by Jason Fuquea
Dreams are so much better than my real life. My most terrifying fear is that when sleep catches me for the final time, I’m not sent to my special dream place, but instead sent somewhere else.
As Allen tromped away from my door and waddled down the popping and creaking staircase, I blew out a stress-releasing sigh. “Thank God he’s gone,” I murmured almost inaudibly. But truthfully, I have no idea how I will get money for my rent before tonight.
Allen is not a bad guy, he puts up with a lot of shit, and I don’t think his life is all that much better than mine. Well, except for the part where he will not be dead in a few days, that’s something, right?
He is, however, a world-class slob and I don’t know how he manages to keep a job as the super for the apartments. He hit on me a few times, but nothing over the top. I expect guys too, it’s natural. I get more concerned with the ones that don’t, especially in this part of town. After I turned Allen down, he stopped showing any interest in me whatsoever. I guess he’s used to rejection.
At the Decatur Blood Bank Apartments, I can pay rent in two ways. I can donate 4 pints of clean blood plasma per month, that’s one donation per week or pay with cash, one-hundred and fifty dollars each week. I don’t smoke or partake in any drugs, so it was ideal, but not now since my blood is going sour and I’m rotting from the inside out. I paid with blood until a few weeks ago when my blood no longer passed the screening process and had to use cash – now I’m flat broke.
I’ve been living here at the Decatur Blood Bank Apartments longer than most tenants, just over four months. Most tenants get evicted within a month or two. If you’re addicted to one thing or another that shows up on the screening tests, you’re thrown out immediately, no questions.
I like it here because it’s never crowded. Since this part of town is undesirable at best, being low income and of mainly Cuban culture, the apartments almost always have vacancies and that means privacy to me.
The DBBA had a few other highlights. Next door I met a friend, and that’s a big plus. I find it hard to be around most people for very long because I’m so guarded and flighty. When I lost my mom, it hurt enough for a lifetime so maintaining lasting friendships is something I struggle with. I don’t know If I can take another heartbreak after losing everyone I cared about before I was even eighteen. If I was hurt this badly now, what would it be like to lose someone after loving them for longer than I’ve been alive?
I make no excuses for me being perpetually wounded. I own it, it’s my life, and I know who I am can cause those around me to become hurt by my actions. I do my best to not get close to anyone. Buddy and my friend next door are the only exceptions to my no closeness rule.
Jane is my across-the-hall neighbor, she is levelheaded, feisty, and understands the life I live. She’s like me in so many ways. Jane respects the mobile lifestyle I live and would understand if I were here one day and disappeared the next without saying bye, not that I would do that to her. She also didn’t mind continuing to be my friend after discovering I’m terminally ill with my combo-killer. I wasn’t looking for a mom, or some shoulder to cry on, and Jane isn’t looking for a long-lost puppy to take care of.
I am independent but needed someone to talk to occasionally, and so did she. Jane knew how detached the DBBA was to its tenants and had warned me about being late on my rent. I need to talk to her, and while I probably could yell from my bed to her across the hall, I should actually go see her.
“Time to get up, Buddy,” I said in my most friendly cat voice, the one I only use for him. Moving Buddy gently off my side, I raised up to sit on the bed with legs crossed or “crisscross applesauce,” as Mom used to say when I was a kid.
Buddy mewed and jumped to the floor, did a cat stretch, then slowly walked along to the kitchen, most likely searching for water. Focusing my eyes and looking across the room, rays of light effortlessly filtered down, landing like sharp blades across the floor. I watched as the floating dust particles glowed as they passed through the light beams without a care. The particles lazily moving as if they have forever to get where they are going. “Forever,” I thought. What an idea…
I yawned, stretching my arms high above my head, fingers laced, thinking about how I will get the rent paid and about Jane. I’m wearing my traditional bedtime shirt and nothing else.
“Maybe I should just yell to Allen and tell his slob ass to get up here and have his way with me, in trade for the rent?” I gasped at the thought, “Hell no!”
Before I do that, I’ll go down to Jackson Square and beg Chester to let me sing beside him for nickels and dimes.” OK, maybe singing wasn’t such a bad idea, but that thought with Allen is defiantly never happening.
I really must get out of bed and shake away these disastrous thoughts, shower, and get my clothes on. I may be dying but I’m not dead yet and have very little time to figure out what I’m going to do. Dying homeless on the street is not an option.
Getting ready for the day is not an extensive task for me like it was for some women. I didn’t primp for hours worrying about every strand of hair, or if my makeup was smudged. I’m the kind of girl that can think of a million other things to do than getting my hair and nails painted. On most days I didn’t even try to cover up my scar.
A faint hairline scar runs down the left side of my head from my temple and curves to the middle of my neck. The scar is not all that visible, you would have to look closely to even notice it. Of all the things I could be self-conscious of I never really think about it negatively – actually, the scar brings out character and is kind of sexy.
I’m not tall at five foot six, but with the right shoes or boots, no one can call me short. My hair is raven-black and long, almost to my midriff, but it didn’t tangle or look messy even after sleeping on it. It never gave me any trouble, always falling in sheets, as if weights were on each strand.
On the rare occasions where I went out socially, I wore only two kinds of makeup, blood-red lipstick and midnight black eyeliner. I wasn’t into goth, but with high cheekbones and dark black eyebrows, the makeup looked good on me, bringing out the crystal blue in my eyes. Today is not a makeup day.
I uncrossed my legs and slowly stood up, finally moving. Walking sluggishly through the open doorway and into the bathroom, I unbuttoned my shirt and let it slide to the floor; not bothering to close the door behind me.
I turned the hot knob counterclockwise then the cold knob, as the shower came to life with a gasping sputter. Stepping into the shower, I let muscle memory do the work of getting me clean, while my mind searched for solutions to my eviction problem.
After ten minutes, I turned the shower knobs again and reached for my only towel that hung over the rusty metal bar that functioned as a low budget towel rack. Drying off as I walked to my pile of clothes on the dresser, I slipped on a matching pair of red panties and bra, then my best skinny jeans. The jeans were nothing special, but at least no holes were in revealing places.
I found my dark red peasant top and stood in front of the bathroom door mirror putting it all on. Looking in the mirror I started to pull over my top and noticed what looked like a two-inch rug burn on my skin just under my right-side rib cage.
“What the fu..,” I said in an exasperated startle, looking intensely at the newly found discoloration. Last night while getting into bed, I noticed nothing on me at all. Now, I have this patch thing on my skin? I got a little closer to the mirror and turned to my right side and could see an oblong elliptical area of what looked like tiny droplets just under the skin. It didn’t look like pustules or anything about to leak, the droplets are defined and solid, almost like hundreds of tiny, slick bubbles with each bubble slightly larger than a pinhead under the skin.
“Could I have caught something from Buddy?” Blaming the cat and not knowing what could cause such a mark. I thought about every possibility. Maybe it’s just a rash. Was this part of my cancer or wha
t about the vamp virus? Shit, I have no idea what this damn thing is.
“Jane,” I thought, “she inks tattoos so she’s seen something like this before.” Maybe I’ll kill two birds with one stone. Hopefully, she knows what this gross patch thing is and can help me deal with Allen too.
Forcing myself to calm down, I took a few deep breaths and controlled my breathing. I slipped the silky, red peasant top over my head and shoulders, then down gently across my body. The new blemish didn’t hurt as my finger accidentally grazed it, or when the shirt material laid across it. In fact, I can feel nothing at all when I touch it. It doesn’t hurt or bleed, it’s just like dead skin. “Ugh gross, dead skin,” I thought. “I’m not turning into a damn zombie before I die!” Not going to happen.
I hurriedly finished getting ready, sliding on my silver cross and chain over my head, then my only pair of tennis shoes. Finally, I was ready to go. I filled up Buddy’s bowl placing it outside the door in the hallway.
I promised Buddy, “I’m going to see Jane, then find us some food, be back soon.” I picked him up, he immediately rubbed across my face scent marking me. I finished my goodbyes and stroked his back tenderly, gently dropping him down. He meowed and circled my legs trotting away down the stairs. Buddy is a city cat when I’m not home, he rumbles around the DBBA and Decatur Street freely. I locked the door and made my way across the hall, hoping Jane is up.
Chapter 3
Neighbor Jane
My next-door neighbor Jane has no particular sleeping pattern, so knocking on her door is like gambling, I have a 50/50 chance of getting her to come to the door without a gun.
One day she would be up during the day, the next she may be up all night. “Such is the life of a tattoo artist, my dear.” I remembered her telling me the blurb during a conversation we had about sleeping habits a few weeks ago.
Jane isn’t picky about where to service her clients. Her apartment or the customer’s place will both work depending on the money it made her. She didn’t operate an “official” tattoo business, but she is a businesswoman, and one of the best at her craft. Every client accepting her services must follow strict safety and sanitary practices, plus clients must pay upfront before any of her artistry talents are rendered. She never gives refunds for any reason.
Jane only plays by her rules, and I guess that’s why I like her. She appreciates her privacy but never has a problem opening up to me for some reason.
She stood slightly shorter than me, hairless and covered with various tattoos. Her mixed heritage almond-colored skin and green eyes were accompanied by lashes so long they would make Euro runway models jealous.
She is fit, partially thanks to the punching bag hanging in her living room where a couch used to live. Not sure how she got Allen to allow it, but I guess she has her ways.
I walked over to Jane’s door and knocked quietly. If she wasn’t in the shower, she would have no trouble hearing me. Jane has lived here for over two years and once told me, “It’s the best deal in the city as long as you don’t mind bleeding and carrying a gun.” I laughed so hard when she first told me.
We were downstairs in the blood bank. I was giving my rent payment blood for the first time. Jane was next to me in another chair as the nurse strapped me in. She looked at me and started talking without a prompt.
Jane was smart and could see right through me, nervousness and all. Most likely she wanted her new neighbor to feel better, or maybe it was just her outgoing personality shining through. Either way, we’ve been friends ever since.
I knocked again and just as I pulled my hand back, a metallic clanging sounded as the door chain fell against the frame. The rusty doorknob starting to crunch and move as she turned it.
I’m sure she looked through the door spyhole to see me, or else I would be meeting “Goliath,” her custom Colt 45 ACP with extended mag and carved grip that was never more than an arm’s length away. She loves guns about as much as tattoos.
“Alice!” Jane said. Her voice immediately hugged me in that unique Spanglish tone of hers. “Come in, sweetie, I was just about to start a pot of tea.” I gave her a half hug and walked in.
“What in the world are you doing knocking on my door during the hours of the living, everything ok, chicka?” She waved her hand ushering me past her.
“Yes, sugar, everything is fine,” I replied in my raspy Southern accent. “I do have a question, and I don’t think it’s anything major, and I really hate to bother you, but do you have time to look at a spot on my ribs? It came up overnight and I’ve never seen anything like it before.”
“Alice, you’ve come to the right place, let Dr. Jane Diaz-Jones have a look-see. I can’t promise anything, but I’d kick myself if I missed an opportunity to look under your shirt,” she said with a slight smirk. I laughed and shook my head at her.
Jane walked to her tattoo work desk and back across the living room with a battery-powered magnifying glass in a gloved hand, smiling. I rolled my eyes and walked toward her.
Once I was close enough, I lifted the right side of my shirt to about bra level. Three seconds later Jane spoke. “Holy shit, Alice. I think you need to go see a doctor – like right now. I’ve only seen these things on Vampires that have been burned directly by silver or sunlight.
“If it’s the same thing that spot will never heal, as far as I know anyway. I’ve had vamp clients ask me to tattoo over them, but Vampires normally can’t get tattoos because their skin heals so fast. I can tattoo these dead patch things if I get to them soon enough, before they go mushy and rancid.”
“Mushy and rancid? What do you mean mushy and rancid, I don’t want to go mushy Jane?” I replied.
“The places just turn a nasty grey color and become soft and numb after the pain stops. I’ve inked over a few, but the spot you have is slightly different with more color, and firmness.” Jane made a face while pressing on my wound with her gloved hand. “If I were a betting woman, and I am, I would put my money on this being the same thing.”
“I’m not a Vampire, Jane,” I said in my most controlled voice. “How can I get something that only Vampires get, and I’m a girl if you haven’t noticed?”
Carefully, Jane answered me, “Sweetie, yes, I’ve noticed you’re a girl, but you do have the vamp virus. I’ve never seen a human get these, but I think the spot is just a symptom of the infection progressing. I’m sorry.”
Replying quickly, I said, “So what you’re basically saying is, if Vampires could rot, this is what that rot would look like, and now I’ve got it on my side? Great, just freaking great! It’s just what I need, to die with a sore rotting through me. I know I’m going to die, but why like this, gross and wearing worn-out tennis shoes and about to be homeless.”
“Alice, there’s another one,” Jane said. “You have another spot starting close to your right hip, it’s bigger and can’t be seen without getting really close, but I’m sure it’s another one.”
Water started to well up in my eyes as I turned toward the door. My throat became a little too tight and my legs turned to jelly. I took a step and Jane reached out and took my hand.
“I’m so sorry Alice, you were dealt a really shitty hand and if I could help change it, I would.” She looked deeply into my eyes, “Honey, some nights I can hear you cry for your mother while you’re sleeping, it breaks my heart when you scream for her. I think everyone in the DBBA knows.”
“Did I really scream at night when I slept?” I don’t remember ever having a nightmare, something must be really messed up in my head.
“No one deserves to go through what you’re going through alone,” Jane said, now with her voice strained. “Just know that I think you’re a brave woman, and my prayers are with you. The fact that you have not taken your own life has my respect.
“I can’t help you with your skin or your cancer, but you aren’t alone. I did overhear Allen’s dumb ass beati
ng on your door this morning. I thought he was beating on my door at first. He owes me a favor and I’ll get you more time. Don’t worry about getting evicted, I’ll talk to Allen.”
“Thank you, Jane,” I said. I brought my drenched blue eyes to look directly into hers. “I’ve never had a true friend, and I’m so sorry to dump my junk on you now when I’m dying, it’s not fair.” I wiped the tears out of my eyes and spoke again. “I don’t know how much longer I’ll be around, so I might not be able to make it up to you.” Tears fell cruelly as my voice sank.
Jane reached in and gave me a full-on body hug, pulling me tightly with my neck now supported by her shoulder. She spoke with tears glistening in streams, slowly dripping from her chin.
“Alice, just keep fighting, hang on for as long as you can, you never know,” she said, her voice breaking.
Just as she finished speaking, time slowed. I froze, my body now stunned. “What in the hell is going on. Why is everything slowed down, it’s not because of what she said or even the hug. Something else is causing this,” I thought.
Her hug is very welcome. Jane’s embrace is genuine, soft, and caring, it’s wonderful. It has been years since my body has touched another, but that hug would not cause this crazy, everything slowed down, happening.
What else could it be? The heat, no, her heat, is what’s causing this. Is this normal? Thinking quickly I thought, “Why is my body temperature so much colder than hers?” She is an utter furnace compared to me. Her warmth is radiating all over me, I can feel it down into my bones, thick, and intoxicating like a drug.
My body seems to reach out for more of her, I can smell her warmth. Wait, smell her warmth? Disoriented I gathered myself. The mental fog lifting slightly for a moment as I regain some composure.
It’s not just her warmth, I knew I couldn’t smell her warmth, could I? Am I going crazy? Trying to focus, I smell the shampoo she used this morning. The hints of watermelon and cucumber fragmenting the air as I focus. Relaxing, I can smell her body lotion, a natural cocoa butter mixture. I can smell herbs in the tea, the aroma is present even while still in the closed canister on her kitchen counter.
