Chapter Text
You were dying.
Not in the hyperbolic way you would exclaim after a hard day of gruelling, exhausting work. No, you were truly dying. Your health had been steadily deteriorating for the past six months. Chronic fatigue, recurring infections, eyesight deteriorating, sudden weight loss. Oh, and the thirst. It was like you couldn’t down enough water, no matter how hard you tried. You were so desperate, one night, to quench the thirst that you rifled your mother’s meagre drinks stash, and downed an entire bottle of bitter red wine. It hadn’t helped; it just left you with a hangover and your mother’s dreaded wrath.
A few weeks ago, the Louisiana State Medical Society, a charity focused on health care for the entire state, visited the poorer part of the quarter, where you lived. It had been a travelling doctor’s surgery, so to say. One doctor and a few nurses who would pitch a tent for a few days, giving out free medical attention and advice. You had snuck away from one of your jobs, cleaning up the aftermath of a brothel's busy weekend. The owner was home, nursing a migraine, so you wouldn’t be missed for a few hours. You stood in the queue for an hour, the people ahead of you sickly yellow, or holding up an arm that had fallen out of its socket. When it was finally your turn, you sat down in a rickety chair, the curtain of the tent drawn for a semblance of privacy.
Once prompted, you listed off the worrying amount of symptoms you had been experiencing– everything from your fatigue, to the infections, to your unquenchable thirst. With each symptom the doctor’s frown deepens, his expression growing more severe. He shook his head, and turned around to rifle through a trunk. He produced a pot, handing it to you, asking you to provide a urine sample. You looked horrified, but settled when the doctor stepped outside, leaving you in privacy. With an indescribable amount of embarrassment you pissed into the pot, calling out for the doctor when you had finished.
To his credit, he handled it with great professionalism. He took the pot and rifled through his trunk once again. He brought out what looked like a thin strip of copper, and dipped it into the pot. You waited a few, agonising minutes, before he turned to you. He appeared solemn, like a police officer holding his hat to announce the death of a loved one. Only, it was your death he was announcing.
“Diabetes. The sugar in your blood won’t absorb into your body; the ketones are turning your blood acidic. We usually see it present in people younger than you, but it isn’t impossible for it to set in during early adulthood, either,” he said, his words too medical for you to fully understand, but the severity shook you to your bones. You could hear the death sentence. “Your body is shutting down, organs failing. Without intervention, you will die within weeks.”
You had sat back in the wooden chair, gripping at the apron of your skirts in horror. You were going to die. The doctor continued to speak, but you could only half listen. “In Canada they have created insulin from swine, to give people with your illness. Your best chance is to go to one of the bigger cities up North and volunteer for trials taking place– there have been positive results on human subjects when they’re injected.”
Thanking the doctor, leaving, and returning to your workplace all went by in a blur. Travel up North? As if you had the money to make the journey, all the money you earn was snatched up by your family. There was nothing you could do.
You kept the secret to yourself for almost two weeks. It wasn’t until your health took another decline that you broke down to your mother, telling her of your diagnosis, the only hope being to get into an insulin trial. Her response didn’t surprise you, but it broke your heart nonetheless.
She looked down at you, from where you were begging on your knees. She didn’t try to disguise the disgust on her face. “Spend all my money on saving you?” She scoffed, letting out a disbelieving laugh. “Don’t be so fuckin’ stupid. If you’re gonna die, do it away from the house, would you? I don’t need your corpse stinkin’ up the house, and besides, your body has no used to me if it can’t work.”
Just like that, you were homeless and disowned by your family. Again, it didn’t come as a surprise, but you had a big heart despite your apathetic upbringing; and a big heart leads to big hurt. You couldn’t help the anguish you felt. You were going to die alone.
Tonight was the night, you could tell. Your body was giving up on you. The night was cold, and you were sat in a crumpled ball, arms curled around yourself. You were resting against a lamp post, the amber glow from the flame above providing a modicum of comfort. Your skin was a sickly pallor now, as though you were already a corpse. Your mouth tasted sickly sweet, vaguely like pear drops you had stolen from a candy store as a child. It was like the sugar that lingered in your blood was trying to escape through any means, even through your saliva. Each breath you took was a wheeze, a full body effort. You knew it wouldn’t be long now.
As you sat, holding yourself, you looked around at everyone buzzing through the Quarter. The Vieux Carré, where you had spent your whole life and would now meet your end. You had never left New Orleans, and rarely had the opportunity to leave the Quarter. You were one of these people once, running about during the dying light, trying to get errands done before the French Quarter’s famous nightlife commenced. You would have ignored yourself; just another poor soul, laying on the street. New Orleans had plenty of charity cases, and you weren’t pitiful enough to receive donations.
You thought of the life you had lived. You hadn’t achieved much. Put to work at a young age, your first earnings snatched by your mother. Picked on by your siblings; bullying which grew into abuse as you aged. Perhaps the warmest memories you have are of learning languages from the other poor girls you worked with. New Orleans was a hub of culture, a popular destination for immigrants. Your family were immigrants too, just a generation before you. During your exhaustive work days you would practise your conversational skills in the different languages the other girls could share; a bit of Spanish, a fair few words in Italian. You spoke French best; though it was half Creole, half bastardised European French.
A daze settled over your mind, a hazy fog of black smoke that clouded your thoughts. You distantly recalled something about your organs failing. You supposed that was happening now. You had never been particularly religious, but you were raised Protestant. As a final act of hope, you murmured the Lord’s prayer, the words husky between your chapped lips.
You heard footsteps coming close to you, and you cracked open your eyes. Before looking you could hear the echo of wealth from the steel in his sole. Above you stood a well-dressed man. He exuded wealth, but not in a gaudy way. Handsome, clean, and well-dressed. Not a usual sight for the French corner. You studied him with your failing eyesight. He seemed torn, between hesitation and anger. Anger? Was he angry at you, or angry at himself? You could not tell. You did not have the strength to ask him. He stood still; stiller than any human should be able to.
The blonde man stood still for a few, prolonged moments. You gave up on trying to figure him out, you were tired, you were ready to die. You closed your eyes, accepting.
Suddenly, you heard the man swear colourfully under his breath in French. Before you could register through the fog in your mind what was happening, the man had scooped you into his strong arms and was walking off, carrying you as though you weighed no more than a small bag of flour. You didn’t have the strength to question him, to demand he put you down as you so wished. What was he going to do with you? You consulted God again, praying it wasn’t for dubious purposes. Perhaps he saw your dire situation, and was going to provide you somewhere comfortable to die. You could only hope.
You fell in and out of consciousness as he carried you away. Nobody on the streets tried to stop him.
Once you woke up again, you found yourself inside of a nice house. Or, at least it looked like it used to be nice. It was terribly messy, newspapers and books stacked haphazardly. As the man ascended the stairs, you in his arms, you could have sworn you saw a dead raccoon. Perhaps your eyes deceived you, in this dying haze.
You were laid onto a stale bed, a plume of dust awakening as your weight settled onto the duvet. You cough, your lungs irritated. The man looks down at you, that same strange mix of anger and hesitancy clouding his expression. He begins calling out for another man, “Louis! Louis! You must come at once!” He paused, waiting for an answer. None came, and nobody joined the pair of you, in the room.
The man seemed to grow frantic, panicked. “Louis! Louis, please, mon cher!” he yelled, though his eyes didn’t stray from your form on the bed. No answer came. The man looked ready to fall into a bout of hysterics.
You had no strength to read into this situation. You were fading, and fast. You had no feeling in your hands or feet, your heartbeat was slowing to a dangerously weak pace. Your eyes fell shut once more, giving into death’s hands which oh so eagerly wrapped around your form, ready to pull you into the old thereafter.
You heard the man curse above you once more. You felt him move closer to you on the bed, but you could not open your eyes to see him. A shaky breath ghosted over you. “I will give you a gift, and you will thank me,” he whispered, a twinge of something like desperation clinging to his tone. “Please thank me.” Large hands grasped at your shoulders, pulling you up into his arms, the rest of your body laying limply on the bed.
Suddenly, a sharp, icy pain pierced at your neck– were those his teeth? You didn’t have the right of mind to ask. With a sudden burst of adrenaline and strength, you wail out in agony– your eyes shooting open, staring wide and shocked at the painted ceiling. He gulped down the blood escaping from the wound in your neck, and you felt yourself growing weak once more. Your scream abated off into a gasping sob.
Though your senses had faded, you could hear another person burst into the room. Louis, your mind provided to you, hazily. The one the man had been desperately beseeching to come to him. He begins to yell, but you only hear bits and pieces as the blood is drained steadily from your body.
“What is this? The fuck are you doing?” Louis hisses, his local, Louisiana accent soothing a part of you; at least you would die, in this demon’s grasp, hearing something familiar. “You aren't supposed to bring your kills home– you fucking know I hate it!”
The man at your neck did not respond; could not, with his teeth lodged in so firmly. You heard the other continue to yell and complain, but so close to death you could not discern his words. Finally, the man pulled away from you, his teeth snagging painfully on your flesh. “What are you doing? Lestat!”
You felt something warm and liquid drip at your lips. Your tongue weakly tried to lap at it. “Drink it, girl,” the french accent urged you. You did as you were told, mouth agape as the liquid flowed into your mouth. Was that blood? You had no strength to feel disgust.
“Lestat, what are you doing? Are you trying to replace her? You can’t just make another! Stop this, please stop,” Louis’ begging grew more and more frantic, and louder, as if you were regaining your senses. The more of the viscous iron you downed, the more feeling returned to your body. Suddenly your extremities were no longer numb, they were reinvigorated with newfound strength. The more you drank the more you grew ravenous. This was unlike the diabetic-fuelled thirst, this was all encompassing. As you felt your heartbeat grow stronger in your chest, you could feel this hunger grow. It was unlike anything you have ever felt; this was not simply hunger, this was a lust of the stomach, of the heart, of the soul.
With newfound power in your body, your hands shoot up and grasp onto the man in front of you. You were drinking from his wrist, the blood flowing fruitfully. You gulped it down like a savage animal, ignoring Louis’ cries, Don’t do this to me, we cannot just make another, wanting more of that liquid strength that satiated the burning in your stomach, in your soul.
Suddenly, the wrist is wrenched away from your mouth. The blonde man heaved with the action, staring down at you with a look of wonder and endearment.
“More,” you demanded.