I keep combing, staring at the 4 still streaked on the mirror.
DAY 3
Sunday.
Good day for a jog. Good day to run.
Right now, I feel like running away, maybe California or North Pole. I settle for a brisk jog along the Battery.
I run until my lungs burn. Endorphins wash out the confusion, leave my mind fresh and clean, like a morning after a heavy rain, the trash swept out of the gutters. I rationalize everything that’s happen, minimize it with the precision of a mental surgeon.
People don’t live thousands of years. They don’t drink blood or sparkle in the sunlight.
But how’d he make me see it?
I run out of steam somewhere on Logan Street, just north of Broad. Dark edges creep around my vision. No matter how fast or how far, I can’t outrun that question – the reality – that I experienced some sort of horrific hallucination. I stalked a prostitute and tore her open with the viciousness of a starving predator. No hatred, no anger.
Just pure lust.
Even the incisors were lengthened, like a lion.
Or vampire.
I begin the rudimentary technique of thought-labeling, something I learned early on in Zen practice. It goes something like Having a thought he’s insane. Having a thought this is illogical. Having a thought this can’t happen. Having a thought vampires don’t exist.
Because they don’t. Vampires don’t exist and this is all a goof and someone’s got me on the run and I’m not fucking dying, for Christ’s sake. I’m as healthy as a newborn and that little fuck should be arrested—
I stop labeling and indulge in them. Entertain them. The best drama in the world is inside the mind, running non-stop, 24 hours a day.
My legs are weak. That’s how it feels when I run this hard. And when I’m terrified. I can barely feel them.
I start up, again. Left, right. Left, right.
A better pace, this time. I let my breath take control, guide me through the backstreets. As the thoughts fall away, autopilot takes the wheel. I don’t see the trees or the cars, the houses or pedestrians. I step over tree roots, leap from curb to curb.
Forward.
Mindless.
Buzzing.
I stop for traffic, running in place. Maybe I’ll turn right, but then I recognize the house behind me. Notice the street sign. Wentworth.
And two houses to the right, across the street, there’s a small white house sandwiched between two larger ones. Palms out front. I plant my hands on my hips, head down.
Shit.
I’m two houses away from my office.
How many miles did I run before ending up here? I can’t remember. It’s all a fog. I wasn’t paying attention. I could turn around, run straight home. Never look back. I shouldn’t look.
But I have to.
I walk down the sidewalk, hands on my hips, wiping the sweat from my cheeks with the bottom of my t-shirt. Slowly, the corner of my office house comes into view. The palm. The front door. And someone leaning against the wall.
Plain clothes. Black skin.
And we stare at each other from across the street. Sweat stings my eyes, blurs my vision. But I feel his gaze. He’s waiting for his appointment. I could walk away, but I’m compelled to cross the street. Call it curiosity.
Call it insanity.
“How’d you do that?” I announce.
“I have more to tell.”
“No, first tell me. How’d you make me see that?”
He straightens, looks off. He’s not going to say anything. He wants to go inside.
“What if I say no?” I say. “What if I say no more appointments? What’re you going to do?”
“Never say no.”
A teacher once said that. Say yes to experience, she said. Good or bad, yes. Be curious because the sun will rise with or without you. Perhaps he knows that memory is inside my head, he says it to freak me out. To get deeper. Or maybe he says those things and it’s just a coincidence.
Fuck.
I go inside.
My phone vibrates. WHY? my wife texts back.
I text Explain later. I can’t tell her I’ll be home late because a vampire has insisted on an unscheduled appointment. And I consented because I want a rational explanation so I can sleep tonight. I want this goof to end so I won’t be dead in three days.
My heart is thumping. Sweat soaks into the chair. Drayton comes into the back office stirring a cup of tea.
“How’d you do it?” I ask.
He sits down, carefully, and sips. A gently smacking of his lips evaluates the flavor. He closes his eyes, inhales the aroma before putting the cup down.
“I have developed certain abilities.”
“You’re a telepath?”
“The mind has tremendous potential.”
“And your teeth?” I expose my teeth, rub the left incisor. “You want me to believe you have fangs?”
“Once I did. No longer.”
He doesn’t show me, but I know he doesn’t have fangs. That’s something I would’ve noticed on day 5. Goddamnit, I’m thinking like there’s a countdown!
“Your teeth shrank?”
“I don’t need them. Not anymore.”
“You don’t eat people?”
He lifts the teacup, again, goes through the same motions, savoring the full experience. He places it back on the table, sits back with legs crossed.
“I never did.”
“Then explain what I saw.”
“Animal instincts. I began life with animal instincts, my life driven by emotions and lust and carnal desire. You felt the tug of satisfaction in the belly when the blood spilled—
“The blood?” I sit forward, flush with anger. “That’s not human, Drayton! We don’t lust to spill another person’s blood, savor the warmth on our chins and fullness in our throats…”
A tiny smile. “I don’t believe I’m human.”
“You’re a vampire.”
“As I’ve said, James, I don’t know what I am.”
“You prey on humans, drink their blood, pretend to be human. That’s the definition.”
“Movies can’t define me. Nor you.”
“That would explain how you walk in daylight in the Holy City. Can you see your reflection?”
“Myths begin with a germ of truth, I suppose. Stories of my life have been passed down through the centuries, but I assure you I don’t sleep in a coffin or hiss in the presence of a crucifix. And a stake through the heart would kill you much sooner than me.”
He starts the tea ceremony, again. I bolt out of the chair and pace the office. I can’t believe I’m buying this bullshit. Just because I can’t explain how he’s doing it doesn’t mean I have to believe.
The birdfeeders are empty. I hear the teacup return to the table, the gentle repositioning of legs.
“Why are you here?” I stare out the window.
“To escort you through your final days.”
I chuckle. “I never knew Death was so gracious.”
“I am not Death.”
“I know. You don’t know what you are. Instead, you stalk your victims, show them cards with the exact number of days they have left.”
“You are not a victim. Death is inevitable. It comes to all.”
“Except you.”
He sits quietly. I lean against the window, sit on the sill, arms crossed. The glass is cold on my damp t-shirt. He doesn’t turn to face me, sits there staring forward.
“Why the numbers?” I ask.
“Do you appreciate each moment?”
“I don’t appreciate it enough, I need the help of a vampire – the undead – to make the most of my life, is that it? This is for my benefit?”
I tap my foot, tensing my arms, suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to grab the antique vase from the rolltop desk and shatter it over his right ear.
“If that’s the case,” I say through stiff lips, “then our arrangement is over. Your appointments are offici
ally concluded with my analysis: you’re insane. Delusional. I’m not dying, as you want me to believe. Maybe you’ve made some fast cash pulling off the con of the century. I recommend you take your act to Hollywood or New York City or someplace where your talents are appreciated because they’re being wasted on me. You’re good. Sick, but good. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
I see him lift his hand.
I hear the teacup clatter.
Hear laughter.
I’m in a tavern, of sorts. Candles flicker on wooden tables and lanterns beam. A man with a bushy mustache is behind a bar, staring at me. I hear laughter, again. Realize it’s coming from me.
I’m in a corner. The square table deeply gouged.
There are men. They are unwashed, weighted with heavy clothing. Their beards and long hair matted with filth. They watch me with large cups of mead in their fists. They’re waiting for someone to arrive. Their thoughts buzz like fuzzy words, tuning in and out of frequency. They’re not moving until he arrives.
I smell them. Not the filth. The fear. Each of them emits the emotion like a pungent fragrance that stings my nostrils. A tang is at the back of my throat. I inhale their fear like sampling fine wine. What one of them will be the appetizer? The main course?
This is why I laugh.
The barmaid is a heavyset woman, her breasts bulging from the ill-fitting corset. A missing tooth. She ignores me, drops a drink on one of the tables. Her mind squabbles with random thoughts, unconcerned with the brewing violence. There’s always something. She just wants it to be over. All of it.
Perhaps she’ll be dessert.
The front door slams open, not so much from the beast of a man that fills the doorway but the vicious wind breathing inside. He throws the lock on the door. He brushes sleet from the pelts piled on his shoulders, shakes the snow from his thick mane.
His eyes are set deeply. He mutters something in Gaelic. Lock the doors.
The men stand. One goes to the door on the opposite side of the room.
The bartender rounds the bar with a club and I’m relaxed.
No tension. No fear.
I watch these murderers with curiosity, tracking the change in emotions. The barmaid steps behind the bar, sits down and lights a pipe, hoping there isn’t too much to mop up when this is finished.
I laugh, again. There will be much.
But she needn’t worry about cleaning.
The barbarians pull the tables across the floor, clearing a space. My apparent insanity keeps them restrained. The big man approaches. He takes the furs off, lays them on a chair. His hands are like hammers, the knuckles hardened like stones. He stamps them on the table in front of me, leans over, bits of meat glisten in the curly whiskers.
I like the way he smells. The anger. The hatred. The distillation of testosterone that’s channeled into fury, his will of domination. It wafts among the others’ fear. I let it linger in my senses, titillate my sinuses until there’s a stir in my groin, a primal urge to satisfy my desires.
Tension builds in the man-beast.
He grabs the edge of the table—
Caisg.
I plant that thought in his mind. He stops. His body responds. He’s frozen like winter soil, the meaty knuckles clutching the table. I pull the chair out, slowly step around him. His men shuffle away, confused. Their eyes follow me to the bar where the barmaid sucks the stick-end of a pipe, smoke streaming from her nostrils. I will her mind to empty, the thoughts to evaporate. She can’t look away, her eyes locked on me. I project thoughts at her. She accepts them, unable to deny them.
Mindlessly, she steps around the bar.
Mindlessly, I bend her over.
The men watch as I heedlessly violate her. I feel no sexual satisfaction despite performing the act. It’s her helpless horror that shoots through my groin, rising to my throat. Saliva fills my mouth, my teeth shimmer. When the fear peaks, I snap her neck and tear into her throat. Her body is slack. I let it fall to the ground. I slake my thirst on the exposed arteries, eyes fluttering, feeding on my hands and knees like an animal tearing at a carcass.
I climax as I watch the men quiver, a climax much different than I’m accustomed to. An orgasm that is deep and twisted, all-consuming and limitless. I fall on my back, release my grip on the men, let them have their bodies. Let their fear flow. Let the anger and rage mix.
“Mì-naomha,” one of them mutters. Unholy.
All the emotions twirl like an intoxicating brew. I close my eyes, drink it through my pores—
A sword slides between my ribs, gouging my liver, exiting my back. Its tip thunks into the floor below me. The bearded barbarian is at the other end of the long sword, eyes buried in ruddy flesh. A smile erupts from the dark whiskers, discolored teeth crooked and cracked.
I bellow with laughter, pushing off the floor, the sword sliding through me. I feel nothing but thrilling horror ooze from him. His smile vanishes. The men bolt for the exits. I project a thought and their muscles lock. They fall to the floor like carvings made of wood. I snatch the oversized warrior’s beard, pull him near. I lick my lips. Now, the main course.
His eyes wide, he experiences something he rarely feels.
Terror.
The night is young. So much fun.
So much unadulterated, unstoppable fun.
I’m on my back, my shirt soaked in sweat. Not blood. My office floor below me. Pleasure lingers in my belly.
Carnal satisfaction.
DAY 2
There’s a jar of cotton balls on the table next to a well-read Sports Illustrated. I count my steps in the well-lit room. Count my breaths – one, two, three – but the tension just winds and winds and winds… I’m about to punch a hole through the door when it opens.
“Hi, there.” A humorless man in a white coat walks in, hand extended. “I’m Dr. Sheffield. You’re Mr. Gallagher?”
“Doctor Gallagher.”
“What can I do for you?” He looks at his chart, unimpressed.
“I explained everything to the nurse.”
“Yes. It says you believe you’re going to have a stroke in two days.”
“I don’t think I said two days.”
Dr. Sheffield looks at his folder, says, “Have you experienced any numbness on one side of the face?”
“No.”
He checks the folder with a pencil. “Any numbness in the arm or leg?”
“No.”
“Have you had any difficulty speaking?”
“No.”
“Severe headaches?”
“Yes.” I point at the folder. Got one.
“How often?”
“It comes and goes. I’ve had them all my life.”
“Has there been an increase in frequency?”
“No.”
The doctor scribbles a few notes, says while writing, “Have you experienced sudden confusion or difficulty with vision?”
“Do hallucinations count?”
The pencil stops. Doctor Sheffield looks up like he’s peering over invisible glasses. “Are you having hallucinations?”
I shake my head, look away. Not ready to let that one out. Can’t tell him I’m talking to an honest-to-god vampire that’s given me two days to live. I mean, psychosis is my specialty, not his.
“No,” I finally say. “Just clarifying. No, I’m not having confusion or, uh, difficulty seeing.”
The doctor gives me a few moments to come clean before flipping through his notes. I cross my arms. The silence make me feel dumber. I stop myself from leaving.
“Dr. Gallagher, your blood pressure is normal and I see nothing that indicates an impending stroke—”
“Aneurysmal subarachnoid hemorrhage.”
He closes the folder. “Have you been on WebMD?”
“No, no. Just something someone told me.”
“Has someone in your family had this condition?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
He washes his hands, drying them with brow
n paper towels, wiping down each finger. “If you like, we can schedule a CT scan, just to be sure. In the meantime, I suggest you avoid stress and take any medications as prescribed.”
“Certainly.”
I suppose I should’ve scheduled a CT scan. Don’t know why I didn’t.
If they find an aneurysmal subarachnoid hemorrhage, that means he’s real.
I’m still gambling this is all a result of the acid I dropped before a Pink Floyd show in grad school. I knew there was a risk of flashbacks, just didn’t think they’d be scheduling appointments and giving me money.
I stop outside the front doors where the sun reflects off concrete, sunlight that took eight minutes to get here, warming the earth. Warming my skin. The air feels more comfortable. The salvias in the flowerbeds seem brighter. Redder.
How many days was I given when I was born? 18,000? Was that what I had? How many days did I piss away in front of the TV? How many did I waste sleeping or drinking or jerking off?
The day feels different, now that it’s got a number. Even though nothing’s changed, it’s different. Precious.
My phone buzzes. Twelve missed calls. Four voice mails. Ten texts.
My wife wants to know WHERE R U?
I didn’t exactly post a note where I was going that morning. In fact, I got on my bike, intent on going to the office. Then I had a panic attack just north of Broad Street.
What if I DO only have two days left?
I head out for campus amongst the medical students and young interns, the doctors and administrators and patients and grounds crew… all about their business. Just another day. They mindlessly fritter away minutes and seconds because they have millions of them to spend. Right?
There are thousands of days left, right?
I’ll hammer out this cigarette, watch this movie, get laid, catch a buzz, drink some coffee, run 10 miles, read a book, get a new smartphone… just kill some time.
Kill a few days, years. Kill my life.
The urban garden comes into view. An acre of crops is lined in raised beds and PVC hoops. The volunteers gather at the back shed. The coordinator has a clipboard, pointing out assignments. Maybe I can check off day two plugging the ground with broccoli.
Or maybe I can get drunk.
The Drayton Chronicles Page 20
