by Karen Glista
Frustrated, he headed back to the bar and ordered another drink. Finding a bar stool, he perched himself high, back to the bar scanning the throng of bodies. Hours must have passed and after six drinks and two trips to the bathroom, a loathing disquiet settled upon him.
Damn you! Show yourself. This is the busiest club in town.
He finished off his drink and decided to try ‘Backwater,’ another club on the banks of the St. Mary’s. He scanned the room one last time unaware that a female had slid in beside him, that is until she leaned into his ear, her sultry voice all but lost in the deafening music.
“You’re awful hot to be sitting here alone.”
Torin, with his keen sense of hearing, turned his head, just inches from her face and it took a moment with their eyes locked before he could speak. She was a beauty, dark hair with thick lashes to match. He scanned her to the waist, then back to her breast, luscious and firm, half exposed and inviting. By no will of his own, for it’s the nature of the beast, he analyzed her blood.
Chippewa, but not Durent.
He dragged a breath, long and hard. She was luscious, fruit on the vine, ripe and ready for picking. His wife, Anstosa suddenly flashed in his head and he grimaced. “Alone is not always a bad place to be,” he said escaping her seductive eyes.
She dropped her hand to his leg and moved one of his knees to the side as she slid in between.
Torin met her eyes, which sparkled with life and as she placed one of her petite hands inside his white shirt which was unbuttoned and gently stroked the black hair that adorned his chest, a hard-core need tore through him. He swallowed. Damn she was hot, dripping hot and he was one blood starved Iridescent. By no will of his own, his eyes locked on her delicate neck, the hum of blood in her jugular enticing. He licked his dry lips and grasped her hand, pulling it way from his skin. “Like I said, alone is not always a bad place to be. Now if you’ll excuse me.”
She staggered, and he grasped her arm. “I think you’ve had too much to drink,” he said.
“Then why don’t you take me home,” she replied, all but falling into his arms.
“Believe me, that wouldn’t be a good idea,” Torin said, fighting the hunger within.
He picked her up and sat her on the bar stool. He motioned to the bartender as he pulled out his wallet and threw down some bills. “Call her a cab, and no more liquor. I doubt she’s legal, you get my drift?”
She suddenly grasped Torin’s crotch, taking all of him in her hand. Fighting the overwhelming need to feed upon her, he tore her hand from him and walked away, his internal cauldron blazing. Outside the club, the cool air blasted his face and he exhaled, his need of the female ebbing between unbidden images of his wife. He hurried to the Ferrari and got inside, his heart pounding. “Anstosa, forgive me…I’m sorry,” he moaned, hands on both sides of his head, pressing tightly. “Start,” he said firmly. The Ferrari responded, lights on with the engine purring. He zoomed away, the deadly, Iridescent night stalker all but forgotten.
Must feed, that’s why I’m so affected by the female. It’s been too long.
Flying down the highway, with twin headlights cutting a swath through the pitch-black veil, Torin gripped the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles blanched white. Hours later, he turned into the asphalt path that snaked the forest to his home. The garage door swung high and as the sleek black Ferrari ceased to purr, he stepped from the red leather and flashed out to the asphalt drive. He glanced to the moon, scarcely visible beneath rolling clouds. The whites of his eyes turned fluorescent green, penetrating the darkness. Fangs inched from his lips and he threw his head back, testing the air. He caught the scent of a deer as a growl tore from him. He flashed his body a blur, his hunger supreme.
Mental Misfits
Donja slid deep into the bear claw bathtub and held her breath as she submerged. She thrashed her hair with her fingers freeing up her locks from a thick application of Pantene conditioner. She sat up, water splashing and wiped at her eyes. She immediately glanced around the bathroom which was empty. She shivered then stood up, water sheeting across her curves. Again, she looked around the room, then suddenly aware of her nakedness, grabbed a towel and covered her body. She stepped from the tub. A surreptitious glance to the window revealed an ebony sky with moonlight spilling across the jamb. She took a breath, the antiquated smell of the bathroom nauseating.
Needs Febreze, this is awful.
She dried herself, slipped into her panties and robe and then rubbed a circle on the mirror thick with condensation. A bump forced her to spin, eyeing the room with her heart in her throat. Nothing. With her nerves tingling, she turned back to her image in the mirror. She hurriedly flossed and brushed, swished with Bright White, spit and hurried for the door. She stepped past the jamb, and glanced back all but expecting to see a hag with beady eyes and a bottle of lineament in hand. She darted down the hallway, long wet locks midway of her back. Finding her bedroom door, she glanced down the hallway, and for a moment thought she saw a shadowy figure beneath the dim, silver glow of the diaphanous lamps. She opened the door, stepped inside, closed it behind and leaned against it, breathless.
“I swear this place is haunted and I’m never going in that bathroom alone again. It’s hungry, it’s going to eat me!”
Makayla, sitting on the floor rummaging in one of her boxes with her wet hair bound tight in a white towel, raised her head. “Tell me about it. While you were getting your bath, I swear I could hear your bed creaking as if someone was in it.”
Unnerved, but not enough to go running in search of her mom, Donja scanned the bed. She swallowed hard, made her way across the room and sat down on the floor beside Makayla.
“That settles it, can we do the bathroom together, I mean, let’s forget modesty, I’m terrified of being in there alone,” Donja whispered. “Safety in numbers, don’t you think?”
“Count me in,” Makayla said nervously while folding silk lingerie.
“Need some help?” Donja asked as a droplet of water streaked her face. “I need a distraction because I’m not in a good place…mentally that is.”
“Sure, I have two boxes to unpack and then we can do yours.” Their eyes slowly met.
Feeling a little creeped out as if this beautiful, rich girl who had lived a pampered life and never so much as washed a dish was critiquing her, Donja raised her hands and spiked her brows. “What?”
“Oh, nothing I’m just amazed.”
“By?”
“Your beauty, which I never really realized due to your—”
“Goth makeup,” Donja whispered as a penetrating heat rose from her chest to warm her cheeks.
“Yes,” Makayla said and then noticing the blush of Donja’s cheeks, added. “Please don’t take offense, that was not my intent.”
“No, it’s okay, it’s different. I’m aware.”
“Well it’s your choice in life, and I’ve seen it on YouTube and Facebook, but to be honest, we don’t have much goth around the Soo.”
“I understand.”
“So how did you,” she hesitated, “you know…get into goth?”
Donja exhaled, her mind a sudden tumult of emotions. For a moment, time stood still and she was back in St. Joe, a ten-year-old kid, sitting at the dining room table as her mom tearfully explained that her dad was never coming home.
“You okay?” Makayla whispered.
Jerked to reality, Donja pushed her dripping locks behind her ear. “After my father was killed, my friend Debbie and I painted black tears on our cheeks and over the years, one thing led to another and finally, we went full blown.” She gently shook her head. “My mom freaked and took me for counseling.”
“Really?” Makayla said with something unspoken in her eyes.
“My counselor said I was hiding behind the makeup because I couldn’t, or wouldn’t, face the death of my father.”
After a moment of silence, Makayla pushed her neatly folded stack of lingerie aside. “My dad told
me about your father.”
Donja swallowed past the lump in her throat.
“I’m sorry,” Makayla whispered, “such a senseless tragedy.”
“Yes, it was.”
They both just sat there, not a word and then as if summoned to testify, Makayla exhaled forcefully. “Well at least you used makeup to cope,” she laughed though it wasn’t much of a laugh at all, “which is far better than what I did.”
“Pardon?”
Makayla smiled pitifully. “After my mom’s death…I…” she paused as if searching for words, “attempted suicide, not once, but twice.”
Shocked by the words of someone who moments ago she thought as flawless and perfect as a rare, porcelain doll, Donja whispered. “I’m sorry, I had no idea.”
“Yeah, well it took my dad for a spin. He suffered through two weeks of me being in a psych ward in Detroit.”
“That must have tough.”
Makayla exhaled as if to rid herself of the misery. “It was, but I finally got past it, or so I thought, but within a week of my release, the attorneys sat me and Dad down to go over Mom’s will. It was so horrible. She’d left me all this money and I just didn’t want it. I just didn’t care. I felt myself slipping away, but I masked it so well, no one knew…not even me. Two days later it all caught up with me and I used a razor,” she said exposing her left wrist which bore a thin white scar. “This time they kept me locked up for eight weeks of intense psychotherapy.” She shrugged. “Dad’s been keeping me wrapped in cotton wool ever since.”
Donja dropped her head, fighting her emotions. Finally, she raised her head. “I took the butcher knife to the bathroom when I was eleven. All the sad eyes and talk of terrorists, not to mention the, ‘Oh I’m so sorry,’ remarks that plagued me daily, I just couldn’t take anymore. I must have sat there in the floor for an hour searching for courage but eventually, coward that I am, I chickened out. I couldn’t do it, so I got a bottle of aspirin and chucked them down. Mom found me, broke the bathroom window to get in because the door was locked. I got my stomach pumped and did outpatient counseling,” she said as tears welled in her eyes.
Without warning, Makayla grabbed her tight in her arms and they hugged, clinging to each other. Finally, Makayla released her and pulled back, wiping at her tears. “Well, it appears we not only share what’s left of our parents but mutual mental problems.”
Donja just stared as an intense silence wedged between them. Finally, gathering courage, she whispered. “So, it would seem.” She wiped at her eyes. “And to think, all this time, since the first time we met, I thought you hated me.”
“And I thought my dad had told your mom about my suicide attempt and that she had told you. I convinced myself that was why you didn’t like me and that you were looking down on me like a freak.”
“Oh my gosh, no!” Donja shook her head. “No way!”
“Looks like we were both wrong.” Makayla whispered.
Donja grasped her arm. “I’m sorry that I misjudged you.”
“Ditto, but let’s not start making out just yet,” Makala smiled.
Donja laughed though she still felt a bit uncomfortable. Her sixteen years of living had taught her a few painful lessons. Nothing’s forever, life is short, and trust can get you seriously burned. “Looks like we have a case of two mental misfits.”
“Would appear so.”
“Who would have guessed?” Donja breathed and in that moment, she wanted to trust, desperately needed it.
“Hmm, do you think our parents somehow orchestrated this whole thing to get us together,” Makayla asked with questioning eyes.
“I don’t know, but what the hell, it’s cheaper than counseling and besides, I’m…kinda glad.”
“Truly.”
“Yeah,” Donja grinned, “misery loves company.”
“I think you’re right,” Makayla smiled.
Donja grinned. “Well, let’s get your stuff unpacked,” she whispered and for reasons unknown, she suddenly wanted a cigarette. “Do you by chance smoke?”
“Me?” Makayla said with wide eyes. “Oh no, it’s disgusting.”
“Hmm,” Donja frowned. “Guess I’ll have to quit.”
“That’s good, it stinks to high heaven,” Makayla said. “My dad gave it up a while back, because he didn’t want your mom to know. He might have some nicotine gum if you need it.”
“No thanks, I can handle it, but please don’t say anything. It would kill my mom if she knew.”
“No worries, I won’t breathe a word.” Makayla said with fingers to her lips, pretending to zip them tight.
“Thanks.”
“Hey, wanta sneak downstairs for a late-night snack before we finish unpacking?” Makayla whispered.
“Deal.”
Hours later with time a blur, they had milk and a slice of leftover apple pie sitting atop the kitchen counters, laughing like old friends. Back upstairs, they stopped to use the bathroom, together, terrified of the ten by ten porcelain torture chamber. Leaving the bathroom, with the halls a silvery twilight, they clung to each other, the shadows utterly frightening. When they found their room and closed the door, Makayla propped a chair under the door handle since there was no lock. They finished unpacking and then, they sat Indian style on the floor and exchanged tales of school, Debbie and Heather, their dislike of this sprawling mansion which they both agreed, was straight out of a horror movie, the local university and everything else imaginable. Donja finished putting her things in her wardrobe and grabbed the sheets to make her bed.
“I’m exhausted,” Makayla yawned. “Let me help you and if you don’t mind, we can just sleep on one bed. I don’t want to sleep by myself.”
“Sounds good to me.”
After the sheets were tucked and smoothed, which Donja taught her since she had never made a bed, they slipped into nightgowns and crawled into bed, backs to the headboard, phones in hand.
“Oh my God!” Donja slapped her forehead with the palm of her hand.
“What?” Makayla asked.
Donja offered her purple android. Makayla took it and held it steady reading the text. “So, I assume this Kevin was your boyfriend.”
“Yes.”
“And he got this girl, Brandy, pregnant.”
“Yeah, which means if she’s eight weeks pregnant, he’s been humping her the last two months, all the while pretending to be in love with me.”
“Did you sleep with him?”
“No, but I came close. I trusted the slimy bastard.”
“Well, seems we have another commonality. Virgins!”
Donja laughed pathetically. “I’ll be seventeen tomorrow, so I’m not sure that’s something to brag about.”
“I disagree and so will you when you meet that special someone. Trust me, so will he.”
“You know you’re right and looking back, I can’t believe I came so close.”
“So did I…once, but I chickened out. Looks like someone’s watching over us.”
Donja squinted. “I’d like to believe that.”
“Must be a fact, we both made it to seventeen. Most girls I know can’t say that.”
“Yeah, just a few hours and I’ll have made it. August 30th and I’ll be 17.”
“That’s neat, mine’s March the 26th, so I beat you. I’m already 17.”
“Almost legal.” Donja smirked.
“Hmm, yeah,” Makayla said rolling her eyes, “but don’t tell my dad, he’s intent on mapping out my life.”
“Donja laughed. “I hear ya. I bet Mom bakes a cake tomorrow and she’ll make a fuss like she always does.”
“She should, my mom always did,” Makayla said with a faraway look in her eyes, “it’s your day so I suggest you enjoy those candles on your trip around the sun…and,” she paused with a cocky little grin that blossomed into a big, pearly white smile, “since it’s your birthday, I insist that you go out with us tomorrow night.”
“You know,” Donja said with her eyes twinkling
. “I think I will.”
“Sweet,” Makayla laughed, “and while Heather’s at the reunion tomorrow and the workers are here renovating, the two of us are going shopping, my treat, birthday girl.”
“Ahhh, that’s kind of you.”
“Don’t mention it, but I’d best warn you, we may not find much goth, like I said, it’s not too popular in this area.”
“No biggie, it’ll just be fun to hang out and see the sites.”
“Yes,” Makayla cooed. “I can hardly wait.”
Transformation
A rataplan of boots in the hallway forced Donja to sit up in bed with a gasp. For a moment, she sat perfectly still unsure of her whereabouts, but seeing Makayla beside her, phone in hand as she texted it all came crashing upon her. She rubbed her eyes with a groggy yawn.
“Good morning, birthday girl.” Makayla smiled.
“Morning,” Donja said, swiping at strands of hair stuck to her cheek. “What’s with the noise?”
“Construction workers. I peeked out, there’s about a hundred of them.”
“Wonderful.”
“I’m excited about shopping.” Makayla beamed.
“Are you?”
“Umm hum. We’re gonna hit ‘Déjà vu,’ my fav beauty salon in the big Soo. You’re gonna love it.”
“I’m excited. Is it nice?”
“Understatement. “I love Michigan but when it comes to shopping and night life, there’s no comparison. Ontario rocks!”
“Really.”
“Oh yeah. There’s a disco called ‘Observers’ that Heather, Becky and I frequent. It’s a little pricey but it has a nice atmosphere with high class, good looking guys, and on weekends they have a really nice band.”