night. He cleaned off his shirt, now an expert and removing the scarlet stains. "Let those fools think they've won. We never needed this house, let them burn it to the ground and go on with their weak lives. They'll regret it, and we'll laugh at them while they grovel."
I still didn't say anything. I more than lost my voice after my transformation. I don't think my father truly noticed. After all, my mouth, at the time, only opened for one sole reason: to drive my teeth into the pulsing flesh of something warm. Something alive.
It was that night, we set everything off. Our house was nothing more than ashes and cinders by the next morning. The village nearby had celebrated our apparent death with drinks and a feast to end all feasts. They were foolish then. Even now I think back on it and realized how easy it was to escape, and how hard it was not to go back and feast on some of the more notorious ones. The fat stallion with the bushy beard who had no idea what he was doing but whose voice didn't die for miles, the skinny one who was scared beyond reason to the point where his heart pulsed like hummingbird wings. The stallion who was, in fact, a mare: she arguably knew what she was doing. Even my father told me to avoid her at all costs, but even with the threat of a viper, one could still manage to steal a few eggs.
"Aunt Nigma?" There was a knock at my door, and I was so startled that I had dropped my shirt.
"Oh!" I composed myself. "Juniper. Sorry, dear, I was lost in thought."
"Hm." He nodded. "No worries. I'm awfully tired, so I figured I'd bring you your usual early and hit the hay."
"That's sounds like a splendid idea, Juni." I took the bag. It was warm and I cursed myself as I started to salivate. "You get some rest."
"Thank you, Aunty." He waved goodbye. "You too."
And with that, I was left in silence again. Upon looking at my shirt, I found it torn. One of the seams had burst from my relentless tugging and pulling while stampeding against my memories. It was the only thing they were good for, ruining my things and souring my attitude.
I suppose it is time for bed.
Tearing off the corner of my baggie, I tried in vain to savor the warm buttery flavor that poured into my mouth. This poor cow had an awful diet, whatever it was. It felt great, sure, but I knew it would make my stomach upset in the morning. Oh well, I shrugged. Nothing I can do about it now.
Author's Note
I was really tempted to name this chapter "The night I killed my brother." But I figured that held spoilers so... 
Whatchugunnado?
