Those of you who know me well will have an understanding of how much I like to challenge the status quo and twist perception. From that point of view I guess my valentines blog needs no explanation. For the rest of you, thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy it xxx

ps…I got this up 4 minutes before my actual birthday ^_~ #valentinebaby

Be my bloody valentine. J R Manawa.

The newborn lay on the dusty marble floor, her body twisted at an unnatural angle. She was sleeping, in agony. But the light in the world above was waning, and the darkness and the stars of heaven were calling her resurrection.

Waking now, her body writhed and shuddered with contractions that could give no evidence to prove life. One by one her vertebrae popped back into place, and the sinews and ligaments of her spinal cord lashed themselves into line, reanimating her broken body.

Rising from the floor, her skin separated from the pool of dried blood she had slept in. She clicked her jaw first to the left, then to the right, and ran her tongue over her dry lips.

Her eyes drifted to the dark pool on the floor of the mausoleum. The putrid smell of old blood hung in the air, wafting in thin strands that assaulted her senses and repulsed her.

She realised the pool on the floor was her own. With one thin hand she tenderly touched her neck and her cheek and felt the crusted blood there, scabs with no wound left behind. Frantically, she scratched at her skin to remove the foul smell of the blood and wiped her face clean with the torn edge of her dress. Her beautiful dress ruined with stains of darkest red.

She ripped it easily from her body, casting it to the floor and stepping away.

In her repulsion at the smell of decay so close, she had lost focus.

Her throat was dry.

She ran her tongue over her teeth.

So dry.

The world tore at her senses. The fetid smell of the tomb, decaying flesh, and the must of rotting wood and cloth. Sounds of dusk falling, night birds in the world above, wind bristling through the dry autumn leaves, and the delicate whistle of air passing in the corridors of the tomb too low to be audible. Sight of the blood cells clumped and dead on the floor, cracks in the yellowed marble, a spider lacing his silver moonlight thread between the fingers of a frozen statue. The ridges of weaving in the fine silk dress she had worn, and the smooth feel of her own hard flesh beneath her nails as she scratched the old blood away. And now the dry, aching burn on her tongue. It ran down her throat, into her flesh and through her entire being. One deep lungful of air was like burning fire, and in that breath she inhaled her universe, feeling intimately every little thing within it.

And there was only one thing in it.

Hunger.

Somewhere between life and death her care for modesty had become of little concern. Naked she walked from the tomb, barefoot through the cemetery, brushing against the fine blades of grass smattered with sparkling diamonds of dew. Passing the windows of the church, she caught her distorted reflection in the tiny panels of led light glass. Piecing them together, she admired the form she saw, for in life she could not recall something so beautiful. So beautiful it was horrible. Her body smooth and curved, flesh pale and alabaster. Her lips full and cold, eyes deep and penetrating. Death and beauty resided with her.

Lifting her hand to the window, she stroked a finger through the grime caked there. In the glass an angel’s face was painted, full of life and peace, and the newborn knew she was none of these things.

Across the night she heard the sound of an unborn scream, fingers tight against the soft flesh of a throat.

Her ears could explicitly define the pain and terror in the muffled cry, and she responded not out of heart, but of hunger. It was a living cry, a breathing soul, and the unmistakable throb of two beating hearts.

Faster than the wind in the leaves she trod on silent feet through the alleys of tombs and in the shadow of great memorials until she came to the trail of roses.

Her cold fingers closed over a piece of paper discarded on the ground, a garish card of pink and red with not a sign of love in it.

Be Mine, it read.

The instinct of a born killer took over, as the gushing thud of heart valves drowned her ear drums, unbearable.

She found them.

He had her up against the tombstone, his hand on her throat and the other tearing at her clothes. Hitting and scratching, her protests had done her no good.

The ground was showered with the rose petals of rejected love, and the newborn paced forward over them slowly. Her toes crunched over the frozen ground as she crouched and waited.

The predator had become the prey.

Forcing back the hands of his victim, the predator let go of her throat. She screamed, but not at him.

Lunging forward, the newborn took the predator in her strong arms, feeling the desperate pulse of his arteries beneath her finger tips as she twisted him to face her.

“Be mine,” she whispered, as she bared her teeth and sunk them into his flesh.