Moonlight (2)
shouldn't complain. It isn't as though I've paid any rent or even done much dusting and cleaning, which I said I would, and owe it all to Bettina and her adoring, bovine eyes that found me. Then again, maybe Nuit can say that because Nuit is one of the lucky ones. She got a job, as a coat check at a dance club. I was still looking, and Nuit, who knows all those club kids as if they were her own gaggle of sibs and cousins, steering me in the direction of Bettina. Bettina, she told me, was her girlfriend Lisanne's ex-roommate. Her real name is Betty Ann, but she thinks Bettina is more suited to her. Whatever, I thought. "You're just gonna have to overlook a lot of stuff that she says. Don't take it personally. She's hardly the only one, and she could make your life a little easier." Bettina actually saw us first, and came over. I smothered a very mean smirk, and got Nuit's hard little fist in my back. Bettina's hair was black enough to have been spray - painted that way. The thick circlets of her eyeliner were coming unglued and splotching the skin under her eyes like black berry juice. Who does she think she is, I hissed. Neffertiti? Bettina didn't notice, apparently, because as soon as Nuit said I was her cousin, Bettina wailed, "Oh!" and quickly assured me that no matter what I said, she wouldn't betray me to the authorities. She then proceeded to ask stuff Nuit had warned me about. I was already a little prepared. You get used to it sooner or later. That crap about immortality, and do I miss people from three centuries ago, all that. I was about to set her straight, too. But I guess I am as smart as the next guy, and every so often, a little smarter. At that time, at least, I figured this moment was an every so often. I said, "Lookit, Bettina, I really want to answer your questions, but I kinda need to know something. I'm pretty new in town, and I have been trying to find a place to -" I don't remember much of the next few hours after that, beyond Bettina grabbing my hand, flinging me into the front seat of her Volkswagen, and then dragging me up the stairs to her apartment. "You can stay here," she said, waving her arm across the space of an empty room. "And don't worry about anything. I mean it. Not a thing. And I'll make sure nobody bothers you. I promise." And she did. Nobody bothered me, because that is a privilege she reserved for herself. I got used to a lot of things, like the books, and the cobwebs ready to collapse from the weight of dust, and wrought iron candelabras, always gummed up with wax that was always red. I got used to her, and her curiosity, which was kind of endearing at first but the endearment was, well, pretty mortal. She liked looking in my mouth, sucking in a sharp breath every time, as if she could see naked people in there. Lots of times I could see her in my peripheral vision, taking me in, as if I had slithered right off the pages of one of her stacks of novels. I had never even read them. reading too much of their words in their tiny mouse scratch letters makes my eyes water. So, I spend a lot of time watching TV, like I said. Bettina joins me, ostensibly because she can't get enough of Dobie either. She is always in her gauzy, lace-trimmed night shirt that looks as if it had been swiped from the set of David Copperfield. (Another easy black and white dream, and one which I'm starting to identify with more and more. I should get out more often.) One night, she appeared, decked out in the black make-up and the David Copperfield shirt, and plunked herself beside me in the aging sofa cushions with the consistency of quick sand. Every time Dobie or his pal Maynard did something funny and I laughed, I was naked to her sideways glances. Finally, she announced, "You have got to be the laziest blood drinker on the planet." "I'm sure I'm in the top five," I said. "Don't you ever get hungry?" "Yeah, of course I do. Doesn't mean I think about it all the time. It's not like there's a ton of variety." True enough. Sometimes, when she's not around, I go to the kitchen, pull up a chair and just stare into the refrigerator. I am sometimes amazed and sometimes disgusted at it all: the leafy vegetables with the frayed brown edges, the milk as white and opaque as skin, and mostly, the meat. the meat in flat pink circles, in ragged red leaves, in the pocked flesh of cleaned wings and the dull fat beneath. How can they even stand it, the stench of rot and stale fluids? And why do they take so much of everything and leave nothing but some torn plastic wrappings and wasted bones? I didn't ask her and I'm not about to. She drew her knees up into the coil of her arms. After a moment, she said, "Can I ask you something?" Her mantra. I only said, "Go ahead." "Okay. I was wondering. Who's blood do you prefer" Men's or woman's?" "All the same," I said. That either disappointed her or titillated her beyond comprehension. Either way, it was a big lie, not the first I've told her. I've never had either, because back home the only things we ever borrowed from were the deer and some other critters. Of which there aren't too many around here, of course. It's been a while. And you can go a while, if your resources are stretched, or in my case, if you don't even know where to look. Can't put it off much longer, that's for sure. Had the worst headache when I got up. Thought my head would erupt and splatter like a blueberry popover. Before that, I dreamt that I was with David Copperfield and Dobie Gillis, in our worlds of black and white air and skin, fragmented by the intrusion of red. PRIMARY by David Byron "That'll be six fifty-five, Miss." "Here you go, thanks. See you tomorrow," the young woman said, handing the driver several bills through the cab window. "Goodnight, Miss." the driver replied. The window slid upwards, and the taxi disappeared down the darkened street, its chrome bumper shining in the artificial glow of the streetlights. The road was slick from a recent shower, and a slight wind disturbed the fragile ghosts of steam which rose from the heated pavement. The young woman's eyes followed the taxi until at last it turned a corner and vanished into the night. Her eyes lingered along the crowded row of apartment complexes lining the street in neat little squares, the occasional city-planted tree dotted here and there among the concrete sidewalks, the bags of trash lined up next to the curb. She was alone; the street was deserted, and not even the neighborhood dogs were making their usual rounds tonight. She turned slowly and glanced up the perfect steps to her own building, and a tiny sigh escaped her lips. She climbed each step wearily; the rigors of the day having taken their usual toll, and at the top she slipped her key into the lock, sliding back the deadbolt with a click. There was no mail in the mailbox ( she never got any mail she thought with another sigh ) and the evening's paper had been soaked through by the rain. She left it on the steps and went inside. The door shut with a final click, and the young woman entered the darkness of her home. Inside, she stepped into the darkened entrance-way to place her briefcase on the floor, and dropped her keys and purse on the narrow table by the door. She switched on a small lamp at one end of the table and glanced at the antique mirror on the wall. Her reflection was dim, as the lamp did not throw much light, but still she could see the lines marking her face, as if she had been sleeping against a pillow for too long a time. The pale scent of dried lavender arose from a simple white vase at the opposite end of the table, and the young woman shut her eyes to block out the brightness of the mirror, as another quiet sigh escaped her lips. She did not feel so young anymore. A moment passed before she opened her eyes, struggling to regain her composure, her detachment. Her eyes averted from the ancient mirror, she walked into the comforting darkness of the living room, and sat at one end of an expensive looking loveseat. Here she sat, never moving, staring out the living room window which overlooked the deserted street she lived on. The last falling rays of the sun were streaming through the thick panes of the window, being twisted and distorted into ever lengthening shadows which would drift across the wooden floor and collapse finally into an oppressive darkness at her feet. She didn't seem to notice. The living room was decorated in what seemed to be a romantic style, but the once bright and flowery prints held a faded, saddened look to them, and the dust of disuse lingered in the air. The loveseat seemed distinctly out of place in this European setting; its black walnut trim and black crushed-velvet appeared to enjoy the sinister role given them. An antique brass phone sat upon a small oval table, but it never rang and most likely never would. Very faintly, in the background bars of a melancholy nocturne would drift into the room and disturb the luxuriant sadness which pervaded it. Mingled with this was the constant subdued "tick, tock, tick, tock" of a mantel clock, counting off the minutes which spiraled into a blur. For several hours, the woman never moved; she seemed oblivious to the dancing shadows and distant music, as if absorbed in the masquerade of a private dream. A few minutes after the mantel clock had finished chiming nine o'clock, the woman rose from her corner of the strange loveseat and walked unsteadily through the darkness into the kitchen. She flicked on the fluorescent lights, abruptly dispelling the evening into broken shadows, momentarily banished to the corners of the room. The music had changed to a gorgeous valse brilliante, as the woman prepared her dinner, swaying in a wonderful rhythm about the room as the solitary violin swelled to grand heights above the orchestra. The music was louder now, though the woman had never touched the stereo; she listened intently, as it was her only company in the empty apartment. When she had finished her dinner the apartment was quiet once again, and the oppressive silence became the only sound to dance throughout the empty rooms. The apartment was bathed once more in a deep darkness as she turned off the kitchen lights and entered her bedroom. Here she undressed and prepared for bed in a ritual which never changed from night to night: indeed, it had not changed in the countless years previous. When the muffled sounds of the mantle clock striking the hour reached the woman's bedroom she was already sinking into the world of dreams, and the darkness was complete. A yellow cab pulled up in front of the woman's apartment building, as it did each weekday morning, at a little past eight o'clock. Soon after, a young woman dressed in business attire came rushing out, briefcase in hand, and, locking the apartment door behind her, hurried down the broken concrete steps. She gave a quick glance at the unending series of disorderly buildings running in a jumbled line down the street, and opened the cab door. "Good morning, Miss," the driver said. "Hi! How are you this morning?" she asked. The rest of their conversation was cut off by the sound of the door slamming shut, and the taxi disappeared amid the morning traffic moving slowly along the treeless streets. Each day and night that passed never seemed to change; the cab picked her up and dropped her off without fail, the music played over and over, and still the woman sat in her loveseat while the shadows liver their brief lives at her feet. The woman would rise from her corner of the loveseat once the clock had struck nine, though each night that passed she waited a few minutes longer. The clock was growing old, running down, as the minutes disintegrated into a time that it could no longer measure. One night the clock did not strike nine. The woman sat upon her loveseat in the overwhelming silence, and the darkness, awaiting an hour that would never come. When at last the night was done and the shadows of dawn began to dance on the wooden floor, the woman was gone. The only music which flooded the empty rooms was the broken sound of her weeping, and the crushed black velvet was wet with her bloodstained tears. LAST WISHES by David Byron Elizabeth carefully silenced each of her steps as she descended the smoothly worn stone stairs leading into the wine cellar. A slightly bitter scent invisibly floating about her altered her already highly peaked senses. The pungency was a mixture of tastefully aged harvests sealed in casks and colored bottles, and the dustless walls of stone that protected them. Every moment waited to be shared with her husband, James, and there were hundreds surrounding her. Crisp sheets of cream colored stationery crinkled as her grasp tightened around them. The noise, amplified by the muted stillness of the room, halted her step and quickened her heartbeat. Had James heard the sounds? Did he know she was coming? More importantly, did he know why? She fearfully glanced down at his personal writing paper, waiting for the lifeless words the spring to life and mutilate her body as they had done to her spiritual beliefs. The strong, bold strokes which had flowed flawlessly from his fountain pen were smudged by her tears. At first reading, she had thought the letter was a joke and stormed through the house looking for her husband to berate him for having such poor taste in games. But James never has poor taste in anything, and her anger soon mutated into a darker, more unknowing terror. Even his name was distinctive of his character. James. It had never been anything else. You couldn't look into the hard lines of his seaman's face, or be pierced by the sharpness of his stare and think about calling him Jimmy or even Jim. Some unknown instinct warned you against such familiarity even though he was well liked by their neighbors in the valley and was know for his kindness and generosity. Elizabeth anxiously stared at the closed door before her; the handle was just in reach. She could turn it easily if she wanted to, knowing that this passage would open instead of being "stuck with age" as James had explained the first time she toured the winery after their blissful wedding seven years ago. But her arm was weighted down by the feather-woven paper clutched in her hand. What was she doing here? How could she even consider going inside this room? The cursed words should have been burned in the marble fireplace on first impulse. But she had always had complete trust in her husband; he had never given her any reason to doubt him. His request for her to come here only heightened the desire to discover the truthfulness of the letter. Elizabeth noticed her fingers had moved only after feeling the shock of metallic coldness against her sweating palm. She took a tearful breath and leaned. The door swung open slowly, soundlessly. Paper crinkled. The windowless room was draped in endless shadows except for one cloud of light cast by the flickering light of one fighting candle. She closed the door behind her, resting against it and waited for her eyes to adjust to the dimness. A different, yet familiar scent clung to the air in this space. Her husband was here and, as her thoughts reminded her, had been for quite a long time. The polished coffin was ornate and elaborate in it's design and like none she'd ever seen. It had been crafted with the type of quality she knew James would admire. Finally realizing who lay inside, she shivered, he knees buckled and she wilted to the dirt floor. The pages of the letter scattered before her and the bold pen strokes caught her eye once again. She reluctantly began to read each page as she gathered them. "Dearest Elizabeth, I've thought about how to begin this letter over a hundred times, yet there is no clear beginning. I've even considered speaking to you bluntly. Although I have absolutely no fear of anything on this earth, the pain I would see reflected in your sparkling eyes terrifies me. So I apologize for taking the cowardly route - on paper. I can envision your haunted eyes as you read this, but I must continue. Don't let your imagination run wild; it cannot run wildly or far enough. However hurtful this may be to your trust in me, I am not what I seem to be. I am, of course, your faithful husband, eager lover and trusted friend. But there is a side to me that I have never allowed any other to see; a side only allowed to live in darkness and death; a side explained by countless excuses and lies. For this, I apologize. The legend of the vampire is timeless. Many of the foolish wives tales are just that, foolish. You know me as well as any woman could know a man, yet you have never discovered my family heritage. Had you known about my abhorrent past, you would have never consented to be my wife. But I cannot apologize for this heritage, it was not my doing, but that of another. And I will not be sorry for our marriage. I truly *was* wonderful. I wish I had the strength to be beside you until the day you are taken away from me, but I haven't. It is nearly impossible to explain my feelings to you, but I will try my best. Already, you are forced to believe the unbelievable. Either that, or find me unmercifully insane. I will be in time - I assure you. I have lived for centuries and my blood is rich and pure. I have made no other in my likeness. I have married many times; I say this not to hurt you, but to make you understand the reason behind this letter. I have known many educated, determined, talented and gifted people in my travels, but none with your inner strength and courage. I have sailed every ocean on this brilliant planet and lived in countless ports and cities. I have loved, hated, dreamed and celebrated a hundred times in each of my seven hundred years. And I have killed. Please, continue on. Don't feed these sheets to the flames beneath the mantle where I've placed them. I need you to understand that for me, nothing is precious except this request. Jewels are worthless. Money overflows in countless banks and safe deposit boxes in my name. My death will make your life extremely comfortable. The most important thing I want to understand is that I truly love you. I have never been so happy. But my happiness is something that is stabbed by the sharpness of death; my love is a red rose blackened by a never ending winter. There is no experience I have not had, no emotion left unfelt by my dead heart. And now there is nothing at all but the seed of a of a vicious monster waiting to be nurtured by the glow of insanity. So I pray for death by your hand. Go into the wine cellar to the far end where the door has always remained closed to you. It will open now and I will be there - asleep. Beside my coffin will be an elaborately carved wooden stake. Pick it up quickly and thrust it into my heart. I must warn you, my love, that the merest touch of its ancient surface will awaken the monstrous beast within me so you mustn't hesitate. I am, at this writing, finding it difficult to control that hateful seed. Again, I love you. I always have and now, always will. You are the seventh in the line and bestowed by legend to kill me while I still cling to lucidity. After you've done all this, call William, my attorney. He will take care of every matter of importance and inform you that all I have is yours. With Love, Eternally -- James" Elizabeth forced herself to stand. Her husband, the only man she had ever loved and who had loved her so tenderly in return, was a murderer. It was ludicrous, yet knowing him intimately for years, she now recalled the tiny, yet questionable moments. He was not lying. Nor was he insane. Yet. She saw the carved wooden stake resting upon the small antique table beside the coffin. It was pointed at both ends so she wouldn't have to worry about how she grabbed it, just how quickly. It was extremely close to where he lay and she knew James' warning was not to be ignored. She also saw his handsome face, his soft lips, and remembered that beneath his closed lids were eyes the shade of blue matched by no other. Elizabeth fought with her decision. She wanted to live as she had - happy and secure - with James. What he was didn't matter. He had taken care of her and loved her with a passion she knew she'd never find in another man. But if she didn't kill him now, she'd lose him anyway. Her hand darted for the stake, quickly raised it above his chest and....hesitated. The beast's amber eyes flew open and it's mouth bared dangerously deformed teeth. Strong hands flew up to grasp the stake and her ears were deafened by a menacing roar. This was not her husband, nor would she allow this hellish monster to take his body like this! "James! Help me!" she screamed and pushed down on the creature. She leaned harder, putting all of her bodily weight against the stake. The beast pulled it sideways and Elizabeth lost her balance. In that instance, she had failed in fulfilling the only request her husband had ever made of her. While her blood curled in rivulets down the wood, dripping into a garnet-red pool on the beast's chest, her wide eyes searched for a glimmer of recognition in it's eyes. "James...." Her voice trailed. A cloud of blue blinded the beast suddenly and it's struggle ceased. Its' hands dropped abruptly, pinned by an unseen force, and the other end of the stake finally plunged into its' heart, propelled by her weight. "Thank you, my love." James whispered just before death silenced his voice forever. AUTHOR CONTACT http://www.freewebs.com/nvhm ag1 or db5948@gmail.com OR http://www.myspace.com/doccre eper
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Copyright © 2007 David Doc Byron |