Confession of a Drainer

By Thomas Caterer

I heard once about a drainer, she was an old acquaintance of mine. A failed romantic interest, if truth be told. Our kind live long enough to adopt a wildly distorted view of time. I probably hadn’t seen her for centuries, but it felt like decades. She was the adventurous type. Off gallivanting somewhere, I figured. Truth is, she’d died. She’d drained someone, at the end of her most recent Jade Cycle. Little did she know, the kid was meant to be hit by a bus a week later. So she only lived out the last couple of days of her previous vic, and then the next seven added on. She was dead in nine days. Makes you wonder, is one drain every few months often enough to keep topping up? Or should I do more? But the more bodies you pile up, the more likely you are to be sniffed out.

I write this now on a notepad I took off this little cherub. Emblazoned with a Disney princess or some such thing. A dead-eyed creep straight out of the uncanny valley, if you ask me. I miss the old style animations. This girl is a sweetheart, a trusting little thing. No suspicion in her eyes. Such sweet naiveté. Her papa is tied up, already dead. He hangs upside down, all the blood drains to his little red head. A needle in the artery of the neck is connected to an artery in my wrist via a clear plastic tube. I’ve made a couple of blood smudges on the page, I do apologise.

I write this now, well for two reasons. Firstly, it’s fun. Someone will find this, and someone should know about my exploits. But also I write this for the ages. A first written account of draining, a first historical document to capture the culture of my people. This will be a prized artefact one day. These hallowed pages will be viewed behind bullet-proof glass, the museum all rigged up with invisible lasers, CCTV, an armed security guard, you name it sonny!

The girl stirs. A precious little doll in her chair. Her eyes reluctantly open. Mine would be reluctant too, were I her. All it takes is contact by the skin, but the transfer process is so exhausting, you need your blood bag attached. I’m doing him a favour I reckon. What loving father would want to live in a world without his little princess anyway? Lesley always made fun of me for being merciful. Shit… nine days… Lesley… I would have loved to have played with you once more, oh the joy of the hunt… but I digress… I admit, I may have downplayed things a little when I said ‘acquaintance’. Still even to drainers centuries are still a fairly long time. The more you live, the more there is to forget. So many things lose their appeal. Having sex, eating food, drinking alcohol, even laughing. All these things have worn out so thin over time, become so drab. Fuck who cares if she provides a short cycle anyway… should have drained a geriatric, made this my last rodeo, curtains call, take a bow…

Yet somehow, draining still feels good. Choosing your prey, setting your traps, hunting… oh sweet hunting, it does not lose its wonder. The vibrancy of its colour palette, the radiant echo chamber which encases you, thudding, transcendent chords break over your mind, overwhelm your senses, your knees buckle, wave after orgasmic wave floods your mind, body, and soul. And all the time you can hear the little shit’s screams. Their wailing, their agony. Joining the chorus of other souls trapped within you. Joining the others, begging for your body to break, so they can finally be set free. Oh heavens, it is still fucking delicious.

Well here we are, in a grey warehouse, in a quiet corner off a quiet road. The dead of night. My radio set to Classic FM. The stuttering light above, lending a B-movie horror vibe. If you live long enough clichés become original once more. The walls are adorned with surgical tools, the floor has the odd paint can scattered here and there, my grossly overweight pet cat, Mr. Cuddles, purrs with a nonchalant complacency. The girl’s papa is tied to a rafter with thick rope. One of my best knots! The little girly herself is tied up with steel wire. The barbs dig into her flesh, like the kisses of a razor-tongued, over-eager lover. I hover over her. I place my hand on her head. Skin on skin. With her father’s blood running through me, the ritual complete, I am ready to drain.

Her eyes water, so adorable, this cherub. She doesn’t try to scream, she’s been softly saying ‘papa’ for a little while now. Her eyes turn from her father’s corpse to look full into mine. ‘Please… sir… I’m scared’. She chokes on her own fear. Wide eyes, and flushed cheeks, she looks good enough to eat. ‘It’s okay petal, everyone feels scared sometimes…’ I reassure her. ‘I’ll be keeping you safe from now on’.

I close my eyes, as I begin to pull her into me. My hand tightens around her forehead. I see all her dreams, all her memories. Her mum reads her bedtime stories, she fights with her brother, she develops her first crush, her dad makes her eat his dreadful mac and cheese, the girls at school laugh at her choice of dress to a school dance, her mother in the hospice, her dad’s tears as he reads his eulogy, her brother cuddling her in the back of their car, trailing the hearse.

The energy of her consciousness, the sweet taste of her very essence, it seeps into me. What’s left of her lifespan transfers to me, I can feel her resistance, her spirit has some fight in it. She screams, she pulls away, she is fighting me with all she has, but it’s not enough, it never is. She joins the others trapped in the dark recesses of my soul.

And this where I will leave you now dear reader, her body is still fresh, all vital signs are showing, her body is clinically alive, the heart beats, she breathes, she appears to be in a coma to all those who don’t know any better. And yet it is now but an empty husk. It will stay this way, they don’t rot, but I will bury it… And after that I will abandon this lair, move on to a new town, new city, new country even. But I’ll leave this confession behind, for posterity, to mark the first contribution to the world’s collective history on behalf of drainers. All the voices of over a thousand souls scream within me, their suffering fuelling my life. Because of them I am never alone, and I am never without the sound of music.