Nocturnes and Other Nocturnes Page 16

  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 fulfill 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 starting 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 some
thing 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.

  As soon as the thought crosses my mind, he takes my other arm – the one he hasn’t bitten yet – and he bites me again. But he gives in return, too: the whole time he’s sucking, I’m, like, coming. Not a big, wild, scream-your-head-off orgasm, but a slow wave of deep pleasure. Whoa! Close enough to sex for me.

  Still, I can’t help but worry about all these holes in my skin. I mean, I won’t exactly be inconspicuous at work tomorrow.

  Withdrawing from me, he licks his lips and says, “Don’t worry; the wounds will be gone by sunrise.” Then he grins, like a little brat. “Oh, and that little extra I gave you—” He, like, fucking actually leers at me. What a hypocrite! Farm animal, my ass. But I’m not complaining. “—I can control that. I don’t give that to my victims. And you are no victim.” Gotta say, dude knows the words to make this girl feel special.

  He opens my blouse, and his teeth fasten onto my shoulder. And it’s, like, bliss. Heaven.

  ~

  So, like, did I black out again? I’m so fucking dizzy. The vampire is holding my hand. It’s kinda cute.

  “So, dude, fess up. We’re a team, now, you and me. Tell me all your shit.” I so need for him to open up to me. Like, I let him open me up and feed on me. Seems only fair. “If we’re gonna be in this together, there needs to be, like, mutual trust.”

  He smiles knowingly and takes my arm, running his sharp fingernails over my skin. It makes me shiver. He knew it would. He says, “I, too, want to learn everything there is to know about you.” With that, he plunges his teeth into my shoulder again. As my blood flows from my veins and into his mouth, I feel the weight of my worries slip from me. I feel like it’s not just my blood, but my self, that’s seeping away into him. That numbness is so freaking fantastic. Like nirvana. I almost forget who I am.

  Taking his mouth away, he says, “All these months in this building, and never have you brought any friends here. Never have I heard you speak to anyone on the telephone. You are so conveniently alone.”

  Shit. All of a sudden I start crying. Shit. I’ve been in Montreal for, like, three months. And I have no friends to show for it. Not that I had any friends in my hometown, either. And my family? Screw them. Shit. I promised myself I would never get weepy about being alone. It’s my choice. I am not sad about it, and I am not one of life’s victims. I’m not. I’m not. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  The vampire cradles me while I cry. This is so fucking embarrassing. His teeth tenderly pierce my throat, and he sips a little more of me.

  Taking a break, he says, “Earlier, you asked what my name was. If I ever had one, I’ve long since forgotten it. This likeness, though, was called Randolph. But it’s time for me to shed this old skin and evolve.”

  Randolph? The sound of the name makes me giggle, and I, like, totally sound high. Like I just smoked a bagful of spliffs or some insane shit like that. I wipe the rest of my tears, touch the little holes on my neck, and continue giggling like an idiot.

  His strong hands squeezing my shoulders, Randolph plunges his teeth into my throat again. This time it doesn’t feel so gentle. But that’s okay. Again, he drinks. It’s starting to be hard to remember stuff. Like, fuck, what’s my name? Shit like that.

  And it’s starting to not feel so pleasant, all of this. Like my bones are starting to ache. And I can’t see too clearly anymore. My mouth is, like, totally raw and parched. My skin feels dry and cracked, like, all over.

  I peer at him, and I, like, totally hallucinate. I could swear I was looking right at myself.

  Who the fuck is he, again? Or is it she? What am I doing here? Where am I?

  I feel him/her take my clothes off, run his/her fingernails all over my wrinkled skin. He/she bends down and bites into my thigh. And he/she drinks from me. I, like, feel myself flow from my body into his/hers.

  ~

  So, like, I ache all over. I am so fucking old, so tired. But why does it feel so wrong being old? I mean, everyone gets old. That’s life, you know? I just wish I could remember my life. Did I have children? Were my breasts pretty when I was younger? What did I accomplish? No use ... it’s all gone.

  Who is this young girl sitting next to me? She does look familiar, but I can’t exactly remember her ... Why is her mouth so bloody? And why are we both naked?

  She bends down and – oh! – bites down hard on my belly. It should hurt, but instead it feels like a release. It’s so good. Like floating numbly on a sea of pure pleasure. Letting go of myself. Letting go of everything...

  ~

  So, like, goodbye Randolph, hello Jenny. Jenny is dead. Long live Jenny.

  So, like, I just chop up what’s left of the old Jenny and put her in little bags. Then, I put on her clothes. But, really? This is, like, nowhere near slutty enough for what I have in mind.

  So I go to my new apartment – Jenny’s apartment – and I, like, totally dress up. Vamp it up, so to speak.

  I dye my hair as black as I can get it. Then: a lacy black bustier; black leather gloves; black skirt; black fishnets; black boots that go mid-calf. And there’s my skin. I mean, I’m, like, pretty pale to start with. But I smear white makeup all over my face and then 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 red lipstick. I am, like, stunning. Out of this world. Otherwordly.

  On my way out to the downtown clubs, I drop the little bags of leftover Jenny in public garbage cans, but none close to home.

  This is fucking great. The nightlife. The music. The bars. The cute boys and girls. The hot men and women. It’s, like, all you can eat, all the time. It’s almost overwhelming. So much to choose from. I let some men and women grope me, some boys and girls kiss me. Until I find just the right one for tonight. The one who will taste just right. Then I’ll let them take me to their bed, and it’ll be my turn to kiss them.

  Our Love

  That morning, when she roused herself from slumber, we were not touching. I had already been awake for close to an hour; I usually woke up before she did, and, if we weren’t already snuggling in our sleep, I would press my body next to hers, take her hand in mine, smell her intoxicating aromas, and wait for her to return from that mysterious place sleep takes us to.

  Most mornings, when she awakened, we would take out our love and, together, play with it, caress it, enjoy it, nurture it. We kept our love on my side of the bed, in the top drawer of my night table, in a small golden box. The box had been my gift to her on our betrothal, but she insisted that I take care of it, that I
be the designated caretaker of our love. The casing and clasp were both made of pure gold; inlaid on the top of the box was a pattern composed of finely cut pink-red rubies that evoked a sky full of stars. The inner casing was cushioned with red velvet, but I wanted to pamper our love, so I had made extra bedding for it with yet more red velvet, and there our love nestled when it waited for us to take it out and bask in the pleasures it afforded us.

  That morning, she immediately sensed that something was amiss. She pulled the covers tightly around her, as if she needed to shield her nudity from me. She asked, “What’s wrong?” Her eyes strayed beyond me to my bedside table and the open top drawer. There was nothing inside.

  Her eyes grew wider. She looked at me as though I were a stranger intruding on her intimacy. She pulled the sheets yet tighter against her.

  I closed my eyes for a moment. I was so nervous; it took all my will to keep from trembling. But I had to stay strong. It would not be easy to say what I had to say next. I caught her gaze and finally blurted out, “Yes, our love is gone.”

  I could see she was fighting the impulse to flee from our bed, to run away from me. Who was I to her without our love?

  But she had always been a woman of exceptional inner strength and resolve; these were among the many qualities that had drawn me to her. She steeled herself and even reached to hold my hand. There was no warmth in her grasp, though, the flesh of her palm affectless against my skin. She said, with as much conviction as anyone can when love is gone, “We’ll find it again. Together. We must simply have misplaced it somewhere in the house. In the aftermath of passion, forgot to put it back after we last took it out.”

  I nodded, pretending to agree with her.

  ~

  That day, my appointment calendar was full: mediating a jurisdiction conflict between two departments; welcoming new clients from China; lunch with my opposite number in the public sector; inspecting new facilities in the suburbs; firing three middle managers for three different reasons.