by Derek
“So they can what—slice me up?” he says. “Stab me with syringes? Shut me in a room to rot?” He coughs. “I’m Jimmie Rodgers! The carnival singer! Who would I be if I stopped—” He hacks. Hemorrhages. Blood and bits of bat shit.
“Jimmie?” She holds his head. “Don’t leave me!”
Jimmie burbles. Blood puddles. A red clown shoe on the floor.
“We’ll go to Coney Island.” Carrie weeps. “We’ll ride the roller coasters. The Cyclone. The Tornado. The sea air will do you good. We’ll go to Ocean Pier Park. We’ll walk the boardwalk. We’ll ride the Racing Derby. You can soak up the sun—the California sun. It will cure you. I know it will.” Vampires, like perfumes and TB bacteria, decay in daylight. “Jimmie? Jimmie, can you hear me? Say something, Jimmie!”
Jimmie Rodgers.
Carrie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers.
Carrie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers.
Jimmie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers.
Jimmie Rodgers and Carrie Rodgers in a Mirror Maze.
Jimmie died.