13 Bites Volume II (13 Bites Anthology Series Book 2)

by Adam Bennett

  If the police showed up while he was still in the closet, he would have an alibi. Who knew if they would find Clarissa or not, but they’d find him locked in the closet with no blood on him and no DNA evidence that he committed the crime. It didn’t matter what crazy story he spun to explain what happened; they couldn’t connect him to the murder.

  More importantly, he’d be able to escape. He could check himself into a nice, safe hotel until the flak over Joan’s death blew over, and then he could skip town, get away from his undead wife. Sure it was terrible that Joan had to die, but at least she would have bought his life with her own. She wouldn’t have died in vain.

  Unless, of course, Clarissa killed the cops who showed up to investigate. Then there would be more innocent people murdered. Great. All he’d wanted was a little action on the side, and now two people were dead. More might get killed if he wasn’t careful. What the hell was he going to do?

  He was drenched in sweat. It was so hot in this stuffy, tiny closet. It was hard to breathe. The air was thick, and the darkness seemed to be suffocating him. He needed to get out of here. He needed to get away!

  “Bradley?” Clarissa said.

  He started at the sound of her voice. She hadn’t spoken in over an hour.

  “What?”

  His tone was acidic. He didn’t want to talk to her anymore.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “For what?”

  “For not giving you what you wanted,” she answered. “I was your wife. I should have paid more attention to your needs. I should have done more.”

  Her apology was like a bullet to the heart. Despite what she had done tonight, he suddenly felt guiltier. All she had ever wanted was for him to be her husband. She had just wanted him to do what he’d promised: be faithful and make her happy. He’d failed on both counts.

  “I’m sorry too,” he said. “I shouldn’t have messed around. I should have talked to you and maybe gone to counseling. There must have been a better way to get what I wanted instead of an affair.”

  Neither of them said anything for a little while. Once the apologies were made, there didn’t seem to be anything else to add. There was no way to fix what had happened now. Clarissa was dead. Joan was dead. And Brad probably had an appointment with a judge, a jury, and an executioner.

  “Brad,” she asked, “do you really miss how it used to be?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I wish we could go back to that time and not make the same mistakes.”

  “Maybe I could fix it so we can,” Clarissa offered.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Well,” she said, “if you open the door and let me in, I could make you immortal. We could live together as husband and wife forever.”

  He choked. She wanted to make him a vampire? That was her big solution?

  “And you know,” she continued, “you’d be able to have other girls. You’d have to feed. There’d be nothing wrong with you seducing girls you thought were attractive, getting them into bed, and then drinking their blood. I’d understand about that. As long as you always came home to me.”

  “You want to make me a murderer?” he said. “I’m supposed to let you bite me so we can kill together throughout time?”

  “You’re already a murderer, Brad,” she said. “You killed me. You killed this slut of yours.”

  “No, I didn’t!” he shouted. “You did that. You did it all on your own.”

  “Oh, bullshit, Brad,” she replied. “You killed me when you slept with this bitch. I died when I saw you with her. You gave away everything I ever wanted just so you could get a little extra action. I left. I went to the bar. That’s where I met Victor.”

  “Who the hell is Victor?”

  “He’s the vampire who killed me, you dumbass. I got drunk. I was feeling sorry for myself. Victor came on to me. I thought to myself, ‘Well, Brad’s screwing around; let’s see how he likes it if I do.’

  “So I left with him. We did it in the alley behind Lefty’s. How’s that for kinky? That’s right, Brad. I let him roll up my skirt and fuck me in a dirty, dank alley.”

  Brad couldn’t believe what he was hearing. She had sex with him in the alley behind Lefty’s? That had always been one of his fantasies! She never would consent to it. And did she just use the F-word?

  “Then he turned out to be a vampire, and he killed me,” Clarissa went on. “You drove me into his arms, Brad. You got me killed. And as a result, I became a vampire, and that got your girlfriend killed. You murdered us both.”

  “I didn’t do anything, Clarissa,” he shouted, disgust and rage boiling in his blood. “You made the decision to get drunk and screw some guy you didn’t know. You let him do you in the alley? And this is my fault? You got yourself killed. And you chose to murder Joan. You could have just scared her off, but instead you decided to take revenge on her. You did all of this!”

  “Yeah, and you know what?” she shot back. “It felt good. For the first time in my life, I did something bad, and I liked it. It felt good to fuck Victor behind your back. And it felt even better spilling your whore’s blood. And I have you to thank for it. If you hadn’t decided to cheat on me, I’d never have gotten to do those things. So thanks for that.”

  “Go to hell, Clarissa,” Brad said. “Go find someone else to murder. I’m done with you.”

  4.59am

  “Bradley?” Clarissa said.

  He opened his eyes. He realized he’d been dozing. She hadn’t said anything in a while, and overcome with exhaustion, he must have passed out.

  “What?” he asked through his weariness. He tried to stretch, but there was no room. Damn, but his whole body ached.

  “Did you really mean what you said?” she asked.

  “About what?”

  “Being done with me. Do you really hate me that much?”

  He sighed and rubbed his temples. What could he say to her?

  “You’re dead, Clarissa,” he managed. “Our marriage ended when that vampire put his fangs in you. The vows only say, ‘Until death do us part.’”

  “But it doesn’t have to be that way,” she pleaded. “We can be together forever. I can fix everything.”

  “I don’t want to be a vampire, Clarissa. I don’t want to be a killer.”

  “But I don’t want to live without you,” she said. “I love you. Don’t you love me?”

  “I loved you, Clarissa,” he said, his voice rising a shade. “I loved the person you were when you were human. You’re a monster now. I can’t love that.”

  She started to cry. After a moment, she began sobbing hard.

  “I don’t want to go on without you,” she wailed. “Please don’t make me. I can’t bear the thought of not having you.”

  “Then go drive a stake through your heart or drink some holy water or do whatever will kill something like you,” he said. “Do yourself and the world a favor: Go to hell, where you belong.”

  She cried wretchedly after that. He felt another twinge of guilt. He hated hurting her, especially after everything that had happened. There was no point, though. She was a monster, and he didn’t want to be one too.

  After a few minutes, he heard her get up and walk out of the living room. He had no idea where she went or even if she was still in the house. He wasn’t about to find out, though. It wasn’t dawn yet.

  6.42am

  It had to be daytime now. He could see light between the bottom of the door and the floor. It was brighter than the artificial illumination of the chandelier. This was sunlight.

  He took a deep breath to steel himself. Then, before he had a chance to talk himself out of it, he reached up and undid the clothes-hanger lock on the doorknob. His muscles screamed at him, but he tried to ignore the pain. Then he pulled the vacuum cleaner attachments out from under the door. His hands were sweaty, and they slipped on the doorknob when he turned it. He finally got it open and fell painfully out onto the floor.

  The sudden blast of light blinded h
im. He’d been in complete darkness for so long, he felt like some subterranean creature coming to the surface for the first time in its life. Every part of him ached, but the tile floor of the foyer was cool and soothing on his bare skin. Slowly, he stretched out his arms and legs as his muscles sent white-hot pain knifing through him.

  The smell of death was strong. It assaulted his nostrils and convinced him that last night had been no dream. The whole surreal thing had really happened. He staggered to his feet and nearly fell over as he tried to walk for the first time in hours.

  The sight that greeted his eyes was gruesome. Joan lay on the tile floor not far from the closet. Her eyes were still open, reflecting terror despite their lifelessness. Her throat was completely torn away, and there were deep scratches along her arms, face, and neck. Her blood was everywhere, splattered on the walls and pooling in dark puddles all around her.

  Oh, God, Joan, he thought. I’m so sorry.

  What was he going to do? He supposed he could flee. If he left town, he could get away from this. But that would make him the top suspect in Joan’s murder. He should call the police. He’d have to tell them he came home to find her like this. Of course, he’d need an alibi. Where was he last night? At the bar? No good. The police would check. He could tell them he got drunk and passed out in his car. He bought a six-pack at the liquor store, went for a drive, got plowed, and fell asleep. That might work. No one could corroborate it, though. He’d still be a suspect.

  His broken cell phone was spread all over the floor. Several pieces were in the pools of blood. There was a large mark in the wall where it had struck. How could he explain any of that?

  Jesus, what could he do? He was so screwed here. There was no plausible explanation for any of this.

  He went to the bedroom as he tried to gather his thoughts. He was careful not to step in the blood or disturb the body in any way. Whatever he told the cops, it would be best if he didn’t have her blood or skin on him.

  He went to the bathroom and examined himself. He looked like shit. Half-naked, covered in sweat, and strung out, he looked like someone who had murdered his girlfriend in an insane rage.

  Get ahold of yourself, he thought.

  He washed his face. The cold water stung his skin and reinvigorated him just a little. He put his head in the sink and ran the water over it and rubbed some onto his shoulders. After a few minutes, he felt himself calming.

  As he toweled himself off, he saw something move out of the corner of his eye. He turned to face it a moment too late. It was Clarissa coming out of the shower. The blonde hair he remembered had turned white; her eyes were red, her skin pale, and the dress he buried her in was covered in Joan’s blood.

  He turned to run, but his aching, sleep-deprived muscles would not move quickly enough. Clarissa seized his shoulders and jumped on his back. He stumbled out into the bedroom, and the two of them fell to the floor.

  I told you I can’t live without you,” she said.

  He could see sunlight streaming through the window. It fell on the carpeting only inches from where they struggled. If he could just get close enough.

  Clarissa bit savagely into his neck. He screamed as she started ravening. With all his remaining strength he heaved himself forward into the light, dragging Clarissa with him.

  Her body caught fire instantly. Now it was her turn to howl.

  Burn, you crazy bitch, he thought.

  But then she locked her arms around his neck and arm in a death grip.

  “You don’t get off that easily,” she cried.

  He tried to throw her off, but his muscles were too cramped, too sore, and her clutch was too strong. He couldn’t shake her.

  “No!” he screamed as his hair caught fire.

  “Yes,” she replied. “You and I together for all eternity.”

  All he knew after that was searing pain. Soon, even that was gone, and the flames consumed them.

  Adam Bennett, infamous creator of the Hand Taco and the Apple Grenade, once watched all of “Lost,” twice, back to back. He describes this experience as the “Best. 10,430 minutes. Ever!”

  mrmasochistblog.wordpress.com

  THE DEATH AND LIFE OF JAMES DELFIKI: NO GUTS, NO GORY

  Adam Bennett

  Kathryn Delfiki’s eyes were bloodshot and she knew that her mascara had run, despite the promises by the makeup company for which she had paid extra. Her mother would have been disgusted with Kathryn's appearance had she lived through the chemo, never mind that Kathryn was losing her husband to the same scourge little more than a year later. Tears are for home, and only when alone. Her mother had been a heartless bitch, but Katheryn wished she was here right now; this doctor wasn’t making any sense...

  “As I said, Mrs Delfiki, your husband is alive, and the surgery was a success but he is on life support and… ma’am? Do you understand?”

  Kathryn barely heard the small mustachioed man. James was alive but on life support? It was a nightmare. A total nightmare. The man she loved was a vegetable, and he was going to leave her all alone in this world with nothing but a sad old sack of skin and bones she was obliged to visit while the resentment slowly festered and all the love was washed away. The worst dreams she had ever had didn’t come close to the horror that faced her.

  The doctor was still rambling on, “Mrs Delfiki? Would you like to follow me to see your husband? I can explain further.”

  They walked to an elevator and travelled up two floors in silence, the hospital halls quiet in the early morning after fourteen hours of surgery. Kathryn followed the doctor to a large, private room, where she found her husband immediately. Tears leapt to her eyes.

  The room was easily twice the size of any hospital room she had been in before, but all she saw was the bed, situated in the middle of the room, the dawn light streaming over James, machines beeping softly as she approached.

  He was skinnier than yesterday, as if weeks had passed with him exercising regularly, as much of a miracle as that would have been. Kathryn had been a dutiful wife, and when her high school sweetheart had made billions in the pharmaceutical industry with his revolutionary and lifesaving innovations, she had only loved him more. She was a simple girl, raised to be a good Christian, and he was a simple boy, despite his genius. She had never lusted after his money; she looked at it like a gift from God for their years of faithful marriage. Now, admittedly, James was not a sack of skin and bones, but he was still comatose and hooked up to a dozen machines sustaining his life. How long until the reality matched her vision? A week? A month?

  The doctor hadn’t left yet; apparently he was still attempting to discuss James’ surgery with her. “…so, despite my recommendations to the contrary, I followed your husband’s instructions, and in all honesty it was only because the donation your husband had made to the hospital was so very large that refusing to do it would have basically been the same as quitting. So I left no stone unturned, and took out everything that had a trace of cancer.

  “What I’m saying, Mrs Delfiki, is that I completed the surgery successfully, but because of the aggressiveness of the cancer, and the inflexibility of my orders, I’ve had to remove ninety five percent of your husband’s gastrointestinal tract. He has no stomach or intestines; no bowel… basically nothing below the heart and lungs. He will be fed through intravenous tubes for the rest of his short life, however long you decide that that might be.”

  Kathryn realised almost immediately what the man meant by this last remark, despite most everything else he had said going straight over her head. She had the power to switch off these machines; the power to end the life of her beloved, to send him to his grave. It was almost unthinkable. She collapsed into a chair beside the white linens which wrapped his frail body and said no more, returning to the fugue that she had been in since James had told her of the aggressive operation he was to undergo.

  Some time later, the doctor left her to her lonely vigil, and her less than discreet sobbing. She couldn’t stand to see Ja
mes like this. He was wasting away in front of her, seemingly shrinking by the minute. It was untenable.

  The days and weeks passed with no change in James and no sudden realisation that would return him to her, safe and sound. Kathryn visited the hospital every day and was informed that she would be able to bring James home to private care in a few weeks if his condition was stable. No one discussed turning off the life support again, which was good; otherwise Kathryn felt that she might have simply lost her mind, and then how would James make it home, in his condition? Despite their money and the overtly altruistic lifestyle they led, they had always been quite introverted and didn’t have many friends, certainly not anyone close enough to give the support she and James were going to require.

  Kathryn was quite happy with her mindset, however. She hadn’t really thought about the nightmare image she had conjured in the waiting room since that first night and now she was feeling defiant and had something to prove, both to the world that thought James’ life was done, and to herself, who she realised had been hidden in a shell for many years, immersed in the shadow of James’s international accomplishments. Now was her time.

  The apartment in New York was impractical, and Kathryn had never felt at home there, so she had been overseeing the upgrade and retrofitting of their house in Long Island to a state-of-the-art medical treatment facility, designed to keep her brilliant husband alive while less brilliant men tried to figure out some cure.

  It was almost hopeless on that front. Without a stomach, it seemed that James would never have enough energy to wake, and if he did he would be confined to his bed, regardless. He was a hollow mess between his ribcage and pelvis and wouldn’t be able to sustain his own weight if he could wake up and attempt to walk in the first place. The thick outline of his spine was visible through the skin between his gaunt ribs and jutting pelvis.

  She had spoken to doctors and surgeons and crackpots and maniacs. None of their plans differed much. Without a gastrointestinal tract, comfort was basically all that anyone could offer, and who knew if comas allowed any feelings of comfort to come through, anyway? Stories from coma patients who had woken varied wildly and no one knew whether any of it was real or only the fevered imaginings of a desperately sick mind, body or spirit, the kind of deep dark ailment that required the body to simply shut down and wait for external aid.