The Winter Storm (1)
Outside the window the blizzard is a featureless torrent of white. Ravana closes the blind and stretches out impatiently in his wide business class seat, the flight from Chicago to Houston having long grown old. He nurses a single malt, a Glenfiddich to his disgust, scowling at the pile of ice on his folding table. Is it Americans generally or just United Airlines’ staff that don’t know the meaning of the word ‘neat’?
His bones ache with hunger. The 12 hour delay air side in Chicago on account of this cursed storm means that he has not fed in what feels like a geological epoch. Not for the first time his eyes wander towards the toilet door, a pleasant daydream of victual brutality creasing his aged face in a fleeting smile.
His eyes follow a female passenger as she unfastens her seat belt, extricates herself elegantly from her seat and walks towards the bathroom. He appreciates her shapely figure and short skirt as she stretches, shaking off the torpor of the flight. His interest is not prurient but assessing the quality and volume of her blood. How easily would she part with it? As she arrives at the door, Ravana chides himself. Far too risky. Reluctantly he returns to his drink.
Opening his window blind, he stares out into the snowstorm, trying to quell the hunger that consumes him. A loud bang and a flash of light interrupts his thoughts as the plane drops like a stone, plunged into darkness. A sudden silence is punctured by screaming and the wailing of an infant as Ravana is thrown against his seatbelt by a further bout of turbulence. The hostesses are courageously trying to get first aid and consolation to those who need it most. The bathroom door is ajar, the figure of the girl struggling to her feet is silhouetted by the emergency lighting.
Ravana is on her in a flash. Extending himself into his true form, he pins her chest to the ceiling with one gangly limb, pinioning her splayed legs against the bulkhead with the other. His clawed bloody hand let’s not a breath escape, feeling her teeth vibrate in a silent scream. There was a time Ravana denied his राक्षस origins, corralled his baser instincts. No more. He brings his face up to hers in the gloom, savouring the tears and streaked make-up of a terror that doesn’t yet realise it’s about to get a whole lot worse. Hiking her skirt, he sinks the sharpness of his fangs into the soft flesh of her inner thigh. His tongue finds the femoral artery and Ravana sucks her essence. She writhes, bucks, flails and thrashes but not a thud escapes, so tightly does he hold her, her struggles only serving to pump her blood faster.
The blood high hits the backs of his legs first, then the back of his neck, a spreading wave of relaxation slackening the muscles away from the bones so that he seems to float without outlines, like lying in warm salt water. As this relaxing wave spreads through his tissues, he experiences a strong feeling of fear. He has the feeling that some horrible image is just beyond his field of vision, moving as he turns his head, so that he never quite sees it. He feels nauseous and closes his eyes, at the mercy of the final intimate thoughts of this dying girl. A series of pictures pass, like watching a movie: a huge, neon-lit cocktail bar that gets larger and larger until streets, traffic, and street repairs are included in it; a waitress carrying a skull on a tray; stars in a clear sky. The physical impact of the fear of death; the shutting off of breath; the stopping of blood. And she is gone.
Ravana lets the lifeless skin sack drop to the floor and takes a moment to compose himself. Returning to his lesser form, he flicks a piece of lint from his immaculate charcoal single-breasted suit. Using his immense strength, he wedges the bathroom door shut such that only a sledge hammer or arc welder will shift it. He finds his seat as the cabin lighting returns to reveal a chaotic scene shortly to be interrupted by a Mid-Western drawl.
“Sorry about that folks, we hit some turbulence but nothing we can’t handle. Luckily no one was seriously hurt. Unfortunately the starboard engine has failed. This is not a problem, the plane is perfectly safe on one engine, but we will need to make an unscheduled stop in … Ed, where is the stop?” The sound of muffled cursing filters through from the background.
“Umm Ed is currently cutting the fuel supply to the failed engine, he’ll be back with us real soon. So, we’ve requested an immediate landing. On account of the storm, it is likely to be at least 36 hours before we can get a plane out to take you to Houston. When we land (and not before) y’all will need to let your loved ones know you’re going to be late coz your stuck for a few days at United Airlines expense in ….. Ed, you got the fuel line shut? Great, great!”
The sudden silence is filled with the muted whir of landing gear. As they drop down through the heavy cloud, Ravana watches as the city lights twinkle below. The bump and screech of tyres on tarmac bring the universal sigh of a safe landing from the jolted passengers.
“Hi this is Ed your co-pilot. I would like to welcome y’all to Ravenblack City”
Credit to William S. Burroughs for the blood high