Blood Vivicanti (9781941240113) by Becket Page A

boiling point. He grabbed me in a rush, pierced my neck
with his tongue, and drank my blood.
    Yes, that did make me feel
a tad violated. I would have rather consented to his Probiscus
being thrust into my throat. But I let it go since I felt that I
kind of deserved it.
    I had done the same to
others, namely to Joe and his family, and even to Nell. I had
violated them all. I had made them all my victims. So I thought it
was high time that I should suffer a similar fate.
    But then again, once our
venom seeps into the body, there is no greater pleasure. Sometimes
we let ourselves be victims to feel better – or if not better, then
perchance feel differently.
     
     
     
     
    Red was twice as tall as
me. His width was longer than my length. To say that he towered
over me would not describe it. His muscular, hairless, red skinned
body overshadowed me like a moon.
    He could never have a
voice. But if he did, he would have spoken in a deep
bass.
    It sounded something like
that when he began to communicate in my mind.
    He told me all about
himself through his venom and blood. He shared all of his hopes and
fears.
    He told me how he had been
called Silent on his planet Khariton because his creators had not
wanted him to augment the Noise of the planet. He told me that he
was a hunter and that he had travel through the stars in search of
Lowen. And he told me through his venom that he was eager to bring
Lowen back to their planet. He did not like Earth.
    I couldn’t blame him. Often
this third rock from the sun does not quite feel like my
mother-planet either.
     
     
     
     
    Red’s venom helped me enjoy
the experience of his pierce.
    But afterward, when he took
his tongue from my neck, and when his venom had coursed through my
veins, we avoided each other.
    Perhaps we both needed time
to think after sharing such a private experience. It was the
awkwardness of intimacy. It can happen even to the best of
friends.
     
     
     
     
    A week came and
went.
    And still we did not hear
any news from Wyn or Ms. Crystobal.
    For all we knew, they could
have been vaporized by some noxious gas from Pluto.
    C'est la vie.
     
     
     
     
    Red and I were not idle,
though. We spent that time learning more about ourselves through
the mirror of patience and hope.
    Like the old railcars,
something else had gone to the Locomotive Deadyards to die too. It
was my old train of thought.
    Pun intended.
     
     
     
     
    Yes, I used to think that I
wasn’t good enough, that I was happy being alone, that life could
not get any better, and that other people’s lives would get better
without me.
    I hadn’t realized that
their lives could not get better without me in the same way that my
life would never get better without them.
    Getting better would happen
by intrinsic motivation.
    Extrinsic motivation was
for the birds.
     
     
     
     
    Becoming a Blood Vivicanti
helped me go from that old thinking to the thinking of a purely
id-driven animal. I had gained the power of Greco-Roman gods, and I
had abused that power no differently. I could have used my gift to
become a better person. Instead I used it to escape from my inner
demons.
    Drinking Nell’s black blood
was hitting the rock bottom of a bad behavior. Admitting that I
have a problem was my death. Trusting in the power of others was my
resuscitation.
    My resurrection came when I
helped Wyn and Ms. Crystobal free Red from the Black Building. That
was the night when I started to become less selfish and more
selfless. That night I was no longer some centripetal girl. Helping
others helped me expand as graciously as the universe beyond the
narrow confines of my private little world.
     
     
     
     
    The Locomotive Deadyards
gave me time to think about all this. It gave me time to travel
inwardly, to meditate on who I
am , and to allow how I am to wrap me up in the gift of
interior contemplation.
    Time to myself was a gift.
Time without the worries and woes of the world was a gift. Yet the
gift of time for