Outsider

by W. Freedreamer Tinkanesh

  Having worked as a dry cleaner his whole life, he could identify any stain on any piece of garment. Having grown up and lived in the same area his whole life, he knew not to ask any questions.

  The brown stains were blood, but not the blood of the wearer: someone else’s, which had finely, spottily and sloppily splattered the otherwise mostly immaculate, white shirts.

  “I can have them cleaned and ready for collection in twenty-four hours.”

  “Thank you.” Her voice carried confidence and power. And coldness.

  “Until then!”

  She was already turning around and walking out the door, her mind ahead of her, wandering in the past. A dozen of years were nothing to a vampire, even to such a young one. She remembered being full of life, she remembered enjoying the company of her friends, she remembered loving the sound of her electric guitar deep into the night. She remembered taking stages over with the Fireheads, the female singer strutting her scantily-clad stuff, the drummer androgynous and powerful, and the bass player –the one who stayed the longest, the last one she played with when still a living being– jumping all over the place. She still remembered the electric fever, the sweat dripping through her uncombed hair, her clothes sticking uncomfortably to her skin. She still remembered the screaming crowd, the blasts of feedback through the monitors, the flashes of cameras blinding her eyes. But she didn’t need her eyes to play wild riffs, her nimble fingers always knew their way between the frets. The music thrashing punk rhythms entwined with blues pickings, soul tones woven with savage rocking, always magic. She could still feel her eardrums vibrate; she could still hear the singer’s voice whisper, scream, muse, moan, climb up and fall down the scales. A shout, a fade in and out and in-between. The body collapsing in front of the drum kit, crawling between the bass player’s feet, dragging dust, sweeping ashes and beer splashes, a hand rising to grab a leg, a microphone stand, a speaker, a cymbal that would crash infernally and ring mercilessly in the guitar player’s ears. The drummer would beat and bash her kit, bending brushes, breaking rods, and hurling sticks. While the bass player, her hands two blurs, would sometimes amazingly end up almost, but only almost, falling off Everest-like speakers.

  It used to be her life, the only life she had ever desired. And one night, a betrayal, two sharp canines piercing the fragile skin of her neck, drawing blood and life force……. If Toni had offered immortality, Dee-Dee would have turned it down. Toni never asked; she took, selfishly, greedily, she imposed her will over Dee-Dee’s.

  Rage and hate were still coursing through Dee-Dee’s veins, rushing through her arteries. Twelve years were nothing when you had immortality, you could dwell with anger for centuries and it would never be a waste of time.

  She suddenly realized her relentless feet had reached the morphing of Railton Road into Atlantic Road, where nightlife had started and daylife was still lingering. Time for dinner.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Vampires make wishes / On rising stars, / On re-birthday cakes, / On wells boarded over, / On the last star of the night, / On black horses, / On lamps without genies, / On pennies lost, / On someone else’s dreams / Left behind.” (Wendy Rathbone)

  January felt mild and inspiring. Days had this energy they only provide after Winter Solstice. Even if nights still crushed the afternoons obnoxiously early, days were slowly lengthening and Sid felt like waking up, shaking away the sluggish coat of the previous year. The weather was windy, but mild and a song was gently tickling her mind ……. I was a precocious kid not sure in which mould to fit ……. Her 14-eyelet, black boots were once again taking her to the local charity shop, bumping her into hurrying people on the busy main street. They were walking on, ignoring her. She felt invisible and right now preferred so. She could always do better without people’s attention. Her path crossed the one of a pair of constables, more exactly a PC younger than Sid and a fresh-faced WPC hardly taller than her. What were they doing, patrolling outside their usual perimeter? They were chatting away, unaware of Sid. Their usual perimeter extended widthwise from the local library (too small for Sid’s needs) to the tube station where ticket touters stood at attention; lengthwise down the market street where the illegal trade of DVD’s and cigarettes was exceptionally quiet for a Saturday afternoon; and occasionally down the parallel awkward artery, when they felt like disturbing drug-dealers’ lives.

  Sid arrived at the crossroad near the local police station. The building might be the explanation for the two cops’ wandering, Sid thought; they had tea break there and drank some insipid coffee dispensed by a vending machine especially designed for them.

  ……. I was a precocious kid not sure in which mould to fit,

  When I realized my body was not what I thought it was …….

  More potential lyrics tickling her brain cells, Sid noticed the change of lights and stepped onto the street with two other pedestrians. The charity shop squatted a corner, unassuming. Their profits benefited children available for adoption and foster care. Sid stepped in.

  ……. I tried to grow up as different as I could,

  It turned out that I was good at generally missing the mark …….

  Sid walked between racks of clothes feminine enough to make her skin crawl with primeval disgust. She reached the overloaded bookshelves and almost immediately, her instinct guided her to a hefty novel: “Sunshine” by Robin McKinley. She had never heard of it, but the attraction felt very strong. She picked it up and contemplated the illustration on the cover: a distant house on the opposite shore of a lake. She stared at it a moment, trying to guess hidden secrets, forgetful of the world around her. She turned the book over after awhile and read the comment on the back cover……. A vampire novel.

  Why would she read a vampire novel when she was sleeping with the genuine artifact? But the call of the book was very strong. She decided to buy it, wondering if Joy had read it. Where was Joy? In the middle of a day, certainly sleeping away from the sun, of course. What was she up to these days? She hadn’t seen her for at least a week. Joy had for habit to come and go as she pleased, never missing the menstruating time of Sid’s female body, showing up every now and then for some─

  Another item caught Sid’s attention, “The Dream Pack”, driving away the previous thoughts, grabbing center stage. She picked up the bulky volume with clumsy hands. It was not a volume per se, it was a combination of apparatuses, all the necessities you’ll ever need to work with your dreams─ the author dixit. She kneeled down to the floor, edging to the left end of the shelving unit. She dropped Robin McKinley’s novel to free the various parts of the Dream Pack. She had heard about it and thought it too fancy and too light to be of any use to her. Forgive her for being such an advanced dreamer! Even so, she felt great curiosity towards the two hardback books. One read on the cover: “The Dream Journal: a record of your dreams”. She wasn’t fond of the illustration: a childish interpretation of a dream, pretending to be as old as a Pompeii mosaic (gifted child). The other book was actually a folder containing “The Dream Book”, 20 “Dream Cards”, a “Dream Eye Pillow”, to “Dream more vividly and more memorably”. She opened the folder, to escape from the cow running away from a river on the cover. Someone had added colourful stars to the uniform blue of the cardboard. She read the instructions to stuff the Dream Eye Pillow. Rosemary, Sage, Thyme, Lavender, Basil. She picked out a Dream Card: Dream Action #1. A giant goose with a human sitting astride her neck, flying between clouds, over castles, hills and trees. At the back of the card: an interpretation and a visualization exercise.

  Still oblivious of the people around her, Sid picked up the Dream Journal. Hard cover to make it last. She opened it to a dedication. Someone named Toni had stuck more colourful stars of various sizes on another uniform, blue background. Toni had written, with confident and round letters: “Dear Dee-Dee, always remember to dream your life and live your dreams. I wish you the most beautiful dreams in the entire universe.” A few pages later, Dee-Dee had written a dream. Her ha
ndwriting looked hurried and unsure.

  Sid looked up. The world crashed into view. A child of five tumbled over a book carelessly left on the floor by another punter. His hands broke the headbanging, but he still cried out for his mother.

  Sid put the Dream Pack back together, checked the price sticker, decided it was her lucky day and it was always better not to push her luck: homebound she was, where a novel started recently awaited. Slightly shaking inside. Carrying two treasures. A plastic bag turned out to be a great bonus, as raindrops were now smashing all over the pavement. She got thoroughly drenched in the next minute. Who knows how long it would last. She didn’t, she never watched the weather forecast.

  It would be dry in a coffin…….

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Winged women sleeping upside down

  With bats”

  (Wendy Rathbone)

  In the black box of her room, Joy stirred, her curves shaped by a black silk sheet. Night was slowly insinuating fingers of consciousness into her brain, coaxing cells into action one after the other, methodically. She rolled onto her right side, grabbing a silky pillow and hugging it tightly, her mind reaching full function, cold, circling around her awakening hunger. She heard a gentle moan, felt a soft ripple in the air. One of the ghosts sharing the room was greeting her. They were the souls of two faithful hounds that, acknowledging her dominion over all canids, had attached themselves to her, ready to snarl at the mere whiff of a potential intruder.

  Relinquishing her hold on the pillow, Joy sat up in one fluid movement, and considered the next ten hours. She vaguely considered a few clubs north, south and centre. Somehow, the West End was appealing to her senses. A rich smell of blood invaded her nostrils with anticipation. She pushed away the sheet and left her round bed for a quick shower. Whoever had first claimed that water was an etheric eraser and vampires were etheric beings, had forgotten to notice that back in those archaic times, not that many people could swim. Incidentally, Joy could, even if she hadn’t bothered for a few decades.

  The round bed occupying centre stage in her room was a recent acquisition, something she had started to yearn for after her first taste of Sid’s menstrual blood. After a night spent in the green-mohicaned writer’s bed, the narrowness of coffins had exploded in her brain. Her black ebony coffin, soberly lined with soft, purple velvet, had suddenly become incongruously obsolete. She had subsequently discovered that housewives had not ditched their chintz in conveniently waiting skips (besides, what was so wrong with chintz? Joy didn’t know, she had never had chintz), but gay men and vampires – yes, vampires! – were Ikea’s best customers. So much for the appeal of Swedish curves to the masses. Her coffin relegated in one of her vast closets, she had embraced the sci-fi age and gone for a sophisticated, but soberly black, computer with flat monitor, scanner and faster-than-light laser printer. She never printed – nor scanned – anything, but in her self-induced, insomniac days and unsociable nights, she would avidly surf the worldwide web, discovering places where she had never gone before.

  She stepped out of the shower, her dripping body wrapped in a huge, fluffy towel, and sat on her wonderful bed that didn’t know lust nor dreams, drying her long black and white mohican with a smaller towel. As every evening, she had cut her excess hair and readjusted her white extensions. Fashion had been a somewhat different kettle of fish, back in her living days.

  Her room was still pitch black, windows well blacked-out, her eyes well adjusted to the lack of contrasts. She considered sitting at the computer and ordering some dark red silk sheets, and smiled at the absurd need for a colour in a room where the only splash of light was the electric blue of her computer screen. She got up, dropping the towels, and still naked, but dry, sat in the corner dedicated to everything email and website.

  She clicked the monitor on and her smile widened. She opened the one email she had expected, her tongue gently testing the sharpness of her fangs. Dinner date tonight. The few bags of blood she kept in a small fridge would stay there, until the next urge to spend a night in, but out on the net. Or until the next urge to indulge in a literary orgy. One wall was layered with books. Another wall was a huge wardrobe gathering the black little numbers she favored in the summer and the black gothic outfits for the winter clubs. Breeches and wide sleeves with narrow, lacy cuffs. Tight leather waistcoats and high-heeled boots matching the curves of her legs and climbing up to her knees. Just definitely dressed to kill.

  Dress to kill? New Scotland Yard was still failing to pick up her trail despite D.I. Madison’s untimely demise. She had slightly changed her diet. She loved London and intended to keep on coming and going as she pleased. The new deal had satisfying drawbacks.

  * * * * * * *

  The meeting point was a lesbian venue, a chic and fashionable bar in the West End, with a selective clientele and a discreet outside. Joy rang a bell and the female bouncer, smaller than her, but more muscular –this said, nothing compared to the strength of a vampire–, let her in. The vampire walked in with the confidence of a regular client and took in the long room. The world was her oyster and she quite liked her first impression of the premises. On the right-hand side, a long bar shining with chromes and brimming with alcohol and cocktails. On the left-hand side, alcoves sheltering plush sofas and armchairs of black leather, and intimate encounters of various kinds. Perfect for vampires. She smiled with satisfaction. Now, why was it her first time in this heavenly set up? Oh yes, of course. Like Lestat de Lioncourt, she had a taste for a dash of sordid. There ended the comparison: Lestat favored thieves, she favored rock chicks. Right on cue, a compiled sound track was playing American female singers with an edge.

  The second alcove harbored her dinner date: a woman with blond, long hair, smiling with confidence, and a woman with pale, brown skin, smiling engagingly and playfully.

  “You must be Joy,” spoke the woman with Nordic cheekbones and ice-blue eyes. It was a statement rather than a query. She was taking the lead. “I am Uta and this is my partner Jemima.” She placed a nonchalant arm around the shoulders of the passive-looking woman, establishing ownership. In the dimness of the alcove, Joy’s eyes had no problems distinguishing the curly, short hair, the finely chiseled features and the soulful, brown eyes. Her thin body was sheathed in a long, shiny dress cut out of dark red satin. She had been told Jemima wore no underwear.

  Uta was as tall as her partner, but her posture was authoritative. Masculine clothes suited her graceful frame: black chino trousers with a black dinner shirt. Flat moccasins. Joy thought she was interesting vampire material, but would probably be a troublesome companion. This said, Uta and Jemima, as a team, would have been remarkable and remarkably lusty vampires. She smiled, at the vision, and at the couple.

  “Have a seat,” Uta went on, gesturing towards an empty space next to her, and opposite to Jemima.

  Joy remembered the details ruling the order of the courses for tonight’s meal: Jemima liked to be watched, Uta liked watching. Joy was too arrogant to care about an audience. The two delicious-looking lesbians were perfect for each other.

  “Will you have a drink?” More an order than an invitation. “They do a mean Alexandra here.”

  A third glass was waiting next to theirs on the black wooden coffee table in the middle of the alcove.

  Alexandra, Joy mused. Could this cocktail of white creamy colour have been named after the empress of Russia executed in 1918 at Ekaterinberg by the Bolsheviks? She remembered Alexandra had a sweet blood and noticed Uta was making conversation, innocent chitchat to establish a connection. Joy’s eyes met hers and started weaving her mesmerizing spell. Jemima said something and Joy looked at her, politely, eyes mesmerizing.

  * * * * * * * *

  When they got up together to walk to the ladies’ room, Joy heard the melodious clicking of Jemima’s heels. She also noticed the slits on each side of the dress, open up the length of each leg. The smell of their blood playfully tantalized her senses.

  Walking through t
he door and entering the powder room gilded with Egyptian inspiration, Joy wondered since when was she so civilized to her preys. The mirror-covered walls sent them back their reflections and Joy noticed the excitement colouring Uta's face. They filed into one of the spacious stalls, Jemima first, followed by Joy, and then Uta who locked the door behind them, and leant against it, ready for the show.

  Since when was she so civilized to her preys……. Joy wondered, her lips locking with Jemima’s, her hands reaching under the dark red satin, her fingers sliding up the soft skin. She had not killed since her first taste of Sid’s menstrual blood, since her first night with Sid……. Her tongue reaching for Jemima’s, her body indifferent to Jemima’s hands, she felt fire burning inside herself, a fire that had no interest in the game with Uta and Jemima, a fire breathlessly burning for Sid.

  She decided that sex with Jemima was not something she cared much for and thus, it was time to feed. Her lips left Jemima’s, her hands left the warm skin, she moved one step back, a cold stare in her eyes. She felt a sudden hate and anger towards Jemima and Uta. Because they were not Sid, because she could not feed on Sid, she was not allowed to feed on Sid. O, the sweet fantasy of Sid’s blood night after night after night……. Jemima slowly pushed the dress off her shoulders, let it gently slide down her skin and gather around her silent heels. Joy pushed the perfectly curvaceous body against the wall, to straddle the toilet seat. Her fangs sank into a breast –somewhere no one would notice once covered up with the satin dress–, deep enough to draw blood. This life force tasted nice enough to Joy’s tongue, but it was not what she truly desired. The mesmerized Jemima was smiling blissfully, unaware of the feeding, feeling other sensations, pleasures she desired and relished.