Love and Other Horrors

by Boye, Kody

  This disease would eventually come to be HIV, the virus that caused AIDs.

  At this point of the nineteenth century, I—along with many others of my kind—were forced to chose our prey carefully. With the virus spreading through the gay and homeless communities, we could not afford to catch it, even though we knew little about the virus itself and how it would react in a human body, much less our own. So, we turned from stalking the streets to preying on the upper class—the rich and wealthy who lived in their fancy mansions and upscale apartment buildings.

  Because of this change, we, ultimately, changed our way of life.

  Sadly, this forced several of our kind into a mold of existence they could not sustain. Several perished in the harsh light of the sun, or from the terrible agony of a pulled trigger. Modern Hollywood had, in a way, got it right—sunlight could kill us, holy objects could harm us, and stakes through the heart and decapitation could end us. But unlike the movies, we could die from other things—bullets being one of them.

  After the first of my kind began to fall into obscurity, I decided once and for all to abandon the rich and return to the streets, my personal hunting ground.

  Everything went smoothly at first. I learned to stalk my prey carefully, watching for signs of sores or anything else that might signal the lurking presence of disease; I avoided prostitutes, hustlers, and those who interacted with them in the hopes of forever eluding disease; and I avoided anyone who experienced symptoms—those with unbearable pains, coughing, and vomiting.

  How could I—a creature with such experience—ever fall into the clutches of ravage?

  I would soon come to learn how vulnerable I actually was.

  The night my life forever changed for the second time, I stalked and cornered a teenage boy into an alley, much like the one who created me had done nearly two-hundred years before. This teenage boy—who appeared young, fit and perfectly healthy—had no time to respond when I slapped a hand to his mouth, bent my head to his neck, and slid my fangs into his jugular. As always, the intimacy between hunter and prey brought about a carnal need that only came when I fed. Normally, I would’ve pulled the boy to the ground and savagely raped him as I fed, for even I was a monster whose perversions ran deeper than blood. But, for some reason, I didn’t. Instead, I ground our pelvises together, pressing my body against his as I clamped down harder on his neck. He struggled, but gradually relaxed as his body went into shock. He even arched his back when pleasure overtook his body, signaling that he hadn’t completely died.

  After I finished, I released my hold on his neck and pressed my bloody lips to his, prying his mouth open to relish his taste one last time before standing and fleeing the alley. Had I had more time—or the urge—I would have stripped him naked and delighted in the pleasures of his body. I’d done so before, with older boys and young men who preferred my company instead of none, but something about the boy had told me to leave him alone.

  Something about him had told me to just let it be.

  I found out why several months later.

  Amidst feeding on the teenage boys and older, homeless men I’d been silently stalking at night, I found myself feeling weaker than I had ever felt before. Several times, I had to abandon a potential kill because I figured him too strong, or because I would never be able to catch and subdue him quick enough. This lack of energy had nothing to do with my blood intake—because I fed on average once or twice a week—but something else entirely.

  Then, one night, after I stumbled out of bed and into my apartment’s bathroom, I discovered the reason for my frailty.

  Blanketing the underside of my arms, the base of my neck and inner thighs, dark, purple sores protruded from my skin like the black plague that had once savaged ancient Europe, signaling the beginning of an eternity of suffering. At first, I didn’t know what to do. Then, slowly, I reached up, touched my neck, and traced the perimeter of a sore with my finger.

  What I found astounded me.

  I could actually feel pain.

  Pain, I thought, and couldn’t help but shed a tear as I felt the first human emotion I had in over two-hundred years. So this is what it feels like.

  Despite the measures I had went to, and despite the security I had felt in choosing my victims, I had contracted the disease—the incurable power.

  My next thought was that I had to get treatment, because they said if you started early, you could potentially stop the disease before it did too much damage.

  Slowly—and with more agony than I had ever felt in my life—I realized that I could not go in for treatment. How would they treat me—a two-hundred-year-old creature of the night? They couldn’t give me blood, because a transfusion would most likely kill me, and I hadn’t taken an ounce of prescription drug since that fateful night in the alley, so that was out of the question.

  Taking a step away from the large mirror that blanketed the northern wall, I turned, pulled the shower curtain aside, and ran a shower, slipping inside after the water had increased in temperature. The simple act of water hitting my body forced flares of pain to develop where each of the sores were, but I bore through the pain and ran my hands over my face, rubbing away dirt that had long since made its way into my pores.

  What am I going to do? I thought, closing my eyes. How am I going to survive?

  Leaning against the wall, I began to cry.

  Maybe this was the salvation I had waited for all along.

  Maybe this was the way I would finally leave this world.

  I met my salvation several days later.

  Forced to leave my apartment to feed, I donned the longest, warmest clothing I could in hopes that, should someone lay eyes on me, they would not notice the sores, those particularly on my neck. The turtleneck sweater—though unbearably warm and agonizingly irritating—proved its purpose. It covered half of my neck and came to rest under my adam’s apple.

  Once prepared, I took the stairs and made my way out into the night, breathing in the city’s damp, dank smell. At this time of night, people walked a many, in large groups of five or more. Some choice individuals—wearing black or close to nothing—stood off to the sides, advertising services or smoking cancer that would not develop until later of life. I ignored these people, because just like before, I could not afford any other sickness. The HIV—AIDs, whatever I could classify it as—though only in its infancy, might develop even more quickly should I come into contact with another baring the disease.

  Taking one last deep breath, I made my way down the street, sliding my hands into my pockets and pulling my eyes away from the crowd. I watched the ground below me, taking note of each and every foot that passed, just to make sure that I would not bump into anyone.

  I could not afford a fight on a night like.

  I continued down the street without more than a second glance at anyone around me. My search for a potential victim had taken time before, due to the fact that I had always been overly cautious, but now, it would take even longer, seeing as the paranoia inside had grown.

  It’s all right, I thought, stopping to take a breath. You’ll be ok.

  I’d only left the apartment for one reason, and even then, I had to push myself into my clothes and out the door, despite the urge that festered like a rotting carcass deep inside. Had I not been so reliant on live prey, I probably would have broken into a hospital to nourish myself. Something about that seemed wrong though, stealing from the living. But even then, I did steal. None of my victims left alive, because if I let them go back into the modern world with the knowledge that I existed, a headhunt would start. I’d been chased by hunters before, but that had been long ago, when barbaric actions ruled the medieval world.

  After regaining my breath, I continued on my journey until I stopped at the end of the street. There, I waited with a dozen other people for the crossing light to turn green, popping my ankles and trying not to get nervous.

  Then, before I knew it, I saw him.

  Standing across the street,
smoking a cigarette, the young man looked up just in time to catch my attention. Even from such a distance, I could see the cold in his eyes, the exhilarating ice that reflected the inside of his being. I stepped away from the crowd, pushed the cross button that would lead me to the other side of the street, and started for him as the nearby vehicles rolled to a stop.

  At first, the young man watched me, eyes wary and unsure. Slowly, he pulled his cigarette from his lips, dropped it, then squished cancer beneath his foot.

  By the time he lit another, I stepped into his presence.

  “Hey,” he said, turning his head to the side of blow smoke from his lungs.

  His action startled me, mostly because I’d never been treated with such respect. Normally, when I approached someone I believed was a potential victim, they’d curse at me, demanding what I wanted while spitting or spewing smoke in my face. This man, though… he seemed different. Maybe the kind soul that lay within the cradle of his chest had been the one to beckon me, not his presence.

  “Hey,” I replied, setting a hand on the wall beside me.

  “You need something, man?” he asked, taking another drag.

  “Smoke?” I frowned.

  “Sure.”

  While he reached down to pull both his lighter and carton from his pocket, I took his features in, noting his sharp jaw and his high cheekbones. His eyebrows—obviously plucked—traced the arch of his eye almost perfectly, framing the icy orbs that froze within his skull.

  “Here.”

  I looked up just in time to receive a lit smoke.

  “Thank you,” I said, taking the cigarette between two outstretched fingers.

  “So… where you headed?” the man asked. He paused, swore, then laughed and offered his hand. “Sorry, I never introduced myself. My name’s Erik.”

  “No need to apologize,” I said, shaking his hand. “I never introduced myself either. I’m Mark.”

  “Still, you came over here to see me, right?”

  I nodded, unsure what else to do.

  “Well,” Erik said, crossing an ankle over the other and leaning against the wall, “I’m not one to meet and fuck, but we can go back to my place and talk. I mean, if you want.”

  “It’s your choice,” I smiled, placing the smoke to my lips.

  In the back of my mind, I felt no urge to kill this man.

  “Well, this is it,” Erik said, extended an arm and waving it across the room.

  His apartment—much like mine—had been painted white. Posters of current musicians—including the late Lennon—covered the walls, while an impressive sound system stood beside the TV, rows upon rows of CD racks arranged beside it. To the left was a kitchen, while his living room lay situated to the right. Two doors stood at the far end of the apartment—one, I assumed his bedroom, the other his bathroom.

  “It’s nice,” I said, turning to look at him. “Erik, can I… can I bother you with something?”

  “Go ahead,” the man smiled, closing the door behind us.

  “Why did you bring me back to your apartment without knowing anything about me?”

  “I don’t know,” he shrugged. “I mean, you seem cool, and I’ve been lonely for the past little while.”

  “Something happen?”

  “Uh… nuh-no.”

  He locked the door and made his way for the kitchen. He returned with two sodas a moment later.

  “I’m fine,” I said, shaking my head.

  “You sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “All right,” Erik shrugged, setting the extra soda at the end of the counter. “Well, it’s there if you want it.”

  He double-checked the door to make sure it was locked, then gestured me to join us on the couch. He picked up a nearby remote, pointed at the stereo, then clicked the ‘play’ button.

  John Lennon’s Imagine floated from the speakers.

  “Damn, I miss him,” Erik said, running a hand through his hair. “He’s an… was… an amazing man.”

  “I agree.”

  Erik kept his silence, sipping his soda while listening to a now-dead men talk about peace and how we, as individuals, laughed at his dream. I found myself leaning closer to Erik, sliding an arm around his shoulder and leaning against his body.

  “I’m all right,” he said, turning his head to look at me. “What about you, Mark? You ever listen to Lennon?”

  “Not until now,” I whispered.

  Smiling, he returned his attention to the stereo, just as the world would be as one…

  I returned home later that night with an aching, pulsing need in my heart. Though it no longer beat, it still processed the life-giving energy throughout my body, allowing me to move and function like a normal, semi-human being.

  I knew that if I did not get blood soon, my body would start to fail.

  I can go for one more day, I thought, staggering toward my bedroom. I’ll be all right.

  But, then again, I had told myself that earlier, when I was sure I’d return home fully fed and nourished.

  Stepping into the bedroom, I stripped out of my clothes, trying hard not to look at the sores in the process.

  I would be safe in the darkened room until tomorrow.

  I reaped the reward of patience the following night, and although I took a slutty-looking teenage girl in a too-short skirt and a too-tight shirt, I drained her dry, tossing her emaciated corpse near a canal.

  By the time they found her, the extra damage I’d done with my hands and fangs would have intensified, further completed by the stages of rot and decay.

  After making sure her body had slid into the gigantic culvert that passed under a nearby bridge, I snuck back onto the street and made my way for Erik’s home, taking extra care not to bump into anybody. While I could easily pass the slight amount of blood on my shirt off as a nosebleed to the casual passerby, a policeman might think better and start to question me. I didn’t doubt my abilities, but I didn’t think I could charm him, not so soon after a fresh feed.

  Stopping at the corner to make sure no one had followed me, I crossed the almost-empty street and made my way through the apartment’s front door. There, I took the stairs until I landed at room twenty-five, where I knocked on the door and slid my hands into my pockets.

  A moment later, Erik opened the door, naked, save for a pair of boxer briefs.

  “Mark?” he frowned, reaching up to rub his tired eyes. “Everything all right, man?”

  “Yeah,” I smiled. “Can I come inside?”

  “Well, I guess, I… Wait! Shit, man; you’re covered in blood.”

  “It’s just my shirt,” I said, looking down at the stain that framed my chest. “I had a nosebleed.”

  “Come on in.”

  I stepped into the house just in time for Erik to latch onto my shirt.

  “NO!” I roared, trying to push him away.

  “What’s wrong? Why are you…”

  I pushed him a little too roughly. He stumbled back—shirt in hand—snapping several buttons off the flannel I’d chosen to wear.

  Now, with my shirt half undone, I stood in front of my friend, truly exposed for the first time.

  “Oh damn, Mark,” Erik cried, looking down at his bloodied hands. “You’ve… you’ve got… it.”

  “Please… don’t hate me.”

  Erik stared at me with wild eyes before making his way to his sink, where he grabbed three different kinds of dish soaps and poured them over his hands. While he cleansed himself of something I could not defeat, I tried to understand why I felt the unbearable agony that I did. A weight, bearing the force of a thousand irons, pressed against my chest, forcing me back against the wall. I had to reach up and grip my arms to contain the shakes that followed.

  “Mark, why didn’t you tell me, man? And why didn’t you warn me before I touched your blood? How the hell could you…”

  He stopped the moment he stepped into the living room. I’d since slid down the wall and positioned myself in the corner
with my knees to my chest.

  “Buddy,” he sighed, forcing a laugh as he knelt down beside me. “It’s ok, don’t worry. I mean, I didn’t get any on my face or in my mouth, so it doesn’t matter. It…”

  “I haven’t gone to the doctor, Erik.”

  “You’ve got AIDs and you haven’t got treatment? What the hell’s wrong with you?”

  “Nothing’s wrong with me,” I whispered, setting my head on my knees.

  “Then why haven’t you went in to get yourself checked out?”

  “Because I can’t.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t have the money!” I cried, throwing my hands in the air to emphasize the dangerous lie I’d just made. “Don’t you think I would’ve gone in if I could?”

  “Mark… why… how?”

  “I don’t know! I just don’t know!”

  With nothing else to do, Erik leaned forward and wrapped his arms around me, guiding my face to his neck.

  I cried.

  I stood in the shower, washing a teenage girl’s blood from my body, while Erik stood outside the curtain. He talked, but at the same time, I didn’t listen. Too many thoughts ran amok in my mind. He—the man I’d wanted to kill no more than two nights before—knew my secret. What would he do? Would he try to force me to get treated, offer me money in the hopes that I’d go myself? What, exactly?

  Calm down. You can handle this.

  Taking a slow, deep breath, I set my head against the rough white tile and shivered as lukewarm water ran down my back. Outside, Erik said my name, but I didn’t reply.

  “Mark,” the man repeated, stepping forward. “You ok?”

  Again, I didn’t answer.

  Instead of waiting for me to reply, Erik took the initiative, parting the curtain just slightly. I turned my head to the side to look into his sad eyes.

  “I’ll be fine,” I said, somehow managing to smile. “I’m used to it by now.”

  “How long have you had AIDs?”

  “I don’t know. Weeks, maybe even months.”