Blood Sacrifice

by By Rick R. Reed

  Edward shook his head, scattering the memories like dream images. He sucked in the cold air and wondered if last night had been a dream, but a quick look down at his exposed arm told him it had not: there were small, round scabs all over him.

  He stood and filled glass after glass of cold water from the kitchen tap, gulping it down until he felt his belly would burst. It was then the knock at the door came.

  Edward turned, glass held in mid-lift to his mouth, eyebrows together. Could it be Terence? The very thought seemed odd and out of place; the whitish sky and light outside precluded his appearance now. He and Maria were in their element only in the shadows, under cover of night. He didn’t know why he thought this, but it was so right it was a form of certainty.

  So who, then, had come to call? Edward seldom had visitors (other than the ones who followed him home occasionally from the Tiger’s Eye, but they were all doomed to never repeat their crossing of his threshold); his friends, the few he had, had vanished one by one, disappearing into domestic bliss, into drug addiction, one a suicide, another an expatriate, trying to recapture Left Bank glories in Paris. And his family…well, they had never understood him and the silence that grew year after year was more and more comfortable and less of a shame.

  The knocking was more insistent. Perhaps it was just the building’s janitor, needing to gain entrance to spray his apartment for cockroaches. It had happened before. Edward gulped his water down and set it on the counter next to the sink.

  The knocking sounded again.

  “I’m coming! I’m coming.” Edward struggled into a pair of jeans, pulled on a shirt.

  He opened the door. Before him stood a smiling woman. Her screamingly red hair was pulled into a tight French twist, so taut it pulled back the skin of her face. Her skin was pale, her eyes bright green, her lips a lacquered red. She wore black horn-rims and a small black velvet pillbox hat. A green chartreuse coat, of some sort of nappy fabric, hung to her knees. An inch of black dress showed beneath the coat; its emergence seemed calculated. Her feet were squeezed into black stiletto pumps.

  Edward and the woman regarded one another. The woman never stopped smiling, as if she had a secret and was bursting to share it; her eyes actually twinkled. Edward cocked his head. This was no one he had ever seen. “Something I can help you with?”

  “I’d like to introduce myself.” For someone so young, the woman’s voice was deep, not raspy, but smooth. There was a slight New England accent that was nearly undetectable. Edward was certain she had been schooled in elocution. The woman extended her hand and Edward stared down at it, noticing the bright red nails, almost claws; they contrasted with the whiteness of her skin. She withdrew her hand, but continued to smile.

  “My name is Olive Greene.” She gave out a short bark of laughter. “You can laugh; everyone does. But it’s my real name. My parents either had no sense of humor or tremendously cruel ones. I still haven’t figured out which.”

  Edward didn’t say anything.

  “Would you mind if I stepped inside?”

  “The place is kind of a mess.” Edward pulled the door closer to his back. “What is it you wanted, Miss Greene? If you’re here to sell something, including religion, I haven’t the resources to make you happy, so you might as well move on to greener pastures.”

  “Well, I guess we can conduct our little meeting right here in the hallway. It does have a certain je ne sais quoi.” She sniffed the air. “Or maybe it’s just cabbage.” Olive Greene laughed again.

  Edward stared. “So what is it you want? I need you to get to the point. I’m not feeling very well today.”

  “Okay. Now, that we’ve dispensed with the pleasantries, perhaps we can get down to business. Do you know a Mr. Sukie Grace?”

  Edward scratched his head. The name did sound familiar, and maybe on a better day, it would have conjured up an image to make the familiarity clear. But today was not that day.

  “The name sounds kinda familiar, but I’m not registering anything.”

  “Mr. Grace is a friend of my boss’s. My boss is the owner of a gallery in SoHo. Anima/Animus?” Olive Greene cocked her head. “Maybe you’ve heard of it?”

  Anima/Animus was a name that rang bells. It was one of the most respected galleries in New York City, perhaps in North America. And its dedication to abstract expressionism had earned it mainstream coverage in places such as the New York Times. What did Anima/Animus have to do with him? And who was Sukie Grace?

  “Who’s your boss?”

  “As I mentioned, he’s the owner of the Anima/Animus gallery, on Houston. His name is Paul Gadzinski.”

  Sukie Grace’s lover was Paul Gadzinski. It all came together now. A few months ago, a young man, scarcely more than a boy, with wispy blond hair and a willowy frame, had followed him home. Not from the bar, but just from having seen him on the street. The two had exchanged glances, each turning to look back at the other several times, in the mating dance homosexuals everywhere were familiar with. On the third head-swivel, Sukie Grace had changed direction and followed Edward back to his walk-up. He waited around outside until Edward came back downstairs and let him in. For the next hour, they didn’t exchange a word, concentrating on each other’s flesh. It wasn’t until afterward, panting and sweating that talk turned to art…and Grace’s understanding lover. He hadn’t mentioned the gallery’s name, perhaps from a fear of being seen as a name-dropper, or, worse, a liar.

  And Edward, in a very rare moment of openness, perhaps buoyed by two orgasms, gave his new friend a show of his work.

  His new friend was very impressed.

  But it never crossed Edward’s mind something more would ever come of their meeting. He seldom saw his paramours more than once, so why should this one off lead to something that could change his life?

  Edward rubbed his forehead. “It’s all coming back to me. I know who Paul is. I know Sukie. We’ve met before. But what brings you here?”

  “Sukie’s recommendation. He was quite impressed with your work.” She grinned. “On canvas, I mean. I have no idea about any other aspects of your creativity.”

  Edward felt himself redden.

  “You’re blushing. Quaint.” Olive rummaged in her purse for a card. She held it out. It was embossed with the name Anima/Animus in large block letters and the gallery’s address and phone number. “We’re doing a show next month, called ‘the New Wave.’ We’re looking for five new artists, talented souls no one will be familiar with, for the show. You’re one of the ones we’re considering. That is, if you’re interested.”

  Edward simply stood still, breathing through his mouth. After a long moment, he nodded.

  “Anyhoo, drop by the gallery tomorrow morning at ten, if you’d be so good. Mr. Gadzinski would like to talk with you. If you can bring a sample of your work, that would be terrific, too.” Olive Greene cocked her head. “Does that work for you?”

  Edward nodded.

  “Good. We’ll see you then.” Olive turned and began her descent down the treacherous staircase, framed by peeling wallpaper. Somewhere a baby was screaming. Edward watched her, thinking she looked like a flower in a Dumpster.

  Edward closed the door and leaned against it. There was something he didn’t immediately identify fluttering around within him. Was it elation? Was it possible to move so suddenly to the opposite end of the spectrum with just one small bit of news? But Anima/Animus was big news. The biggest! It was the kind of place that made artists and maybe this prospect was enough to restore his faith in himself, his work, if only for a little while.

  He wondered what Terence would have to say.

  Chapter Thirteen

  2004

  A cockroach skitters across the floor and scurries under the baseboard. Elise wishes she were somewhere else, floating down a river maybe, anywhere but here. She imagines the slow, gurgling flow of emerald water, the gentle rocking of a raft beneath her, and the heat of a summer sun on her back. This is how she vanishes. At the end of the r
iver, she notices the black cobwebs clinging to the ceiling and the fantasy winks out, like a neon light at closing.

  She wants to pull back when the calloused hand touches her calf and gives it a squeeze. It’s like she’s woken from a dream.

  “Hey, babe, thanks. That was great.” His voice comes to her from a distance, although he sits next to her, dressing, on the bed. She turns her head from the pillow, where she had closed her eyes, and looks at him. He is a middle-aged man, in his fifties, maybe, with a hairy pot belly, a hairy back, and a bald pate ringed with too-dark black hair. His face lacks a chin, the fact of which he tries to hide with the help of a goatee, also too-dark black. Had he said what his name was? Does it matter? He had wanted her to call him “Daddy.”

  Elise doesn’t reply to his insincere thanks. She hoists herself up on one elbow and puffs her lower lip out, blowing air upward to clear the sweaty strands of hair from her face. She reaches out toward the wall and traces the crack’s progress.

  “That was some hot time.” He laughs, unaware of her inattention. “You around on Howard Street a lot?”

  She forces herself to meet his gaze. He’s grinning like a schoolboy after his first time, a mixture of pride, cruelty, and remorse all projected through the thin lips, and too-white Chiclet teeth. Elise tries to think of what makes this one different from the others she has taken on today. They all blur into one, and what does it matter, anyway?

  “Hey.” The man touches her shoulder, and Elise recoils. Getting fucked is so much easier to bear than the gentle touch of a hand. She hates it when they touch her, or worse, try to kiss her. “I asked you a question.”

  Elise sits up straighter, wishing for a cigarette, even though she doesn’t smoke. But it would add so much to the scene: the flame of the Zippo, the dismissive expelling of the smoke, the blue fog obscuring the trick’s face. Perhaps she should pick herself up a box of Marlboros for later. “Yeah, you can find me there just about any evening, looking for friends.” She gives her most winning, and fakest smile, and forces herself to jab him in the ribs. “Friends like you.”

  The best kind of friend… She thinks of the three wadded-up twenties he has already left on the nightstand. She has lain with four other friends today.

  She watches silently as he checks his pockets, making sure he has everything. He slides a pair of black framed glasses on his doughy, featureless face. Elise thinks he looks like Mister Magoo. She’d laugh if the image weren’t so depressing.

  “See you around, babe.” And he’s gone.

  Elise curls her legs up close to her chest. She tries to shrink into herself. She tries not to exist.

  It takes Elise a while to muster the energy to move from her bed. When she does force herself to cross the floor and go into the bathroom, she does so only because of an urgent pressing against her bladder. She sits on the toilet and pees; it burns a little, and she thinks it’s probably time to visit the city STD clinic. Occupational hazard.

  She wipes herself and moves to the shower. Should she turn a light on? An orange glow filters in through frosted glass; light from a streetlamp outside. She strikes a match and puts it to the wick of a candle that sits in a jar on the back of the toilet. She reaches out and turns the knobs for the shower, getting the water steaming, just shy of being so hot it will scald her. Stepping in, under the hot flow, she closes her eyes. After a while, she picks up soap and scrubs herself hard. It’s the only way to get rid of her customers’ smells, their essences. The water, combined with her frantic scrubbing, leaves her skin red and tingling. She emerges feeling marginally better.

  Later, she throws on a pair of men’s boxer shorts and a T-shirt and sits at her drawing table. It’s late, after 3:00 a.m., and the street outside has grown relatively quiet. Elise’s eyes are open wide and even though her body is weighed down by fatigue, her limbs heavy, she knows it will be hours before she receives the blessing—and the oblivion—of sleep.

  She tapes a piece of drawing paper to the board, takes up a black crayon, and begins scribbling, darkening the paper’s surface until it’s nothing but a surface of black wax. Then she takes out her X-Acto knife. She carves, and carves, not even pausing to notice the gradual lightening of her room, how it fills with gray light, bringing form and definition to her meager possessions. Finally, she sits back, breathless, face slick with sweat.

  The psychology of what she has drawn is not lost on her: the blackness, the picture carved out of the absence of color. She has drawn Maria. Not the Maria she has fallen in love with, but a grotesque, a monster. Present are the black eyes, the waving hair, the long, delicate neck. Gone is the beauty. Elise has drawn in a gaping mouth filled with tiny, pointed teeth, each perfect in their detail, each a blade of horrific destruction. She has managed to capture an expression of both hunger and ferocity, distorted almost beyond recognition: desire out of control. Part of her wants to crumple up the work, thrust it deep inside some Dumpster in the alley behind her building, or even further away; the etching could have the power to taint her. But the other part knows this is more than just art: it is expression of her fear, fear that, deep down, she knows is real, knows that it’s doing its work in trying to protect her. Keeping this piece of artwork within view could be the key to her salvation.

  But can she appreciate the art? She is too close to it to be objective, her mind clouded by the confusion of not even being sure who she is, or what she wants, anymore.

  These last few weeks after meeting Maria have been an exercise in self-numbing, blocking out as much as she can by taking on trick after trick. She has a dresser drawer stuffed with crumpled cash to prove it. She has thrown herself into artwork that, even for her, is bizarre. She approaches her art with abandon these days, but it’s not the abandon of creative freedom. She works with the renunciation of thought, blocking her mind of sensation and memory and letting her hands and eyes work together from instinct, almost as if they have no direction from her brain.

  These last few weeks, she has needed the respite. She is certain that she must block out how she rushed, with a silent scream, from Maria’s home—and her news. It seems to Elise that there is no other course remaining other than obliteration. Oblivion is the only way she can keep her sanity. On the day Maria told her about the vampirism (had it even been real? Or was it a nightmare?), Elise felt as if her skin had been peeled away, left raw to experience everything with painful sensitivity. That sensitivity did not fade; it needed treatment, and Elise found it in the worlds of mindless sex and instinctual creation.

  The days lately have all become the same: Elise finding herself on her back, or knees, crouching, opening herself to strange men as much as six or seven times a day. Sleep, her primary means of achieving oblivion, eludes her. And when she does sleep, it’s fitful, plagued by images of flowing blood, fangs, bats. Or worse, hot erotic images of her body intertwined with Maria’s, always ending with being bitten and drained.

  So she fills what hours she is not a “working girl” with a new kind of creativity, which could be brilliant, mediocre, or even horrible. Elise has no objectivity; she cannot begin to make an honest assessment of her own work. She wonders what a psychiatrist might make of the horrific images she has crafted, images full of perverse longing. Fangs, blood, bodies torn apart, cannibalized, she makes Munch’s The Scream look like something created for Disney.

  Yet, none of this has worked. It is as if Maria, with her face of fragile beauty, calls to her. And for all Elise knows, she does. Who knows what telepathic powers this demon woman has fine-tuned, especially if it’s true she’s lived for centuries. Perhaps Maria sits broadcasting desire, nightmare images, and even a kind of love to Elise, willing her to return to her cold embrace. Even while on her knees in some alley, a dark figure spouting his seed on her face, Elise recalls Maria: the face floating to her dreamlike, smiling, hands outstretched to touch.

  The sounds of traffic, men groaning, sirens, and all the other aural detritus of her urban existence vanish with these visual
images. She looks up and sees a man, wiping away a drop of semen from the tip of his penis, and all she can hear is her beating heart.

  Elise puts the X-Acto knife on the ledge at the bottom of her drawing board, and stares at it, wondering what it would feel like to cut herself, to watch the trickle of red emerge, to taste it. She once had a friend, back when she was a teenager in Cleveland, who used to cut herself in secret, hiding the scabs and slashes under designer clothing. When Elise discovered her friend’s covert passion (she had walked into the bathroom, found her crouched in the bathtub, slicing her thighs with a razor blade), she asked, “Why? Why do you want to do this to yourself?”

  And her friend had answered, “So I can feel something.”

  Elise had never understood that response. Until now.

  The burning beneath her eyelids signals drowsiness coming on. Often, this signal is a cruel one, taking her to her bed, where, maliciously, it vanishes, leaving her to lie wide-eyed and staring at the ceiling.

  But sometimes it delivers, and Elise heeds its call.

  She gets up from the drawing board and moves to her bed; the sheets are in disarray and smelling faintly of her sweat. She sits down cross-legged on the bed, back against the wall. One of the last things Maria had said to her comes back:

  “The one thing in the lives of you mortals you can never change, no matter how hard you try to deny it, is your desire for love.”

  Elise wants to be able to laugh at the saccharine sentiment, except she knows it’s true and it’s more of a curse than anything. Oh, to be free of the bonds of love! When will they develop a pill that will block the brain chemicals that bring on the euphoria and the hunger for someone else? Elise thinks it will be as popular as Viagra.