The Color of Dying

by Carlos Colon

  Travis assured me that killing was something I would learn to enjoy. But not having done that yet, it was difficult at first to imagine that being possible. It was not until later that I found my niche in disposing of those that I felt wouldn’t be missed by society. Once I did, it admittedly became a little easier and sometimes quite pleasurable. For this, I will burn someday. Neither my loathing of what I’ve become, nor the nights I’ve spent wrestling with guilt, will excuse me. My destiny is eternal damnation. And with that lovely offering waiting at the other end, you can understand how permanent termination has little appeal for us.

  No longer being spoon fed by Travis and Donny, I spent my first dreadful nights suffering an insatiable hunger. I also found Buffalo Johnny’s solution unpalatable because Travis mentioned it was difficult to control women’s minds during their menstrual cycles. That meant having to develop a relationship where a woman would be comfortable with my face between her legs during that time of the month. Not an easy task without hypnosis being involved. Also, my face was all over the newspapers so I had to keep a low profile. I was already getting curious looks from strangers on the sidewalks.

  So, what to do? I didn’t want to take innocent lives and I also didn’t want to roam the nights auditioning for kinky porn videos. There was also the question of where. Travis and Donny already had claims to the Big Apple. Where could I conduct my new nocturnal existence without being somewhere that was totally unfamiliar?

  I contemplated my future one night while having a Whopper at Burger King. Reading the Daily News, I came across an article about a Wisconsin mother that drowned her kids in a bathtub (not all monsters have fangs). The case was being compared to one in North Jersey from five years before, where a woman claimed that her two-year-old son drowned in their swimming pool. The distraught father of the child had serious doubts about her story since she had shown signs of mental instability and was undergoing treatment for postpartum depression. When the investigation turned up traces of soapy water in the boy’s lungs, his suspicions were confirmed and it led towards proof that she had drowned their child in the bathtub. The woman’s name was Melissa Traynor, also known as “Missy”.

  Missy was sentenced to be held at Blackwood State Hospital in West Orange, New Jersey after being declared legally insane. Local citizens were up in arms over the injustice. New Jersey is a death penalty state and in the eyes of the local residents, that was the more fitting punishment for the atrocity she committed.

  I remembered watching the news report the night the trial ended. It was the ten o’clock news where the announcer would say before the broadcast. “It’s ten o’clock. Do you know where your children are?” Both of our children were home safe in bed while my head rested comfortably on Stefanie’s lap, watching the appalling newscast. How could even an insane person do that to her own child? Not that anyone believed her plea. The general consensus was that her claim of being possessed by evil spirits was designed to avoid the death penalty.

  Missy was a petite blonde-haired woman, just out of her teens, that was actually kind of cute. It was impossible to believe that such a fragile-looking young woman could commit such an act.

  The Whopper and the fries weren’t doing it. I had to do something before I lost the remaining nutrients from Travis and Donny’s leftovers. Surely someone capable of committing such an atrocity as Missy Traynor’s could be considered expendable by the general population.

  A stolen taxi and a few trances later, I found myself at Blackwood in padded solitary confinement with sweet little Missy. When the entranced security guard allowed me in and closed the door to give us our privacy, she remained reactionless, just sitting on her bed, staring at the wall opposite her. I detected nothing on the wall that was visible to someone from this world so, to test her cognizance, I blocked it by stepping in front of her. Again no reaction, completely catatonic, to put her in a trance would have been redundant.

  Not having killed yet, I was still having trouble mustering up the necessary venom. I had to focus. I had to imagine the frightened cries of the child that trusted his mommy and couldn’t understand what she was doing to him.

  Why, mommy, why?

  I sat beside Missy and looked at her profile. She really was pretty, although incredibly skinny. Would her blood be good enough—especially in that sedated state? What the hell kind of drugs did they put in this girl? I had learned later that sedatives were necessitated by frequent, unpredictable outbursts in which she’d violently attack other patients.

  Oh, well, no need for formalities.

  I gently took her by the hand and laid her head on my lap—two tender lovers on a Central Park bench. Her expressionless eyes gazed at the molded ceiling while I fixated mine on the freckled flesh above her shoulder.

  The current of her blood pulsed through my fingers.

  The scent of her willowy flesh...

  the involuntary extension of unhesitating fangs...

  ...the loss of my humanlike projection...

  ...hello Missy, Death is here.

  Not a flinch! Nor a gasp. Nor a scream. Nothing. Holy crap, woman, did you get a look at this face?

  I raised her to me like Rudolph Valentino preparing to engage in a long, passionate kiss with his leading lady.

  Sorry Missy, no kiss. Instead my incisors spiked through her neck as I lustfully swallowed every surge of her life that gushed into my mouth. It was my first feeding—the first time I ever did it on my own. I felt a sick air of pride while guzzling on Missy but there was no one around to pat me on the back—not that Travis was the pat-on-the-back type anyway—maybe Donny. It was too bad. I could have used the coaching, especially after what transpired next.

  For the first time Missy started to move. Her head, which I had been holding in my hand, turned towards me as she softly moaned and started kissing my shoulder! And if that wasn’t weird enough, she then started to bite me back! Okay, no one prepared me for this one. I lifted my blood-covered face to look at her. What the hell, woman? Do you have any idea what’s happening here? Her eyes lit up! It was a look I’d recognize anywhere. Missy was turned on! Here she was, her life spilling away onto her shoulders, dripping down to her bed, and the crazy little hellcat was horny!

  I roared. I have no idea why, it just felt like something I should do before throwing my head down and devouring Missy in reckless delight. She gasped and grunted—not in pain, not in fear, but with pleasure, biting back with equal aggression. Her jaws were not strong enough to break my dead skin, but I was confounded. I had to stop and take a look at her again. She was disappointed. Why did I stop? She wanted more.

  Missy then arched her eyebrows and gave me a demented smile. I bulged. I couldn’t hold back.

  I pulled Missy’s face to mine and engaged in a forceful kiss (better than Valentino’s). Both of our tongues swirled in her blood as we tore off each other’s clothes. Her blood, still flowing, coated our skin as I pressed her down to the bed, alternately kissing her and feeding from her neck. Missy reached down, bringing me inside. Our bodies then slammed at each other’s with violent thrusts as her life continued to drift into the next world. Through it all, Missy never screamed once. She just moaned with pleasure as her blood poured generously, covering our entire bodies.

  Did she know she was dying? Honestly I had no idea, nor did I care. I was having a great time enjoying my first kill. As for Missy, she couldn’t have been more cooperative. She was enjoying it like it was the best lay she ever had, licking and sucking ravenously at my shoulders, growling with delight, taking in her own blood as I thrust my hips into her.

  Minutes later, Missy’s wiry frame was limp and unresponsive. Her life had drained away with her eyes remaining opened, staring blankly at the ceiling—just as they were when I came in.

  I closed Missy’s eyes with my blood-drenched hand and climbed off her. Her pale, naked corpse lay back peacefully on her bed with chunks of flesh dangling from her neck.

  I had actually done it. I killed. And
I didn’t hate it. Maybe I could do this killing thing. If I could dispose of worthless trash like Missy, maybe I could turn my need to feed into something positive—something I could do, guilt free.

  Well, not quite. If you are a human being that was conscious of the fact that actions could result in consequences, genetic resistance will not allow rationalization to come so easily.

  In the days that followed, reality set in. The next morning, when daylight broke through, Missy went up in flames—another unexplained case of spontaneous combustion. And though the afternoon newspapers showed little or no sympathy for the child murderer, reports came out that Missy’s mother was demanding an explanation for the mysterious death of her daughter. Months passed, investigations ensued. The end result? Missy’s mother sued the hospital and several employees lost their jobs, including the security guard whose brain I scrambled so I could get in. I then realized that no matter who dies, good or bad, productive to society or general waste of human flesh, death will have its collateral effect on the people who are left behind. Sure Missy was a child murderer, the lowest form of criminal around, but she was also someone’s daughter.

  Missy’s mother took action against those that were responsible for the care of her daughter; administrators, nurses, security guards, etc. And all of them had families; parents, children, spouses and even friends that would suffer the after-effects of this one death.

  One feeding, one death, yet so many lives affected.

  Do the undead normally care? Not in the least, unless you are cursed with genetic resistance like I am. Then every feeding becomes a struggle with your remaining humanity. You are not even free to be the monster that you are.

  I have been a night predator now for over twenty-seven years. That’s a lot of feeding. How many people have I killed? How many lives of survivors were affected by my need for self-preservation? For me, guilt-free killing is nothing but a fantasy. Yes, there are times I enjoy it. Roberto is a good example. But in most other cases, guilt eventually creeps in to make my eternity miserable.

  Well, Nicky, if killing makes you so miserable why not just end it?

  That’s easy.

  Never underestimate our innate need to remain walking among the living. What waits for us in the next world is motivation enough. So if killing is the only way for me to go on, then the choice is clear. Although I may be a product of Hell, it certainly doesn’t mean I wish to reside there.

  29

  With its thumping bass and hammering beat constantly pounding you in the head, the term “club music” couldn’t be more perfect. The assault on the senses is even worse when you’re in a crowd of gyrating tarts and sweaty metrosexuals. But if it leads me to the red-haired demoness looking to cause irreversible destruction to the big city and her undead teen minions, it is a price I am willing to pay. I’ll just cleanse my senses at the apartment later with some Motown vinyl.

  I opened my casket a couple of hours earlier to the sound of my cell buzzing on the night stand. The caller ID read Dominic, but I picked it up a second too late and the voicemail kicked in. The screen on the phone indicated that it was Dominic’s fourth attempt to reach me, making me immediately fear the worst—Stefanie!

  I didn’t even bother checking the voicemail. I just dialed back. Dominic picked up halfway through the first ring. “Where are you? I’ve been trying to call you.”

  “Hey dumb ass,” I snapped back. “The sun just went down. Dead guy, remember?” I then asked the dreaded question. “Is it Stefanie?”

  “No, no, it’s not that. It’s your redhead. I sensed her early this morning before daybreak. She’s in the Soho area!”

  “Soho! That’s where Travis and Donny’s club is. She’s coming right at them. Why didn’t you call me before the sun came up?”

  “My battery was dead. I called as soon as I got back and charged it.” Dammit, he did. His calls were at 6:42, 6:47, 6:52 and 6:58, all a.m.

  “Shit! I must have been in the shower when you called.”

  “You shower?”

  “What do think, because we’re dead, we’re slobs? Of course, I shower! I shower every night just before sunlight.” This week, the sun’s been coming up around 7:00 a.m.

  “All right, never mind that. I feel her close by. She’s definitely in Soho right now and she’s got two others with her.”

  “Two? There are supposed to be three, aren’t there?”

  “Who knows? Who cares? Just get your dead ass down here.”

  I reached for my jacket. It’s a mid-length, dark brown, suede one that I bought in the eighties. It has a deep enough pocket to conceal my Filipino blade. “Okay, I’m coming. Meet me at The Hindquarters.”

  “I’m already here,” said Dominic.

  “What! Dominic, don’t you dare try anything stupid if you see her. She will kill you.”

  “I can protect myself. Just get your ass over here.”

  Thankfully by the time I arrived, Simone still hadn’t materialized. Otherwise my dumb ass brother-in-law’s high-cholesterol blood might have already been layering the Hindquarters’ dance floor. Instead he’s now beside me suffering today’s latest beats while maneuvering through this horde of hip-thrusting airheads.

  To be heard I have to yell over the auto-tuned muck playing overhead from some singer whose better known for the size of her ass than her voice. “Anything?” Dominic shakes his head, yelling back that it’s hard to hear with all this shit playing so loud. “Well, she’s got to be somewhere around here if you sensed her in the area.”

  Dominic gestures to the far corner of the dance floor where the kitchen is. “Let’s go in there for a minute.”

  Communicating out here isn’t as much of a problem for me as it is for Dominic. Years of sorting out sounds picked up by my hypersensitive hearing enables me to make out what he’s saying over the techno thumpety-thump. It is he who can’t take in anything that I say back.

  That being said, a moment in the kitchen does bring a much welcome break from the anarchy out on the dance floor. Only the sound of the workers defrosting and microwaving what will soon become overpriced “fresh” Buffalo wings and burgers, clanks around in there. The occasional profanity-laced hip-hop only bleeds in when the swinging doors open.

  Dominic’s uncomfortable about something. He’s led me in here because he wants to get something off his chest. “We gotta talk.”

  “Okay, what’s up?”

  He points his finger at my chest. “If I do this for you, you gotta do the right thing.”

  “Uh, Dominic, we’ve already had this discussion.”

  “Bullshit! You’re telling me you’re not like them, right? That you’re genetically resistant and that you’re still Nicky, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, the Nicky I remember, my brother-in-law, my best friend, he’s a Christian.”

  “Not anymore, Dominic. I’m dead. If I stop walking this Earth, you know where I’m spending my eternity. And it sure as hell ain’t with Christ.”

  “How do you know? This could be your way to seek forgiveness and repentance.”

  “Forgiveness and repentance? Listen to you. There is no forgiveness for what I am or what I’ve done. If your Dr. Gunder needs help, she ain’t getting it from me.”

  He grabs me by the collar. Is this fucking guy nuts? “Mira maricón! You know what’s right. You know what the right thing to do is. It’s the least you can do given the way you died.”

  Low blow, fucker.

  Now it’s my turn to grab Dominic by the collar and push him against the kitchen wall. “What is that supposed to mean? Who are you to tell me what’s right, huh?” Perhaps Mr. Righteous needs a little reminder. “What about you and Colleen Ryan? Was that the right thing to do? Banging your partner’s wife?”

  An entire spectrum of colors rainbows through Dominic’s face, he’s a breathing Peter Max print. It finally settles on a very pale white. What’s the matter, buddy? See a ghost? “Y-you-you knew? ¿C-c-como tu sa
biste eso?”

  I let go of his collar. He doesn’t move. It looks like he’s still pinned against the wall. “I didn’t know, Dominic. I found out after I was dead. What’s wrong with you? Not only were you cheating on Patti, but damn, your partner’s wife? Really, man.”

  “Hey, fuck you, what about you and that redhead!”

  “Hey, don’t you go there! You know that wasn’t my fault!”

  “Really? Are you sure about that? Because, you know, even though I defended you all these years, it was because I didn’t want to believe you could do something like that. You know how screwed up it was between me and Patti. But you, you and Stef, I looked at you guys like you were perfect. It was everything I wanted me and Patti to be. So when that shit happened, it made no sense to me ‘cause all you did was talk about Sis and how much you loved her. So then what happens? You’re downtown with two friends that know how much you love your wife, and you go disappear with some redhead? No, no, there was no way. It made no sense. That’s why I defended you. I went out and I checked around, asked around, looking for answers. But the truth? You wanna know the truth? The truth is I have no idea what happened. I have no idea why you died in bed with some redhead after being married all those years to my little sister. So why don’t you tell me?”

  The silence in the kitchen is paralyzing, cold. Only the drumbeat from outside the swinging doors brings any indication that there is anything going on outside of the staring showdown between me and Dominic. He’s crossed a line and he knows it. Instinctively he remains stoic, but by now he probably knows that I can smell fear. What stands before him is not his brother-in-law but an anomaly that has no place in God’s world.