by Titus, Rose
She cried as she rode the bus home. She sat in the back, so no one would look at her moist face and reddened eyes.
She wanted to crawl into bed—or maybe even better, a dark hole—and not do anything for the rest of the day, but she forced herself to shower and put on clean clothes. A silk dress again. She had no blue jeans, no T-shirts, or sneakers. She had only the clothes she brought with her when she left her family’s opulent home, plus a few new things that she purchased when she moved into the apartment. She had not worn jeans or sneakers very often, and wondered if they were wrong for her, if they were for other people to wear? Or if she would be out of place in them? But then, she felt out of place no matter what she did.
She did not have the energy or will to attempt to cook again; she was not really very good at it, and in her old life she never really learned. In fact, in her old life, she never learned to do much for herself at all. There was really not much in her refrigerator. And she did not really want to eat. But she decided to go out and get something anyway. She had not really eaten anything except a donut yesterday. Food did not really interest her anymore. But she needed an excuse to go out.
She would buy a sandwich, wait for nightfall, and then maybe watch again. It was on a warm quiet evening like this when she saw what she saw in the alley…
It was light out yet getting dark swiftly. She had been sketching at the beach that afternoon, and was walking down the darkened twilight street to return to her apartment when she heard the glass shattering violently in the alley that she was passing.
Something had fallen off a truck—several bottles were broken, and thick red fluid was poured over the ground. Too thick to be red wine. And why all the ice?
Whatever it was had to be packed in ice.
“Leave it,” a voice whispered. “We’ll clean it up later.”
“No!” snapped another. “We’ve got to clean this up now! Someone will see this and know what the hell it is! We’ll get the bucket and the mop, come on.”
When the two had drifted down the darkened stairs into the lower level of the old brick building, she approached carefully, bent to put her fingers deep into it. It was blood.
She dropped her sketch pad and ran.
She returned to the alley later that night; she could not sleep thinking about it. She hadn’t slept well in weeks, but at least that night she actually knew why. She rose from bed and dressed, walked several blocks. She did not even know what she was looking for. The street was quiet, finally, after two a.m. But when she came closer she could hear a pleasant sigh. Slowly she moved toward the hushed soft noise; with the help of a streetlight she could see them.
The man leaned against the brick wall; the woman reached up to pull away at his shirt collar, pressed her lips deeply into his throat. And somehow they both seemed to be enjoying themselves.
She ran, loudly knocking down several trashcans as she went.
She had returned many times to look down into the alley. In the day the doorway leading to some unknown darkness was tightly locked, the curtains were drawn. In the evening people—always the same people—came and went. Sometimes she heard soft music whispering out into the night when the door was opened.
Perhaps what she found could bring her an easy end.
She finished her sandwich and diet coke on a park bench and again waited for darkness. From across the street, she watched.
The same familiar people were slowly beginning to arrive, to drift in with the approaching dusk. A few remained out on the street by the alley and talked casually; she could not hear any of what was said. She wished she could.
They acted, moved, and dressed, and seemed like everyone else. Even more like everyone else than me, she thought. She felt she could never fit in, not with anyone.
She remained there for hours.
Late in the night she saw some of them leave. The alley quieted down again, emptied out slightly, and the activity slowed. She heard a few good-byes when the door closed behind another one who was leaving.
And she watched the single lone figure cross the dark empty street to go into his home above the small art gallery where she often stopped to look into the front display windows.
She was surprised. She never imagined any one of them would live over there. It was a beautiful gallery, such lovely work. And it was only open nightly, she remembered. Apparently he lived in the same building, on the floor above.
She followed carefully. When she crossed the street she looked up into the sky and saw that it was slowly brightening.
A window was open behind the old Victorian age building, on the second floor. It was the window by the fire escape. She had only to find a way in and wait for it all to end.
It was all she really wanted now.
No one saw her go through the window; she did not think anyone did. Once in, her eyes needed to adjust to the darkness. Many of the shades were eerily drawn tightly shut. There was no sound in the house. When she was able to see better she noticed the place was basically clean, no cobwebs.
It was not only cleaned, it was comfortable. The furniture was somewhat old, pleasantly mismatched, but in decent condition. There were pictures on the wall, similar to the artwork she saw in the display windows below. They were excellent; she wondered who could have done them. She slowly drifted into the kitchen—did he even use the kitchen? Probably not. She imagined there would be terrible things found in there if he did. She inspected the top of the stove. No grease, as if he never cooked. She opened the cabinets. The first one she opened had a telephone book, and a set of keys. The second had a few rolls of paper towels, glass cleaner, dish detergent. The third had drinking glasses, cups, and ceramic mugs—large ones. There were no plates anywhere to be found. There was a small table, a few chairs. And a refrigerator. But it had to be empty if he was what she thought he was. Then he didn’t eat.
But it was filled with bottles of... “Oh my God,” she gasped.
She shut it hastily. “He is.” She began to quietly panic. “He really, really is.”
And what could she do about it? If she stayed long enough, then he could do what she lacked the courage to do for herself.
She shivered internally at the thought of it and forced herself to weakly continue searching about the house.
The bathroom seemed normal. It was clean, unlike her own. In the cabinet behind the mirror—did he use a mirror?—There were just the usual common items.
Despite what she saw in the refrigerator he seemed almost human. But that didn’t really matter to her.
At the end of the hallway was a closed door. Could it be locked? She hesitated, but after a few minutes she tried it. It was unlocked and she opened it carefully. She searched the wall for a light switch.
What she saw next caused her to gasp in shock.
It was him.
Not in a coffin surrounded by candles, but flat on an ordinary bed. She watched for signs of movement. None. He did not even seem to be breathing.
Lifeless.
The way she wanted to be.
Yes. He appeared to be wonderfully lifeless. Flesh nearly as pale as the white sheets under him, motionless like Death itself. Beautiful, cold and painless death.
She thought about it.
Would she wake him?
Or wait?
If she woke him now he would be angry, and the end might not be the easy painless death she longed for.
She would wait until nightfall, and hope it would just come easy.
She fell asleep on the couch after another hour of searching about the house and finding very little out of the ordinary. And she awakened into darkness. She had slept through the day. Yet she did not feel rested; she never felt rested.
“Hey.”
“Wha— ?”
“Not every night I wake up and find a pretty girl on my couch.”
“What?” She sat up quickly.
“Like, are you here for a reason? Or did you just party too damn hard and get yourself spaced out a
nd totally damn lost? If you did, that’s okay. ’Cause the vast majority of people are mostly lost anyway.”
“Oh.” She sighed nervously. “Yes, I’m here for a reason. Please, it’s awfully dark. Can I see you? Can I just have a light on, please?” Apparently he could see her quite well without any light.
He agreed and snapped on a feeble small lamp. “Now. Can I know what’s going on?”
She looked at him and found him almost attractive. No, she corrected herself, not almost. He was attractive—dangerously so. His hair was slightly wet from the shower; he wore a black T-shirt and faded jeans. His feet were bare. She almost wanted to just say nothing and keep looking at him, but she had to finish what she came for. “I just thought we could be of help to one another.” She wondered if her attraction would make it easier.
“What do you mean? Look, just tell me what you want, okay?” He grew impatient.
“Well, I suppose I figured out who you are, and, well, I just thought—”
“Yeah? So what’s the damn point? Look, okay, maybe you’re one of those New Age types who says she can heal all the world with a mere thought, right? Because if you are, I don’t give a damn. I’m just fine the way I am, and—”
A tear streamed steadily down her face.
“You okay?”
“You don’t understand. I’m here because I need your help. I’m tired of living. I want to end it all. And I’m too much of a coward to do it myself. I’ve tried. Oh God, I have tried. But I can’t!” she sobbed.
He came closer. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying you can have me, take me, kill me, as long as it won’t hurt. I just want to end it.” She finally let go, broke down and cried miserably.
“There’s something you don’t understand.” He spoke more softly. “Slaughterhouses. We get it from slaughterhouses. It’s from animals. It’s not always fresh, but…. Damn it. I can’t kill you.” He almost laughed, but stopped himself. “I can’t.”
“Why not? I’m here. I’ll let you. I want to die.”
“Because it’s wrong. That’s why. It’s just not ethical.”
“Well,” she sniffed, trying to breathe between sobs. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Look, what happened anyway? Have a fight with the boyfriend? Lost a job? Whatever it is—”
“I’ve felt this way a long time.”
“Well. I can’t take your life, even if that’s what you really want. What’s your name anyway?”
“Laura.”
“Just Laura?”
“Laura Rivers.” Her voice was more steady as she struggled to calm herself. “I shouldn’t have bothered you then. I’ll just go. And I won’t tell anyone about you.”
“Hold on. Wait a minute. I can’t just let you go. I can’t just let you walk out of here so you can leap off a bridge or something stupid like that.”
“Actually.” She rose up from where she sat and continued toward the door. “I tried to get up the nerve to leap into a tiger pit at the zoo. But it didn’t work. I’m too cowardly.”
“Wait a minute.” He took hold of her arm before she could reach the door. “If I let you go and something happens to you—”
“It won’t matter. It’s my life’s goal. Let me go, then.” She looked down at the extreme paleness of the flesh of his white hand. His grip was like cold steel.
“Not if you’re going to kill yourself.”
“Why would you care?”
“I don’t know. Come back in and sit down, so I can keep an eye on you, and make sure you don’t self-destruct.” He pulled her away from the door. “No. I really don’t know why I care. I don’t know. I really should not, and it shouldn’t matter to me what you do to yourself. But I do care, and it does matter.”
“Let go!” she snapped.
“What will you do? Yell ‘help, someone’s trying to kill me’?”
Laura shook free of him and reluctantly drifted back onto the couch she woke up on; she sunk into the worn out cushions and stared at the floor. “I really thought you would help me.”
“I don’t know who you are, but I live in eternal darkness and still I find a way, every night, I find some small way to enjoy what little I’ve got in this world. What is so terrible that you’d rather die —?”
And so then she slowly began to tell him, tell him everything. It didn’t matter to her if someone knew. Perhaps by dawn she would be allowed to leave and never see him again.
“Everything was all set for me in my life, my so-called life. Everything, every little detail, was very well taken care of, always.”
Since she was a little girl she was sent to the best schools, wore the best clothing, and she was only allowed to have the best friends: children from families of similar backgrounds, similar backgrounds of power and wealth and privilege. She was sent to a convent school in Europe that she did not choose, only to return home to find that her father had arranged a marriage for her without her knowledge. She did not know the young man well; she had met him only twice. She figured it was basically just part of another one of her father’s business schemes. The young man’s father would invest in her father’s company, and the marriage would help to hide that the young man was gay. Maybe most people these days did not care about people’s personal lives, but such things meant a great deal to the type of people her father did business with. By then she had her fill of it all. Her stepmother had already picked out the wedding gown, chosen the church, and the honeymoon was arranged for.
Instead she left home, taking the money her grandfather left for her.
She attended an inexpensive state college to become a grade school teacher. She had always liked art, and thought of becoming an art teacher, believing that she would enjoy the children.
She never really fit in well at the state college. Many of the people there were from working class families. They spoke differently, had different interests, different worries, different values. They dressed differently; they did not carry themselves in the same way as the people she had grown up with.
And the worst awakening for her was that she found people in this new world she landed herself in could just do things for themselves. When her roommate at the dorm rewired a desk lamp with frayed wiring she was stunned beyond belief to watch. She did not even realize such a quick easy repair could be done. No, Laura. Look, it’s easy. See? Just skin the wires with a knife, wrap the new one into the old one here, then wrap it up nice with this black tape. My dad the electrician, he showed me this. People fixed their own cars, ironed and laundered their own clothes, sewed torn underwear, cleaned their own apartments. “I know it’s silly, but I felt like an idiot. And I still do. I mean, I don’t ever fit in. I didn’t fit in with my family, and I don’t fit in too well with people in the real world, either.”
Eventually she managed to pass her courses and go on to secure a position in a local public school. She started her career and grew hopeful that she could eventually learn to blend in; to function, become a part of what she thought must be normal society.
But the children paid no attention to her. They threw their crayons when she turned her back to write on the blackboard, they wrote bad words on their drawing papers, and started fistfights during class with one another.
It grew worse. She could not control them. They viewed her class as their playtime. The boys fought in class and last week one received a black eye. His parents called the school in a rage and complained about her lack of control in the classroom and demanded she be fired. She returned home crying.
The children knew she was fragile and they did everything they could to exploit it. Twice she walked out of the classroom in tears, once even running to the ladies’ room to vomit out of nervousness. And always, where ever she was, she could see and hear her father, hear his voice, see him standing over her, ‘I told you that you can do nothing on your own. See what a fool you always make of yourself.’ And he was right. She had been a fool to think she could get by on
her own and fit in with other people. She was somehow half, or less, a person. She was weak, fragile, lacking in brightness and capability. She tried to do her own laundry once, with disastrous results. And she discovered she could not cook. She burned everything, once even setting fire to the small kitchenette in her apartment. She was afraid to learn to drive.
“I don’t know. Maybe my father was right. I’m somehow less capable than other people, or something. A normal person could handle little kids, balance a checkbook, and cook a decent meal.”
“I don’t cook either, lady.”
“So, you. You’re a—”
“Go on, say it. I don’t care.”
“Well.” She struggled to remain polite. “You don’t really have to cook. Oh, why tell all this anyway? I’m just sick of failing at everything I do. My father was right. I don’t belong anywhere. He told me I’d never make it on my own. And I can’t. But I can’t go home, either. I’m just so sick of taking his orders.”
“But you just started doing things for yourself, Laura. Give yourself a chance.”
“What?”
“I bet you never did laundry before, right?” The vampire asked. Did he have a name? She wondered. Yes. Probably an odd sounding one.
“B-but,” she stammered as she struggled to look away from the two deep black pools of his dark eyes. “But, there’s nothing to it. The maids did all the household work about our estate, and… Well, they’re not well educated, I mean, they didn’t even speak English, and they did okay with their work.”
“You had a maid? Okay. So, there’s the trouble then.” He sounded quite definite. “Look. What are you? Twenty two?”
She gazed down at the dusty wooden floor and was silent.
“Okay, look, separate the whites from the dyed fabrics, then be sure the cotton stuff isn’t in hot water, okay? Step Three, after it’s washed, put it in the dryer.”
