Kendra Marie Pintor

We as Offerings

PUBLISHED IN FOLIO 2023: VOL. 38.

To say I never noticed the fangs would be a lie. I saw them on our very first date—if you could even call it that. We were at a backyard party, and you convinced me to make use of the moonlight. Our friends were drinking, laughter mingling with music, the air sweetened by cigarette smoke. You drew me into the water, into your arms, and I saw the points of your teeth when you smiled. I think that’s why you kissed me: quick, big, and hungry. To this day, I do not know if all that wet was our saliva mingling, or the spray of water splashing between our bodies—or something else entirely.

It’s easy to forget that the person you love is a bloodsucker when they’re depressed. Fangs don’t show when you frown. But I still remember the way you used to smile, wide and unapologetic, whenever we were alone. We never acknowledged your mouth or the daggers deep inside, pretending to be canines. I had seen the cut of your teeth, and I didn’t mind when you nicked my lips because you always apologized, produced a Band-Aid from your wallet, your pocket, or from behind your ear. There was never any part of me (back then) that considered you might be doing it on purpose, tasting me in secret, pretending that every prick was an accident, claiming your tongue “slipped.”

Your apartment was full of dead bodies, but all I could see were the empty dresser drawers, the bare clothing rack in your closet, all of the space you were making for me. I failed to notice the limp hand hanging over the edge of the bathtub, the clump of blond hair peeking out from under the sofa, or the sag bags lining the door of your fridge. Back then, I didn’t think anything of your hunger because you made me believe it was just a part of you, easily satisfied by the things we did. Now I know hunger implies an urge that can be satisfied. You, on the other hand, are driven by something bottomless. I know now... you have always been trying to feed something that will never be full... a sadness swallowing you faster than you can devour the world. How many nights did I spend in vain, trying to feed you, my love? How many times did I spread myself across the bed like a banquet, your fangs like fork prongs, my flesh a feast? How long did you plan on letting me believe that one day, it would be enough? How long would you have let me go on plating my head on your pillow ?

Whatever spell you had me under broke the day the cops knocked on the door, asking about a girl we both knew. She had been at the party the night we met. She was claiming you drank her blood. You smiled—though not wide enough to show your teeth. The cops apologized; This won’t take long. By the time they left, you were all chortling, reassuringly patting each other on the back. They cast quick, sidelong glances in my direction, never fully finding my face, not wanting to know me as anything more than a clump of brown hair. I should have left then. I should have packed my bags and never looked back, but instead, I stayed sitting on the couch while you gingerly shut the door and slid the lock into place.

I knew it was over the night you came home, covered in blood, mouth stained red. A sudden craving for comfort food, you said. Maybe you wanted me to assume it was all gore, but when I touched a finger to your lips, it came back shimmering with gloss. I asked you who she was, but you wouldn’t tell me. Instead, you tracked her in, bloody footprints across the wood floor. It was all too easy before that night to pretend you didn’t have fangs in your mouth, pretend you didn’t drink the blood of that girl from the party, pretend you weren’t devouring me, slowly... too easy to believe I wouldn’t one day be on a shelf in your fridge.

Now, I stand at the edge of the bed as you sleep. It’s the middle of the afternoon, and if your room had windows, I would throw back the curtains and watch you disintegrate. Instead, my fingers curl around the hilt of a wooden stake I bought online. Yet, even now, as I prepare to plunge the point into your heart, I hesitate and look for your fangs, somehow doubting they were ever there at all, teetering on the edge of, did I make it all up in my head? When your eyes open, I expect to see red—but they are brown, like mine. You see the stake, now raised over my head, and I say, Baby, please smile.