corrina page is a fictional character made up entirely in my imagination. any resemblance to real people, places, and/or things is completely coincidental and should be taken as such.
WARNING: The following may contain adult oriented material.
jan 00 | nov 99 | oct 99 | sep 99 | aug 99 | jul 99 | oct 98 | aug 96 | jul 96 | may-jun 96
with open arms and a smiling countenance i embrace you, awaiting the moment when
i can plunge my canines into the soft flesh of your throat and initiate you into my world...
corrina page
i'm prone to being dramatic: i woke this morning and peeled off last night's stockings - dried blood and sweat - like peeling saran wrap off the side of a glass bowl - the slight sound of suction is so provocative, isn't it? a pasty white corpse next to me, cold as death, curled like a baby, hand by his mouth. i run a sharp fingernail over his index finger and it feels like a rock, but doesn't make a sound. i shiver, remembering the pleasure and i am content.
my fingers itch and so do the backs of my hands. it spreads to my arms and my neck and then i'm sprawled out on the floor rubbing myself like a junkie all over the carpet. i feel infected. i start to bleed - my elbow where i've rubbed particularly hard - and i let it stain the carpet. then i sleep.
a thin, effeminate man stares at me. he sits, slouched in his chair, leaning in my direction. his arm dangles by his side and his wrist is just a sliver of flesh - it hardly looks lifelike. his eyelids are half closed, but in thought, not sleep, and his eyebrows are bushy and dark and aim like arrows towards the bridge of his nose. and strangely, this arouses me. i let my hair cascade over my face as i lean down to grab a book out of my bag. it is the fourth time i've read zombie. i am in love with this man. both men: this effeminate man, and the man in zombie. i want to be a zombie and to make zombies. but i can only suck the life out of men and not leave anything behind.
summer burns and i ache for daylight again. to be able to just for a moment step outside and enjoy the sun as normal humans do. i can only pace and hope not to burn my delicate flesh. it's not true that we can't go out in the sun. i can. and sometimes do, but it drains me completely and then i can't feed. i prefer the dark. once the sun has faded from the sky and the moon shimmers like an elusive ghost i am at peace and full strength. i walk across the rooftops and shimmy down chimneys or creep quietly down darkened alleys and slip through the spaces between bricks. i am as elusive as the moon - just a ghost that haunts the streets leaving behind nothing of myself but for the men i eat.
at some point i wonder if i'll ever get back: the soft figure i once had, the warm and beating heart, tender flesh, broken nails, hot blood, clarity of vision. my vision now is clouded by hunger. a constant thirst. at times it is all i can feel. my flesh is cold and taut; my muscles are like wires drawn tight. the hunger pangs in my gut and the dry scorching in the back of my throat - the pain is blinding. i cannot see.but i do not need my sight to hunt. soft delicate flesh on soft delicate men. these are rare. many men are easy to feed on, but a delicacy fills me for days. his blood is thinner, hotter, clearer. it is pure. purity from drugs, from sex, from food, from all excess or poison - from all temptation. the hunt is far more challenging with such a man. i can smell him from afar; my flesh quivers with anticipation.
at this moment, down deep in the bowels of my ancient home, my gut quakes with revulsion from the poisionous blood of an aged man whose limp body and shriveled testes lay vastly exposed before me. i gag and choke. curled on my side like a babe waiting for birth, i feel the darkness envelope me and i fall into the black.
silence drips like wax down your impassive face. i could tell immediately that you were never one given much to words. that's why i chose you. i wanted a silent meal. one where i don't have to charm you with my witty tongue or pseudo laughter. nor would i have to coyly seduce you with fluttering lashes or a gentle caress on your shoulder with the back of my hand. these female trickeries would not suit you.
in fact, you hate such deceptions. you prefer to be led to the bedroom without a word, disrobed quickly, satisfied immediately, and leave just as hastily. and i did just that. downstairs in the hotel bar, i pressed up behind you until you felt the hardness of my body, and i felt the hardness grow in yours. i grazed your crotch with my hand to be certain and you jumped. i made sure your eyes met mine before i walked away. you quickly followed - a game of cat and mouse.
room 246. i've already stripped down to just my stockings and heels, breasts exposed and nipples erect. i've left the door slightly ajar for you and you enter. click, lock, twist. you deftly unbelt - you've done this before, and beckon me to kneel. my lips wrap around you and suck you in deep. your balls tremor slightly from the pleasure and my entire body vibrates with lust. several slow strokes, then slightly faster, and now you've got an iron grip on the back of my head and this is my cue. i swallow you in and bite into the base and suck you dry before you can even sense the pain. your penis goes limp and slips out of my mouth as you fall to the floor. i too, fall down next to you and slipping my arms around your waist, i hold you tight and slowly swallow the blood i have pooled in my cheeks.
my feet are like lead, my arms, dead weights. moving requires every muscle in my body to flex and tear. lungs fall flatly; fingers are numb. blood rushes to my head and i fall back down. nausea overwhelms me. i pray for sleep.
it has been a long time since i've been in the company of women. i find their insignificant chatter and petty vanities repulsive. men know how to kill and hunt and feed and win. their bodies are hard like mine. their eyes unkind and evasive. my eyes are unkind and evasive. women know this and they fear me. i fear them. their monthly bloodlettings frighten me. i am no longer one of them.
a thick drop of blood slips slowly down his neck. i have fed once again. he is a small man with smooth skin, thick in the middle. ice cold feet rest on my cheeks; i gaze up at him from below. his skin is sallow as though long hidden behind the confines of closed doors and sunless rooms, sitting behind an isolated desk where no one passes and no one visits. he is a loner and so am i - part of my being drawn to him.
before he died, he was a quiet man with cold hands and thin fingers. he couldn't quite get my bra undoned and i ripped it off for him. his fingers shook all the while, uncertain of my interest in him and the dark brooding eyes that followed his every movement. my fingers were quick to find his flesh, his fingers were quick to avoid mine.
once unrobed, his legs were thin and hairy. his arms scarred with cuts and bruises - a closet junkie. something of interest anyway. his button down shirts and 30 dollar ties hid them well. his trousers hid his knobby knees, but now naked, nothing hid from me.
red wine and thick beer made us both light-headed. his giant paws kept sliding up my thighs and i found this humorous. the feel of his scratchy palms and my inability to correct his caresses - "no dear, pet me this way." against the grain, with the grain, my skin is like a piece of finely sanded wood - smooth and warm. soft as velour.
good skin is a sign of health; perfect skin is a sign of immortality. humans do not possess this skin - remember that, save your life.
again he bit my neck and i laughed at the irony. if only...and then i was swept up by a brush of his limbs and i found myself on the bed, arms and legs akimbo, head buzzing, buzzing, ringing pleasantly, eyes drooping drowsily down until they were closed. where am i dear? why have you brought me here?. long hair tangled in my own. light as day and dark as night. opposites de-polarized. bring me more wine.
we tumbled in bed. tussling, fumbling, groping, fucking. i'm covered in sweat, the bed is wet, he lies in a pool of blood.
alcohol always makes me oblivious. i don't drink often. i lose control. focus. my favorite new quote - love makes us weak and inefficient. my lover finds this amusing and true. i want to spend the rest of my life alone.
not be loved again. not be accountable to anyone. just to be alone. it is petty human vanity to want such things as love and comfort. i am not human. i own two souls and neither one is sweet. i would kill you just as much as love you. i'm not cheap, but love is, and violence between two people is sweeter than anything.
come sing me a song as i drink this blood. a lullabye, please. when i'm done with this, i'll have your blood, too, and thank you for your music. until then, my little bird, just keep singing...keep singing, please.
death is silent and shallow. a mere prickling sensation up your arm and you can sense it is near. they say when you get an unexplainable shiver someone you knew, or somehow had contact with, has died.
death is all around me. men stacked two deep in my basement, bones of men clutter my coffin and the corners of my room; the blood of the dead fills my body, my mouth, my fridge. there is nothing deep about being kept in a fridge.
they say celebrations are for the living, but who but the dead are ignorant of happiness? what could they possibly do with it? it is useless to them. it is useless to us, but we don't see that yet. poor humans, always in search of true happiness. happiness is death. i will make you happy. come home with me.
through the blinds i watch and wait. she is a small woman with long hair - thick and black. she looks familiar, but do i know her or do i see in her a reflection of me? on the counter in front of her where she sits at the vanity table, lie three things - a razor, a mirror, and a lighter - amongst the clutter of makeup and brushes and magazines. cigarettes are a fourth item.
i've watched her do this before. that's why i've come back. she even frightens me a little. she feels nothing. i thought i felt nothing until i found her and she feels less than i do.
she is naked except for a pair of black boxer shorts. a cigarette perpetually burns in the corner of her mouth; smoke trails endlessly into her eyes. she sits and stares at herself in the silence of her tiny room - this is her preparation ritual.
she is methodical and precise. light the lighter with the left hand, hold the razor with the right hand, heat the razor over the flame, 10, 15, 20, 30 seconds, sometimes longer if the lighter doesn't burn her fingers. quickly cut, slice, open, wound. blood flows readily and swiftly. the razors are sharp.
it almost pains me to watch. the bare bulb and lack of curtains make the moment unbearable public. my teeth rise and my heart quickens. i'm off on the hunt.
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this file was last updated 06/15/02, 01:55 pm