Earl leered at the woman, “We wouldn’t want that, now would we?”
“Just go back inside.”
“Alright, I’m goin’.” Earl looked down at him with his green-flecked brown eyes. “You be nice to my sister… I’d hate to have to talk to you again.” He laughed and wiped the tops of his boots on the underside of the bloody man’s sprawled legs.
The girl with the purple-black hair shoved Earl and told him to fuck off, and he headed inside without another word. The girl with the purple-black hair squatted down in front of him and peered at him with the same green-flecked, brown eyes of the man that had literally left him in the gutter. He didn’t feel like saying much, so he stared back at her wondering what exactly he looked like to her. The image in his mind may have looked abysmal, but it wasn’t all that different from reality.
The girl sat there in a squat, not saying anything. The hem of the coat that she now wore trailed on the slightly slimy ground of the alley. The orange shine of the one glaring electric light reflected off of her vinyl pants. The leash that the copper-haired girl had wrapped around her fist now dangled from her neck and pendulumed between her legs. She reached into her coat pocket and produced a pack of cigarettes, Camel Turkish Jades. He could tell by the design of the package without seeing the words. You don’t work at a gas station for a couple of years without being able to identify your average domestic cigarette package designs on sight.
She sat there, squatting like a gargoyle on top of some medieval cathedral, as she produced a cigarette from the pack and lit it with a plain ordinary Bic lighter. ‘That’s wrong,’ he thought. ‘It should be a Zippo, like in the movies.’ His head swam with the imagined clinks of opening and closing Zippo lighters and the thousands of faces he had seen using them. The end of her cigarette flared for a brief instant lighting up her eyes and highlighting the green flecks. He could definitely see the resemblance to Earl. He wasn’t surprised he hadn’t noticed before. It’s hard to notice such things when you’re looking at an ass. Asses just don’t carry the same familial resemblances.
She took a deep drag off of her now lit cigarette and blew the smoke in his face. He felt the smoke slide by his face and imagined that the particles of her that had been in her lungs clung slightly to his own face. She stared at him with the intensity of a child watching a sunset for the first time. She took another drag and then spoke.
“It’s beautiful, you know.”
He didn’t know if she expected an answer or not, but he tried to speak anyway.
“What?” His voice rasped, clogged with pain and weariness.
“Your face… it’s beautiful. If I look close enough… I can see the blood pooling where your blood vessels have been broken. It’s like watching an apple rot in time lapse photography.”
He laughed. How long had it been since he’d laughed? He didn’t know, didn’t really care, but damn it felt good. It felt like home. It felt like Saturday morning cartoons and meatloaf with a side of mashed potatoes. And just like that it was gone and he knew he couldn’t have laughed again if he wanted to.
She took another puff off of her cigarette and watched him as he tilted his head like a dog hearing some far off noise. His face had become even more bruised, as if purple Kool-Aid were running through his veins.
“Since your getting a free show, are you gonna tell me your name?”
She took another puff off of her cigarette and regarded him with those odd eyes.
“I could tell you my name… but what’s the point? It would be just one of many. A shield to hide behind, a glimmering mirror to aim at the medusa we call identity.”
He had no idea what she was talking about, but it sounded very deep. He focused on the word identity and it spun around his head bouncing off the past and careening into the present like a red car with a drunk driver at the helm.
“What about you? Do you want to be called something? Do you want me to say your name? Guys like that you know, when I call them by their names. It makes them feel special. It makes them feel like they are something… something in this world of nothing.”
He thought about it for a second, when in truth he could have thought about it all night long. A name… so much power in a name; like when Mama used to call him by his name. Three names meant trouble. Two names meant she was proud. One name meant that everything was alright. How many names should you have if you didn’t want to be?
“No… I don’t need a name either.”
“Interesting… I’ve never fucked a man with no name before. I mean, I’ve fucked men with no lives, men with no personalities, men with no inhibitions… but a man with no name? Never.”
“Who says you’re going to fuck me?” His head spun around the jungle gym of pain that blared in his cranium asking itself what exactly he thought he was doing.
“What are you, kidding me? You’re certainly in no shape to do the fucking.”
He leaned forward, ignoring the flare of pain in his ribs and the wheeze of his own breath. He grabbed her by the leash and wrapped it around his fist.
“You’d be surprised by what kind of things I’m in the shape to do.”
Chapter 14: Get Some
The door to his apartment squeaked open and for a second he thought about how horrid his apartment would look to someone that wasn’t him. Then he realized that looks only mattered when you were planning on giving it a go. They only mattered when you wanted someone to stay. But there was only ever one person that he had ever wanted to stay, and this woman wasn’t her, and the one that was her hadn’t stayed… not for long anyway.
He shoved open the door with a business-like air and strode into the apartment. She followed, leash dangling down the front of her corset. His only lamp had been stolen, so he turned on the light in the bathroom. It provided a modicum of dingy light that was slightly more romantic than the blazing glare of the overhead light in the main room of his apartment. It didn’t really matter because you didn’t need to see to feel. Who was he kiddin’? You didn’t need to see to fuck. That’s what this was all about, a fuck, a piece of hot pussy pie.
He didn’t talk. She didn’t talk. They just went through the ritual: clothes off, hands on. He attempted to mount her from behind but after two thrusts and two stabs in the side from his broken ribs, he realized he wasn’t going to get anywhere with that position. She sensed his pain and got up. She grabbed his cock and steered him onto his back.
The left side of her body glowed a pale orange from the dirty bathroom light. She crawled on top of him gingerly, being careful of his ribs, which were purple by this time. Her warmth slid on top of him as he reached down to play with her clit. She was on top of him, squatting like she did in the alley, controlled movements, pumping leg muscles, and slippery wetness. She rode him like this for a half an hour, running her fingernails up and down his upper chest, drawing blood and pain.
His chest felt like it had been stripped of skin when he came. For a second, he worried about the condom he should have been wearing, and then he realized he wouldn’t be around long enough to see the results of the union they had tonight. His head was thrust back in a spasm of ecstasy when she pounced on his neck. Her teeth bit into his neck, two sharp points that he could feel but hadn’t seen. A new kind of warmth spread through his body. Was it the warm afterglow of sex or the life being drained from his body? He didn’t know, and he didn’t especially care. His eyes closed and he floated into a blackness filled with the sounds of a lithe throat swallowing. How many muscles did it take to swallow? This was his last thought as he floated away.
Chapter 15: Brick-Brown Blotch
When he woke up she was gone. It was night and he felt drained. His stomach grumbled and his ribs felt like fire burning in his abdomen. He laid there wondering abut the woman that he had slept with the night before. He didn’t feel particularly sated. As a matter of fact, he felt like throwing up. That would be bad for his destroyed ribs.
When did she leave? When did he pass out? Had h
e simply lost consciousness when his memories ended or had he continued like a mindless zombie. Despite the conversation from the night before, he wondered what her name was. Hell, he couldn’t even remember if she was a good fuck. It was Monday morning. Was she walking around her work this morning talking about how she fucked a man into unconsciousness? He would have wagered his soul that she worked at a record store or some place that sold ladies’ lingerie; not the kind of lingerie rich matrons buy, but the slutty kind, the kind prostitutes and strippers buy.
He felt salty, as if he had been sweating in his sleep but had slept so long that the sweat had dried. He wondered what type of moon made its way across the sky tonight. Was it a full moon or a new moon? Was it gibbous or waning? His head rolled to the side in an attempt to shake his mind loose from its current line of thinking. He gasped as the skin on his neck stretched.
He reached with his hand to try and immediately diagnose the problem. With the pads of his fingertips, he felt a scaly lump on his neck; he remembered a quick flash of what had caused the aberration on his throat. He got up to look at himself in the bathroom mirror. Walking across the tiny space of his apartment was only slightly less painful than the act of getting himself up off the bed. Each step seemed a mile, and his battered body cried for him to lay back down on his bed and sleep for another day.
He paused at the threshold of the bathroom, struggling to find the light switch. He wondered if he had turned off the lights or is she had before she left. The lights poured on with the intensity of the sun, stinging his eyes. He hid his face in the crook of his arm, looking down at his feet from the shadowy protection his arm gave him. When his eyes were well-adjusted he peeked out at his reflection in the mirror. What he saw was a masterpiece of brutality; a face so pale that the blue spidery veins of his face were plainly visible underneath the tautness of his skin. His eyes were sunk into his skull and surrounded by two rings of purplish black. He stumbled forward into the radiance of the bathroom and leaned his weight on the sink as he studied the transformation of his face. After he was finished being horrified at his new face, he tilted his head to the side to get a peek at the wound that had brought him into the bathroom in the first place.
A brick-brown blotch of scaly scab hung on the side of his neck. He gasped as he noticed the pattern of the wound; the scabs had welled up and solidified around two holes in the side of his neck. He could still see the purplish imprint of the woman’s regular teeth in two semicircles that were only broken by the two puncture wounds on his neck. He began to laugh.
Chapter 16: Greasy Spew
It didn’t take him long to figure out he was a vampire. The rumblings in his stomach reached an almost feverish pitch. He caught himself looking down at his stomach a couple of times to make sure it was still even there. He had no food in his meager kitchen and it felt like it was two in the morning. There wouldn’t be any grocery shopping tonight. He decided to walk up to the McDonald’s he had eaten at on the way back from the car rental place.
It was a long walk and he didn’t feel especially up to the task of walking, but he managed to wrangle his shoes onto his feet. Tying them was a different matter altogether. The fire in his ribs prevented him from bending over and tying his shoes. Instead, he had to lean to the side, laying one lace over the other and pulling them tight with one hand. If this kind of crap was going to keep happening, then he would have to make it a point to get some Velcro shoes.
After he was finished with his shoes, he managed to slide into a pair of pants without too much difficulty. He looked around for his keys and set out into the cool night air. Walking became a whole lot easier once he managed to get down the stairs. He shuffled down the street like an old man, underneath the glow of the neon lamps. His steps were small and measured to ensure no unnecessary jostling of broken body parts.
The dry, gum-spotted pavement moved underneath his feet like a conveyor belt, a slow-moving conveyor belt. All he had to do was make it up the hill and across the highway overpass and then it was all downhill to the McDonald’s... until he had to come back. Maybe he would feel better after he got something to eat. He was beginning to sweat from the strain of prolonged controlled movement. The cool night air rushed over his now steaming head as streetlights splashed his face causing him to bring his arm up like Bela Lugosi shielding his eyes from a crucifix.
As he crested the top of the hill and set foot onto the bridge, he stumbled and fell to his knees. He wondered what people would think of him if they saw him. Would they think he was simply a drunk stumbling down the street? He supposed it didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered now was getting some food and getting back to his apartment to rest. He wished he had a book or something to keep him occupied while he rested at his apartment. Then he remembered that some bum had jacked his lamp from him. He didn’t much care for sitting on the bathroom toilet and reading a book. The most comfortable position for his body right now was flat on his back. All of the sudden he wished Portland was like New York in the movies. Movie New York was filled with all sorts of restaurants that would deliver food to your apartment; Chinese food, Thai food, Italian food, even some delis.
Portland wasn’t like that though; none of Oregon was like that. After 10 o’clock, if you wanted food in Portland, you had to get up off your lazy ass and go find a fast food place. They were the only places open besides bars and as good as a beer sounded right now, he was pretty sure that getting drunk and stumbling around could only worsen his condition.
He finally composed himself enough to attempt standing up. He sucked in a deep breath and shifted the weight of his body so that he could slip off of the curb and onto his knees. For a second, he imagined that he looked like a Muslim who was about to begin praying, except for the fact that he was facing north.
Once he was on his knees, he put one leg bent out in front of him so that he was only resting on one knee. He then contracted his muscles and raised himself from the ground. It was a painstaking process full of constant sharp pain, but he had done it. He took his time as he attempted to finish the short walk across the freeway overpass. He paused to lean against the fence that kept the crazies from splattering themselves all over the freeway. He had to catch his breath; this whole adventure was really more tiring than he had thought it would be. He watched as the red tail lights of cars hurtled into the distance and around a corner to disappear. Even at this hour the highway had a steady flow of traffic and the roar of the highway was a constant in his ears. He leaned his face against the wire mesh trying to push his way through. He wondered if he had it in him to climb over the fence. It was a hell of a way to go, all smashed up and spread out over a freeway. He put the thought out of his head for the time being. If he was going to kill himself it was going to be with a full stomach. Even those bastards on death row got to die with a full stomach.
He continued on his way to the downtown McDonald’s leaving the prospect of permanent rest behind. He cruised among the skeletal remnants of empty office buildings and parking garages. Even though they were empty, many of them still blazed with fluorescent lights just as if they were filled with diligent employees slaving away for broad multinational corporations that had the type of money to waste on keeping an office building’s lights blazing 24 hours and seven days a week.
He passed the huddled mass of a bum who was curled up inside a sleeping bag. You had to admire the man that could go to sleep on the sidewalk without the fear of some crazy bastard coming along and stomping his brains in. He wondered if the man inside the sleeping bag was really fearless or if he had just passed out drunk. He guessed it didn’t matter.
He had once tried to sleep on the sidewalk in a sleeping bag. It had been at the gas station in Scappoose. The owner had paid someone to come in and strip the floors of the mini-mart portion of the gas station. The store itself was closed. He couldn’t even go inside while the two men that were cleaning the floor were doing their business. The only reason he had been there was to keep people from going
inside while the doors were open and to make sure the floor guys didn’t take anything.
He had curled up on the sidewalk in a sleeping bag, because it had been fall outside and since it was the graveyard shift, he didn’t really have that much to do. He hung up a “CLOSED” sign on the open front doors and curled up underneath the overhang of the storefront. He never actually went to sleep that night, but did learn an interesting fact: concrete is frequently referred to as cold for a reason. Not even the thick insulation of his sleeping bag could keep the creeping chill from his bones.
He gave one last glance of admiration to the huddled bum and shuffled down the street to the accompaniment of a street sweeper that was doing its business a couple of blocks over.
The streets were empty, except for the occasional car crossing intersections in the distance. He finally rounded a corner to be greeted by the welcoming golden glow of the McDonald’s. It was open and there were even a few people inside. Not the type of people you’d want in your house, but people nonetheless. He moved to the counter, fully realizing that he didn’t quite look like the type of person anyone would want in their house.
The person running the counter approached cautiously.
“May I help you?” she asked with an air of suspicion. She looked like she was ready to bolt at any second. He supposed Portland wasn’t as nice at night as it was during the day. Most places weren’t.
He cleared his throat and placed his order: a double quarter-pounder with cheese meal, super-sized, of course. He stood off to the side and tried to look non-threatening while the Hispanic man in the background cooked everything up. The lady that took his order went about prepping the place for the morning rush. She never completely let him out of her sight, but he didn’t care. All he could think about right now was getting something in his stomach.
Unmade: A Neo-Nihilist Vampire Tale Page 5