by Unknown
Our cigarettes rested their filters on the edge of the ashtray and cut a pair of flawless diagonal lines. The ends were the glowing coals of a forest fire, the smoke a stream fanning out, lazy where it entered slower water.
A halogen lamp hung from a black wire above the counter. Though small, its light made a sharp cone, confused by the occasional fog drifting from the cigarettes whenever a breeze pleased to push or pull. The lamp was the only thing illuminating the morning’s three o’clock air, the only thing between us and the darkness.
“Why did you talk to me?” he asked. “At the bar.”
A blush belied my intentions. No, just one facet of my intentions. I shrugged and stuttered out an answer. My words became more composed as I reclaimed my confidence.
“You’re beautiful,” I said. “Why does anyone talk to anyone? You have a beautiful sadness. That’s the first thing I noticed. It intrigued me to know why.”
“That would take more than the span of a few drinks.”
“Indeed, probably longer than a lifetime.”
“You find sadness beautiful?” he asked. “Or did you think I was more vulnerable because of it, so the chance to get me to come home with you was better.”
Again, I was taken aback by both the bluntness of the question and the truth of it. It must have shown in my countenance because he smiled briefly, took another pull on his cigarette and tapped the end against the ashtray.
Offset, to either side of the ashtray, were two wineglasses. One was half full, the second empty, save for a deep purple tint which made it look bruised, as if coated in some exotic oil. To the nose, this oil had the sharp tone of apricots. The bowls of the glasses displayed the loving patina of touch, like the windows of a jewelry store or some downtown peep show. Around the rims lingered the wintry remnants of kisses. These small details blurred when a whispered breeze eased cigarette smoke in front of my eyes.
Earlier, I had run my fingers from the nape of the angel’s neck to the crown of his head just to feel the animal’s pelt. He kept his eyes locked against mine throughout this motion. Then, as I withdrew my hand, his wine-stained lips parted to a smile. The expression pulled his skin up over his cheekbones; taut against his angled jaw. Now, he sat with both elbows on the counter, slightly drunk and watching the smoke curl from the cigarettes.
“Truthfully,” I offered the silence, “you’re right.”
He raised his eyebrows. His forehead wrinkled.
“A bit of both,” I continued, “but it hasn’t gotten me any closer to knowing about you. I don’t know anything.”
“You can’t know me in one night.”
“I have all the time in the world.”
He snorted as if I had made a joke.
“All I seem to do,” he said after a breath, “is stand in that bar, beside that lamp, drinking that drink, being picked up by the same guy with the same line every week. Can you imagine such a life, one with a desire to do something so different, seeing so much, but not being able to do anything else? So trapped.”
“You can do anything you want,” I said, trying to satiate the urge to comfort him. “You can—”
“Lies,” he snapped. “I’ve tried and time seems to erase everything. I’m thinking of quitting.”
“Why?” I asked.
“I just think it’s time for something new,” he uttered.
That was the last thing we said and an hour has passed. We have smoked cigarettes and finished the bottle of wine.
I put my hand on his knee. He looks to me, his eyes wandering, drunk. His hand is warm against my chest and I fall backwards as the stool tips. My back lands on the carpet, pain sparks behind my eyes, which look up.
In this light, he is a burning silhouette. Smoke rises into the lamp’s air behind his eclipse. He stands and takes off his shirt; the light shines through him. It is muted, his skin translucent like water, transparent like slow light. Under his skin, I see his heart beating, pushing the wine through his veins. His lungs are thick, the spaces between his innards ripple with light.
He reaches back and grabs his cigarette from the ashtray. Drawing the filter to his lips, he inhales and I watch his light dim to black. Inside his body a cloud spreads from his lungs and, as it digests him, he extends his wings. Slowly they stretch, pivoting on a central joint, charcoal feathers laid in an ordered, dazzling pattern. Each feather, coated with fine opalescent oil, catches the simple light from the lamp, twists it into a frenzy, shattering it against the backs of my eyes.
He leans forward, kneeling on one knee and placing a hand beside my head, his teeth bared in ferocious disgust. He brings his face a hairbreadth from mine. I smell wine and, on his skin, something akin to almonds. A static spark stings my lips when his brush mine. Electricity crawls under his skin. He exhales apricot-scented breath, sending images through my lungs to tarnish my mind. They assault in rapid succession.
“I am tired of it,” he hisses in my ear, “Organ harvests. Full bellies. Buffet attacks. Closed eyes. Trading up. Broken people. Broken fingers. Penthouse whores. Diamond rings. Crystal Ashtrays. Golf and country clubs. Sport Utility Vehicles. Heated leather seats. Television commercials. Reality TV. Tears and scars. Shit kickings. Shit eating grins. Holy wars. Air fresheners. Fashion magazines. Breast implants. Beauty culture. Professional wrestling. Liquor lullabies. Back lane beatings. Date rape. Oil wells pumping. Unrestrained longing. I have seen it all, the sum of your efforts.” He pauses. “In the end, after thousands of years of hard work, what is left but fat comfort and fake fashion, pretentious excess and neighbourly ignorance? I have seen the ways you have let yourselves down.”
He kisses my neck; he pierces my neck; I struggle to pull away from the pain. A small, choked whimper escapes as he holds me in place. Flames seem to fester inside of him like some exploding star. Through his teeth comes smoke, a warm, wet blanket on my throat. The last image I see is the burning angel. His tears are not enough to douse the flames.
I am not strong enough for this and he knew it.
I let go, fade and bend to beautiful.
Evolving
by Natasha Beaulieu
He stands near the dance floor but is not attracted to any of the goth girls twirling around. Despite disliking the old-fashion Victorian style as well as the vulgar black PVC skin-tight outfits, he has been hanging around Cold Hell for the last few months; the club appeals to vampires. Real ones.
Anton pretends to be a vampire and knows he has the right to do so. He possesses all the potential to become one. Deep in his flesh, awareness in his soul and knowledge in his heart tells him it is true. He is not yet a vampire, but sooner or later he will have the opportunity to evolve.
It is easy for Anton to align with the club’s aesthetic code. His tall slim body, naturally pale skin, black hair and piercing blue eyes are classic features. He only had to buy a closet full of black clothes and he became the perfect goth model.
He knows that most of Cold Hell’s dark princes are fake vampires, turning back into everyday guys at sunrise. And it’s the same with the goddesses of the night, probably wearing jeans and t-shirts all week.
“Your first night here?”
He hasn’t paid attention to the girl — well, more a woman — standing next to him, a skinny blond in a shoddy purple dress clutching a bottle of beer in her hand.
“No,” he answers.
“I’ve never seen you before.”
So what? He has never seen her either and he has no interest in someone who couldn’t possibly be a vampire. The girl has no class. No strength. No power.
“I don’t like to show off.”
“Of course! That explains why you’re about to take root near the dance floor.”
She laughs. It annoys him.
“You like to dance?” she goes on.
“No.”
“I do.”
Then why don’t you just go and dance, he thinks. What is wrong with her? Is she mindless? Can’t she understand that he does not
want to engage in a conversation with her?
“You don’t talk too much.”
“Should I?” He looks at her with a grim face.
“No,” she answers, her smile fading from her lips. “You’re a prick, man!”
And then she disappears into the crowded club. Good riddance!
Anton makes his way among the lace, velvet and satin, glancing around, looking for a real vampire. During his weekly visits to the Cold Hell, he thinks he recognized a few. Vampires stand, walk and look at you in a special, stylish way. But as those prospects ignored him, Anton decided that they were merely poseurs or wannabes. Had they been real, they would have recognized him as kindred, flesh of their flesh and soul, even if he has not yet fully turned.
He has thought about it often, how a vampire knows he’s a vampire: blood is essential to his survival. Anton does not yet need blood to survive. As a child, he enjoyed sucking at his friends’ wounds whenever they were injured in play, which resulted in the ‘Anton is a vampire’ legend. He kept sucking blood because he liked the taste, which, he knew, made him a freak, not a vampire.
There is a free space at the bar. Anton steps into it and waits to order. As he looks around, he catches the profile of a man standing at the opposite end of the bar. The man is much older than most of the guys in the club but good-looking and, if he plans to seduce someone here, it might just work.
A few weeks ago, Anton left with a gothic Lolita. Once they were in his bedroom, he asked her to get undressed.
“I don’t like rag dolls. I like flesh,” he said.
As soon as the Lolita was naked, revealing her tender white skin, Anton felt desire rising. Her short red hair left her neck fully exposed and Anton had enjoyed kissing and sucking at it while the Lolita writhed in ecstasy.
“A glass of red wine,” he orders from the Sweeney Todd look-alike barman.
Anton does not possess a natural talent for levitating and floating in the air, or flying through it. As a teenager, he wanted to know if that potential was within him. Many times he tried to levitate above the ground without any success. He let himself fall from trees, but instead of going up, he just twirled fast to the grass below. Once he went to the public swimming pool’s highest diving board and jumped, hoping to defy gravity.
“You know it’s closed, kid,” said the guard who caught him in the water.
“I needed to do a test,” he gasped, half choking on swallowed chlorinated water.
“You can do all the tests you want during the daytime.”
But Anton does not like daytime. He covers as much of his body as he can with clothing, but still he hates when the sun leaves ugly red spots on his face, arms and hands that stay for weeks.
He also has a problem with his eyes. When they are exposed to bright light, he tends to lose the ability to focus. To avoid this, he wears dark sunglasses during the day. At night, his vision is very sharp. He doesn’t pretend to himself that he can see in the dark, but his vision is definitively sharper in the evening.
“I like red wine too.”
The voice comes from a wasp-waisted girl in a leather corset. Another wanting his attention but Anton is not indifferent to this one. Her décolleté flaunts lots of flesh. He orders a glass of red wine for her.
“Thank you. What’s you name?”
“Anton.”
“I’m Shanella.”
Anton glances again to the opposite end of the bar. The handsome older stranger is looking at him. Is it possible?…
“Are you a vampire?” asks Shanella.
Usually, Anton simply answers yes but now he hesitates. How can he pretend to be a vampire when there might be a real vampire a few meters away from him? But the words finally pass his lips, “Of course.”
Shanella grips his arm.
“I am so happy. My life sucks the way it is. Please, take me with you. Make me one of your kind.”
Anton’s eyes lock with the stranger’s. Should he go and talk to the vampire or leave with Shanella? Why all of a sudden is the idea of having fun with this girl as interesting to him as the thought of talking with a real vampire? What an annoying dilemma. Still, Anton leaves his half-empty glass of wine on the counter, grabs Shanella’s hand and walks with her to the backdoor of the club, thinking that he will come back for the vampire.
The alley is dark and empty on this chilly fall night. Shanella’s breasts are covered with goose bumps, but she does not complain. Anton guides his prey into a narrow space between brick walls. She’s excited by the idea of becoming a vampire and Anton knows how to make the experience look as real as possible.
He bends over the shivering Shanella and pushes her long black hair behind her shoulders then touches her soft skin with the tips of his cold fingers. She is afraid, he knows, but she is as excited as she is scared.
“Show me your sharp teeth,” she whispers.
What a stupid request. He does not have razor-sharp fangs. Well, he had them as a kid. But the teeth combined with the ‘Anton is a vampire’ legend made his uncomfortable parents have the dentist fix the ‘problem’ of pointed canines.
“They were filed off so I wouldn’t transform anyone.”
“Who did it?”
So damned curious. “It doesn’t matter. I will transform you anyway.”
Shanella puts a hand on her neck. She is not feeling so confident anymore, is she?
“But how?” she wants to know.
Anton does not let the girl ask another question. He puts his lips on the curve of her breast and starts to suck at the skin. He wishes he still had his spiky teeth to bite through her skin and get at the blood. He wants so much to be a real vampire. Why can’t he be one? How can he become one?
He goes on sucking the skin. It will leave a big bruise but that’s not his problem. She asked for it, didn’t she?
Suddenly, Anton has had enough of this game. Shanella is paler than before and indeed there is a huge purple mark on her breast, but she seems to still be in ecstasy while he feels nothing, nothing at all. He thinks of her now as just a naïve girl, not having the sense to be able to recognize real vampires from fake ones.
Bored by her feigned agony that seems like it will never end, Anton leaves Shanella in the dark and goes back into the club.
Before returning to the bar where he intends to have a conversation with the vampire if by any chance he’s still there, Anton stops in the men’s room. He glances in the mirror, but can’t see himself very well. Of course I can’t, he thinks, it’s fucking dark in here!
And it doesn’t matter anyway. Anton knows he looks good. He’s always been more attractive than most guys. His parents were annoyed by that too. He remembers hearing a conversation as a kid:
“His beauty will cause big problems,” his father said.
“It has already,” his mother replied. “He can get all the girls he wants.”
“I hope he won’t turn out too bad.”
“He can’t be worst than he already is.”
How was he a bad kid? In what way? Anton exhibited vampiric tendencies, but that did not make him a bad child. He didn’t kill any of his friends by sucking at their bloody wounds. Maybe it’s time for him to ask his mother about that conversation. She should certainly be able to explain to him what she meant.
He takes a breath to get away from the past. Some other time. Tonight, he has another goal.
The stranger has not moved from his spot at the bar. Anton walks in his direction, his eyes focused on the dance floor. Once he is next to the handsome man, he stops. They make a quick eye contact and then Anton pretends he’s more interested in the moving bodies. Facing the dance floor, his back to the vampire, Anton wonders how to make a good impression. What should he say? He can’t just ask to be turned into a vampire. How silly! How ridiculous that would be! There must be another approach or it might be better to be patient and let the other one make the first move. After all, Anton has been patient for months. What’s a few more minutes?
&n
bsp; So he waits. The vampire can surely sense him and recognize him as a kindred spirit, not yet fully formed, but not missing much that’s needed to be real. Anton only hopes he will be recognized.
Standing nearby, a guy wearing a fishnet shirt starts talking to another guy with blue dreads. Strong garlic breath comes out of his mouth, reaching Anton’s sensitive nostrils. He likes garlic but he hates garlic breath.
“Let’s talk,” he suddenly hears from behind him.
Anton turns so quickly it seems he did not even move.
“Let’s go outside,” the vampire says.
Anton agrees with a nod. He follows the stranger to the same back door he used earlier when he went out with Shanella. He remembers how the girl’s skin tasted: nice, very sweet and fruity due to some cream or perfume she had applied to it. Blood tastes metallic. But Anton enjoys both tastes.
The alley is as deserted as before. Shanella is gone and wherever she went, she left without the gift of eternal life. A gift that Anton hopes to receive for himself.
The stranger stops near a garage door, turns to face Anton and says, “You got another one tonight, didn’t you?”
“Well, they ask for it. Is it not the same for you?”
“For me?”
Anton is a bit confused. Has he been mistaken about this man being a vampire? “Why do you want to talk with me?” he asks.
“I’m Rachel’s father.”
The name Rachel does not strike a chord in Anton’s memory. But then, he looks deeper into the man’s eyes and he remembers Rachel’s eyes, the gothic Lolita he sucked the neck off a couple of weeks ago. What should he say? Act as if he does not know any Rachel? Admit that he took her to his place and pretended to have sex with her but did not because he does not like having sex?