Vamp Alive

The first breath she took after she had died was painful. A cold, stabbing sensation all along her throat that carefully but surely spread throughout her chest. The second became the gateway to an addiction. She never stopped breathing after that.

Scarlett, or Frida de Sirois as she was known then, had been an actress in the early 1930s. Born to a distant, rigid British aristocrat and one of her Austrian lovers, she had been pampered with culture from an early age. She had someone to watch over her and keep her away from the world outside the doors of their Kensington mansion at all times.

But fate had other plans for her.

Scarlett would never become a Duchess or a Baroness.

A chance encounter with Errol Flynn at a society event had opened her eyes to everything she was missing out on by letting her mother dictate her future. Before meeting that scandalous rogue, who had already left a string of broken hearts throughout the English upper class, she had been happy to let others decide what was right and proper and what was not. He changed all that in a conversation that lasted a heartbeat. Scarlett said goodbye to the comforts of her old life and embarked on an adventure with the Tasmanian devil. After two weeks together, he introduced her to Marc Anthony Reiss, who was already one of the most influential players in Hollywood. He promised to make her a star.

And she would have become, if it hadn't been for Brenner and his faulty Delahaye 135, or so they said. The two were arguing when he swerved to avoid that shadow that had suddenly pounced in front of the car. After the collision with something else, Scarlett passed out, seconds away from death, who already held Brenner in his grips.

“No” The shadow’s frantic voice whispered. “No, not like this, it was never meant to be like this”.

The soft, female voice repeated herself again and again, until –

“Forgive me.”

Had Scarlett been conscious, the pain of the shadow’s fangs ripping through her skin would have been intolerable.

It was as if she had died after all. Her family would not look for her after the disgrace she had threatened to bring upon their name. For all her mother knew, Scarlett was begging on the streets of Hobart after being discarded by that diseased Tasmanian, and for all she cared, the woman who was no longer her daughter could rot there. The Tasmanian had left her too and married that awful French actress. If that wasn’t a sign that she had fallen from grace, then she didn’t know what was. Even the dirty prisoner didn’t want her anymore. She was no longer virtuous, beautiful or noble. She was no longer worthy of her title.

The Hollywood people wouldn’t spend too much time looking for her either. She wasn’t a well-known face yet and other actresses were proving to be ready to take her place in the pictures. Errol would miss her, but he had his hands full, as he always did.

Scarlett put down her empty Starbucks cup. She had finished reading a long review of the latest film about her old lover. It was an “in-depth and explicit” look at the rape allegations that surrounded him. She shook her head. Errol could be persuasive and he was always very charming, but he had a heart of gold. He would have never made anyone do anything against their will, especially not something as intimate as sex. She blushed a little, remembering their time together. No, she thought. He would have never touched those girls like that.

She looked down at her vintage Cartier watch. Time to go. The show would start soon. She quickly checked her hair in the little pocket mirror she always carried around. Everything was still in place: the ends of her straight hair were curled, the red lipstick beautifully seductive on her lips, the shimmery eye shadow and black liner around her eyes playing with the contrast of her cat-like blue eyes. Not a single wrinkle in sight. Scarlett didn’t look a day over 24.

It was the 18^th of May 2014.