by Boye, Kody
“And you’ve only just started to get sores?”
I nodded.
“Damn, man. You know, I can’t help you if you don’t help yourself.”
“I know.”
“Tell me the real reason you haven’t gone in for treatment then. I’m not stupid—I know you’ve got money. I mean, you’ve got to. How else could you have those fancy turtlenecks and flannels?”
“Gifts.”
I turned my head down, no longer wanting to look in his eyes.
“What is it then? You illegal, running from the cops, kill someone—what?”
“It doesn’t matter anyway,” I sighed, reaching up to run a hand through my hair. “Eric… can I stay here for tonight?”
“I don’t know, Mark. I…”
“I don’t want to go back to my apartment by myself tonight. Please, just… just let me stay here, just for tonight.”
Eric closed his eyes, tilted his head down, and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“Yeah, all right,” he said. “Let me go get you some clean clothes.”
After Eric went to bed, I sat up reflecting about my situation and how I would ultimately resolve it. Here I was, sitting on a stranger’s couch, when I should have been home in the safety of my bedroom. What would I do when the sun came up? How could I explain myself when he came out of the bedroom and saw all the windows covered with sheets?
You won’t, I thought, closing my eyes. You have to leave.
Whether I liked it or not, I couldn’t stay here, not with Eric in the next room. Maybe if he left for work before the sun rose and returned just as it fell, maybe I could get away with it, but not without arousing suspicion. How would I explain my lingering presence, especially when I left to walk the streets and possibly feed? He knew nothing of my habits, except that I preferred the night and the closure it offered.
Standing, I crossed the room and pushed his door open as quietly as I could. He slept on his stomach with his head slightly turned to the side. Wheezy breaths escaped from his partially-opened mouth, then half-drowned in his nose before being expelled once more. The covers covered just enough of him to avoid what my lingering eyes wanted to see.
He’s… special.
Special couldn’t describe a man like Eric. He, a perfect stranger, did not offer a man who caught his eye across the street passage into his home. And he, a sensible person, did not let that same man he’d seen the previous night enter his home covered in blood.
I’d long since decided he was not a fool, nor an idiot. Unlike many others in the cruel world, he bore passion that had been forgotten long ago, when men begun to wage wars and bigotry began to rule the land.
“Goodnight,” I whispered.
Closing the door, I turned, made my way across the room, then dressed.
I took one last look at his closed bedroom door before I left the apartment, making sure to close the door behind me.
On my way home, I came across a lone man that stood near a burning barrel, holding his hands in front of the slick flames to warm them. This man—young, much like I would have been in my previous life—didn’t look up, even when I came to stop near the alleyway he stood in.
“Something you need?” he asked, realizing my state.
At first, I said nothing, not knowing how to respond. Then, after a moment, I stepped forward, holding my pale hands before the flames.
“You care?” I asked.
The man shook his head.
“Not much to care about now,” he said, his following chuckle low and lacking the humor that should have projected it.
A blotch of purple covered the side of his neck, hidden only by shadows that had been pushed away by manmade light.
We share something, I thought, trying as hard as I could not to reach up and adjust the collar of Eric’s coat. We share a power.
“Sorry to bring you down with me,” the man said, drawing my attention from his neck and to his eyes. “It’s just that…” He paused, then laughed. “God, sometimes, I wish I didn’t have to deal with this shit.”
“I can relate,” I sighed.
I brought my hands to my chest, where I slid them under my arms. There was no need to waste warmth just reaped by a fire.
“I’m guessing you got it too,” the man frowned. “Shit sucks, huh?”
“Yeah, it does.”
“And you know what’s worse? Every time I’ve tried to go in to see if I could get some help, I’ve been run off by assholes who think I’m a fag. I mean, come on—it’s not like everyone who’s got it’s gay, you know?”
“I know.”
“I mean, doesn’t matter if you are or not if you’re sick, right?”
I nodded.
“You’d give anything to be free of it then?” I asked. “Even… even if it had to end?”
“I ain’t got anybody anymore. My friends… my family… even my girlfriend, gone, all because they thought I was sleeping around with guys. Not much worth living for if you don’t have family or something to keep you going.”
To think that after all this time—after all these cases—people still believed the power only offered itself to those men who slept with other men. How could someone believe that the agony, the pain, the frustration the disease caused could only affect one group of people?
They don’t, I thought, stepping around the barrel. They don’t think, because their feeble minds don’t allow them to.
Once in front of the man, I reached out, set a hand on his shoulder, and smiled.
“You ok?” the bum grinned.
“Yes,” I nodded, closing my eyes. “I… I think I’ve found what I’ve been looking for all along.”
Like I had done so many times before, I leaned forward, pressed my lips to the man’s neck, and slid my fangs inside.
Even though I would always have to deal with the burden of a mistake I had made long ago, that didn’t mean I had to let the suffering around me continue.
I’d found my true purpose.
Bubba
Hello Bubba.
I have an offer I’d like to make you, one that would greatly improve the quality of your life. It’s an offer I know you’ll have trouble considering—or accepting, for that matter—but I have a feeling that once you read what’s enclosed in the following envelope, you’ll be willing to take my offer into consideration.
Hello Bubba.
I haven’t received a reply from you today. That’s fine, but I’m starting to worry. I’ve seen you walking around your apartment, pacing endlessly with that letter in hand. I wonder if you are still considering, or are perhaps to afraid to reply. But don’t worry, I can wait. I can wait for as long as you need me to.
Hello Bubba.
Today’s the third day. My patience is beginning to grow thin. I see you in there, Bubba, walking around the apartment in your underwear, with my letter pressed to your face. From the looks of it, it seems like you are blind, but I know better, Bubba—I know that you’re not blind. And I know that those lines across your arms aren’t from handling the barbwire fences, like you’ve been telling your family. I know the things you are thinking about, the things that you have hiding under your bed. There’s no need to deny it anymore. I see all, Bubba. I see the inside of your house, I see what’s inside the box under your bed. I even see the things you look at while you’re browsing the internet, believing that no one or no thing can see what you see. But that’s not true, Bubba. All it will take is one person—one report—for the police to come knowing at your door. They’ll find what’s under your bed, my friend, and they’ll take you to court, where you’ll soon rot in jail like men who do what you do do.
Hello Bubba.
Day five, almost a week now. I’m sure you’re aware that my offer is still up in the air, waiting for you to grasp it between your outstretched hands and pull it to your heart. I’m also sure you’re aware that I’m watching you. You can’t see me—as you already know—but you know where my letters come from. The post of
fice claims they’re from Virginia, per the postage stamps in the upper right-hand corner of the envelope, but so does my handwriting. You don’t really know where I am though. You’d like to think this is all some elaborate hoax, a prank being played on you like the jocks used to do in your high school days. You’re practically the same, they say, and it’s true. You’re still wearing the underwear your mother bought you when you were fifteen, your hair is still a mess, cut like a bowl picked from the finest, downtown restaurant. And your glass—oh, your glasses, Bubba—are still as big as ever. Many say you look like an old woman, and I agree. But it’s not the hairs on your chinny chin chin you’re looking at with those big glasses, are you, Bubba? Oh, no, it’s not. There’s only two people who know what you’re looking at, Bubba, and those two people are you, and I. Let’s say hi to the sky, my friend, because soon, you’ll have to say goodbye.
Hello Bubba.
Day six. You’re still playing tricks. You’re desperately scrounging money together to buy something that you’re sure will erase your problem forever. Registry cleaning software. Pfft. Motherboard wiper. Hah. Nothing will help you, Bubba. The money is too far away, resting at the bottom of your bank account like fat whales speared on the tips of an Eskimo’s spears? I know what rests at the bottom of your bank account, Bubba—it’s five dollars, and five dollars that you won’t be able to use. The bank’s about to close your account. Remember the overdraft fee from last month, after you bought a subscription to… well, you know? It set your account under the required limit. Say goodbye to that five dollars, my friend, because tomorrow, it’s going to be gone.
Hello, Bubba.
One week. I said I’d give you one week, and one week only. But here you are, standing in your underwear, jerking off to the metaphorical idea of going free. You know you won’t though. You know the things that are still in your house, the things you still can’t erase. There’s not much time now, not much time at all. You could burn the things under your bed, but where would they go, if not up? There’s too many to do at once, in the privacy of your bathroom. Hundreds, maybe, if not thousands, are in that box. You know what would happen if you set off a fire alarm? Someone would come—the fire department first, then, maybe, the police. They’d find you in your bathroom, with ashes on the rim of your toilet seat, and they’d ask what you were doing. Then, like all good policemen do, they’d find the things you don’t want them to find. First, they’ll find the box, which might have been pushed behind the toilet, or maybe under your tub. And then, once they find that, they’ll take you in, and make you wait in a tiny little cellar. You’d be alone, Bubba, so, so alone. But not for long. Soon, you’d be reunited with those you have loved so much. They’ll show you the things they found on that computer, what you didn’t burn from under your bed. And they’ll make you look at them for the longest time, asking what they are, where they’ve come from and how they got there. Then you’ll ask if you have a problem, and you’ll say no, because you couldn’t possibly have a problem. You, Bubba Handyman, a middle-aged man who lives alone in his dead mother’s apartment. They’ll ask if you have a job, and, of course, you’ll say no. Then they’ll ask how you’re able to afford a nice apartment, and you’ll say that your mother left you everything, just like a good, dead mother would. Then, as you know, a psychologist would come in, asking you to read the blots and the screen. And when you’ll try to lie, claiming that you see the twin towers in place of something even more sinister, that psychologist will know, and she will tell everyone in the world what you’ve done. Oh yes, Bubba, they’ll know. Infamous, you will be—on the phone, on the TV, on the internet and at the front door. You’ll have to tell your neighbors who you are, what you did, and why you did it, and when they slam the door in your face, turning their little ones away for fear of corrupt, you’ll know what you did.
There’s one more day, Bubba. Don’t let it go to waste.
Hello Bubba.
Day eight. I see, at least, you’ve said grace, finally atoning for all the bad things you’ve done. You kneeled at the foot of your bed, hands crossed and bowed in prayer, as an image of our lord, the great, Jesus Christ, stayed at you from the base of a metal candleholder. As he died for his sins, you, of course, have died from yours. You kept your head bowed until the candle burned out, just like many cultures do when they’re committed atrocious acts of sin, and you’ve repented for all the things you’ve done, all the people you’ve hurt. You know, Bubba, you won’t read this letter—someone else will, most likely the police. But you know what? That’s all right, because you’ll already be gone. I see you’ve loaded the gun, extended the trigger, replaced the bearings, and I see you’ve obtained the ammunition. Mother used to call them her little helpers when you were quite young, possibly four or five. You’d walked in on her one time, just when she’d loaded the gun. You asked what was wrong and why she was leaning over the toilet, and she said that mother’s little helpers decided not to help that night. You came to realize latter on in life that she’d been trying to commit suicide, just like you are now. But unlike her, you’re not leaning over the toilet, spilling your guts from the malicious confines of your throat. You’re lying on the bed, letting three bottles of heavy alcohol pour out from over the floor. The computer will, obviously, explode, and the things under your bed will burn with the flames. But that’s what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it, Bubba? That’s the only way you could ever repent for your sins. A counselor might not help, because their job is to report those they deem unsafe to humanity to hire sources. And just stopping wouldn’t help either, because… well, you’ve tried that once before. Your weekly emails, proclaiming your new content, spurred you onto the illegal habit that you’ve so desired.
I’m proud of you, Bubba. You’ve made a right choice, and you’ve saved so many lives because of it.
Sincerely,
Your friend,
Andrew
The Eccentric Ways of Linton Garnet
Have you ever examined the bone structure of your face? How about your arms or legs? I’m fascinated by bones, by the way they hook together, or the way they pop when flexed.
The first time I saw a broken bone protruding from a bloody mass of flesh, it excited me to no end. Just knowing what it looked like under there was the most amazing thing I had ever seen.
Some might call that odd, but I’m not used to listening to people.
No, I’m not a doctor. When I discuss my fascination with bones, people often ask that question. When I tell them I’m not, they stare at me. It’s like when someone’s talking about a famous novel—you ask if they’ve read it, and when they say they haven’t, you give them a look that just beckons the question.
That’s what it’s like when I discuss my fascination.
There’s something I don’t tell other people though—it’s the fact that I want to see what I, myself, look like. Of course, seeing what I, myself, look like will be a little complicated, but that’s all right.
When I imagine taking a knife and sliding it down my palm, peeling back the flesh and muscle with its curved surface, I get excited. I want to see what I really look like, underneath the false exterior. I want to see if the inside is what ‘really counts.’ I want to see if my bones look whiter than my pale body.
I’m fascinated by the eccentricity... the eccentricity of my bones.
If people could understand how each other feel, it’d make the world a lot easier place. I mean, what’s the point of trying to understand someone else when no one makes an effort? They’ll say, ‘I’ll try to understand,’ but they never try hard enough.
It was like in the marketplace. Most everyone knew each other in such a small town, so it was only obvious that people knew me. This one particular woman—a larger, heavyset lady named Rhonda—would always greet me at the register, asking how my day had been.
On this particular day, I told her I didn’t feel too well.
“What’s wrong, Pansy, Dear?”
For the love o
f God, how I hated that fucking name.
“It’s Linton, actually,” I said.
“Linton? Dear, since when?”
“Since I changed it.”
“When did you do that?”
When I was eighteen, I thought, but managed to hold my tongue.
Mothers, I swear. It’s cute when you name a baby Pansy, but when you get into the social circle… it’s not cute at all.
“Thank you,” I said, taking the submarine sandwich in my hand. “Have a nice day.”
“You too, Pansy dear!”
I walked out the door wanting to punch the woman in the face.
You know, when you watch the health channel on TV, it makes you wonder how easily you’d be able to cut yourself open with a standard-issue kitchen knife. The surgeons on TV make it look so easy, since their scalpels are so sharp and all.
As I watched a group of surgeons cut a man’s chest open to remove bullets that rested between his ribs, they took their scalpels and made a Y-incision. It was funny, mostly because they made Y-incisions for autopsies, not to get bullets out of you.
It didn’t really matter why they were making a Y-incision though. All they were doing was getting a bullet out. It was standard practice to do whatever was required to save a patient, even when it involved cutting more open than they really needed to.
I unbuttoned my own shirt. I was skinny as hell and had hardly any muscle, but that didn’t really mean anything. Sure, being skinny looked nice and all, but I would’ve preferred being a little bulkier. At least when serial killers kill muscle-studs or fat people, they’ve got something to cut into. Really, it’s the essence of the kill. Why take forever to kill some skinny bitch when you can prolong the actual pleasure of seeing what’s inside with a bigger or bulkier person?
There was no easy way to imagine what my insides looked like. I didn’t smoke, so I couldn’t have blackened interiors; I didn’t do drugs, so there weren’t going to be any strange anomalies protruding from under various organs; and, as far as I knew, I didn’t have cancer, so I would have no diseased lumps surrounding my ribs.