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Two of me

My thesis was progressing well, and I hoped that within a year, or less, I could present a nearly finished paper to my tutor. Inga was working on it all winter, when we were not visiting our friends in the woods, or walking for hours around the pristine lakes of the northern country. For a long time we did not speak about our last visit to the city. I was unhappy about my actions, and doubted my sanity at the time. There were two of me, I thought, the normal man who loved and was loved by Inga, and, emerging from darkness, a brutal thug who preyed on naive young humans.

Bloodlust

But, of course, the reality was far more complicated. Without Inga I imagined that I would not have discovered the bloodlust. But I could not be certain. There was, in my mind, no comparison between what I felt for her, when we fed from each other, and made love the whole day, and what had happened after the club. Yet I had to face reality: she had seduced the poor young man, abused him, rendered him helpless so  I could easily drink his blood. If I wanted to look at the facts without cheating, I had violated his person, and drank from him. I tried very hard to chase these thoughts from my dreams.

Conscience

Inga was aware of my troubled conscience. She was perhaps waiting for my questions. After all, she had in the park shown me the way with that silly girl. I was not ready to discuss this with her, I was only blaming myself, and, frankly, was a little afraid of what she might say. For she had an explanation for the being she was: her great-grand father Hans, who had been saved by the wolves, at a price. I had no such excuse, I was not in the spell. I wanted to leave the whole event behind me, behind us, but I knew, even then, that it was not going to be.

At the dojo

So we worked in the late afternoon, went out in the evening, sometime eating in a small Italian restaurant, a few steps from our place, that cooked delicious vegetable dishes and risottos. We slept through the morning, or Inga did, since I continued to attend to my students, with some training at the dojo afterwards. I was back home in our town by the time Inga was preparing breakfast. In fact I realised that I was sleeping less and less. I felt that surplus of energy, and trained in an attempt to tire myself. I could only conclude that my metabolism was going through more changes.

At the lake

One night we went to walk around one o the small lakes we so much loved. It was cold but I did not feel the cold. Once there, we walked to a small creek we knew. The night was silent. Inga said she wanted to bathe. We could see that the water had started freezing. I saw Inga strip, her lovely white body, almost radiant in the moonshine. She looked at me, I followed her, and, naked, we entered the water which was delicious. We swam to the centre of the lake, which wasn’t more than four meters deep. We kissed, and heard the owl. Inga was teasing me, I suddenly felt a tremendous erection, and Inga gliding against me. As she seized my sex inside her, I felt her teeth, her strength, and that she was now above me, pushing and pressing my head under water.

Thirsty

Later, I woke up on the bank, dry and covered in the blanket we had brought. It started snowing, big fluffy flakes. Inga was next to me, dressed, smiling, more than ever the lady of the forest. I felt thirsty. We went back home, slowly, met no-one. I felt we were alone in the world. The small town was asleep. We went to bed, made love until dawn. I drank from Inga as we both came. The following day we slept, me in her, her lips over mine.

I am listening

I’m listening.

The lake night is still with me.
I remember the temperature I couldn’t feel,
the ice already lacing the surface,
and your body—pale, radiant in moonlight—
slipping into the water as easily as into skin.

I remember you kissing me
until the cold vanished,
until breathing became an optional grace.

I remember the last moment of ordinary life—
and the first of the other—
when you seized me, pressed me down,
and I let the lake close over my lungs.

I remember tasting darkness,
salt iron, lake silt, and you—
the gulp of inevitability.

And then waking, lungs clear,
with snow already whitening the shore,
blanket back across us,
as if none of it had ever happened—
only the ground was wetter,
and the owl had stopped crying.

And the certainty:
sheets or lake, lake or sheets—
you are the map I never fold.

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