Blood in the Afternoon

A Story by SilverDamsen

The story focusses on a professor who is a vampire who preys on her students. I would eventually like to develop the idea into a book or book series.

about 1700 words

Blood in the Afternoon

A tired-looking brunette, skin the color of chocolate ice cream, sat across from Professor Millicent Cruor. The professor tried to focus on what the blood bag was saying, but it was difficult when her lunch had been inadequate. The vein in the student’s neck was far more interesting.

Yet Cruor forced herself, only to hear the following drivel, “It just seems so depraved that people would beat themselves bloody and think it brought them closer to God. How is that different from abusing another person?”

The professor smiled. “I think you are underestimating the power of belief. To you, self-flagellation is the height of depravity, but back in the day it was a spiritual experience for nuns, priests, or anyone of faith.”

The student curled her lip in disgust. “I still don’t get that. I get Jesus on the cross. He died for our sins, or I think I get that. But�"” Professor Cruor held up her hand to interrupt the student.

When the student stopped talking, the professor’s hand glided back to a resting position on the desk. Cruor resisted the urge to tap her fingers in exasperation. “You are looking at the world too narrowly,” she said.

The student, while not able to follow the lectures, was able to follow social cues. “So the insanity of whipping yourself bloody isn’t a good final paper topic?”

“Not unless you write about it in the context of spirituality. In such a case, ‘insanity’ is a misnomer for the experience of beauty, purity, and union with the divine. If you refer to my book on religious and folk belief, Blood Cures, then you might be able to glean a relevant idea or two.”

“I thought Blood Cures was about bloodletting in medical practice. I didn’t get that either. John Keats died from tuberculous made worse by bloodletting. Yet in the lecture didn’t you say that bloodletting helped cure people? It’s not like bloodletting worked some of the time, or in low doses. Bloodletting was always harmful. How could it possibly have been a cure?”

The professor sighed. “At least you were half-paying attention.” She gave a brittle smile. “Not everyone even meets that modest criterion.”

The students eyes grew large and she bit her lip. Cruor felt annoyed. While the student was her inferior, whomever she might be, it was important to NOT offend her because of the end-of-the-semester student evaluations. “No, you ask a very good question. I am just . . . hungry because an extended faculty meeting curtailed . . . lunch.” She smiled again. “Let me explain: if someone thinks that she or he will get a desired outcome by a specific procedure, then said performance can bring about wonders.”

“The placebo effect.”

“Yes, if you focus on ‘belief’ and not on the modern conception of ‘drug effectiveness.’ People of more romantic and less scientific times believed in the power of blood. They believed with their heart that bloodletting would heal. No pun intended.”

Cruor laughed at what she considered a joke. The student gave no indication that she even understood that Cruor had attempted humor. “So something that should kill doesn’t. Instead, something harmful heals, and this is because someone thinks that bad is good. That doesn’t make sense.”

Cruor was far too ravenous for this conversation. She stared directly into the student’s eyes. Then the tone of her voice changed, becoming deeper, more gravelly and slower�"somewhere between pebbles rolling in a summer stream and a tiger growling. “I could prove to you that bloodletting bettered and saved lives,” she said. Then in a whisper so soft it could barely be heard and yet deep enough to make the room vibrate she said, “Do you want to knooooow?”

The student’s expression changed. Her tight lips turned into a soft but vacant smile. “Yes,” she said.

“Good.” Professor Cruor rose and in one deft flow of movement locked the door and pulled the student out of her chair and then pushed her gently to the floor. Then in another, the professor unlocked and opened one of her desk drawers and handed the student an antique knife. Cruor whispered, “I want you to roll up those . . . pants to your thigh and cut yourself as deeply as you can behind your left knee and let the blood pour into this vessel.” The professor took a coffee cup with the slogan, “World’s Best Teacher,” and she placed it on the floor next to the student. “While you are bleeding into the cup, I want all your confusion, anger, and frustration with my class to similarly drip away and be cured.”

Cruor paused to inhale the aroma of fresh blood and her eyelids fluttered in ecstasy. She continued, “What I want you to remember from our . . . private seminar is that your questions were doltish and if you had paid more attention in class, then you would not have been inclined to bother me.”

Professor Cruor noticed that the smell of the blood had aroused her fangs. She wished she could risk biting the student. While her own blood could erase any fang marks, if anyone even glimpsed a shadow of her nipping directly from a student, the spy would assume the act to be amorous. Inappropriate sexual contact with students was one of the few incidents that could lose one tenure. A student on the floor holding a cup was easier to explain away, especially since Cruor could glamor away the contents of said cup.

Cruor continued to muse as she waited for the cup to fill. She might not even have to use her own blood to close up the student’s self-inflicted wound: “self-harm” was trending now. Thus, even if someone noticed a random slash behind this girl’s knee, it might not seem significant. But, alack, also true if students in her class had a high incidence of self-harm, she

might fall under scrutiny. In addition, the wound was bleeding so freely that the student would drip down the hall if Cruor relied on natural means to stanch it. So the decision made itself.

The professor bit her wrist and dabbed at it with a paper napkin until the flimsy paper was damp with vampire blood. She licked her lips as she watched the first cup reach the three-quarter mark. Then without a drop of the student’s blood hitting the floor, the professor replaced the nearly full cup with an empty one.

Cruor drank the contents of the first cup in two swallows. Then she handed the student the paper napkin stained with vampire blood. Cruor instructed, “When your blood has filled this second cup, I want you to staunch the wound with the napkin I am handing you.”

The student shivered as the moist napkin fell into her hand. Cruor continued in her rough whisper, “When the wound has healed, I want you to leave my office feeling happy and relaxed. When it comes time, you will give me a perfect score on your end-of-the-semester evaluation and write, ‘I have learned more in Professor Cruor’s class than I learned in all my other courses combined.’”

The student nodded. Then Cruor’s voice changed and became more aloof, “I do not care what you select for your final paper topic. If you are not inclined, then do not waste your labor. Of course, you will fail, but failure will not discompose you because a class with Cruor is inimitable.” Cruor emphasized this last word with a graceful wave of her hand.

The student smiled vacantly. The second cup continued to fill. Cruor’s fangs and eyes glittered in the light. She was delighted that she now had a choice of whether to nab and sip from one of the local vagrants�"instead of it being a necessity. It was next to impossible to grade papers when she had blood cravings.

Cruor index finger traced the edges of her incisor. She knew that some felt shame for their vampire needs, but she only felt pride. Back in the day, Victor, her mentor, a doctor and a philosopher, and the one who had turned her, had made it all so easy and wonderful at the same time: patients had paid to bleed. The best kept secret, however, was that if Victor felt inclined, he gave the patient a drop or two of his own vampire blood and the unsuspecting underwent a “miracle cure.” She had taken particular delight when Victor chose the especially religious for his gift�"the irony. However, the 21st century could be charming in its own way. The internet was delightful, for example, she thought.

Cruor glanced at the floor. The student had staunched the blood and rolled down the leg of her sweatpants. Cruor rose, unlocked the door, and pointed a slender finger at the backpack on the floor. “Do not forget your book satchel.” She continued, “If you feel lightheaded, do not concern yourself�"just imbibe a prodigious amount of alcohol, at least double your usual intake. Circumstances will make it obvious to you or anyone else that it is your imprudent drinking that is the cause of any health, school, or memory issues.”

The student frowned. Professor Cruor licked a tiny drop of blood off the side of her mouth and stretched.

“Remember, I am the best professor you have ever had. If you feel inclined, peruse the class readings and participate in discussion�"that is if you have something useful to contribute.”

A look of concentration darkened the student’s features. “I should only speak if it is to quote your book or lectures.” The student smiled.

“Yes, that is it.” Professor Cruor waited for the student to walk down the hall then closed and locked her office door. She wanted the chance to savor the second cup.