by Unknown
By Claude Lalumière
So, like, my hair is freshly dyed, as black as I can get it. All the clothes I’m wearing are black, too: scarf, leather coat (with a lacy bustier underneath), leather gloves, skirt, fishnets, and boots that go mid-calf. Then there’s my skin. I mean, I’m, like, pretty pale to start with. But I smear white makeup all over my face and glam it up with white glitter. It makes my skin almost glow in the dark. Last touch: white eyeshadow, plus some black eyeliner and glossy blue lipstick. I am, like, stunning. Out of this world. Otherworldly.
I mean, really, it’s time I got laid already. I’m in Montreal, for fuck’s sake. Sin city of the East Coast, blah, blah, blah.
I mean, it’s fucking great here. The nightlife. The music. The bars. The cute girls. The hot boys. The even hotter men. It’s, like, all you can eat, all the time. But I haven’t brought anyone home yet. And I haven’t let anyone take me to their place, either. I mean, I’m no prude. In rural Manitoba, where I’m from, there’s nothing to do except sex, even if, like, there’s no selection to speak of. So you do it, because it’s marginally better than not doing it.
But here it’s overwhelming. Paralysing, in fact. With so much to choose from, how do you choose? Plus, the truth is, before tonight, I wasn’t sure that I was ready. I mean, I’m not entirely sure even now, but enough is enough, you know? There’s so much to take in, living in the city on my own. I don’t want to lose myself in anyone yet. I just want to find out who I can be in all this wonderful, beautiful noise happening all around me. But I’m beginning to feel like a nun or something. So tonight is the fucking night.
Sometimes, sure, I let some boys and girls kiss me when I go out. Even feel me up a bit if I’m really into them. But I’ve never let it go farther than that. Not yet. Especially, I’ve never let myself get within grabbing range of the men. You know the ones I mean. The ones with the irresistible wolf eyes; the ones who move like they own the space around them without being arrogant about it; the ones with the strong hands you know would just make you willingly submit.
No, them I’ve stayed away from, because I know that’s exactly where I could lose myself the most, the deepest.
So, like, almost everyone I see is out in groups, laughing and chatting it up and shit. Me, as usual, I’m wandering through all this solo. It’s like I’m a spectre — an undead shade haunting the Montreal nightlife.
I, like, go to my favourite club, BizBiz Bizarre. It’s in the Plateau, not too far from where I live, and the people there tend to dress up in all kinds of weird funky ways. But I look so amazing right now that, even among that crowd, I should stand out.
But, for some reason, it’s totally boring tonight. The music is, like, totally 1990s. I mean, Red Hot Chili Peppers — really? The crowd is kinda thin and so obviously straight. What is this — like, frat night or something?
Suddenly, there are three guys dancing around me. They keep bumping into me and laughing. They’re all of them freaking tall and buff. And the cookie-cutter way they’re dressed — they’re so obviously rich kids. The type who become doctors or lawyers. Their laughter gets meaner and meaner. I try to wriggle away from them, but they’re fucking herding me, slowly boxing me in tighter and tighter. Aside from that, though, they’re, like, totally ignoring me. But they know I’m there, alright. I can feel their boners when they grind into me.
Enough is, like, fucking enough.
I, like, scream my fucking head off — loud enough to be heard over the music. Like a fucking harpy from hell. It creates enough distraction that I manage to escape. I don’t look back. I’m outta there in a flash, out on the street, just running away as fast as I can.
So, like, I’m an idiot. I could at least have been running toward my apartment. But, no. I was too, like, flustered. A fucking helpless, hysterical victim. This is so not right. Anyway, I’m not that far away from my place.
Fuck. Walking home alone. Fucking alone. Again. I am such a wimp. Such a loser. What a fucking disappointment tonight was. I mean, I’m totally disappointed in myself. I know it wasn’t my fault, but, fuck, this is so not what I wanted.
Suddenly I feel the hair at the back of my neck rise, and a shiver goes down my spine. And I’m hemmed in again. It’s those same fucking guys from the club. They shove me into an alley, behind a dumpster. Invisible from the street. Yeah, a cliché, but fucking scary nonetheless. I know better than to wait. I make to scream right away but, before any sound can escape from my lungs, rough, stinky hands cover my mouth. I try to bite at the flesh of the dude’s palm, but my jaw is immobilized. This guy is way too strong for me.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I struggle — this can’t happen; I am not a victim. I refuse to become a victim. But I can barely breathe and I’m too fucking weak.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Then I hear a few strangled gasps… I feel a sharp burst of wind, like a mini-hurricane or something… Followed by a few hard thuds… And I’m free.
I should run while I can, but I feel safe. And curiosity wins over caution. I look around. All three guys are on the ground, on their backs. At least two of them are, like, totally dead, their throats slashed, their chests and bellies ripped open. There’s a figure hunched over the third guy. A man with his face buried in the guy’s neck. Like he’s eating or something.
I really should get the hell out of here, but I’m, like, totally mesmerized.
I don’t want to make a sound, but, just like a stupid little girl, I gasp.
The man turns to look at me, and I, like, totally recognize him. Before I can say anything, though — poof; there’s this dark mist, and he’s gone. Like he hadn’t even been there in the first place.
But I’m not the one who tore open the bodies of the three dead guys who are still right there at my feet, with their insides oozing out.
I am so outta there.
So, like, men? Older guys, right? Stay away from them. Especially the one who lives across the hall from me.
I don’t know his name. Don’t know anything about him. No, that’s wrong. I know two things. One, he’s way too fucking sexy for my own good. I mean, fuck. His eyes are so dark and strong that I swamp up my panties every time I get even the merest glimpse of them. Plus, he’s freaking tall. Like, close to seven feet or something. His long hair is the colour of a particularly dark red wine, with only a hint of grey. And he moves like a panther. Quietly, confidently, but ready to pounce at any moment. Also, I know that he can kill and disembowel three buff guys in the space of a few seconds.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
So, like, it’s a week later. And in that whole time I haven’t seen him once. Not a single time. I know he’s there, though. Because he, like, listens to music 24/7. And the walls here are shit. Good thing I don’t ever have anyone over, because, like, everyone could hear the sex show.
The old dude’s got weird taste. One minute it’s hardcore punk rock, and then some avant-garde clangy shit, or like really melodic chamber music. Often he binges on crap like Anne Murray or Barry Manilow.
Why the hell am I scared, though?
I mean, he saved me, right? If he’d wanted to, he could have had me as dessert. I’m sure I taste way better than those frat dudes did. Maybe he’s just into guys?
For the, like, gazillionth time, I stand in front of his door, my finger millimetres away from the doorbell. But I chicken out and run back into my room. I always do.
So, like, I go to work. Boring. I go out. Boring. I stay out all night long. Boring. I get drunk. Boring. I get high with anything I can get into my mouth, my lungs, my nose, my veins. Boring. People flirt with me. Boring. Movies. Please — so boring. Everything is boring. Even eating is boring.
And when I masturbate?
What do you think? I see one thing and one thing only: that man from across the hall, blood and gore dripping down his face, looking at me. Seeing me. I replay that over and over again. And I know what I saw then and can still see in my mind: concern.
But wh
y the fuck should he care?
And I come so fucking hard.
So, like, I don’t usually follow the news. I don’t even have a TV. But somebody left this newspaper on the table in the lunch room at work. And the headline says, Woman in Wheelchair Saved. Assailants Brutally Killed.
So, of course, I know right away. I read the whole article anyway. It mentions other incidents suspected to have been the work of the homicidal vigilante: a little boy rescued from a limousine (three men dead); an old man saved from a drunk driver (only one death that time); a twosome of armed robbers eviscerated while threatening a cashier at a convenience store (but the cameras only picked up a blur); a gang of teenage boys who had been torturing and killing neighbourhood cats were torn to pieces. According to the paper, my own trio of would-be rapists seems to have been the first incident. I never reported anything, but of course the bodies were found.
But this time, for the first time, they have a description. This idiot in the wheelchair, like, rats on him. She’s a little vague, but it’s close enough. Does she want the police to find him? I mean, he saved her. People can be so fucking ungrateful.
So, like, this time, I’m so determined I don’t even hesitate. Not for a nanosecond. I press the buzzer for the third time, but still he doesn’t come to the door. I know he’s in there. I can hear the music. (Although I wish I couldn’t. I mean, the Carpenters — really?)
I bang on the door. I’m not going to let him ignore me. Finally, the door opens, and there he is. The sight of him — my first glimpse since that night — hits me hard.
“Hello, Jenny.” The dude knows my name! He looks even taller than I remember. Like a fucking towering inferno of primal power. And his eyes, holy shit. That’s some deep darkness, there. I feel like a tiny little speck of a girl, barely worthy to be in his presence. And I’m fucking terrified. In awe. Is this what it’s like to be in the presence of a god? Fuck. And my panties are, like, soaked. I’m just aching down there. Aching for him.
But, fuck, he’s not a god. Why did I even think that? Then the obvious question finally dawns on me, what the hell is he? I mean, I’ve been so tied up with lust it never occurred to me to ask myself that very basic question. I mean, he’s clearly not an ordinary person. Maybe he’s an alien, or an escaped government experiment (do we even have weird shit like that in Canada?), or I dunno the fuck what.
As if he could read my mind, he says, “I believe the best word to describe me is vampire.”
Okay. Vampire. Right. So he’s a deluded psycho. What the hell am I doing even talking to him? But say, for argument’s sake, that, yeah, maybe he’s the real thing… Then, I should really run for my life. Either way, time to run — like, now.
Except I can’t budge. I feel his eyes on me — like, physically holding me down, preventing me from moving.
He says, “Come in.”
And, like a fucking mindless puppet on strings, I march right into the darkness of his apartment.
I hear the door close behind me.
So, like, the next thing I know I’m lying down on an unfamiliar couch, relaxed as all shit, with this strangely pleasant pain on the inside of my left wrist. I try to get up, but, even though I don’t see him, I feel the old dude’s gaze, his will, holding me down, keeping me calm. I even try to force myself to panic, but instead a wave of, like, serenity washes over me. So I just give in to it. I’m totally floating in a sea of delicious numbness. It’s like after a really amazing orgasm. Only without the sweat or the chafing.
I have no idea how long I’ve been here. The lights are dim, but my eyes gradually adjust. At least the old dude’s music is turned off. Finally, I regain enough presence of mind to sit up and check why my wrist feels different. And there are, like, these two tiny puncture marks along one of my veins.
“Welcome.” His grave voice echoes like it comes from deep inside some damp underground cave. It’s meltingly sexy.
Again, a part of me knows I should be afraid for my life, but my body refuses to acknowledge those feelings.
That voice again: “If I wanted to hurt you or kill you, don’t you think I would have done it already? I couldn’t resist having a taste, though. And you are indeed delicious.”
By now, my panties must have, like, totally dissolved.
“I’m sorry. I can’t fulfil those desires.” Again with the mind-reading. Shit. And then he steps into view. And I fight this almost uncontrollable urge to fall on my knees. No, not that way (well, not just that way), but to worship him — ’cause I really do feel like I’m in the presence of a god.
“I may look human, but I am not. I look upon you as you would upon a cherished pet or farm animal. You may be pleasant company or be a good source of food, but I would not, cannot, engage in sexual congress.”
I manage to say, “Some people really, you know, love their cows.” Great. I just compared myself to a cow. Way to go. I am, like, so seductive.
“I do not have to explain myself to you, but you amuse me. It’s all moot: I have no sexual or reproductive urges. I simply exist.”
I’m not that stupid. I know about vampires. I’ve seen a few movies and shit. “But when you, whaddaya call it, turn someone into a vampire—” (and it just dawns on me that he might have that in mind for me; and then I realize that, as freaky as it sounds, I now believe that he really is a vamp) “—isn’t that, like, satisfying a reproductive urge?”
He sighs. “That’s just folklore. Myth. Fiction. I cannot turn a human into a vampire any more than you can turn a cat into a human. I’ve tried. I’ve tried every way I’ve read about or could think of. It’s all nonsense.”
“Then how does someone become a vampire? How do you make more of yourselves?”
Again, a sigh, but this one is deep and sorrowful. “As far as I know there are no others. There is only me. There has always been only me.”
Hey, I know that feeling. Only me is, like, the story of my life.
I ask, “Like, dude, how old are you?”
He sits next to me and clasps my hand between both of his. The way my whole hand can be cupped inside his palms makes me feel even smaller. “I wish I knew. My memory is unreliable. Sometimes, in my dreams, I think I recall the distant past, as far back as before humans evolved. Sometimes, I think I remember not always having this humanlike shape. I have dim memories of once having journals, of reading about my past in them, but I lost them in a fire in the late 1800s. That’s my earliest firm memory. A fire in London. Some days, I feel that memory starting to slip away, but I try to hold on to it. I remember that, even after the fire, I had other, earlier memories, but they have since eroded away. My mind can only hold so much time, and so my past eludes me, disintegrates with age. I call myself vampire simply because nothing satisfies my hunger quite like human blood, and other elements of the myth seem to apply to me as well.”
“So, like, you run away from crosses, you can’t stand the sun — shit like that?”
“Religious icons have no effect on me. More superstition. Though I am vulnerable to sunlight, albeit much less so if my hunger has recently been sated.”
Why the hell is he telling me all this? He’s just taunting me. He’s gonna kill me as soon as I totally relax and trust him. Just to satisfy some perverse, monstrous kink.
He laughs. And I remember: he can read my mind. “What gave you the courage to ring my doorbell was concern for my welfare. Why shouldn’t I trust you? Why are you so suspicious of my motives?”
I almost believe him. Or is he somehow forcing his will on me, mesmerising me in some way to trust him?
“Oh, and I can’t actually read your mind. But, like many humans, you broadcast your thoughts and feelings more overtly than you believe. Your smell, your posture, your face, your pheromones … it’s all quite transparent. But, yes, I can exert some control over your will. It would do no good to either of us if you were to scream or do something silly like that. But I’ve been gradually lessening my hold over you. You are grudgingly startin
g to accept the truth.”
I blurt out the question that’s been nagging at me most: “So, like, why are you playing hero and saving people?”
“I saw those boys threaten you, and I recognized you as the girl who lives across the hall from me. I was hungry anyway, so I attacked them. Fed on them. But then, as I rescued you, I felt something … something … good. I tried it again, saving other people. Alas, it never gave me the same sense of satisfaction as that first time with you. So I’ve stopped playing vampire hero. What matters is that you’re here now. That we are connected. Isn’t this what you want? What we both want?”
What he just said makes me feel all tingly, but I struggle to stay focused. “Well, that’s all nice and shit, but now the police might find you anyway, even if you’re giving up the vigilante thing. They know what you look like now. We gotta do something about that.”
“We should?”
And just like that I see how my whole life can change.
“Yeah. We should. You want me around just as much as I want to be around you. You may be some way-old bad-ass vampire and shit, but you’re not exactly subtle. Maybe we want different things, but maybe we can come up with a plan that’ll let you feed, preferably on, like, bad people who don’t deserve to live anyway, while you stay hidden from the cops. I mean, you need to eat, right? You might as well do some good at the same time. I’m already involved, you know. I want in.” What I don’t say, but he probably knows anyway, is how much I need this. Something that no-one from my family or my town could ever even imagine. Something so out of this world that I’ll be able to forget all about where I come from. “Now… Tell me: exactly what kind of powers do you have? And weaknesses. Your history. Your name. Whatever you remember. All that shit. Tell me everything.”
And, like, his deep, deep dark eyes light up, and he says, “You’re right. I do … I mean, we need to make sure I cannot be recognized.” Without asking, he plunges his teeth into my already punctured wrist.
So, like, he stops sucking on me and then smiles affectionately at me. He likes me, I can tell. Shit. He likes me? What am I? A puppy dog? I guess, to him, that is what I am. Beats being a pig in a slaughterhouse. I mean, I’d rather be his pet than his next full-course meal — the occasional nibble and suck notwithstanding.
