Only the Lonely

by Susan Gabriel

  “It seems as if I have been lonely for centuries.”

  The voice on the line was heart-rendingly forlorn. Its tone conveyed the sorrow of certainty that whatever circumstances had caused its distress would never change, never look brighter, but instead would remain exactly as they were until the day he died. It was a type of poignant gloom that chilled Summer to the marrow of her bones.

  “Oh, I’m sure it couldn’t have been actual centuries. That’s a little dramatic,” she joked, trying to lighten the mood. “I thi—“

  His voice broke in, melodious with richly rounded tones and a strong, yet not thick, accent that made every word sound like poetry.

  “No, it has. It has been centuries,” Lucien corrected. “Since, oh, 1789… so, let’s see…1789, 1889, 1989, two thousand eighty-ni—oh, alright, two and a quarter centuries. Is my math correct?”

  For the first time in her loquacious life, Summer was rendered mute. Was this guy pulling her leg? Summer had a subtle suspicion that he wasn’t. She could smell bullshit like a fart in an elevator, and this didn’t reek of a lie.

  “Summer, are you there?” Lucien asked, his voice disturbingly haunting. Blinking her eyes, Summer straightened her spine, as if roused from a daydream. “Yes, yes, I’m here.”

  “Summer, imagine how it might feel if you knew that you were going to live forever - always remaining in the shadows, never capable of forming lasting relationships. You have lifetimes of love to share, but know that love will forever and ever remain unrequited. So, all you see unfolding in your future is oceans of loneliness.” The hypnotic quality of his voice drew Summer in and for a small moment she felt a strange emptiness of spirit, as if she were only a casual and constant observer of life; detached from all emotion, a wandering specter amid the toils and tears of humanity.

  The soothing notes of the caller’s voice played on. “It’s a strange suffering, knowing with certainty that, year after year, century after century, there is nothing but solitude stretching out from here to eternity.”

  A stinging began to burn behind Summer’s eyes. Somehow, the caller had awakened her to the reality of her own solitude. She had always just assumed that one day she would find the right person to share her life. But what if there was no fairy tale ending for her? Would there be a day when, like Lucien, she would resign herself to the realization that she was, and always would be utterly alone? Summer choked back a lump in her throat.

  What the heck was going on? Surely he was pulling her leg. None of this could be true, yet, without a doubt, she felt that it was. His voice, his words, they were like glistening ribbons of spider silk weaving through her brain, and drawing her ever deeper into his world.

  No one was meant to walk a lifetime of solitary confinement, let alone dozens of lifetimes. She didn’t have a clue what to say next. Whenever her friends needed cheering up, they called on good old Summer, who was always ready with a lighthearted approach. Comfort wasn’t her shtick, nor was it her occupation. Glibness was her claim to fame.

  “That’s pretty heavy stuff, Lucien. But, hey, no one lives forever, so that’s a plus.” She knew it was a poor attempt at a joke and cringed even as the words left her mouth.

  “Well, one can hope,” the caller replied with sly sarcasm. “I heard your previous call, Summer and I am wondering, can you truly see vampires? If a person passed you on the street, could you tell if they were a vampire?”

  Summer did not want to tackle that subject again -especially with this caller. Her intuition told her to proceed with caution.

  “Lucien, if you are as old as you say you are, then you should have learned by now not to believe everything that you hear.” “Of course. I was just hoping that we might have some special ability in common. I have an interesting parlor trick that I like to perform. I can look at people and discern what they have been drinking. Jack Daniels for this one, Coors Light for that one, and you, for instance, you drink Cutty Sark on the rocks - doubles.”

  A stinging shock rippled up Summer’s spine, causing her to snatch her hand away from the microphone. Her mind felt muddy and confused. The radio business has a term for what happened next: Dead Air.

  Her eyes darted back and forth over the pulsing red and green lights of the soundboard. She tried frantically to recall if she had met this man before. Was his voice familiar? Surely she would have remembered him.

  Her face was on billboards and buses all over town. He could have recognized her any number of places ordering her favorite drink. Maybe she should think about getting a bodyguard. The notion made her shiver.

  An insistent rapping reverberating on the glass of the sound booth returned Summer to her senses.

  Crap, she’d been sitting there like a mute. For how long? She scrambled to shake the confusion from her head. Her reflection on the control room glass displayed the panicked look on her face.

  Melody was whipping her index finger in rapid, tight circles, signaling for her to wrap it up.

  “I’m sorry, but it’s time to go to a commercial break, so…” Summer tentatively recovered.

  “One more thing, Summer,” Lucien interrupted. “Your top button is undone.” The floating melody of words caressed her ears and glided through her brain, shattering in a million pieces with the stereophonic buzz of a dial tone.

  Melody quickly cued a commercial for Rex Railback’s Herbal Male Enhancers. Summer removed her headphones. Glancing downward, she saw that her top button was open, exposing a small bit of white lace. Hairs prickled on the back of her neck with the eerie suspicion that she was being watched. She twisted her chair in the direction of the lone window of the studio. The notion that anyone could see her was ridiculous; the studio was on the fifth floor and looked out upon the blankness of a brick wall across the alleyway.

  She re-buttoned her blouse, her trembling fingers betraying her struggle to regain composure.

  “Hey, are you okay?” Melody’s voice called out over the intercom.

  Shit, she had to get a grip. She was feeling a bit unhinged, and oddly emotional, as if she didn’t know whether she wanted to laugh or cry. And that voice…that voice. Summer tried to recall it, but it kept drifting just out of reach, like a long-forgotten dream. She’d been too long without the comfort of a cigarette and some fresh air.

  Gathering her things, Summer waved her hand, nodding her head. “I’m fine, I’m fine. You know what, Melody? Put on something canned for a while, I need a smoke, maybe two.”

  “What do you want me to air?”

  Summer didn’t give a fisherman’s fuck what she aired. She wanted to separate herself from that last call as fast as her legs could carry her.

  “I don’t give a shit. Put on the Best of Jerry.” Summer flung her arms wide, palms upturned. “Whatever, Melody…just put on anything.”

  Summer felt a momentary pang of regret. She didn’t like the churlish way she sounded just now, snapping at Melody.

  “Sounds like somebody just let a caller get the best of her,” Melody grumbled under her breath.

  Smoke and Mirrors

  Claustrophobia strangled her with a suffocating embrace. The walls grew closer, squeezing the stale oxygen from the narrow hallway. Driven to fill her lungs with long gulps of fresh air, Summer jogged down five flights of metal stairs; the echo of her footsteps filled the stairwell with a metallic, booming clatter which assaulted her ears like the tolling of an out-of-tune bell.

  What she needed most right now was a few moments of solitude, and the comforting ritual of feeding her nicotine addiction.

  Lucien…the mere recollection of his name and her heart began to race. Like a song that repeats and repeats in your head, the beautiful melody of his voice floated hauntingly through her mind. Making her way to the exit door, she tried to piece together the moments of their brief conversation - the business about him being lonely for centuries and the other clever parlor tricks he had played on her. Playing! Yes, that’s exactly what he had been doing. He had been playing her - mess
ing with her head like a master manipulator of minds.

  He sounded beautiful and tragically sad, and she had fallen for it hook, line and sinker. She wanted to kick her own ass for being suckered into his shell game like some just-off-the-turnip-truck rube.

  Nice job of letting your imagination get the better of you, she thought, as she pushed the security bar on the back exit. Swinging the door wide, she filled her lungs with the moist air of the damp alleyway. Bracing her back against the heavy steel door to hold it open, she surveyed the darkened path, which was as empty as a poor man’s pocket. It had rained earlier and now the street shimmered with oily pools of water that somehow appeared luminously bewitching in the moonlight; quite opposite of the dreary pot-holed cement sprawl which it actually was.

  She struck a match and lit a Marlboro Light. The yellow flame cast an inky, exaggerated shadow of her figure on the wet pavement.

  It’s funny, she thought, how one thing is so dreadful in the harsh glare of day, yet enchantingly beautiful in the light of the moon.

  “Like this city for instance, when you view it from a very high place.” The whisper came from everywhere and nowhere simultaneously. For a split second, Summer thought she felt a warm rush of breath in her ear, accompanying the man’s murmured voice.

  She pivoted on her toes, adrenaline coursing through her veins, her eyesight and hearing as keen as an eagle, as she searched for the source of the voice.

  Across the alley, she spied a young man leaning idly against the brick wall, a cigarette pinched between his fingers, European style. He made no move toward her, only offering the smallest wave of hello with his hand. Summer narrowed her eyes, attempting to bring his face into focus in the dim light, but it remained obscured in shadow. She, on the other hand, realized she was fully illuminated by the light pouring through the open doorway.

  How strange she hadn’t heard him approach or noticed him when she had stepped outside. Dropping her gaze towards the ground, why she hadn’t detected him became clear. In the glistening, rain-filled pothole which separated them, he cast no reflection, except for the tell-tale bluish soul-flame which floated above his unseen body.

  He was a vampire—a vampire smoking a cigarette.

  Swallowing the stone in her throat, she talked herself down by mentally issuing orders to play it cool, even though she felt anything but. Her whole life, she’d longed to meet one of these creatures in person, and now one simply shows up smoking a cigarette and making casual conversation. Digging in her heels, she willed herself to remain rooted. She would not allow fear to chase her away from this once-in-a-lifetime occasion.

  There is nothing to fear, she told herself even as she leaned harder against the exit door, and placed one foot inside of the building. She eased her hand to the door lever which pressed against her lower back, ready to pull it closed behind her in the event a hasty retreat might be required.

  “In the glare of day, the city is dirty and belching clouds of toxic waste into the sky.” He paused to drag on his cigarette, flaring it with a red-orange glow, briefly illuminating the lower half of his face. “But at night, when the lights of the city are sparkling from the windows of the high-rises, and the radiance of the moon is reflected in the churning currents of the Mississippi; now that’s magic, pure magic.”

  Even as he spoke in softened tones, Summer detected a charming, almost musical accent. The cadence of his speech was like a long-forgotten lullaby spilling from his lips, which were not pale as she knew his flesh must be, but full and blushing with the vigor of youth.

  He flicked his cigarette into the black puddle. It sizzled briefly before surrendering its fire to the water.

  “It’s all in the perspective, you know, mon petite.”

  Mon petite? Ah, of course, the accent was French; but not the thick, indecipherable accent of a recent immigrant, instead one that comes after many years of acclimation to the English language. The vampire didn’t merely speak English; he purred it. Just like…no, exactly like her caller.

  This night was getting freakier by the minute. Certainly, this was no coincidence. Lucien of Lafayette Square and the vampire standing before her must be one and the same.

  She wondered what his purpose might be, and whether it was benign or treacherous. He’d sought her out for a reason, and, despite the feeling that there was a hamster ball rolling around in her stomach, she wanted desperately to know what he wanted.

  The vampire withdrew a cigarette pack from his shirt pocket, and from across the narrow alleyway, he stretched out his arm and offered her one.

  “Thanks, but I already have one,” Summer deferred, displaying what was left of her cancer stick. She wouldn’t have taken one, even if she wanted - candy from strangers and all. Clinging to the semi-safety of the doorway, she refused to be so easily lured from its false sense of security, although she was certain that if he chose, he could be on top of her faster than she could blink.

  He tapped a single cigarette from the pack and slipped two fingers inside of his pants pocket, withdrawing a silver lighter. He remained relaxed against the brick wall as he lit another, casually blowing smoke rings as if he had all the time in the world, although now that she thought about it, he probably did.

  “I’m trying to quit, or at a least cut back,” Summer remarked, pointing to his cigarette. She tried her best to appear laissez-faire and not tip him off that she knew his secret. Releasing the spent butt from her hand, she ground it out with the toe of her shoe. The vampire remained silent, raising his cigarette to his lips and inhaling deeply.

  “I’m down to less than half a pack a day now,” she offered. The vampire responded by puffing out a series of tight smoke rings that orbited skyward, before dissipating into the darkness. “You know you really shouldn’t chain smoke. It’s very bad for your health,” she heard herself ramble. The stranger threw his head back and laughed. Summer glimpsed the points of his fangs glinting in the light of the full moon, a momentary reminder that this was no ordinary man. She wondered if the display was deliberate, or if he simply didn’t care if she knew.

  Even without seeing his fangs or the flame, she would have known. Over the years, she had learned to recognize a physical response whenever a vampire came in close proximity - twenty feet or less. As if they were a magnet and she was steel, her body would respond with a sense of being pulled towards them, and she felt this reaction now. Although she knew with certainty what he was, there wasn’t yet any indication that he was aware she knew.

  “You are probably right.” He tossed his cigarette to the pavement. “I suppose there are many things that are bad for our health, but it doesn’t stop us from being attracted to them nevertheless.”

  With languid strides he crossed the alley, holding out his hand and saying, “Forgive me for not formally introducing myself. I am Lucien du Charmont.”

  So there it was - the caller and the vampire were one and the same. She reflexively offered her hand and, when she did, he raised it to his mouth; his touch not deathly cold as she had expected, but warm with life-blood.

  He pressed his lips to her skin with such great reverence and refinement that Summer nearly expected him to genuflect before her.

  In that moment, it was as if he wrapped her in the comfort of a warm blanket. She felt no fear, only the magnetic pull growing ever stronger, swelling until her ears rang as it pushed against her eardrums.

  His lips lingered on her flesh for a long moment. As he began to release his hold on her hand, a wave of head-spinning vertigo swam through her with such a force that she clutched tightly onto his fingers to steady her legs, lest she crumple to the ground. His hand slipped to the small of her back, supporting her while she regained her balance, strength radiating from his fingertips as if he might sweep her up effortlessly with a single hand.

  “Are you alright?” he asked. “Perhaps you should sit down for a minute.”

  As suddenly as it had come, the vertigo vanished. In its wake, a searing rush of embarrassmen
t crept up her neck and burned her cheeks.

  “No, no, I think I’m okay now.” Summer dropped her head so he wouldn’t see her go red in the face. “I promise that I don’t usually have fainting spells every time someone introduces themselves.”

  “Ah, well then, should I be flattered or insulted?”

  “Uh, probably neither,” she replied, flustered. “It’s just been a long, weird night. I’m pretty tired, I guess.”

  She was tired, true, but also confused and unnerved by the vampire Lucien du Charmont. He seemed in no hurry to confess his purpose, and Summer was impatient and curious by nature.

  “Are you…did you call me tonight?” she asked, raising her gaze to finally meet the vampire face to face.

  He was a good foot taller, and she had to tilt her chin upward to scan his face, which was fully visible now in the light that spilled through the doorway. He had the sort of male beauty which is so smooth and delicate it is nearly feminine. He was youthful, perhaps no more than twenty-one or two. His features quite defined; chiseled cheekbones, angular jaw line, aquiline nose and full, pouty lips punctuated by a small cleft in his chin. Locks of sandy-colored hair cascaded in long waves which framed his face, imparting him with a leonine appearance. She found his eyes to be most fascinating, as she could not discern with certainty the exact color of the mystifying orbs. They appeared to frequently change - always subtly altering so you could never really get a good look at them.

  She mentally awarded him a full five out of five “Glory holes with a Reach-Around” - the highest score of hotness she’d ever bestowed upon a man.

  The vampire placed his hand over his heart. “I confess, I called you,” he said as if he were a wayward boy coming clean about some shameful act.

  “It’s not my fault, really,” he continued, fixing his eyes on Summer with an intensity that caused her to squirm.

  “Your dazzling voice is the culprit. One word and I was a fan.”

  It wasn’t the first time she had heard similar remarks, her voice being deep, sultry and a tad breathy… the best sort of female voice for radio… or phone sex. Summer raised an eyebrow knowingly and chuckled.