Exsanguinate

4.20 Changes

2026-08-28T00:00:00.000-04:00

I can’t hear the professor, or anything really. The only sound I hear is the sound of my heart, beating faster than ever before. As it repeatedly crashes against my sternum trying to break free from the cage that is my body, the sound echoes through my head, amplifying with each beat. Meanwhile my stomach is actively trying to climb out of my chest. I try to focus on the presentation, but as soon as the words become visible, my stomach starts to claw out of my throat, inch by inch. It takes everything I have to just keep my eyes open and not collapse from the pain. Did I eat something bad? I can’t even remember what I ate, but my intestines rebel against my body as if it were something truly heinous. I feel like every part of my body has given up on me all at once. No, every part of my body has decided to attack me all at once, from my eyes burning to the unbearable itch that I feel for every hair on my body. When class is dismissed, it takes me time to find the power to stand up. Every step I take exiting the class pains me. I grit my teeth with each step, feeling them force their way back into my skull.

I stop short of the entrance to drink from a water fountain, hoping to calm whatever hurts. Water is the universal medicine, part of the cure for every illness. Today, it does nothing to ease my pain. As I step outside and into the sunlight, I feel as if I’m about to burst into flames. I struggle to grab my phone, only for the weather to be a perfectly normal 55 degrees on a fall day. I can feel myself sweating through my clothes.

Black people can get sunburn, I know that. I always apply sunscreen, not only to prevent burning but aging of my skin. Despite that, my skin is already starting to peel. I pull my hood over my head and tuck my hands in my pockets, trying to avoid the sun touching my skin. I’ve never wanted it to rain so much in my life.

“I consider that our present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us,” I find myself mumbling Romans 8:18. Am I losing it? No, I quote the Bible all the time. What’s going on with me?

Shit, I’m getting dizzy. I’m not going to be able to make it home. I’d usually take the thirty-minute walk home from campus. I need the exercise, but I won’t make it today. I need to take the bus. Before that, I need to gather myself. I spot a tree large enough to cast a shadow. I drag myself towards it, trying to keep as much of my body in the shadows of buildings as I can. When I reach the tree, I slide my back down until I’m beneath it. It doesn’t solve my problems, but it provides some slight relief from the sun.

“Weeping may stay for the night, but rejoicing comes in the morning. Psalm 30:5.” Eyes closed resting my head against the tree gives me a brief a moment to catch my breath and gather my thoughts. Even if it does nothing for my pain. I thought I could just stay here until dark, but that doesn’t solve my other issues. I just have to make it another block to the bus transfer station. I take route 31 and it’ll stop a block from my home. That’s all I have to do.

I lean against the tree to force myself up. Kareem can get stabbed and thrown through a window while starving, I can walk a grand total of two blocks. My body has the urge to dive for shadow but I keep my hands in my pockets, my head covered with a hood and face down. It’s slow, but step by step I make it towards the transfer station.

Inside, the lights are dim and I can rest on a bench. Another brief reprieve from my mysterious ailment. Busses entering and leaving the station fill me with rage. I’ve never been bothered by the sound of a bus before, but now I’m understanding just how damn loud they are. When 31 pulls into the station I swipe my student ID and take a seat and block the window with my backpack. Even with my eyes closed, I can feel people staring at me, almost like an extra sense. I open my eyes and glance up to see several people turn their heads. I wonder just how bad I look right now that I’m drawing attention. I pull the chord for my stop, and limp off the bus.

“Have a nice day,” the bus driver’s words hang from her lip as she gets a look at me.

The walk home is no better than campus. I try to walk as fast as I can but my body just doesn’t want to cooperate. Still I manage to make it. I turn the key and walk inside, slamming the door closed behind me. I don’t mean to slam it, but I just closed it harder than I thought. I toss my backpack to the ground and then collapse onto it. Kareem keeps this place way too cold, and way too dark but today, I welcome it. I’ve never been so glad that he keeps all the windows closed. For some reason it seems to give me a moment of relief. I can just lay here all day.

“You’re home early,” Kareem’s voice easily cuts through all the noise in my head. It’s the clearest thing I’ve heard all day. I didn’t even notice him sitting on the couch when I came in.

“Hey, Kareem. Can we do this another time? I’ve had a really rough day and had to skip two of my classes.”

“Yeah, I can tell you had a bad day. You look like shit.”

“What,” I don’t have the energy to argue, and I hope he’s not picking one.

“I said you look pathetic.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me, your day is about to get a whole lot worse.”

“What?”

“You saved me, so let me repay the favor.”

The Portly Man

2026-08-14T12:00:00.000-04:00

I'm sorry, sometimes I get depressed and don't schedule enough chapters. Here's a short story to apologize for the chapters that I missed. I intend to start sharing more short stories through my newsletter, so tap in with that.

The Portly Man

I always wanted to go to summer camp, but my parents could never afford it. When they approached me about Camp Grizzly, it sounded like so much fun. Hiking, swimming, capture the flag and everything else I could think of. The mood changed after I was dropped off and had said my goodbyes. The counselors checked all of our bags for contraband. They weren’t looking for knives or cigarettes; they were looking for snacks. That’s when I realized Camp Grizzly wasn’t a regular summer camp. It was a fat camp. Portly, chubby, husky, fluffy and every other adjective had been used to describe me since I was born. I suppose with only two years of high school left my parents thought it was time to do something about it.

There are no ice cream socials, s’mores around the campfire or even tater tots. There are plenty of daily activities, which are just cleverly disguised exercises. A relaxing day at the lake is just code for swimming laps. A scenic hike, is how they say five mile walk up a mountain and another five miles back down. I’d complain, but I’ve been too tired. Meager food rations and extensive exercise regimens leave me drained every single day.

Tonight is different. I’ve been here three weeks and I’ve heard one rumor over and over again. A cave out in the woods where the counselors hide all the contraband. The brownies, cookies, candy and juice. Sweet high fructose corn syrup filled juice, just waiting to be captured. Kids who had weirdly been here before or had family members who attended talk about it like the holy grail. I didn’t believe them at first, but on our latest hike up the mountain, I saw it. I saw the cave in the middle of the woods, and it’s not far from camp.

Sneaking out of camp always seemed so hard in movies and video games. I just walked out towards the woods, and nobody tried to stop me. I didn’t need to hide behind the cabins or crawl on my belly. I had a flashlight on the entire time. There were no counselors playing lookout and if they were, they just didn’t care.

“Where are you going,” a heavy voice asks behind me. I turn to spot Gabriel. Gabriel is a fat kid. We’re all fat kids here but Gabriel is the worst kind of fat kid. He’s a mouth breather, doesn’t smell great and there are always crumbs of food on his face. I went to middle school with him. He’s the kind of kid to bully others and then cry when he got in trouble for it. He’s not really a bully anymore, but he’s still a trouble maker.

“I’m going to the woods.”

“To find the goodies,” he asks liking his lips.

“Nope, just going in the woods,” I start walking, not wanting to be bothered.

It doesn’t stop Gabriel from following and breathing heavy behind me. He’s talking but I’m not paying it any attention. I’m only thinking about how he set of firecrackers in one of the outhouses the first week were here. Nobody can really prove it was him, but I just know it was him. People can change, but I don’t see a single way he’s changed. He doesn’t want to change because he doesn’t have to. His parents can always get him out of trouble. Write a check, pull a string and the issue goes away. In 6th grade he pushed a kid into the pool and he almost drowned. His parents bought new uniforms for the basketball team and we never heard about it again.

“The counselor told us a story about these woods,” Gabriel whispers before spitting onto the ground. It’s already creepy out here with just my flashlight and he’s wanting swap stories about ghost and hatchet wielding maniacs. Noises that we don’t hear in the day bouncing back and forth from the trees and making monsters that aren’t real. Sometimes it seems like eyes are watching us even when I know there’s nothing out here. It’s camp Grizzly, but there are no bears in this part of the state. No mountain lions or anything like that, but I’m a city kid. “Do you know about The Portly Woman?”

“It’s fat camp, we’re all portly.”

“No this is different,” Gabriel assures me. According to Gabriel back when the camp first open there was a counselor who was serious about making sure every camper lost weight. Supposedly she started abducting campers at night and using a machine to suck the fat right out of them. Sometimes she would go too far and suck out too much. They would just find a pile of skin and bones in the woods.

“Wow Gabriel, that’s such a scary story.”

“That’s not the scary part.”

“Oh, please tell me the scary part.”

The fat is the scary part. The woman had to put the fat somewhere. The story says she put all the fat together, and took care of it as her own child. Eventually the fat came to life. Either through her weird experiments or through her love. Eventually the kids stopped going missing, the same time the counselor did. When they finally found her, she was just skin and bones. Her own monster sucked all the fat out of her. Gabriel does his best to make the story sound scary as he tries to keep up with me. I haven’t been at fat camp for a full month and that is such a fat camp story.

The cave’s entrance is somewhat hard to see due to foliage, but you can’t miss the smell. I haven’t smelt anything like this before and it only gets stronger once we got inside. The closest thing I can think of is when the local taco spot got a shipment of rotting meat. It takes everything I have to keep the contents of my stomach where they belong. Gabriel isn’t as lucky. I almost reconsider going any deeper when I see the yellow slime spattering the walls and floor but the reward has to be close.

“Everyone thinks I’m a bully, but I’m not a bad guy,” Gabriel starts as if it were some afterschool special. The victim becomes friends with the bully and then they skateboard together. That’s not going to happen here.

“Then maybe you shouldn’t be so mean to everyone.”

“I don’t do it on purpose.”

I don’t hear the rest of what he’s saying. I wouldn’t usually care what he was saying, but that goes double for now. My calf starts to burn as it feels like dozens of needles poking into my body, burning me with every prick of my flesh. It’s the slime, covering my leg and attacking me somehow. More of the slime moves toward me, covering my leg and joining the blob, leaving me stuck in place. I scream for help as Gabriel is looks on, mouth open and speechless. Gabriel starts to rock back and forth and I’m sure he’s going to run away and leave me to die. Instead, he digs deep into his pockets and grabs a handful of firecrackers from one pocket and a lighter from another.

I close my eyes as he tosses them towards me. One after another the explode with a loud pop. It works, it scares the blob deeper into the cave. I drag my leg after me as I make my way out of the cave as fast as can. I’ve never had a brownie worth risking my life over. Not even homemade brownies.

The two of us don’t speak on the way back to camp. We’re also not afraid of the sounds in the woods anymore. I have so many questions now, and I imagine Gabriel is no different. Why is this not worldwide news? Why did nobody report on the dead kids? What really happened to the crazy counselor? Why did nobody ever deal with the monster before? I guess we do know the answer to one thing; Gabriel set off the firecrackers in the outhouse.

4.19 - Love Bites

2026-05-08T00:00:00.004-04:00

I’m getting weaker every day I go without blood. My injuries have stacked up and I don’t have enough blood in my system to heal up. Sooner or later, I’ll need to go out and get a drink. Nightclubs are out; I’ve basically lost all the color in my skin. I don’t even think I can pick up a prostitute looking this sick. I feel like that episode when SpongeBob had the suds. If I get out there, I’m sure I can find some way to feed. I rub my hand across one of my stab wounds. The feeling of a scab is weird. I’ve never had one before but this is taking so long, it’s starting to scab. Is this what full blooded humans go through every time they get injured? It’s rough and smooth at the same time. Weird.

I’m a serial killer because I need to feed to live, and I can’t control myself. But I never felt bad about it until now. I’ve put together a backpack for the deed. I’ve got tape, zipties, gloves and a ski mask. I don’t even know what my plan for all of this stuff. I never had to do it this way before. It’s not as heavy as I thought as I make my way up the stairs and through the kitchen.

“Hey,” Wesley says to me as I pass through the living room.

“Hey,” I nod and keep going. I don’t want to be dragged into one of his long talks.

“Where you headed,” and he starts.

“Going to get blood. If I don’t drink soon, I might bite the dust.”

“You can have my blood,” Wesley says without a pause to think.

“Never offer a vampire your blood. It’s a good way to get killed or turned into a slave for all time.”

“I’m not offering just any vampire my blood, I’m offering it to a friend.”

I sigh, and stare at the ceiling for a moment. “Every person I drink blood from dies. I never learned to drink with any control so the first time I got fresh blood I couldn’t stop myself. Some trauma thing or something makes me repeat the same mistake every time. You would die.”

Wesley thinks before responding, “I don’t think you’d kill me. We’re friends and you’ve never drank from a friend.”

“You’re really placing a lot of trust in a moment we shared because I thought I was going to die from HIV.”

“No, I’m placing my trust in you as an individual. I’ve got faith that you won’t kill me, or drain me.”

“I don’t drink from men either. The taste isn’t as good. It’s not sweet.”

“Well you really don’t have a choice unless you want to hope you can become a notorious anemic spree killer.”

“I’ll pretend I know what anemic means, and just say I’ll pass.”

“Are you really turning down a meal when you’re on the verge of passing out again just because you don’t like the flavor,” Wesley makes a good point. I don’t enjoy feeding on men, I don’t enjoy feeding on women either, men are just worst. I used to think it was hygiene, but it’s the testosterone. I spoke with Dust Dog about it. Everyone can’t taste the difference but I guess I’m lucky. For us who can, people pick their favorites to feed from.

“Alright, let’s do this,” I toss my backpack to the side and take a seat next to Wesley on the couch.

“What’s the plan,” he asks nervously, but I can see it in his eyes he’s a little excited.

“Do you want it fast and painful, or slow and slightly less painful?”

“I’m here to please,” he says in a way that gives me chills and makes my heart beat weirdly for a second.

“Whatever,” I reach my right arm around his back. “Lean your head back on my hand.” He does it without even asking why, or how.

I feel my fangs extend in my mouth and take a deep breath. I haven’t been nervous before drinking in a very long time. I think it’s because Wesley is the first person I can consider a friend. Am I afraid to kill him? No, I’m not a pussy. I just don’t like biting guys. Wesley’s heart is beating waiting for the moment. I shake the thoughts free from my head and slam and my fangs into his neck. I feel his body tense up as he tries to not to run away. He’s forcing his fingernails into his skin, trying to move the pain somewhere else. The familiar metallic taste of blood rushes into my mouth and I feel my body come alive. The air tastes a little cleaner, the pain of my injuries starts to dull. I know without looking that my body is starting to heal. It’ll still take time, but maybe the day after tomorrow I’ll be in perfect shape. I’ll be back to my old self. His body relaxes as he gets used to it. No longer trying to cause himself pain. I wonder what people think about when I drink from them. If Wesley is right, this might be the first time I get to ask a person. His heart beat is slowing. I haven’t drank nearly enough that he’d feel weak.

I can smell it, arousal. Another quick look and a bulge has grown in Wesley’s short. A bulge he’s gripping and trying to hold down through his shorts. Some people do enjoy the feeling of being drunk from, so it’s not uncommon. I don’t know why he’s even trying to hide it. I’ve known he’s a pervert since he came here. If he gets his rocks off to this later, that’s fine as long as I can drink a little more. It he stops standing at attention I’ll know I’ve had too much.

I should stop now. I’ve had my fill and I don’t want to kill him. But if I do, should I feel bad? He’s suicidal anyway. Just a little more and I can be good to go tomorrow night. It’s not like he needs that much blood to keep living anyway. I never could control my drinking. He understood the risk. I told him what would happen. I shouldn’t be worried. He’s a psychopath. A real Norman Bates right here in my home. Stopping him now would save someone down the line. He’s mumbling something, but I can’t hear it over the sound of blood filling my . He needs to speak up if this is too much for him.

I feel something slowly creeping up my thigh and glance down. Wesley is no longer holding the tent that has popped up in his shorts and has a hand on my thigh, slowly moving up. Pure reflex causes me to push him to the ground from the couch. What the fuck is wrong with him? Now look at him, just on the floor shaking and dripping blood from his neck. I could have patched him up if he didn’t try to take advantage of me.

I leave him to take care of himself as I fill a glass with water from the sink. Even tap water tastes better when I’m on the mend. I can still see him from here, on the ground looking helpless. I guess he was right about being the first person to survive a bite from me. Maybe that was his plan to survive all along. He knew I wouldn’t like being touched.

I make my way upstairs and grab some sheets and a pillow from Wesley’s bed. Back downstairs I toss the sheets over him to keep him warm. I still need to do something about that neck wound. It would have been way cleaner if I didn’t shove him away. It’s sloppy work. I rip one of the bloody bandages from my side and use it to cover the holes in his neck. That’ll be fine. I’m feeling better now and it’s thanks to this pervert. I guess I should go get him some orange juice, and cookies. That’s what they give people who donate blood. I wonder if he likes iced oatmeal cookies. Those are my favorites.

“Don’t die while I’m gone,” I say to Wesley who still hasn’t stopped shivering or said anything. “Just know you brought this on yourself. I told you not to let me bite you. Everyone I’ve ever bitten has died. You still have a chance to live, so don’t screw it up.”

“I won’t die,” Wesley’s shaky voice speaks. I probably wouldn’t have heard it without vampire hearing. “Can’t kill friends,” he mumbles before closing his eyes.

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4.18 - PrEP for Vamps

2026-03-27T00:00:00.013-04:00

There’s seven other people in this lobby watching reruns of Jerry Springer and nobody seems bothered by where we are. Every so often the woman at the desk calls someone to go in back. They stay in back for a few minutes and leave like nothing happened.

“Wesley and Kareem,” she calls for us to go back next.

“Why are they calling us back together,” I ask Wesley.

“It’s fine, they just think we’re a couple.”

“Why do they think we’re a couple?”

“Because we look cute together,” Wesley pauses for a moment. “Also, I had to fill out your paperwork and this clinic specializes in LGBTQ care.”

“Follow the yellow brick road,” the nurse comments before we go through the door.

Through the door there actually is a yellow brick road of tiles running down through the hallway. Wesley thinks the whole thing is funny, and actually skipped part of the way until he saw I wasn’t playing along. I imagine the room we’re in is like any doctor’s office. I didn’t have many doctor’s visits as a kid and I’ve never been as an adult so I don’t know what they’re supposed to look like. Wesley hops onto the bed looking thing in the center of the room covered in tracing paper. I choose to sit in a chair off to the side.

“How is this not bothering you? Did you stop taking your meds again,” I ask.

“Why should I be worried? It’s just an HIV test. It’s going to take like 2 minutes. They’ll clean your finger, and prick it for a drop of blood or swab your mouth.” There’s a real stigma about HIV testing but everyone should do it every six months ideally or every time you get a new partner if you’re not in the world like that.”

“I don’t know what stigma means.”

“It’s like a connotation that comes along with something, usually it’s bad.”

“Connotation?”

“It’s an idea, a stereotype basically. People think if you get an HIV test that you already have HIV instead of thinking that you’re being proactive. Proactive means you’re taking care of business before it can become an issue.”

“How are you fellas doing today,” a man in a lab coat walks in.

“Pretty good,” Wesley answers.

“Alright, well I won’t hold you here long. Have you ever done this before?”

“I have,” Wesley answers proudly, “but my friend hasn’t. I told him I’d come along because he was scared. I’m brave like that.”

“What,” I ask but it seems like nobody else heard me.

The man explains the test in detail but I don’t listen. I saw a video on YouTube last night about it. The more interesting thing is the smell of arousal. Both Wesley and they doctor. I’m just here in the middle while they flirt.

“Results will come to your phone in about an hour,” the man shrugs.

“And what about you,” Wesley asks causing the man to laugh.

“I’m leaving,” I hop out of the chair and exit the room.

I can hear the two of them exchanging numbers as I make my way back to the lobby. I return a wave to the woman working the desk as I leave. Outside, Wesley finally catches up to me as I start the car, and scroll through songs to play.

“Were you going to leave me,” Wesley asks as he gets in.

“No but I was going to listen to music and pick a restaurant to eat at.”

Wesley goes on and on switching topics as I drive. First it's about the guy from the clinic, whatever his name is. Then he starts ranting about how bisexuals get a bad name, and they aren't always attracted in a 50-50 split. I don't really care if Wesley likes men and women, or who he likes more. It's none of my business. I just don't want to keep hearing about other guys he thinks are attractive. I don't even know why he thinks we're that close. Now he's back to the guy from the clinic.

"If the two of you would be so much cuter together, why are you with me," I ask as I turn the car off.

"Oh," Wesley's voice goes up a few levels. "Are we together? Am I with you?"

"Shut up. I'm hungry and stop looking for deeper meaning.”

The steakhouse is almost empty, but we take a seat in the back. I can tell Wesley is nervous, and he has good reason to be. It’s owned by an Elf and most of the people who visit are werewolves and vampires. I’m one of the rare day walkers, so he doesn’t need to worry about the place being overrun.

“This stuff is expensive,” Wesley says looking at the menu.

“Just get whatever you want. I’m paying.”

“Really? You’re treating me to a meal,” Wesley seems confused.

“You did save my life, or at least accelerate me getting back to normal.”

“Oh,” is all he says before going back to the menu.

Our orders come back pretty quickly. I ordered two rare steaks. I usually go for medium, but I'm hoping there's a little blood in there to help keep me going. I also got a bottle of blood wine. It won’t do much for me since I’m so deprived of blood, but it’ll numb the pain a little. I can only wonder why a stomach full of HIV blood didn’t help. It might be because I threw up most of it. I don’t remember that part, but Wesley made sure that I knew about it happening. Wesley came to a steakhouse and ordered chicken tenders like a child, and doesn’t even balance it out with a beer or wine.

“I’ve been wanting to ask you something,” Wesley says before taking a big sip of his drink.

“What,” I ask with a mouth full of steak.

“How can you eat regular food?”

“I’m only half vampire so I need blood, and food, and water. Trade off of enjoying sunrise and sunset. Other types of vampires eat food too, like Adze. Others can’t really eat food, so they eat blood treats, or food made of just blood and sometimes a little magic to add taste. I never liked those.”

“There’s different kinds of vampires?”

“Yeah, like three to six depending on who you ask. Some say three types are different breeds of the same species. Primeval, Adze and Talamaur are the only true vampires everyone agrees on. ”

“What kind are you?”

“Dhampir, the mut of a human and a vampire. Basically, a primeval vampire got too horny for a human and I popped out. Not a real vampire according to some people, but two of the thirty-one great vampire houses in the country are controlled by Dhampir.”

“Who controls the rest?”

“Primeval and Talamaur. Adze don’t participate because there’s less of them and to be honest, they’re almost exclusively Black so the other houses were, and still are, pretty racist. I haven’t met any but I’m sure they’ve probably got their own great houses or something similar.”

“Aren’t you half Black? How does that work.”

“Terribly. My father hates Black people, except for me. He wants me to run his little kingdom.”

“So, you come from money.”

“Yeah, but I don’t have any of it because I’m not going to do stupid tricks for my father.”

“Well, this just got tense. See any good movies lately?”

“I like Sonic.”

For some reason, my answer causes Wesley to laugh hard enough that he felt the need to slap the table. He's off his meds for sure. That was the only time I ever saw him so animated. I'm not even sure he stared taking his meds again. I need to check into that. Actually I don't, next time I'll let him kill himself or I'll kill him if he tries anything.

"I'm glad we could become friends," Wesley says sipping from his glass.

"Yeah. We tell each other stuff. You saved my life, I saved yours. You're buying me lunch. We're laughing."

"Is that stuff friends do?”

"I don't think the saving lives part comes up often, but yeah," Wesley chuckles then pauses. "What are your friendships normally like," he asks with a serious face.

"I've never had a friend. A real friend anyway.”

"Well I'm glad to be your first.”

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4.17 - Rescue Ranger

2026-01-23T00:00:00.004-05:00

Kareem has never called me before, but I got a call that was just a warning to not fuck up, then an address and instructions to find him waiting outside. I looked the place up online and it’s massive. I don’t even know why he’d know someone that rich, unless he was stealing. Did he get caught stealing? Part of me doesn’t want to go, but I’m curious. I couldn’t help but order a Lyft to the address. The homes out here are probably worth a small fortune to someone like me, for someone like Kareem, for people like my parents.

Getting out the car, my heart sinks into my stomach. I have to imagine this is what animals feel like when they’re suddenly in danger. I want to walk up to the house but there’s people outside and I can feel as if they’re actually pushing me down with just their looks. Just making eye contact with them feels like my body is burning up, but it’s cold sweat that covers my face. I do a quick scan the area hoping to see Kareem. I spot his car running, but I can’t tell if he’s in there because of the tinted windows. Walking towards the car takes everything I have, each step feels like hands from beneath the ground are reaching up to pull me to the depths of hell. For a moment, I could swear I could see the pale white hands, wrinkled with long jagged fingernails, gripping at my feet and ankles pulling at me.

I knock on the window and there’s no answer. I place my face to the glass and can barely make out Kareem. Leaning to the side, shirtless and covered in blood. I pull the door handle and he almost falls out into the street. I catch him, while the blood covers my shirt. There’s so much of it. Is it all his? What happened. The pressure pushing me down from earlier vanishes as I shove him back into the car. He’s heavier than he looks, and the blood is somehow sticky and slippery but I manage to get him into the passenger seat. Reaching over to put his seatbelt on, I feel the heavy breath from his mouth over my face.

I don’t waste any time setting my GPS back to the house and taking off in the car. He needs help but I don’t know what kind of help he needs. I can bandage his wounds but I don’t understand why he’s coughing up blood. The car gives out a low fuel warning and I’m forced to stop at a gas station after midnight. That’s not something I’d usually do and the fact that I’m covered in the blood of a half naked man that’s passed out in the passenger seat doesn’t make this a great idea, but one I have to follow through with. I’ll just pay with my card and hope nobody spots us. I hate being shirtless in public. I’ve got a weird birthmark and not the greatest body. Still, I think it’s best I leave my bloody shirt in the car. As I pump the gas, I can’t help but how submissive and vulnerable he looks right now. The complete opposite of how I usually see him. He’s supposed to be this quiet guy who’s shadow is five times as large as he is and give off an aura of violent intensity. The thought vanishes as the pump finishes.

It seems like everyone in the neighborhood is asleep when I pull into the driveway and that’s for the best. I can’t imagine how this doesn’t look like a murder as I drag Kareem up the steps and into the house. Inside the house, I put him onto the couch and take a step back trying to figure out what happened through all of this blood. He looks a mess; the stab wounds I gave him look like they’ve been pried open by someone. Then there’s a bunch of new cuts and bruises I had nothing to do with those, I’m sure of it. I could just leave him here and hope for the best, but that wouldn’t be right.

Okay, what do I need to do. I need some clean water and towels to wash his wounds. I don’t have any gauze to wrap them up, but I’ve got wash cloths and duct tape. Probably not the best solution, but it’s all I’ve got right now.

“Don’t die, I’ll be right back,” I give an order to an unconscious body as I head off for supplies.

When I return, Kareem hasn’t moved or woken up at all. Slowly, I unbuckle his belt, and then unbutton his pants. It’s not creepy, you’re saving his life. Just don’t try to take a peek. Why do I have to coach myself to not be a creep? As I lift his legs to get his pants free, they snag on a piece of glass I hadn’t noticed before. Slowly, I remove the glass from his leg and flinch as a small squirt of blood follows it before turning into a light dribble.

A few seconds later, I’m staring at Kareem, the apple of my eye, wearing nothing but blood stained boxer briefs, and socks. I’m supposed to be helping him, yet I can’t help but feel as if I’m being a creep right now. I don’t have any intentions of becoming one of the predators Republicans think all LGBTQ people are. I grab a clean wash cloth and dunk it in the bowl of hot water I brought. I start to slowly wipe away the blood covering Kareem the same way I’d wash myself. I start with his face, wiping away the dried blood he’s been coughing up, following with a dry towel. Keeping my composure, I start to wipe his chest with hot water. His skin turns bright red; I’ve been wiping too hard. Slower, I work the towel over his torso, making sure not to agitate the stab wounds. Gently I work it over his chest, slower around his nipples in case they’re sensitive. I turn him to his side, and pull another small piece of glass from his back before wiping it down as well. Next, I work the towel along his legs, he’s tall, but they’re still longer than I expected and his thighs are thicker than I expected too.

“God, stop giving me yoru toughest battles, I am not your strongest warrior,” I send up the prayer as water splashes on his underwear.

Fuck it, he’s clean enough. I focus my effort on bandaging his wounds with the washcloths and duct tape. It’s going to suck peeling that duct tape off but it’s all I got. I thought it was the water making him so hot, but even after his wounds are patched up, he’s burning up. A leather couch probably isn’t the best place for him right now, and I need to get some clothes for him.

Kareem’s door is locked; he probably realized that I went into his room before. I settle with some of my own clothes. A pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt that are both going to be too big for him, but it’s fine. Getting him dressed is harder than getting his clothes on, but I manage. I move him to a blanket on the floor and step back to look at my work. But there’s something I’m forgetting. Right, a cold towel over his forehead should help a little.

I take a seat next to him on the floor. I still haven’t figured out what happened to him. Wounds reopened, coughing up blood, glass stuck in his body and left to die at some huge house. I doubt he’ll tell me when he wakes up, but I’m curious. In the time that I’ve known him he doesn’t seem to be the reckless type. The only time I’ve known him to get hurt was because of me.

I take Kareem’s hand in my own, it’s still hot. If he would wake up, I could give him some aspirin to help the fever, but it’s just a waiting game now. I hope he pulls through. I flip his hand over and place my palm to his. His fingers are long and slender, soft palms. The opposite of my thick fingers, but the softness surprises me. He moisturizes, if vampires do that.

I interlock our fingers and lean back against the couch. “You can be a real asshole, but you’re cute in a weird way. You also saved me when I really needed help. I stabbed you, and I’m sorry. I’m grateful you didn’t hold it over my head. But I kind of wish you made a bigger deal about it. You matter too. I’d like to be more than friends with you, if you’re open to it. But before that, I’d like to just be friends. We’re both kind of fucked up, and neither of us seems to have many friends. I don’t think I have any, I’ve been hiding myself so long that the people who consider me a friend, aren’t considered friends by me. I hope you pull through, and I hope we can be friends. I might fall asleep, but I’ll be here when you get up.”

I place a kiss on the back of his hand, “this much I’ve earned.”

4.16 - Groupies

2026-01-09T00:00:00.001-05:00

I thought if I could just get some sleep, I’d be able to recover but it’s been almost a full day and I’m not feeling any better. I might be feeling worse. The wounds aren’t bleeding as much but there’s still blood leaking through the bandages and under that the wounds haven’t closed all the way yet. I’m starting to get chills and a case of the shakes from lack of blood. My already light skin is starting to look pale. I still can’t believe that psycho tried to stab me. Still can’t believe I didn’t just end him on the spot. I saw it coming, I could have moved, ripped his head clean off his neck, put a fist through his heart, sliced his throat or killed him fifty different ways. I must be getting soft. Come to think of it, I would have just killed that thrall at my father’s place a year or two ago. Maybe I’m just getting tired of violence and the stab wounds are a reminder that violence only brings more violence. No, that’s a terrible idea. Some first-year film student would write that.

I text Rita who gives me information on a party that some vampires are throwing. There’s a guy who wants the party exterminated but nobody will take the job. It’s basically suicide to run into a party full of vampires and thralls looking for a fight. I’m sure there’s guys who could take on a handful of vampires, but not a mansion full. That means it’s going to be a good place for me to get a drink. These parties are filled with vampires that want to flex their muscle or wealth, groupies who want to sleep with a vampire, idiots wanting to be thralls. Oh, and actual thralls, to clean up all the various bodily fluids.

I take a moment to decide if a red shirt or black shirt will hide any bleeding. I settle on black, just to complete the all black attire. I can’t hear Wesley as I’m leaving. Only his heartbeat, still elevated. He’s afraid. He’s been trying to be as quiet as possible. Afraid I’m going to take revenge when he least expects it. I could, but the urge just isn’t there for some reason.

Getting in my car sends a sharp pain up my side and I’m reminded of the stab wound again, as if I could forget it. I lift my shirt, just to make sure I haven’t already bled through the bandage. I spot a few drops of dried blood on the floor mats. It’s not mine, one of my victims. I’ve been careless. It’s too old for peroxide to clean up. I’ll need to get new mats, again. As I drive, I can’t help but wonder how many people I’ve killed. I used to remember the faces of all of them, now only a few pop into my head. Just the recent victims. I don’t even know how many I’ve killed in this car. I used to feel bad about killing, because I know I don’t have to. If I someone had been around to teach me how to drink the right way, nobody would have to die. There are other vampires who just kill because they can, but most don’t kill. I even heard about a vampire house in St. Louis that uses synthetic blood. Wait, why do I care? I’ve never cared about it before; the life I live is just fine. Not great, but fine. Is this because I didn’t kill Wesley, Wes or whoever is in my house? Just need to get my mind right.

The house is a baby mansion. Nothing like my father’s. You can still see the neighbor's home, but you probably can’t hear them. They might call a cleaning company, but they don’t have servants. Either some middle rank vampire or the home of a thrall. A few people hang out in the front as I make my way toward the home. The muffled music is terrible, some electronic nonsense. Vampire cliches. Just because you’re a vampire doesn’t mean you need to act like every vampire movie trope ever. I bet these losers still sleep inside of coffins. Just sleep in a bed like a normal person loser.

I give a nod to a group of vampires on the stairs; they don’t nod back. I’m sure they can tell I’m only half vampire. I used to think it was because of my skin not being white, but it’s because I have brown left in my iris, not my skin. Outside of Adze, all vampires I’ve met have black eyes, unless they’re half-blood mutts like me. They’d rather not know me. The fact that I exist kills the magic around the idea of vampires. Vampires aren’t the sexy and charming monsters above humans anymore when I show up. Just strong horny people who drink blood. The fact that half vampires exist is just proof vampires are just as horny, greedy, evil and everything else the humans they look down on are. I’m not sure which half of me I hate more; maybe they just hate each other.

The music is low in volume, but heavy on the bass. The humans here would probably like the volume turned up, but this is what works for vampires. These events are always interesting, people brought together just because we drink blood. Some are sitting around pretending they can’t eat food, watching humans gorge themselves. Those who really can't eat food have a different look on their faces, envy. A trait that many vampire circles would say is beneath us. Others are partaking in a human snack of their own. Some are thralls, some are just vampire groupies hoping to kiss enough ass that they get turned. It happens, but more often than not the vampire gets tired of them long before they're ready to be turned. People born half vampires like me, Adze and those who become vampires through rituals are the only people who can have changes in weight, acne, and even grow hair. For everyone else, they're stuck how they're turned. It's the reason many people grow their hair long before turning because if they turn while it's short, it'll never grow. But if they cut it after turning, it'll always grow back to the same length. It's one of the reasons that so many vampires look alike. Those in power have a certain look they like to maintain. Mostly well-manicured and neat white people. My skin is light, but dark enough for them to know I'm not one of them. A few sneak in from time to time. It’s not a white’s only club, but it’s the dress code gives off, no darkies allowed.

I choose to take up space near the pool where I can watch the water tinted red by the lights. I've been without fresh blood for too long; at a certain point the blood I buy hurts more than it does good. It reminds me of my childhood. At a certain point, I just needed fresh warm blood. I think that's the reason I can't control my drinking now. The first time I had blood from a living body, I went overboard. Now that's all I know. I'm weak, but I know at these events all I have to do is wait and some random human will approach me. From there, we'll go somewhere private and I'll eat. I'm not the first vampire to drain a human dry so I don't even need to worry about the cleanup. It gets taken care of.

"You look bored," it doesn't take long before a woman approaches me. Black hair, bronze colored skin, back lipstick with a red outline. It’s not what vampires have their thralls wear; it’s what goth kids wear. She's new to this. She'll be easy. She came here just looking for a vampire, and she’s good looking. If not me, someone else will take the bait. Hopefully she survives the night with a vampire she dreamed of.

"Wow, how did you know," I ask sarcastically

"You had this look on your face that said you wanted to jump in the pool and hold your breath until you drowned."

"Wouldn't be so bad, would it?”

"Well, if you want to get wet, I've got other ideas," she smiles coyly

"Why don't you tell me, or show me."

Sex makes the world go round. I don't really care for sex, it's just an easy motivator to get what I want. It's always been that way. Sex in exchange for what I need. I'm no different than any of the prostitutes I've killed. It's just a means to an end. She keeps talking as she leads me by my hand through the house and up the stairs. She just talks on and on about how she's so excited to be at her first vampire party. When we find a bedroom, I follow her in and close the door behind us.

When I turn around, she's already seated on the edge of the bed, and has already removed her shirt. I know how this goes from here. I make my way to the bed. Kissing someone you don't plan to be with forever on the lips always felt strange to me but nobody has ever complained about a kiss on the neck.

"Bite me," the words barely audible through a gentle moan. "Harder," she whispers when I scrape my fangs across her neck.

I pull back for a moment so she can toss her bra to the side, she reaches beneath my shirt and makes an odd face. She looks pleased when I remove my shirt revealing the messy bandaging of my wounds. It's enough to send her into overdrive. I continue to kiss her neck while fondling her breast, gently rolling her nipple between my index finger and thumb as she works to remove my pants. I tense up briefly as she shoves her hand into my boxers with no tact. But I'm not a child anymore, and this is nothing new. We reposition ourselves, me leaning back on the bed as she kisses gently between my thighs, teasing, working her way ever closer until the first kiss lands at the tip. I slide further back on the bed pulling her with me. She's well practiced in moving her tongue to make sure no part goes unloved. For her effort I reach down beneath her skirt and put my hands to work. I squeeze her inner thigh tight enough that her face gives a brief moment of pain before I let go. Gently I rub circles, disrupting her mouth occasionally she lets out another moan or gasps for breath. She's having fun, but I'm getting eager. I work a finger into the soft wetness, back and forth slowly until I add another finger.

She stops and moves my hand before climbing atop me. With a firm grip she guides me into that same soft wetness my fingers were feeling just a moment ago. Small motions, up and down at first, her breast bouncing gently, then harder as she picks up speed. My hands rub her lower back and hips until she bends down placing her neck at my lips.

"Bite me," she whispers again.

This time I let my fangs pierce her skin, not deep enough that I can drink, but deep enough that she feels it. That moment provides her with more excitement than anything else we've done tonight.

"Harder," she asks, deeper my fangs go. "Harder," she demands, while slowing her ride. "I said harder," as she pokes a finger into a stab wound where a bandage had fallen off.

"What the fuck," I ask as she drives her finger deeper.

"Fucking bite me," she shouts as she comes to a stop.

"Get off me," I pull her finger from my wound.

"I said bite me," she slaps me across the face.

I shove her off me and to one side of the bed as I roll off the edge on the other. The wound doesn't hurt as bad as when I first got stabbed, but it hurts and there's fresh blood. She keeps slapping at me and shouting as I get dressed. Some people like pain with sex, not me. But she enjoys the pain too much. It's easy to hold her back, she's not strong. As I buckle my belt it seems like she's given up and gone to sit on the bed. Before I can exit the room a glass vase shatter across the back of my head.

"What the fuck is your issue," I scare myself without realizing I had already moved to grab her by the neck. She's not afraid of me, and she's not fighting to get away.

"You bitch," are the last words I hear before she spits in my face.

I throw her against the wall hard enough that the drywall cracks, then I shove my fangs deep into her neck as if I'm trying to bite through it. Big gulps, I'm not even worried about her dying. The look of peace on her face brings me back. I pull away from her and she slides to the floor. I spit a mouth full of blood on the carpet. Something's wrong with her.

"What is it," I ask as I start to feel dizzy. "I said what is it," I shout again

"AIDS," she whispers as she starts to stand.

"Bitch, you gave me AIDs," I struggle to keep standing. Who knew AIDs would hurt vampires so much? "I should kill you," I try to shout as she moves toward the window. My head is spinning, and my senses are all going crazy. Bad blood on a body that runs on blood. Instant food poisoning, I get it. I grab her neck and start to squeeze. I heard the glass shatter but don’t remember shoving her. I hit the ground hard and glance over at her barely moving body.

Covered in my own blood, both new and old I try to stand, but my legs give out. I can only crawl towards my car. Shards of glass cut deeper into me as I drag my body across the lawn. I spot a few vampires staring at me, but they look away when I make eye contact. I can hear a few of them laugh. I look pathetic right now and they’d rather not even know me. It’s so damn cold. Blood stains the side of my car as I struggle to get the door open. My legs seem to not work at all as I pull myself into the car. The car starts and my fingers slip across the console as I try to turn on the heat to stay warm. My arms are giving out now. I need a moment to recover, and some help.

My blood covered fingers slip across my phone screen. I pick Dusty’s number and the phone just rings until I get his voice mail, “leave a message stating your reason if you expect me to return your call,” Dusty’s voice comes through. When I don’t record a message, the phone hangs up.

I start trying to find anyone else, but I don’t have any friends that can help me. I don’t have any friends. I pick a number at random, and hope someone picks up. “Hello,” the voice answers.

“Don’t fuck this up,” I force out the words before coughing up blood that burns my throat and even the skin on my lips.

Light Seekers

2025-07-14T20:10:00.001-04:00

Najor has seen more than most boys his age should, but he's never felt the warmth of the sun on his flesh. His town has been blessed with the gift of sunlight for three years now. The elders believe that this will continue as they are in God's favor. Najor is smart enough to listen to the migrants who travel along with the beam of light which illuminates the sky. They know the light is to vanish soon, and with it will go any normality in his life. He faced with the choice of spending his life following the beam of light, or attempting to bring the sun back.

The magic he wields is weak, and he can't use it for long without becoming sick. He's never left his town and only heard legends about the beasts that roam the wastelands and the sorcerers who reside high in the Phaethon Mountains. Still, he chooses to throw it all away and chase after a dream knowing he'll mostly likely die out in the darkness.

Buy The Book

4.15 - Trauma Care

2025-01-10T00:00:00.009-05:00

I’ve never had anyone take care of my injuries before besides my mom and that was very long time ago. I usually just tie some rags around them and let the blood do its thing. I don’t know if Wesley had the first aid kit or if I had one somewhere around the house. A handful of pain killers won’t last long on me, but it’s enough to let me sit up straight while he stiches the holes he put in me. For someone who had a breakdown over a dead body he doesn’t seem to be concerned by the blood now.

Where did he even learn to do stitches. I don’t know why I let him stitch me up, I don’t trust him and if he moves wrong, I’ll kill him right now and be done with it. It reminds me of when my mom used to take care of me after I would scrape my knee or fall out of a tree. I can hear Wesley’s heart beat faster as he rubs some sort of gel on my chest, he won’t make eye contact and he’s shaking a little. He’s afraid, and he should be.

“I’ve been stabbed before. At least this time I know I didn’t deserve it,” I try to make a joke.

“Really sorry about that,” Wesley bites his lip. “I don’t have any guaze.”

“What?”

“Gauze, medical bandages that cover a wound.”

I rip a portion of fabric from his shirt and tear it in half. Payback for the shirt he ruined with bleach. I take half and tape part to my chest, the other to my side. That’s a part of first aid I can do by myself. Wesley looks confused, his body temperature is rising again. If his skin was lighter or white, I’m sure he’d be turning red right now.

“Are you okay,” I ask him as his heartbeat slows.

“You, you, ripped my shirt off,” he stutters through the sentence.

“I would have used mine but it was soaked in vegetable oil, bleach and blood.”

“My shirt.”

“I mean you covered me in bleach and stabbed me but it’s okay, I’ll be fine.”

Wesley puts everything back into the little plastic box before taking a seat on the other end of the couch. He doesn’t say anything, but his heart stops beating as fast and I think he calmed down a little.

“I guess we have a lot to talk about now,” He doesn’t look away from the floor.

“No shit, I thought we were just going to pray and sleep it off.”

“Please, don’t ridicule me or my faith. I know I seem crazy but I’m not. Well, I am, but I’m not.”

“You’re making even less sense than you usually do.”

“Can I just start from the beginning? Are you okay with that?”

“Sure, it’s not like I’m going to bleed out.”

“I’m sorry, alright.”

“Wow, that magically healed me. I feel so much better now. How about you go get me some blood from the fridge, so I can sit through this bullshit story.”

He’s mad now, not as mad as I am but mad enough that he gets that I don’t take being stabbed lightly. Still, he gets the blood like I told him to. It won’t do much to heal me; I’ll need fresh blood for that. I could keep picking on him but I want to know what his deal his. I want to know who Wes is or if it really is him. Is he possessed by a demon? I’ve heard that can happen. Do I need to just kill this guy and be done with it all? If I didn’t love a good story, he’d already be dead.

“I don’t know if you know this, but I’m bisexual,” he winces as if I’m going to hit him.

“Was that supposed to surprise me?”

“Yes, I don’t reveal that part of me to most people. They tend to be shocked, confused, appalled or upset when I reveal it. I’ve spent years trying to hide it. Only dating women, trying to never give in to my desire for men.”

I sigh, “well, you think you hide it well. But, I’m a vampire. I can smell when you beat it, and you it beat it a lot. I can hear the porn. I know I don’t go upstairs, but once again, I’m a vampire. Those are some masculine moans I hear from time to time.”

“Sorry,” he’s embarrassed.

“I don’t really care, just saying you can’t hide it from a vampire. You can’t hide it anyway. Sooner or later the mask is going to slip or you realize you can’t hide it anymore. There are probably regular people who picked up on it as well. If you keep trying to hide yourself, then it’s revealed you don’t have many options. You don’t have any choice but to kill yourself or learn to live with who you are. Have you seen Moonlight?”

“I’m a bisexual Black man, of course I’ve seen it.”

“Well, Kevin liked Chiron, but he hid it. Then he went and had a baby, went to jail and had all that time to think and called Chiron when he got out. Same thing, right?”

“I guess. Do you compare everything to movies?”

“Sometimes movies are the only things that make sense. Even when the movie doesn’t make sense, sometimes it still finds a way to work.”

“Okay,” Wesley says it as if I’m the crazy person. “Well, I’m bisexual,” he says it with more confidence this time. “My family doesn’t like that. They’re what you would call Christian fundamentalists,” he can see I’m confused. “They’re by the book on everything. Even if The Bible doesn’t really say anything about the topic in it. Actually, they’re more like cultists than an actual religion, that’s what I’ve come to believe after studying and living life on my own. Well, they put me in conversion therapy a few times.”

“What’s that?”

“Conversion therapy is when they try to get the gay out of you. Might beat it out, might pray it out, scare it out. It doesn’t work and half the time it’s run by closeted people who promise you can be just like them. The first time, they gave us Ipecac, this drug that makes you vomit. Then had us watch gay porn while they shamed us for liking men. The second time, they just tried to beat us until we weren’t gay. I actually had sex for the first time at that camp so it didn’t work at all,” he pauses and stares up at the ceiling. I can tell he’s trying to keep tears from falling. “It’s not like I chose this or I’m some kind of greedy monster. I want to have a family and kids too. I’m just okay if that family is with a woman or another dude. It’s not a crime to crave being loved no matter how hard they try to make it one.”

I let him have his moment to get himself together. I can’t relate to what he’s saying. I don’t have a secret urge to suck dick on the weekends. I don’t think I’ve ever been attracted to anyone and if I was, I can’t say if I would hide it or even know how. Sex is something he needs, for me, it’s a tool. I can’t even comfort him because I don’t know how to do that.

When I think he’s had enough time I ask, “Who is Wes?”

“I’m Wes. I’m Wesley, Wes is another personality. Maybe not another personality but he’s like another person that tells me to do stuff.”

“Does anyone else know?”

“My family, my doctor. My therapist said I probably created Wes as a way to retaliate against those who hurt me because I was feeling powerless.”

“I didn’t hurt you.”

“But you could have. You can. You’re a vampire who kills people. I could be a victim. Wes probably thinks it’ll be a good idea to eliminate you now rather than dealing with the consequences of letting you live. Damn the repercussions of killing you.”

“Is that why you had all those empty pill bottles?”

“Yeah, I’m out of meds.”

“You’re fucked up.”

“A serial killer is judging me right now?”

“I’m not a serial killer,” I calm down when I hear myself getting louder. “I’m not any different than a tiger eating to live.”

“Yeah, okay, tell that to all the dead people,” Wesley stares at me like Atticus Finch making a closing argument in To Kill a Mockingbird.

“I don’t talk to people who aren’t there. You’re the one that’s twisted in the head. Instead of arguing with me, you should be trying to go get some more meds.”

“I don’t have the money,” he shouts. “I used all my money to move here and get away from my family.”

“Then ask them for money.”

“If you had been through anything like what I have, you wouldn’t be telling me to ask them for money.”

I can’t help but to laugh at him as he throws his tantrum. He just gets madder and it only makes me laugh harder. Does he really think he’s the only person with a bad life? He thinks he’s the only one who survived some terrible shit? The only one with a fucked up family?

“Memories can suck,” I nod to myself. “Any little thing and you start remembering all the bad stuff. But memories are how we make choices. You had shitty parents, and they tried to fix you. You remember that. So you moved all the way out here, trying to be better. But you wouldn’t have made that choice if you hadn’t gone are that shit. So why are you trying to pretend none of it happened?

“What are you talking about,” Wesley seems annoyed.

“Aren’t we tied to our memories? The good, the bad, the stuff we don’t want to remember? You think making some other personality is going to make a difference? You’re just going to run around stabbing people and saying it was your other half? You don’t get to just go crazy because you don’t want to handle the past. You think I don’t have a fucked up family? How many vampires do you think are running around here without some connection to a family? I’m a half vampire, and you never see me with vampires or humans. I’ve been left behind by both sides. You don’t see me running around stabbing people.”

“You’re a damn serial killer” Wesley shouts at me.

“Maybe, but I know who I am. I’m not trying to fight my memories, or run away from them. Maybe that’s why I watch movies all the time. Maybe it’s why you’re a nut job.”

“Just get to the point.”

“Maybe I don’t have a point,” I try to readjust myself on the couch. “You thought moving here would let you just step outside and close the door on the bad things that happened, but clearly it didn’t work.”

“And how has life worked out for you,” he asks me. “You aren’t trying to close the door on your past. You went and borrowed money from your parents, right? That’s where you went. I can piece that together. So no, it’s not exactly the same for us.”

I push myself up from the couch and look at Wesley. He’s terrified, and he should be. I just don’t feel like arguing with him right now. He’s never going to see it my way, and that’s his problem. But the next time he stabs, I’m going to kill him.

“Where are you going,” he asks.

“Sleep.”

4.14 - Life's On The Line

2024-12-27T00:00:00.004-05:00

I didn’t get the money, I broke some guy’s face and let Dusty down. That little excursion didn’t go as planned at all. I’ll just need to find another way to get the money. I’ve robbed drug dealers before. It’s not like they can report it to anyone who will care. I’m not big on robbing stores, but if I could probably get more money by breaking open a safe.

I can smell cooking oil outside the front door. I guess Wesley decided to get up and do something besides talk to himself, throw fits and pass out. A few steps into the house and my balance is instantly gone. I slam my head on the back of the door and struggle to get up. I thought he was cooking and he’s just pouring oil on the floor. He’s really lost his mind. All this vampire strength and speed but I can’t seem to get traction on the floor.

“Wesley,” I shout at the top of my lungs. “Get out here right now.”

“For Christ also hath once suffered for sins, the just for the unjust, that he might bring us to God, being put to death in the flesh, but quickened by the spirit,” Wesley answers.

“Not this shit again. I’m not in the mood.”

“Submit yourself therefore to God! Resist the devil and he will flee from you!”

“The power of Christ compels me; I get it you freak!”

I don’t know how he’s walking in this crap but he moves to the kitchen as I try to steady myself. He returns, sliding, crashing into me. I lose my balance again but he stays standing like he’s the real demon here. I know it’s bleach he’s got in his hands before he pours it on me. For a second I give up on trying to stand, focusing more on trying to keep the bleach away from my eyes. He just keeps shouting the whole time.

“I cast out spirits by the finger of God!”

I’ve had enough of this. I keep my eyes closed as he pours bleach over my head, leaning forward to remove my shoes and socks. Standing is easy when you can just grip the floor with your toes. He doesn’t look afraid when I start to approach him. He switches from bleach to holy water as if it that’ll work better.

“I don’t know what got into you, but I’m going to kill it,” I’m ready to kill him at this point.

“In Jesus name cast out your demons!”

I get close enough to grip his shoulders and look into his eyes, “I’ve told you. I’m not a demon. Garlic, holy water, none of that shit will kill me. I don’t know what’s wrong with you but stop. Stop. Just stop.”

“I’m sorry,” Wesley drops the bottle of holy water to the ground.

“We have to get you some help.”

“I’m sorry, this is the only way to save you.”

Wesley slides to his knees, seemingly apologetic. I don’t even know where to take a crazy person to get help. As far as I know we don’t have an Arkham Assylum nearby to just drop him off at. I feel like I’m being punched in the chest, then it hits me. My body is in shock, and the wound is burning, for a moment I’m frozen as the burning, dragging across my chest towards my heart. I know this all too well. I’m now aware of every single piece of flesh the knife severs as he rips it free and positions himself for another stab.

I’ve been stabbed before, it always hurts, always burns. This hurts more than the others. I don’t think I’ve done anything to deserve it this time. I didn’t rob him or hurt him, but he still stabbed me. Why? Does he really think I’m a monster? I know I drink blood and kill people, but I’m not a bad person. I have to survive. I saved his life, and he stabs me? I’m not bad. I don’t deserve this. I try to be good. I wouldn’t drink blood if I didn’t need to. I tried to stop but I couldn’t. I don’t want to die. I don’t want anyone else to either. I’m not bad. I’m not bad. Why are you treating me like this mom? I didn’t choose to be like this.

I come back to real world as he pulls the knife free. I manage to move so his second stab hits my ribs, keeping it from going as deep. I push Wesley’s chest with enough force to send him crashing into a wall. He slides down the wall, a small streak from where his head hit. I take a few more steps then drop on the couch.

The knife is on the floor next to him but missing the point. Damn, that means it’s in me somewhere. My shirt sticks to the gooey parts of my body as I remove it. Slowly I dig two of my fingers into my side wound first, stretching the warm and wet cavity. It’s a jagged cut and I get a view of my chipped rib. That must be where the knife broke. There’s nothing that won’t heal in there, but there’s not a knife either. I take a deep breath and put two fingers into the chest wound. I pull it back to get a clear view. I’m drawn to the sight of my own heart beating in the corner, a sure sign that I'm alive. The tip of the knife is stuck in the bone that sits in center of my chest. I guess it isn’t bone, I don’t care. I pull the knife piece out and toss it on the floor.

It’ll heal but I need to get some blood or it’ll heal slowly and leave a scar. I’ll have to cut myself open and try to heal again if it does leaves a scar. I need to bandage it for now. Really, I just need a quick nap. Wesley groans and coughs. He won’t heal as fast, but I was hoping he was dead. I’ll add him to my list of things to do. Bandages, pay the rent, get blood and kill Wesley.

Wesley grunts as he leans against the wall, forcing himself to his feet. Alright, I sit up. Guess I’m going to kill him now. Shouldn’t be much of a problem. He’s weak, can’t fight and I’m still a vamp.

“Did I do all this,” Wesley seems in pain as he speaks.

“Yeah, don’t you remember setting a trap so you could try to kill me?”

“No. It was probably Wes.”

“Who the fuck is Wes,” I inch closer. “There’s nobody here but you and me.” I’m angry, but don’t have it in me to yell right now.

“Me, but not me.”

“You got a Fight Club thing going on?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“A Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde thing?”

“Something like that.”

“Well damn, maybe I’m not going to kill you tonight,” it makes me a little happy to know he doesn’t hate me. He's just sick. He’s Wesley’s complete lack of control.

“You were going to kill me,” he sounds panicked.

“You set a booby trap like Kevin from Home Alone, poured bleach on me and stabbed me twice while shouting about God. If I killed you it would be self defense.”

“Sh-shit,” he stumbles over the word. “I’ll get you fixed up,” he limps off as fast as he can, avoiding the oil on the floor. “I’ll clean this up too.”

4.13 - Father Time

2024-12-13T00:00:00.005-05:00

Rent is due, and I need money. Wesley is still acting weird so I don’t think he has any money to help. I guess I need to find some work. I scroll through the contact list in my phone before choosing Angela Bassett 95’. She always seems to have work. I don’t have a license so I take what I can get from people who need dirty jobs handled.

The phone rings for a while, but she finally answers, “Angela Bassett, it’s Kareem I need some cash. You got any work,” she hangs up the phone. I call back, and she answers again. It’s how we work, “Angela, don’t treat me like this. I really need some work.”

“My name isn’t Angela Bassett, you know that,” she sighs.

“I know, but your name is Rita Harris-Mason. That’s super coincidental. Lornette Mason from Strange Days, Benadine Harris, from Waiting to Exhale and of course Rita Veder from Vampire in Brooklyn. Your name is made up of characters played by Angela Bassett in 1995. That’s super cool.”

“Why do I deal with you,” Rita asks. “All you know is movies and breaking things.”

“It’s more that I deal with you, because you’re one of the few people I like.”

“You just like my name because it’s a piece of movie trivia. Whenever you need work, you call me, and you put on that sociopathic happy voice and pretend you’re ecstatic to hear from me.”

“What does ecstatic mean?”

“Overjoyed, super happy. I might have some work for you in a day or two but right now I’ve got nothing.”

“Alright, I’ll call you back later Angela.”

“No, you call me Rita or I’ll never have anything for you,” she complains.

“Whatever you say Rita,” I hang up the phone and resist the urge to throw it against the wall.

I guess I have to go see my dad. I hate going to see my dad. I stop by Wesley’s room to check on him before I leave. Can’t have him trying to kill himself again. He’s currently standing in the mirror, naked shouting at himself about what he can and can’t do. It doesn’t sound like he’s arguing about a suicide, so he’s fine. I’m not going to bother getting involved with this argument.

***

It hurts just turning the key to start my car, every mile I drive out of the city and closer to his stupid mansion I get madder and madder. What is with these old, rich vampires? Are they too good to live in the city? I think it’s because there’s too many people that look like people they would have owned back in the day. I speed up the long driveway not even caring to look at all the stupid plants they spend hours on for decoration. I pull around front, and fight the urge to sideswipe the newest Bently, Rolls Royce or whatever it is sitting out front. I hate coming here, I’d rather be chained up in the basement still. There aren’t any happy memories here. I already know how this is going to go. He’s going to lecture me, try to make me marry someone, then I’ll have to bet him for the money in some stupid game. His servants are going to look at me like trash the whole time. The big white house looks out of place here. It looks like one of the homes you’d see watching Gone with The Wind, or Roots. Stupid ass Django Unchained house.

I don’t knock, I just walk into the home. These people seem to think nobody can hurt them. They don’t bother locking doors or keeping security from the normal people. As if a big enough gun wouldn’t do some real damage. Idiots.

“Young Master Kareem, I shall alert your father to your arrival,” a young woman with blonde hair I’ve never seen before greets me. He just keeps picking younger and younger workers. She can’t be more than seventeen.

“Young Master Kareem, shall I bring you a change of clothes,” an older white man with a large red beard asks me. “You know your father despises modern fashion trends,” he continues when I don’t answer.

“Fuck off,” I try to channel as much bloodlust as I can when looking into his eyes. He backs away in fear, feeling my killing intent.

These old bastards play games. It’s all about putting fear into the others, forcing others to feel your power. I’m only half vampire but I know I’m stronger than anyone here besides my father. He only keeps the weak ones around, it makes him look stronger. These large halls, white walls, and marble floors are filled with a bunch of thralls and yes men. I need to announce my presence to keep them on their toes. If I don’t, they’ll try to test me. Think they can take over the family as my father’s heir if they kill me. I don’t even want to be his heir, they just always assumed I would be. I take a few deep breaths and concentrate on announcing my presence and sensing other vampires in the mansion. It’s completely unnecessary but it’s the type of game they like to play. The heir has returned home, and I want them to tuck their tails and stay out of my way.

“I take it you didn’t want a change of clothes,” Dust Dog greets me.

Dust Dog isn’t like my father’s other servants. He’s a vampire that my father met in Iraq. They’ve been together for years. When I lived here, Dust Dog kept the others from bullying me, he taught me to fight, how to use my power, how to feed and gave me a basic education. I started calling him Dusty a long time ago because it felt better than calling him a dog. I don’t even know his real name. He hasn’t told me in all these years either. Whenever I ask he just tells me he forgot. I can never get a read on Dusty. He doesn’t wear a suit like the other men wear around here. He wears a thawb and keffiyeh instead. Some people would complain about it, but never to his face. I think he might actually be stronger than my father; he’s the only one I can never sense here. Still, I think he is really a friend to my fahter for some reason. Doesn’t matter, Dusty is more of a dad to me than my actual father. One of the few people in my life that never judged me.

“It’s good to see you Dusty,” I shake his hand and he pulls me into a hug. I hate being touched, bust Dusty is okay.

“I’m always excited when you pay us a visit,” we separate and he puts a hand on my shoulder. “If you’re not going to cut your hair, braid it kid. You’re starting to look like a wild animal,” he puts a hand on my chin and turns my head. “Face tattoos? C’mon, I taught you better than that. Face tattoos just mean you’re rich enough to not care what society thinks or you’ve given up on trying. Considering you’re here, you must not be rich yet,” he laughs.

“Ouch,” I clutch my heart as if I’m in pain.

“Glad to see you smile,” he smiles back at me, but I can’t look in his eyes for some reason.

“Hey, there’s no shame in taking help from someone you don’t like. Just, don’t give up on life. I know you’ve had it harder than most. But, for my sake, please stay strong. As long as there are dates on the palm, continue to drink.”

“Yes sir,” I share a nod with Dusty.

“Always shocks me when you show manners,” Dusty laughs again, “you can always come to me,” he winks before walking away.

I’m led down the hall by the same bearded servant that spoke to me earlier. The only thing that ever changes around here is the artwork on the wall. New art is always more expensive than the old art, just a show for visitors. I think about knocking something off the wall but I need to be on my best behavior.

“Ah, my son,” my father greets me as I enter his office.

“Hey.”

“You look so much like me,” he smiles a fake smile. “Well, except those thick lips and that skin almost as dark as your mothers,” he gives a laugh.

“Well, you did rape a Black woman,” I take a seat in leather recliner.

“Touché,” he sits in the arm chair across from me and claps his hands twice. “I was overcome by my primal urges that night.”

“We gonna play,” I ask before two servants enter and set up a chess board in front of us.

“Of course,” he smiles as if we’re bonding or something.

I turn the board so I’m now in control of the black pieces, “white goes first.”

He makes the first move, and presses his button on the time clock. I follow his lead. The first few moves are always fast. I’m better at chess than he is. One of the few things we shared together. I was always forced to play when he wanted to spend time with his little mistake. I got really good at it, really fast. I want to embarrass him. The time clock is supposed to make me move faster, and keep me off balance. It just makes me want to beat him faster each time. I beat him, I get the money, that’s how it always goes.

“Have you considered what we discussed last time,” he’s talking trying to distract me, slow the game. I’ve got him now.

“What was that?”

“A political marriage to The Marson family.”

“Pass.”

“You need to do something with your life.”

“So you want me to marry into some family filled with even more klan robes beneath tuxedos?”

“It’ll be the only way for me to retire and you become the true heir to the house.”

“Your Jim Crow servants won’t like that,” I end my turn.

“Then kill them and choose your own,” he ends his.

“Not big on killing when I don’t have to,” I end mine, we’re back to the starting speed.

“You’re a sloppy eater, yet you’re still alive. You’re not shy about dropping bodies.”

“Maybe, I just don’t like your people.”

“I don’t care. They’re nothing to me.”

“Check.”

“Power is only seized through violence and solidified with political backings,” he’s stalling.

“Check,” I push the pace.

“It would do a great deal to solidify our hold in this region.”

“Check.”

“You wish to remain low class in a crumbling home on the poor side of the city when you could have anything you ever wanted?”

“Check.”

“You’re half animal but you don’t need to behave that way. Clearly you have a brain as shown by your aptitude for the thinking man’s game.”

“Check.”

“Your lack of manners seems to be boundless.”

“Your racism seems to be boundless. Check,” I’ve got him frustrated.

“Racism? There’s been no such things since the shines left the plantations.”

“Check.”

“You continue you act like a child.”

“Check.”

“Perhaps you get a job then. You’re so determined to shun your heritage you could at least get a license and take some real jobs instead of depending on hoodlums.”

“You could just be fatherly for once and give me the money without making jump through hoops,” I smile. “Check.”

“You’re incredibly arrogant for someone who comes to be for funds like a dog every few months.”

“You’re mad,” I laugh. “I’m your one mistake and the one thing you can never control and it pisses you off so much every time you look at me. Check.”

“A child who bites the hand that feeds him. Not knowing the hand could end his life in a matter of seconds.”

“Whatever, check mate, pussy.”

The pieces slam against the wall and drop to the floor as my father slaps the board across the room. It used to scare me, these days I wonder if I can kill him. Stake to the heart, drag him out of his house when the sun rises, decapitation, a lot of options for the old vamps.

“You got my money,” I ask when the thralls arrive to clean the room.

“Money? You expect money from me? You disrespectful abomination. At times I stare into darkness wondering how such an anathema could be born from my own semen.”

I feel Dusty’s energy. He’s sending a warning. I’m not sure if it’s for me or my father, but there’s not going to be a fight. I opt to just leave after an intense stare down. I could kill him, I know I can but I won’t because that’s not what Dusty wants. Maybe I will lead this house one day, after I kill my father and everyone loyal to him.

“You’re a real asshole,” I say as I leave the room.

The bearded servant follows me after ensuring my father I won’t steal anything. I wait until we’re next to a painting. He doesn’t have a chance to stop me as I slam his face into one of the paintings. He slides to the floor his face leaving a trail of blood to the floor. Part of me feels bad about it. Not for this guy or my father, but because I know I just disappointed Dusty again. He won’t judge me, he’ll send me a text in a few days explaining how he wants me to be better. I punch hole through the window of the car in the driveway, I guess it was a Bentley. I speed down the road, before I get the urge to burn that place down.

“Fuck,” I scream at the top of my lungs as I head back to the city.

4.12 - Judas and The Righteous

2024-11-29T00:00:00.015-05:00

Wesley’s room is a mess. Broken furniture, clothes and items tossed across the room. If I didn’t know better I would have thought the cops came and raided the place. I tossed him on the bed, but he wouldn’t let me leave. I’ve never taking care of people, and I don’t know if I’m good at it. Nobody has ever trusted me to take care of them. I wasn’t exactly well taken care of so I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I brought him a glass of water, that’s always they first thing they do in movies. I place a cold towel on his forehead because I’ve seen that before. Wait, isn’t that something for fevers? I don’t know, I toss the towel away, he’ll be fine.

“Bible,” Wesley mumbles pointing towards a corner of the room.

“You want a Bible? I think you should sleep.”

“Bible,” he keeps pointing.

I dig through the luggage in the corner before I find a large red bible, gold pages and heavier than any book I’ve ever read before. I toss the Bible on his chest, causing him to flinch. He hugs the book, clutching it as if it was a treasure, closing his eyes and smiling. It’s somewhat unsettling just how much he seems to care for that book.

“Have you ever tried to kill yourself,” Wesley asks me, his voice sounds rough but he doesn’t seem to be in any pain.

“Vampires can’t commit suicide.”

“How would you know, unless you tried?”

“I never tried to commit suicide. Didn’t make sense.”

“Why not,” he keeps pushing for more answers.

“Because I didn’t fuck up my life, other people did. Why would I kill myself? I’d just be dead, but killing them would solve the problem.”

“Do you know why Judas committed suicide after he betrayed Jesus?”

“Because he was a shitty friend,” I take a seat on his dresser.

“No, a lot of people think it was because he betrayed Jesus and all of his friends, but that wasn’t it. Judas killed himself because he was seeking redemption for his sin. Some sins are so great, you can only recover by killing yourself,” Wesley smiles as he talks about suicide, it creeps me out. This must be how he felt when he found the body.

“Did your book tell you to kill yourself? Because if it did, that’s a stupid book.”

“This book,” he opens it and flips through pages, “has so much guidance, it couldn’t possibly stupid. The knowledge held within this book has been passed down for centuries, a shining beacon of what humanity should be.”

“Yeah, call me when they make it a movie.”

“I’m serious,” he quickly flips through pages before stopping. “For I am convinced that neither dead nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, no powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord. Romans 8:38-39,” he finishes and starts flipping pages again.

“I don’t get it.”

“It means that nothing, can separate us from God unless God wants it to.”

“Okay,” this is getting awkward.

He flips to another section, “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit. The righteous person may have many troubles but The Lord delivers him from them all. Psalms 34:18-19.”

“What does righteous mean?”

“A morally just, virtuous or good person.”

“And what does that have to do with you playing rodeo with your neck?”

“It means you delivered me from my darkest hour. God sent you, to deliver me from my troubles.”

“I didn’t deliver you from anything.”

“But you did. God put you here on earth to rescue me. Jesus Christ is my savior, but he worked through you tonight.”

“No, I just kept you from dying. There was no message from God telling me to go get you. I don’t even have Jesus’ phone number and I don’t think he’d pick up if serial killing vampire called.”

“Just because you don’t recognize him working through you, doesn’t mean that he didn’t. Something brought you to me tonight.”

“I think you need to get some rest.”

“I do, but I think you should also read this Bible,” he extends it to me. “Read it, learn what God wants from you, as he works through you.”

The whole conversation is getting odd. He’s getting out of the bed and trying to keep pushing this book at me. I’ve got no plans for reading it but he keeps going on and on about how I saved him. He really needs to be resting and I can’t take much more of this. I don’t know how to take care of people, but I know how to hurt people. I’m good at hurting people. I could kill Wesley right now and he’d get his wish. He’d be dead, and I’d prove I’m not some helping hand sent from God. But, I don’t want to kill him. I’m not sure why. Everything about him makes him killable. He asks too many questions, tries to push religion on me, and he’s afraid of my shadow on most days. Something in the back of my head is telling me if I killed him, I’d feel bad about it.

As Wesley stands in front of me, placing the Bible in my lap, and a hand on my knee my mind is made up. I don’t like being touched, and I know how to treat people who touch me. It doesn’t take much, a flick of my finger to his forehead and his eyes roll into the back of his head before he folds onto the floor like an omelet. He’s not dead, but he’s knocked out and that gives me some time to think. I toss his limp body on the bed again. I’m the killer here, but as he’s spread across the bed, passed out he looks like the monster. He doesn’t have fangs or a stomach full of blood like I do, but something about him makes me feel weird. It isn’t fear, because I know I can kill him with no trouble, but something just isn’t right about him.

4.11 - The Noose

2024-11-15T00:00:00.009-05:00

Wesley hasn’t avoided me for the last week or so. He’s been more aggressive, but conflicted about something. He’ll join me for a movie, but get up half way through or only watch for the ending. He’s not going to church or class every day. On occasion, I can hear him arguing with himself. Just going back and forth with himself over some guy. I’ve started to wonder if it was my fault, if I broke him. The whole vampire thing, and the dead body. I haven’t exactly eased him into my life. Sometimes father will say that I’m strong and can’t force others to be raised the same way I was. I can’t expect others to make the same choices and react the same way I do. He’s not taking what I’ve done well, or maybe he was always like this. I didn’t pay much attention to him before he saw the body and started trying to kill me. No, he wasn’t like this. I broke him, ruined him like everything else. Nothing I can do now but wait. He’ll either kill himself, someone else or I’ll kill him in self-defense. It might be easier to just, do it myself right now. No, he talks to his family all the time, they’ll be worried if he suddenly vanishes. I have to remember to ask the next roommate about family ties.

I’m thinking about this too much, a movie should take my mind off it all. Casino is an underrated classic. People go so far as calling it a copy of Goodfellas or saying it can’t compare to Mean Streets but it has a charm that belongs to nothing else. It doesn’t just tell a story, but focuses on the history of the characters as the city. It has similarities to Goodfellas but it’s more evolved, and refined. It’s a beautiful film.

But I can’t seem to enjoy it right now since Wesley is arguing with himself again. Odd, because it’s 3am and he should be asleep by now, even crazy people have to tire themselves out sometime. But it sounds like it’s coming from outside, the neighbors won’t like that. I better go get him inside. Do I need to bring a blanket? I always see firefighters and medics give out blankets. He should be fine without one, it’s summer.

He’s easy to spot, right outside the kitchen window in nothing but his underwear. I always laugh when there’s a grown man wearing tighty whities in a film. I don’t know why; they just seem like something you stop wearing when you stop being a kid. Wesley keeps yelling at himself, name calling mostly as he struggles with a rope. I’m not sure what he’s doing until he holds the end up. Tying a noose, or trying. He pulls at it with his hands, testing it, until it easily comes apart. Soon he’s trying again. Wes this, Wesley that, the argument continues. He’s trying to kill himself, and he’s going to be sloppy about it too. I can just let him do it. That’ll solve my problem. He just looks so pathetic, trying to tie a noose the same way over and over again, just to get the same results. He’s got all the enthusiasm of someone who never really tried to kill themselves. A black man trying to hang himself, he’s not even thinking about this. There’re easier ways to do it than a janky noose. Gunshot to the heart, slitting your wrist, jumping off a tall building. He doesn’t seem to care for pain so a cocktail of random pills, intentional drug overdose. I’ve tried it all, but he’s not a vampire, so his survival rate is going to be much lower.

After thirty minutes of watching, he finally gives up on the noose and ties the rope around his neck before making a knot that satisfies him. He spends the next fifteen minutes clawing at the tree, slipping down over and over again as he tries to make it to the top. He should have tied the rope once he got in the tree and made sure he knew how to climb a tree. Another fifteen minutes passes with him sitting in the dirt, arguing with himself about why the tree was a bad idea. Wesley hops to his feet and rushes over to the shed, tossing objects around, still dragging the rope behind him. I’m hoping he chooses something messy, like a nail gun, or chainsaw. In the end, he settles on a ladder. He tests the length and easily ties it to a tree branch.

I’m forced to watch as he struggles, kicking his legs in the air. The goal of hanging is to snap the neck, not a slow and painful death, he’ll pop his head off like this. I’m reminded of a puppy I had named Micro. It was right after the whole vampirism thing kicked in. I had bitten a stray cat, because I was thirsty and didn’t know why, but my body told me if I bit the cat, I’d be satisfied and I was. When mom found it, she beat me. I was so used to the beatings at that point that I didn’t care. One day, while I was on my way to school, she took Micro and tied his leash to a radiator, then tossed him out the window. I watched as he tried to bark and break free. By the time I broke down the front door and made it upstairs, he was already dead. I didn’t go to school that day or anymore after that.

I can see blood starting to cover his neck as Wesley claws at the rope. He really did choose a terrible way to die. He hasn’t looked in this direction the entire time I’ve been watching, but now it feels like he’s staring right at me. Asking for help, but can’t get the words out. I wonder if Micro knew I was trying to save him. I hope he didn’t spend his last moments thinking I had abandoned him. Maybe it’s a good thing Micro died. His life wasn’t ruined by knowing me anymore. I haven’t thought about Micro in years. Maybe Wesley isn’t the only person going insane. I can’t do it, I can’t let him die even if it would solve my own problems. Why can’t I let him die? I never cared about anyone dying before, I killed people, a lot of people. Fuck.

I don’t rush out the back door, and I’m not in a hurry to get to him either. I’m still conflicted over the whole thing. As I get closer, I’m watching him jerk and kick towards me. I don’t know if he wants my help because he’s afraid to die or if he’s trying to keep me away from him. He’s running out of energy; he won’t die soon but he’ll pass out. I step back when he kicks me in the head, watching, waiting. I don’t know why. I’m reminded of the scene in The Green Mile when everyone just watched as they knew an innocent man was being executed. The Green Mile, that’s so basic, is that all I can think of? Every white person’s favorite movie that taught them racism was wrong, and that’s all I can think about as a man dies. Wesley’s fighting less, more swinging and trying to keep the rope from closing on his neck than anything else. Occasionally he kicks out. I can’t help but laugh when I realize he’s trying to get back on the ladder. I suppose he does want to live. I climb the ladder, and place my hand between the noose and his scratched bloody neck. One quick yank and the rope is broken, there’s a thud as Wesley hits the ground. He’s knocked out, but still breathing. I nudge him a few times with my foot but he doesn’t wake up.

I lift him up into my arms and carry him inside, for a moment I think about dropping him on the couch but he’s dirty, sweaty and smells bad. I watch movies on that couch. Instead, I carry him up the stairs to his bedroom. He keeps whispering about angels saving him. Delusions of a mad man, there are no angels in this house, only devils. As I place him on the bed, he strokes my cheek repeatedly despite me pulling away.

“Stop touching me, I don’t like to be touched,” I smack his barely awake hand away from my face as if he can hear me.

Looking at him now, he’s pitiful looking. I should have left him there to die and saved both of us some time and trouble. If he hadn’t kept fighting, and just gave in this could all be done by now. Maybe my mother did Micro a favor when she made sure he wouldn’t need to keep living in this world. I could have done that same favor for Wesley.

4.10 - Divine Retribution

2024-11-01T00:00:00.003-04:00

“Wow, what a fucking faggot,” Wes laughs.

“Don’t call me that. I’m not that word. That word does not define me. I am a creature who embraces God’s love and aims to spread it across the world.”

“You’re trying to spread some of that vampire boy’s sodomite semen all over your body,” Wes takes a seat on my dresser. “Do vampires even have semen or is all blood? I guess you’ll find out.”

“Stop saying stuff like that,” I scream at him.

“Why? Are you scared mommy and daddy might hear that you like penis? They’re not here. You can yell it. You like boys. Wait, are you afraid of Hell? Is that it.”

“I’m not going to Hell.”

“Because you’re living in Hell already. People already know you’re a homo and you sit around masturbating all day. All fucking day. You literally, beat the skin off your dick sometimes. You’ve watched more porn than most people have TV. It doesn’t even take porn; you see a cute guy in class and you’re ready to join the one-man firing squad. How many guys have you actually slept with? Two, then you just decided you’d pray away the gay because papa pastor said it was wrong?”

“I told you, I’m not gay,” I yell at Wes.

He hops off the dresser and crosses the room until we’re eye to eye. His eyes look just like mine, but filled with evil. I try to look away from him but he takes my chin in his hand and forces me to stare at him. I try to break free but he’s too strong.

“Oh I know, bisexual. That’s why you really hope it’s a nice woman you settle down with. You really hope your true love is a woman so you never have to show this side of you. You got a 50-50 shot. Really 30% with you but who’s counting. Still, it doesn’t really matter to the outside world. Because inside you know. When you’re alone and the world is silent it still echoes in your mind. Faggot, fag, homo, queer, you’re stuck on these words being hateful, these words cut you so deep,” he pauses and lets me go. “So, fucking deep. You’re an adult, and it still hurts you. Controls your every movement. But they aren’t what’s hurting you. It’s the fact that you’re hiding who you really are. You’d rather live in the shadows, afraid of going outside and living your life. You sit there, bitching and moaning about other gays living their best life, because you can’t. What really makes you mad, is you don’t even hide it good. The moment your mind drifts you start to switch when you walk, get too excited and that wrist gets a little limp. Maybe if you just told everyone you were gay, you’d stop being such a creepy little pervert.”

“I’m not gay!”

“Why do you keep yelling? They’re going to think you’re crazy. Crazier.”

I roll off the bed, trying to avoid Wes’ grasp. I start to dig through the side drawer. I just need my medication. He doesn’t think I’m fun when I take my medication; he’ll abandon me again, just like every other time. I used to think he was fun to be around, but he just got more controlling as I grew older. My medication made me feel and act like I was just watching from inside my own head. It made me boring to be around too, and that kept Wes away. But any time I stopped taking my medication, I felt like me again even with all the issues that brought. Sooner or later, Wes would pop up again. Moving all the way to Minnesota was part of getting away from him. I don’t know how he found me, but I’ll probably need to move again. Did I not bring any medication with me? Why would I leave it behind? I guess I thought he wouldn’t find me here.

“Stop running, just follow my lead. I’ll have your life set up exactly how you want it,” Wes taunts me as I run to my bathroom.

I rummage through the medicine cabinet. None of this stuff is mine, it probably belongs to Kareem’s last roommate. It’s all allergy medicine and cough syrup, none of this will help me. Did he kill his last roommate too? Fuck, I might have some pills in my luggage. I rush to the closet and search the duffel bags and suitcases I moved in here with, nothing.

“Choir boy,” Wes pauses to laugh. “It’s funny, you’re going to be the closeted choir director. Probably neglect a nice Christian girl. Put all that self-hate into pumping her full of baby batter so you can prove you aren’t gay.”

“Shut the fuck up,” I step into Wes’ face.

“Do you know what divine retribution is,” he whispers in my ear while rubbing my shoulders from behind, much more subdued now.

“Yeah, I know. I live in fear of it. The ultimate punishment.”

“No,” he licks my neck, sending chills through my body. “Divine retribution isn’t just the ultimate punishment. You can survive punishment,” he puts one hand around my waist and another on my throat before rubbing his head on the side of my neck. “Divine retribution is doom, there is nothing else afterward. Why do you fear it?”

“Because I’m weak,” my body feels like putty in his hand.

The hand on my waist moves lower, my body quivers as it grasps at my penis through my shorts “you think Kareem is your divine retribution. You think you’re being punished for hating yourself, one of God’s children. You don’t have to lie, I know how you think. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes,” I struggle to get the words out despite my mouth being wide open.

“Then let me lead the way, let me find out.”

“You can have whatever you want.”

“Good,” Wes lets me go and pushes me to the floor.

I gather my composure, stand up and straighten out my clothes as he leaves the room. I follow Wes down the stairs and into the kitchen. He opens the fridge and pulls out a pitcher of red liquid that Kareem said not to touch. He spits into the glass and laughs.

“What are you doing,” I ask.

“You said, I could do whatever I want,” Wes smiles.

He takes his finger and swirls the spit into the red liquid. As he pulls his finger out, I can see the liquid is thick, and we both look confused. Wes sniffs the finger, scowls as if he’s thinking before shoving the finger into his own mouth. He seems surprised as he pulls his finger out.

“What is it,” I ask eagerly, almost like watching him when we were kids again, even if I already know the answer.

“It’s blood. That nigga really drinks blood,” he puts the pitcher back in the fridge.

“Can you not use that word; I find it really holds us back as a people.”

“You’re more concerned about me using the word nigga than the fact that your roommate is drinking blood? You really must want to fuck him. Or, you like getting fucked right?”

“Stop, this has gone too far, you need to leave,” I shout at him.

“I’ll leave when we’re done,” Wes heads towards the door leading to the basement.

“Don’t go in there.”

“You wanted to learn if he’s a killer right?”

“Please stop.”

Wes opens the door, “he might not be a serial killer, he doesn’t even lock the door,” Wes laughs as he walks down the stairs.

I’ve never been in Kareem’s room before, I thought it’d be a dungeon with moldy cinderblock walls and chains. There’re cinderblock walls but they’re painted gray. Two of the walls feature a mural covering their entire surface. I recognize some of the faces and scenes depicted. It takes a second before I piece together, they’re all from different movies. His room is also pretty neat and well kept. I guess I’m surprised because he’s always lounging around in shorts or sweats, not really doing anything. He has a sloppy demeanor, but he isn’t a slob. That’s nice to know.

“Hey, look at this,” Wes calls me over to a wooden desk.

There’re some sketchbooks that I flip through, some interesting drawings. A few of them demonic looking, but others are kind of cute. Some of the pages feature poetry, or attempts to be poetic, but most seem like camera directions, or angles a camera would capture. I’m not sure, they just look more like diagrams than sketches. A few composition notebooks look to have handwritten scripts in them. I’m not sure if he wants to be a director, a writer or a tattoo artist. I could help him type up the scripts one day, maybe get a film deal.

Wes sighs, “you’re missing the big part,” he yanks open a drawer “boom baby,” he points out a gun with a few bullets rolling around in the drawer.

“What is that,” the words leave my mouth before I can think.

“A gun, you idiot. The better question is why a vampire needs a gun. He might be a serial killer, but he isn't a vampire.” Wes takes the gun from the drawer, and aims at me, closing one eye and staring down the sights.

I smack his hand away, “stop playing with that.”

He tosses the gun back in the drawer and heads to a basket of clothes in the corner before rummaging through it. I focus on the poetry; it isn’t well written and doesn’t seem to have an extensive vocabulary. It’s honestly less poetry, and more of a badly written narrative.

“Catch,” Wes calls out.

I swat at the air and manage to catch what he threw at me. It’s a pair of Kareem’s boxer briefs. I toss them onto the ground which causes Wes to laugh. He picks them up and takes a deep sniff of them before smiling at me. He looks into the underwear and nods with approval.

“No skid marks,” he laughs.

“Stop that.”

“Hey, this is what you wanted right,” he holds the underwear up to my face as I look away. “You wanted some hot, vampire, dick,” he laughs. “At least you can get a whiff of the sausage and eggs.”

“I don’t want to.”

I feel my legs leave the ground and my heart begins to race as I’m dropped to the floor. I don’t know how he did it, but he's looking down on me now. I struggle as he shoves the underwear in face, demanding I smell it. He laughs when I finally get away from him.

“You know what you should do,” Wes asks.

“Leave.”

“No, you should do what you always do,” he makes a masturbation motion with his hand.

“I’m not doing that.”

“Go ahead, I can tell that you’re turned on. Hell, I can see that you’re turned on.”

“Stop.”

“Why don’t you do something about it? Won’t have many chances to do that kind of thing here.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why? Because I’m watching? I’ll close my eyes,” he covers his eyes with his hand, then peeks through. “Just do it or that tiny terror is going to be throbbing with pain all day,” he places a hand on my knee.

“Stop,” he starts to move his hand up my shorts, “what if I get caught?”

“Then you’ll get your answer. Either he’ll fuck you or he’ll fucking kill you. If you don’t, he won’t do either. Let’s be real, I want it just as much as you, but you’re holding me back,” Wes uses a free hand to place the underwear over my face again.

My phone begins to vibrate, a notification on the screen with a small cross. I have church tonight, Bible class, I can’t be doing this. I try to push Wes off me and stand up but he’s strong. I manage to break free, tossing the underwear away and towards the pile.

“Where are you going?”

“Church.”

“Can’t we finish here,” he asks.

“We’re done. You should have never come here.”

“I cam here because you wanted me here, you needed me here,” he stands up and adjust his shorts.

“I don’t need you and I don’t want you here.”

“You do, even if you don’t know it yet,” he pauses and picks up Kareem’s underwear. “Hold on to these for me, we’ll finish later.”

“We’re not doing anything later.”

“Hopefully, we’re going to be doing Kareem, together,” he laughs.

“Stop saying stuff like that.”

“I’ve seen him, he’s kind of hot.”

“Shut up,” I yell at him.

He takes the opportunity to kiss me, putting his tongue deep in my mouth, “go to church, but we’ve got to make up for lost time later.”

I watch as he puts Kareem’s underwear into his pocket and walks up the stairs. Crap, I’m letting him control me again, lead me to bad situations. I’m bigger than this. I’m old enough that I shouldn’t be falling victim to peer pressure. I need to figure out how to get rid of him after church. If not, Kareem might be willing to kill him for me. I’m sure he doesn’t want a second roommate anyway, even if the house is big enough.

4.09 - Eight Legged Freak

2024-10-18T00:00:00.007-04:00

The itsy bitsy spider went up the waterspout. Down came the rain and washed the spider out. Up came the sun and dried the all the rain, and the itsy bitsy spider went up the spout again. The nursery rhyme comes to mind as I watch a spider slowly lower a web and hang from the ceiling corner of my room. I’ve been watching to for a while now, just wondering what it’ll do, but it’s just watching me. I wonder if bugs have thoughts, what would a spider think about? Does it have a favorite kind of bug to eat? I wonder if spiders have a little language we can’t understand. Even with my vampire hearing, I can never hear it make any sounds.

There should be more movies about spiders, happy movies about spiders. I reach for the composition notebook by my bed to scribble some ideas. I turn to the last page and see that it’s been filled. I’ve got another notebook around here somewhere.

“Hey, don’t move,” I point to the spider.

I check the drawers in my desk, these are all full. Already got so many ideas. I need to start writing more scripts, or put together money to film them. I’m not sure how I’d get the money and crew, but it can’t be that hard. I might be able to find something on the internet. Under a Do the Right Thing shirt covered in dried blood, I find an empty notebook. I guess I didn’t do the right thing last time I wore this. I should try to wash the blood out of this later. I liked that shirt, but blood is a good reason not to wear them.

“I’m back, thanks for staying put,” I give the spider a thumbs up.

Alright, ideas for spider movies. We can do a spider as an invisible friend. Giant spider, but it gets bigger the more love it’s given. Spiders stop an alien invasion because the aliens are afraid of them. The story of Santa, but Santa is actually just a group of spiders. That’s why nobody can see him, he just turns into spiders running away. Spider-Man but he’s got a spider’s head and shoots webs from his butt. No, that’s silly. Maybe spiders are too boring to make good movies no matter how horrifying they seem. I can only think of three good ones. Arachnophobia, 8 Legged Freaks and The Mist, but technically they were aliens in that one.

“Is an alien based on a spider still a spider,” the spider doesn’t spell an answer in the web.

I watch as it scurries to another corner, not worried about whatever I’m doing. I wonder if spiders think. I wonder they would think about. I think they’d have thoughts about the way the world treats them. They’re seen as these big scary monsters who kill people with a single bite when most are completely harmless. The world isn’t really fair and even insects, arachnids, like them feel that. Do spiders stay in contact with their kids or siblings? Is it just every spider for themselves after they hatch from the eggs? I know turtles go to the beach and bury their eggs then run off before anything can eat them, but I don’t know much about spiders. Maybe I should film a nature documentary about spiders.

“The gentle spider is often not understood. It has a reputation as a killer. It only kills to eat, and eats what it kills. Spiders have no need for me and you. They don’t even care about dogs and cats. They’re much more, focused, on other bugs to devour. It checks it’s small and raggedy web, nothing has landed on it but dust. The Spider scurries along to another of it’s trapping locations, only to be sad once again.”

Maybe I should take the spider outside, it hasn’t caught any food and these webs seem kind of old. I grab and empty can of chewing tobacco that has been on my dresser for too long. I got bored and wanted to see why people loved the stuff. It was disgusting but I finished the can because I paid for it. I had been using it as a reminder of my stupid choice; now it’ll make a great spider transport can. It doesn’t take much to get the spider in, maybe it likes the smell of chewing tobacco. The smell was nice, but that was all, so I could understand. It just fell into my trap so easily.

Spiders remind me of myself sometimes. Just trying to survive in a world that isn’t really meant for them. They’re monsters, by no choice of their own. They simply try to survive, and the world sees them as monsters for every terrible horror movie ever. If the world could see me, they would treat me the same way. They would lock me up like some cannibal serial killer again. They wouldn’t understand that I was just trying to survive. The way people just murder for fun is no different than a kid with a magnifying glass burning ants. They’re killing to get some kind of thrill, but it’s just part of how I eat. I don’t really have a choice if I want to keep living. Sometimes I’m not sure why I’m living, or even if I want to. I tried not drinking blood for almost a year, and every time I found myself giving in when I could have just let myself die. The difference is life doesn’t torture a spider. I wonder what it would do if I pulled off one of it’s legs, maybe I heat up the can and see what it does. Then, it would be more like me. But it doesn’t need to be like me. I’ll just let it go outside, this is way too big to have been an inside spider and it has more than a pale and dull color.

I spot Wesley in the kitchen as I come up from my room in the basement. “What’s up,” I ask him when he spots me.

He doesn’t answer me, he just freezes. I can hear his heart speed up, it seems like blood is rushing more towards his face. He hates me, or he’s afraid of me. I can’t tell. He doesn’t open his mouth to give me an answer, just rushes off up the stairs. I think it’s fear. He’s not carrying around garlic and holy water, but he’s avoiding me. He does everything he can to not look me in the eyes.

“Alright, you’re free now,” I pop open the lid and sit it on the ground. I watch as the spider gains an understanding of it’s surrounding but doesn’t leave. “Hey, the world is scary out there, and there’s a lot of bad people, but don’t be scared. You have to keep hope, and eventually you’ll find some friends of your own. Just be yourself, but not too much. If people know the real you, they might be afraid. We’re just not understood. Nobody ever wished me luck, but I’m wishing you good luck.”

The spider dances around the tin for a moment as if it understood my words. It slowly makes its way out into the grass before scurrying into a bush.

4.08 - Live in Fear

2024-10-04T00:00:00.009-04:00

For the last week I’ve been waiting for the moment when Kareem decides I know too much. He keeps walking around as if nothing is wrong. On the contrary, it’s almost as if he’s relieved. He acts as if we’re childhood friends. He talks more, even coming to the second floor of the house just to check on me. At least he claims he’s checking on me, in reality, I think he’s stalking me. He can kill me whenever he’s ready but he’s choosing the perfect time. I’m not without my own preparations. I’ve been gathering my own supplies in case we’re forced into a confrontation. I keep a vial of holy water in my left pocket and a stake in my right pocket. The scent from the braided garlic necklace I’ve taken to wearing no longer bothers me. He hasn’t shown any signs that it bothers him either, but he’s a killer, a serial killer. Aren’t serial killers sociopaths? He wouldn’t know how to display that my new charms are bothering him. He’d only attempt to get closer in an attempt to remove them from me.

I make my way down the stairs, on the toes of my feet, trying not to make a sound as he watches a movie in the living room. I don’t want him to hear me, but he throws a hand into the air to wave at me, letting me know that I’ve been noticed. I drop the stealth and quickly make it to the kitchen. I simply want to prepare a meal for myself, something fast and easy. I think there’s some sausage in the fridge. A few peppers, some onions and potatoes, that’ll work.

“Hey, what are you making,” Kareem enters the kitchen, having paused his movie.

I do the only sensible thing I can to escape, I pour a bag of rice onto the floor and wait for him to react, but he doesn’t do anything. He just laughs and looks at me strangely.

“Aren’t you going to count the grains of rice,” I ask.

“Why would I do that,” Kareem seems confused.

“Vampires, you’re obsessed with counting.”

“I think you have me mixed up with the guy from Sesame Street. My math skills are terrible, even counting money trips me up sometimes,”

“Well, stay back, I’ve got garlic, and Holy water.”

“I’m only a half vampire, that stuff isn’t going to work. The smell of garlic is just going to really annoy me but it’s not dangerous.”

“That’s what you’d say just to keep me away.”

Kareem tries to force a smile, and struggles. He still hasn’t figured out how to do it on command. I’ve only seen a real smile from him when he’s watching a movie he finds enjoyable. Nothing else has managed to remove the vacant look from his face. For now, he’s trying a large smile that shows all his teeth, struggling to keep his upper lip from snagging on his teeth. He wouldn’t have that problem if his lips weren’t so dry. I’m sure he thinks it’s flattering but the entire situation reads like an H.P. Lovecraft novel for me. His smile isn’t comforting, I can only think of some kind of small demonic creature crawling free from his mouth, shedding the skin known as Kareem.

I’m paralyzed with fear as he approaches me, still smiling. My body stiffens as he places a hand on my shoulder. His other hand reaches below my shirt, almost as if it were slow motion. His hands aren’t cold, but they aren’t warm either, the smooth skin of his palm climbs my chest before a feel a feint scratch while his hand grips the garlic I had hidden beneath my sweater.

When I come to my senses he’s struggling to peel a piece of the garlic in front of me. I watch silently as he finally manages to remove the peel from a clove by rubbing it in his palms. He tosses the rest of the garlic onto the counter and places the clove on his tongue. I watch and as he winces and chews the garlic, occasionally opening his mouth wide for me to see. When he’s finished and sure I witnessed the whole thing he rushes to the fridge and downs half a gallon of orange juice.

“Told you, that stuff doesn’t work on me,” he gloats as his face still winces from the garlic.

“What about,” I fumble on the words, “I’ve got holy water. That’ll stop you.”

He closes his eyes and spreads his arms as if he were being crucified. He motions for me to splash him with the holy water. I hesitate as I pull it from my pocket and contemplate what might happen. If I splash this water on him, he might be disfigured or killed. But I’d rather do it now and prevent an issue from arising later when it doesn’t work. I strengthen my resolve to splash the water on him. He doesn’t melt, scream or anything like that. In fact, he does nothing, but stand there, only slightly wet. When he does open his eyes, he grabs my wrist and removes the bottle from my hand before drinking it in two big gulps.

“That was holy water,” my voice shakes as the words exit my mouth.

“If you’re going to use holy water, it needs to be some super blessed stuff. Someone that’s a true believer.”

“I got that from a preacher.”

“You probably paid $29.99 and called his hotline too? He hustled you. Anything else you want to try?”

“I’ve got a stake.”

“Yeah, I’m not taking any risks with that one. I haven’t tried to kill you, so how about you don’t try to kill me,” he waits for an answer but I can’t give him one. “Are we cool or not,” I sense the irritation in his voice.

I’d be irritated too if I had a mouth full of garlic, rice stuck to my feet and a face full of tap water, “so we’re cool.”

“Good, what are you making for dinner?”

“Sausage with some peppers and onion.”

“It would go nice with that rice you make, the kind with the tomatoes,” he changes the menu.

“Do you mind floor rice? It’ll be cleaned and cooked.”

“I don’t mind, we can watch a movie while we eat.”

“Okay,” is this his way of a peace offering? It would be best if I accepted. I’d rather have dinner with a murderer than be dinner for one.

He helps me scoop up the rice before scurrying off to the basement. I’m sure he’s looking for a movie. I’ll just cook, carefully. He rarely eats so I need this to be perfect, if I just keep him satisfied, he won’t eat me. By the time he’s returned from the basement I’ve gotten the food cooked, plated and sitting on the coffee table. Almost as if he heard me, he probably did, he appears with a thumb drive and loads up a movie.

It's an old movie called Coffy, the kind of cocaine fueled films of the 70s that my father would have seen in his youth. Filled to the brim with the things that he still preaches against today. The film stars a young Pam Grier, working as a nurse. In her spare time, she tracks down the people leading the drug ring that turned her sister into a heroin addict. She infiltrates the organization by posing as a prostitute and from there the film is filled with murder, sex and general mayhem. I’m not sure if he purposely chose to show me a film filled with prostitution and murder to send a message to me, or he generally enjoys the movie. Since I found the body, he’s been more talkative, but never this much. He’s constantly pausing the movie to give me different trivia. Coffy wasn’t successful in the theatres, so they turned the planned sequel into Foxy Brown. I didn’t see him as a smart person, but he’s pointing out different film techniques that he finds interesting as if he were a genius.

I can’t understand him. Everything he does seems as a way to deliberately threaten me; but the way he touched me earlier. Is he interested in me romantically? He’s kind of cute, I might consider it, despite the fact that he’s a serial killer. Then again, I could be imagining things because I haven’t been sleeping well. Almost eighty percent of the population would suffer hallucinations if they’ve become sleep deprived. Falling in lust with a serial killer is how Herb Baumeister got his victims. Right now, I’m suffering through incremental sleep deprivation, as well as a healthy dose of paranoia and immediate post-traumatic stress to only exacerbate the situation.

I’ve grown accustomed to hiding myself amongst others; shrinking who I am to avoid offending anyone. I thought I sensed the same thing in him, but I don’t even see cracks of anyone else below the surface. Is he really this ambiguous about everything except movies? I almost feel like he’d be scarier if he was the classic depiction of a vampire. Paper thin white skin, pointy fangs, hissing and maybe even a tuxedo with matching cape ensemble. Instead, he dresses similar to me, the language he uses is the same as mine, and he eats the same food as me. He’s just a normal person, but there’s a monster lurking beneath the flesh and I can’t see it. I’ve been told the monster is there, I’ve seen the monster’s work. Still, all I’ve seen is a person who seems to be somewhat awkward and doesn’t manage emotions well. But, I haven’t seen the monster, and that’s what scares me the most.

4.07 - Body Exhibit

2024-09-20T00:00:00.003-04:00

I came into this shed to cut grass. The body was already there. I didn’t touch anything. My fingerprints aren’t on that body, my DNA isn’t anywhere beyond the door. No, I touched the body. I turned it over to see if it was real. Does that make me an accessory to murder? Did Kareem murder this person? I’m living with a serial killer. Why is she all pale like that? How long has she been here? Did he tell me to cut the grass, so I’d find her body? Does he want to be caught? Where is he right now? I’ve been staring at this body since before the sun went down and I don’t have any answers.

Lord, please help me. Guide me through this. Deliver me from Evil, protect me and bathe me in your righteous light. Protect me from evil Lord, drive those forces that would harm me from this place and give me the strength to move forward.

“You do that killer?”

“What the fuck,” I jump away in a panic but Kareem is gripping my hand so I can’t go far.

“Real jumpy for a killer.”

“I’m not a killer, you did this.”

“Did you see my do it?”

“Who else could have done it,” I can’t pull away, he’s much stronger than he looks.

“We should go inside and talk.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“If you’re smart, you will.”

“Help,” I scream at the top of my lungs.

Before I can scream again Kareem has contorted our bodies. Now he’s standing behind me with and arm around my throat, and my own arm pinned behind my back. He pushes me through the back door and into the house. His grip is too strong, I’ve been held like this before, but I can’t get any air no matter how hard I fight back. He’s not even breaking a sweat as I jam my feet in the ground and fight back. I’m bigger than him, I should be stronger too, but this is effortless on his part. I slam the back of my head into his face as hard as possible hoping to catch him off guard, and he just laughs as he tosses me to the ground in the living room. I try to crawl away but he just steps on my ankle and stares down at me.

“Can you stop running? I’m not going to hurt you,” Kareem just seems annoyed with this.

“There’s a body in the garage.”

“I killed her.”

I try to stand and run as he takes his foot off my ankle; I don’t see him move but he’s in front of me now. I throw a punch at his face and he doesn’t budge, another and nothing. Punch after punch and he’s unfazed. My hands are pounding but he’s still nothing more than annoyed with me. I try to push past him, and he only pushes me to the ground again. Before I can move his knee is digging into my chest and he’s staring emotionlessly into my eyes. I’m fighting for my life, and he’s got the same cold look he’s had ever since I met him. Lord, why did you lead me here?

“I can do whatever I want to you, and you can’t do anything about it. But I don’t want to hurt you. Please, stop fighting, and listen, before I change my mind.”

“What do you want,” I asked, surprised by the terror in my own voice.

“To order pizza and watch Sorry to Bother You. Instead, I’m stuck holding you down because you keep trying to run away when I just want to talk.”

“If I talk, will you let me go?”

“Yeah, and then you can run off to the cops or whatever you want.”

“Fine.”

“I’ll let you ask the first question,” he removes his knee from my chest.

Kareem takes a seat on the couch, legs spread and hands on his knees just staring down at me. His lack of facial expression is what bothers me. He’s just staring, not making any motions, if it wasn’t for his subtle breaths, I might think he was a sculpture. The eyes are the window to the soul, and I can never see into his, they’re always empty. He doesn’t have a soul, he’s a monster. That’s how he could kill so easily and act as if this was a normal thing. I do have questions; I know he’ll just lie, but if playing his game keeps me alive, I have to play. Lord, bless my tongue.

“Why?”

“What do you mean why?”

“I mean, are you a serial killer? Why did you kill her?”

“Oh,” Kareem pauses and furls his eyebrows in the first sign of emotion I’ve seen from him. “I guess I am a serial killer. I never thought of it like that, I just thought of it as survival.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he’s just making me more confused.

“Hey, I’m a vampire.”

“What?”

“Vampire. I drink blood.”

“What?”

“I’m a vampire.”

“What”

“If you say what again, I’ll rip your arm off because I know that you know what a vampire is.”

“Wh- How?”

“Dad was a vampire. The same way human babies are born.”

“Vampires aren’t real.”

“You believe in God right? You’re always going on and on.”

“God has nothing to do with this.”

“God has everything to do with this. You can’t believe in vampires because you’ve never seen one before, but you can believe in God? You pray to God three or four times a day. I’ve heard you. But never once, has God answered you. Meanwhile, a whole ass vampire is looking you in the eyes.”

“Stop.”

“What do I need to do to prove it? You want me to bite you? You want to see me drink blood? Is it the violence that excites you? Is that why you didn’t call the police right away?”

“You’re an abomination, an afront to God.”

“I hate that word, abomination. I used to be called that all the time. Might be the biggest word I know. Doesn’t your Bible say you’re an abomination? You do all kinds of things your God tells you not to. You know when you masturbate, I can hear it right? You shouldn’t be watching porn, sometimes, it’s even gay porn and I know that’s a big no no. Don’t deny it either, I can smell it too, every time you finish. Heightened senses and all that. I suppose we’re both abominations according to that book of yours.”

“You’re sick.”

“Vampirism is indeed an illness.”

“You’re insane.”

“I wish I was insane, then, this wouldn’t be my life.”

I can’t tell if he’s lying or not. I don’t know if all this is a joke. He’s doing nothing to help remedy the situation. Everything he says can be sarcasm or the truth and he just stares at me. How can he expect me to be calm and rational when there’s a dead body in the shed? He’s sitting there like a sociopath, unmoved by the entire situation. My God would not forsake me, even if I don’t know what to say he’ll guide my words, my actions. This is indeed the Valley of The Shadow of Death, and I am walking through. I know God will protect me, but the fear has overwhelmed me. My spirit is unbreakable, but at the end of the day I am just a man made of flesh and this body can be broken.

“You know what? You should go to the cops. There’s a dead body, right where we left it. There’re bite marks on the thigh that will match my teeth. A murder has been committed, and I left evidence,” Kareem gets off the couch and crouches down so close I can feel his breath on my lips as he speaks. “There are people to take care of the body for a small fee and they’ll get it done before the cops arrive. Even if the cops do come, it doesn’t take much for me to pack up and just start a new life somewhere else. I don’t have any friends, or family that will miss me. I can watch movies, wherever I want. But you, a new life won’t be so easy. Not a lot of people are dying to live with a chronic masturbator who reads The Bible out loud and can barely afford to pay anthing on the rent. You look sticky and broke right now. You should pray about that. But don’t worry, you’ll always have me. I’ll always find you, wherever you go, and I will punish you. The way that book tells you Satan is waiting below to torture you for your sins in death, I’ll be waiting around every corner in life,” Kareem pauses and squeezes my face with a painful grip. “The other option is you can mind your business and go on with your life as if nothing happened. I don’t really care as long as you leave me alone.”

I just keep sitting on the floor long after he leaves. I’m expecting him to rush back and kill me, but he never comes. The sun has already set when I get off the floor. He doesn’t stop me when I walk out the back door. The body is already gone, and I never heard him leave the house. There must have been some truth to what he was saying. No, this is a lie, this is all nonsense.

4.06 - Ganja nad Hess

2024-09-06T00:00:00.010-04:00

Professor Tiana Hicks, divorced, no children. Drives a 2015 Impala and lives alone. She’s been teaching here for seven years; teaches remedial algebra, introductory theater and film study. I started coming to this class because I was stalking her. She was going to be a victim; back when I was breaking in homes instead of just luring women to me with sex. She was saved because I found her film class really interesting. I stopped following her and started coming to class instead. She brought in so many different films to watch from all over the world. Films with so many different places I could never go, languages I could never learn, people I could never be and tragic stories that weren’t my own life for once. That’s where my love of movies came from; I’m forever grateful of her because of that.

I’ll never tell her, but I’ll always show up to class and even participate when discussion is quiet. I’m not a student here, but she doesn’t check attendance. All of the homework and tests are online, so I don’t have to turn those in either. In a class of 128 people I’m free to just drift in and out as I please without anyone bothering me. Some people have TV shows they never miss, I have this class. Before coming here, I had never realized that people could have such different ideas on the meaning or even endings of film. I know people are all different, but I didn’t know, don’t know, a lot of other people. The people I do know don’t discuss personal hobbies or interests. My conversations are no different than paying for gas or buying groceries. I have the syllabus, I could just see what movies she picked out for the semester, but I come, I take notes. I re-watch the films at home if someone says something that catches my attention. I didn’t even get to finish grade school and now I’m happy to go to a college class twice a week for two hours at a time.

Tonight, we’re watching and discussing Spike Lee’s Da Sweet Blood of Jesus. I’ve already seen it, and I don’t hate it. The film is a remake of Ganja & Hess, one of my favorite films of all time. I really hope we watch the original version, the Bill Gunn cut, not any of the theatrical versions they put out. Hess is turned into a vampire and survives by murdering prostitutes for their blood. The first time I saw the film, I hated it, but that’s where I got the idea to go after prostitutes and women at clubs. By the time anyone asked questions, it would be too late. Ganja comes to find her husband, and he’s dead, stuffed in the freezer. She still falls in love with Hess, kind of. Then she becomes a vampire too. He teaches her how to survive and then things go wrong as they tend to.

Everyone understands that the film is about addiction. Every interview and review has repeated the thought over and over again. But, I’m a vampire, a Black vampire, I just view the film differently. I understand the alienation Hess faces from the very start. He’s rich, smart and at the top of his career. Still, his white coworkers hate him and he can’t seem to find anything in common with them during the party he throws. No matter what he does, he can never find a place to really be accepted.

It’s funny really; people always pick up on the addiction but not the way they become addicted. Hess is stabbed, forced into addiction by someone who dies right after. It’s like, an addict forces you to partake and then they overdose. He’s addicted, lost in the world, no guidance, no way to get free. The church kills his addiction, but at the cost of himself.

Then there’s Ganja, she jumped right at the addiction. She had so many chances to run, but she kept chasing it. She could have, should have ran when she found her husband dead. Instead she became obsessed with it. She seemed like she cared about Hess, but she never did. She cared about the lifestyle first. He was rich, had the life her husband promised her. She didn’t care that he was out hunting or left her alone in the mansion. It was what she wanted. She didn’t care that he worked for all of that, she only saw the addiction. If he could be successful with the addiction, it would make her successful as well. Hess even tried to warn her at one point, she didn’t care. His warnings meant nothing. It was like watching Joe Clark tell Sams to jump and kill himself, but instead of promising to stay clean, he jumped. She didn’t just jump, she dove in head first, throwing away her past life for a chance at this. She killed her past, the same as Hess did; she just never cared to get it back. That’s what addiction does to people; they lose parts of themselves or willingly throw them away.

The same can be said for vampirism, I guess. You either turn, and have to change everything you know or you willingly throw it all away to turn. But it isn't always that simple. I never had a life to throw away or be taken away. I was born like this, always an addict with no way to cure myself. Always dependent on blood, fresh blood. There’s no other way for me to live and I was never given the option. Am I a bad person if Ganja pisses me off?

She never noticed that Hess was in pain. She never noticed that he was a social outcast, looking for connections but could never seem to find them. She never missed her husband, but he never had a wife to miss. Then when she did marry Hess, she still didn’t care about what he was going through. He was struggling trying to remove his ties to the church. Hess knew the church would kill what he had become, but there was nothing to go back to. He was visibly struggling with his own existence and she brushed it off for some new clothes and a big house. The life she loved so much, that she chose, wasn’t chosen for him. He sat there dying and she seemed emotionless, almost as if she felt he was stupid. She didn’t even mourn his death. He was suffering through trauma placed on his shoulders. He wasn’t suffering in silence, but everybody ignored his screams. He kept calling out for help and nobody ever came.

I was the same way. I used to scream until my throat burned and my chest hurt. Nobody would ever come to help me. I’d be punished instead, more pain. I didn’t even know the words to explain what I was dealing with and I was being punished. I just wanted to live and I couldn’t even figure out how. Sometimes I wonder if Hess had the right idea when he just decided to kill himself. There was no way for him to help himself and nobody was willing to help him. It makes sense, to end the pain when there’s no solution in sight.

It’s a film about addiction, but also about if you can accept yourself. Hess couldn’t accept himself, he went from being a top archeologist to hiring prostitutes to murder them. Ganja accepted herself, and even if I don’t like the way she did it, I made the same choice. When I got a chance to be free, I didn’t look back. I don’t live the rich and fancy life that Ganja did at the end of the film.

“Vampires, they aren’t real,” Professor Hicks begins to wrap up the class. “Still, vampires find themselves in our cultures over and over again. Not just Dracula or Nosferatu, but legends dating back to ancient Greece or Mesopotamia. Yes, these stories are used to produce fear and enjoyment. But, I believe vampirism can be used as a stand in for the ills of our society. In this film, addiction is the issue being tackled. But, who is to say that the next modern vampire masterpiece won’t use vampirism as a stand in for capitalism and our need to constantly consume the latest and greatest product? Next week we’ll be watching a version of Death of a Salesman. I want you to think about what success means to you over the weekend. I’ll see you Tuesday and remember, watch for vampires. Not just the real, but the metaphorical in your life,” I love the way she speaks. I could listen to her for hours every day. Just the two of us, for all eternity watching films.

Author's Note: I actually made a video about the star of Ganja and Hess as one of my first YouTube videos.

4.05 - Nightstalker

2024-08-23T00:00:00.008-04:00

Prostitution is the world’s oldest career. We’ve put men on the moon, built a space station, got phones that are basically small computers and technology still finds a way to move forward way quicker than anything else. We've got automated car washes, grocery stores, fast food and even surgeries. But through it all, you can’t replace a prostitute.

Sure, there’s plenty of people willing to have sex with anyone, but you have to put in work. Plan a date, get to know the other person, but a prostitute, not so much. You play by their rules and you’ll have a good time. It might not be the best sex you ever have, and it might be a little dirty, but you’ll get off, and that’s what you’re after. Then again, there’s different levels. I’m sure a $40 prostitute on a street corner is a lot different than $1000 at some brothel. They’re judged for being sex workers, but they provide a valuable service to the communities they serve. The people that hire prostitutes are lonely, they aren’t all looking for sex. I once saw a documentary about a woman who gets paid just to cuddle or hold hands with people, and another about a man who just has dinner with others. Loneliness probably kills more people than anything else, the silent killer. They should do a study on that. Sex is just a way for some people to feel as if they aren’t lonely. My real first time was with a prostitute. I did a job, and for the first time ever I had some money in my pocket, but I didn't have anyone to spend it with. She offered me a good time; I didn’t know she meant sex. We got dinner; she took me to a tattoo shop and then we had sex. Sex for the first time wasn’t as great as Hollywood makes it look, but I was just so glad to have someone to talk to. Her name was Jackie, but she pronounced it the same way they did on 227. I wonder what happened to her, I hope she’s doing well.

Tonight, I’m not lonely, I’m hungry. One of these women is going to be my dinner, but I don’t know which one. I hate feeding on prostitutes. Most of them have lives beyond prostitution. I’ve learned that some people do it because they love it, some do it for the money and others do it because they don’t see any other choices. I think that’s messed up. I don’t think sex work is bad or disgraceful, but the world does. It takes a lot to beat someone down so bad they see a job they hate and look down on as the only option. I think it’s wrong for anyone to feel that way, and those are still the people I prey on. They don’t question me and are willing to go along with whatever I want them to do. I’m sick, I wish I didn’t have to do this, but I don’t have a choice.

I’m a Dhampir, only a half vampire. I don’t get to make thralls that just come feed me like Primeval vamps. I can’t fly like Talamaur, or heal near as fast as Nachzeher, and I don’t have the true immortality of Adze. Those are the big four and they’ve all got their little special features. I still get sunny days like today was, I don’t have to feed nearly as often and if I ever decide I want kids, it’s as simple as insert rod into slot.

“Yo,” I say quietly out my car window to draw the attention of a blonde woman.

I can smell her; she doesn’t clean between customers. Her extensions are somewhat ragged, but she doesn’t look to be abused by a pimp or anyone else. The smell of alcohol the scent of burning plastic and chemicals tells me she’s an alcholic and crack user. She does the abusing. She’s got all the signs of the kind of person I’m looking for.

“Hey honey what’s going on.”

“Just seeing what you’re trying to get into.”

“You’re a little young aren’t you,” she smiles, missing some teeth, no stranger to drugs.

“I just look young, you want to see some ID?”

“I’ll take your word for it handsome.”

“So you trying to get out of here.”

“Where to?”

“Warehouse, right off the avenue.”

“Where the old factory used to be?”

“Yeah, that’s the one. You know it?”

“Yeah, I know the spot.”

“Cool.”

“What are you trying to do?”

“A little this, and a little that.”

“You got any cash.”

“I got money,” I flash a bankroll of cash.

“I’ll meet you over there,” she says.

I park under an awning where semi-trucks would have unloaded. Nobody can really see the car but she finds it right away. I suppose I’m not the first person to bring her around here. She gets in the car and asks what’s the plan. I press the button to lean my seat back, and unbutton my pants. She’s not rookie, she knows what I want.

Her mouth is dry, and her tongue is rough like a cats, but her technique is good. Tracing the outlines with her tongue, paying special attention to all the right spots. Slow, but steady, building a pattern. It doesn’t take long for my blood to flow south. She takes her head as far down as she can go. I stroke her hair as she continues to work. Part of me is ashamed of what I’m going to do to her after this. That’s the human part of me, killing is wrong unless it’s in self-defense. I know that. The vampire part of me thinks different, killing is part of survival. It’s just like killing and eating a deer. It feels different because the deer has a face like my own. It’s the vampire part of me indulging in this, the human part wants to just kill her and get it over with quickly. She works harder, adding hands to the equation. Fondling, some gentle tugging at the fruits. My lack of response makes her think I want something rougher. She yanks, causing a grunt from me. She seems satisfied with herself. My attention comes back to her, and the current moment. I always have a problem keeping it up when I know what comes next. I’ve never been able to finish in these situations. I’m not a serial killer who gets off on the kill. She’s annoyed, some women have really pulled out all the tricks.

“Hey,” I put my hand under her chin and lift her head until we’re eye to eye, “It’s cool, don’t worry about it.”

“You a queer? Just testing the waters? You’re too young to be struggling to keep it hard. Should be solid like a steel beam.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” she uses a napkin from above the visor to clean me up. Wiping away her lipstick like a real professional “Hey, how much do I owe you?”

“$40 and we’ll call it even.”

“Here’s $60,” I hand her three twenties.

“Thanks, you mind giving me a ride back.”

“Nah, it’s not a problem. I’m sure you got family to get back too.”

“It’s just me and my dog,” that’s the green light I needed.

I move my seat back to normal and start the car before fiddling with the radio station to stall for time. This is the part I always feel bad about. I mumble an apology under my breath which leaves her confused. Before she can ask what I said I’ve already covered her mouth and snapped her neck. At least it was quick, and she didn’t see it coming. I wouldn’t have to kill them if I knew didn’t have the urge to drink until they were empty. Other vampires don’t have to do it this way. I don’t have time to mourn before the blood goes bad. I take off my shirt and pants, tossing them in the back seat. I’ve always been a sloppy drinker, just something I don’t have control of. My mouth could never form that vacuum like seal other vampires do. Another sign that I’m defective. I don’t always undress, but I have somewhere to be after this. I rip her leggings and bite into her thigh. The femoral artery is my favorite place to feed from, the blood is always the warmest. The smell of semen, fills my nose as I feed and I remember she wasn’t the cleanest of prostitutes. A neck probably would have been better in this case, but I was just eager for the whole thing to be over with.

The world around me slowly becomes quieter, the smells aren’t as strong and the moon isn’t as bright. My senses aren’t dulled by taking in blood, but they’re fine-tuned. I can still hear, smell, see and senseverything I could before, but now I have control. I’ve finally had my fill, and her body is turning pale from the blood loss.

Usually, I’d get rid of the body, but I don’t have time. For now, I’ll put her in the trunk and then drop her off in my shed for storage. Not the best idea to store murder victims in your house, but it won’t be for long. I drop her onto the sheets in my trunk and wrap her up tight before cleaning the spilled blood from my passenger seat. Finally, I put my clothes back on and leave as if nothing happened. I don’t have a name for her; I didn’t want one. I just have a face for her, and now it’ll be forever burned into my memory like so many before her.

4.04 - Shame

2024-08-09T00:00:00.011-04:00

“The year is 2019 and it may seem strange for people to feel ashamed of their sexual orientation or gender they choose to identify as, but it happens,” the professor begins his lecture. “Sexual shame is something that has never gone away. Even when humanity is shooting off into space and colonizing other planets and moons, it will not go away. At the base, it is shame, it is always shame. People who did not have early environments filled with love and acceptance will always feel shame,” he continues.

Four seats down from me is a man I wouldn’t feel shame about. Tall, and muscular, but not an athletic build. Beautiful brown skin, a beard that actually connects and the perfect bald fade. If Michael B. Jordan had a baby with Kelly Rowland, it wouldn’t be this fine. He’s got long fingers, could really reach the right spot. Wait, what am I doing? This is not who I am. I pull out my notebook and try to focus on the lecture, but I can’t seem to stop glancing over at him. I need to control myself.

1 Corinthians 10:13, I quickly write in my notebook:

No temptation has overtaken you that is not common to man. God is faithful and he will not let you be tempted beyond your ability, but with the temptation he will also provide the way of escape that you may be able to endure it.

Colossians 3:5 might be better at a time like this when I’m tempted by desires.

Put to death therefore what is earthly in you: sexual immorality, impunity, passion, evil desire and covetousness, which is idolatry.

Almost as if he feels my stares, he looks down the row of seats towards me in confusion. I give a head nod as if I know him only for him to turn away slowly. I’m an idiot. I don’t know why I would do something like that. I can’t stop my urges, they’re only human but I can try not to fall victim to them. Not in the middle of class. I need to focus, but the professor is talking about sex, and all I can think about is sex. I’m here for an education, not temptation. I need to remove myself from this situation.

I exit the class and head towards the bathroom. I stop outside the door and have a sip of cold water, trying to calm my nerves. Inside the bathroom I take a few deep breaths, another failed attempt at calming my nerves. This is so stupid; I’m acting like I’ve never seen a hot guy before. I live with one, and this guy in class hasn’t even given me the time of day.

I head into one of the stalls behind me and lock the door. I unzip my pants and quickly go to work, faster and harder than I normally would. I spit into my hand and use the saliva to ease the friction. I try to slow down but the time crunch and the taboo of the whole situation excites me more than it should. I use my right hand to lean forward onto the wall and hold myself up as my legs start to shake. His beautiful face, glistening abs, the touch of his thighs. I can see it; I can feel it. Fuck, is all I can say as the sound of my sin hits the water in the toilet bowl in the initial burst and several more before dribbling to an end. I open my eyes and take a deep breath before looking down at the white goo floating on the surface of the water before trying squeeze free any remaining goo. Staring at my hand now covered in saliva and goo, I feel a sense of relief before panic sets in. I use toilet paper to clean myself as well as I can. I can’t believe I just did that. I’m on the verge of crying, embarrassed, even if no one else knows now that the evidence has been flushed. I’ve calmed my nerves but I feel like an animal. I wash my hands quickly and and splash some water on my face. I need to get it together. I dry my face with some cheap and scratchy paper towels, before exiting quickly before anyone can enter and catch me in the act of destroying evidence.

Back inside class I return to my seat, calmer, but feeling sick. Looking down I notice a white spot on my jeans, right by my zipper. I pull my hoody down over the spot, hoping nobody would see it. Even if they’d have to climb under the desk, lift my hoodie and examine my zipper, I can still see it.

“Beyond just shame, all of our sexual problems can be traced back to ourselves. Self-hated is the key to a solution. To repair ourselves, we need to be able to first accept ourselves,” The professor is out of slides and seems to be finishing his lecture. “We are walking around ashamed of ourselves not because we want something bad but because society has predisposed us to believe that we are bad, evil or sick for wanting these things. The shame silences us, forces us to put our feelings into hiding. We have to learn how to see ourselves through love not just the burdens of acceptance. Only then can we view ourselves without shame. Once we’re free of shame, only then can we become who we truly want to be, who we’re supposed to be before corrupted by society.”

Our professor is standing in front of one hundred people, pouring his heart out about sexual shame. Then there’s me, a perverse, sexual deviant who masturbates in public places. I wish I could say that was the first time, but it wasn’t. I can’t even say the word semen to myself, but I can do what I just did. I can feel the lump in my throat right now, the tickling in my nose as I take deep breaths to fight back tears.

I used to ask God why I was born this way and beg to be changed. It was the prayer I prayed more than any other, but it never seemed to be answered. I prayed harder, more often, poured myself into church. I memorized scriptures, songs, and in the end it didn’t work. No matter how much I prayed it didn’t work. Did I just not love God enough?

Internet search after internet search and I was told God didn’t make me this way. I’m just a sinner destined to burn in hell because I can’t overcome my urges my lust for other men. It’s not as if I don’t like women. I fall in love with them too. I pour everything I have into my relationships with them, but there’s always a reason it doesn’t work. My first crushes, my most frequent crushes, all women. But when I have a crush on a man, I crush hard. I didn’t even know bisexuals existed until I was 19. Time and time I’ve stood on the edge of no return only to pull myself away at the last minute. I just can never take that leap, the next step. Internet search after internet search, Bible verse after Bible verse. I was told this is my burden to bear alone, and that I’m not uniquely broken. But that’s just it, I don’t think I’m broken. I don’t think this is burden, just another part of me as much as my favorite color. There’s nothing wrong with me, I’m just ashamed of who I am behind the mask.

Author's Note: They don't think it be like that, but it do.

4.3 - Art of Love

2024-07-12T00:00:00.008-04:00

Anton Chigur is a figment of Sheriff Bell’s imagination. As the credits roll, I can’t help but believe that it was a theory someone just made up because they were bored. Sure, there’s proof, but it isn’t so much proof that it can’t be denied. There really isn’t a reason to make the film any more than it already is. Sometimes, a good film is just a good film. If there is any real meaning to the story it is that violence is going to come no matter what and there is no real justice. Being a good person doesn’t mean you get to have an easy life and being bad doesn’t mean you lose. None of the theories add or subtract from the real message of the film.

The smell of cheap cologne fills my head and I pick up the sounds of timid shuffling feet. That means Wesley is here. The hardest part of adjusting to a new roommate for me is that I hear and smell everything. That’s why The Orc had to go. There’s probably some old school Orc stronghold in the woods somewhere he could live in, but if you’re living in a city, then you need to bathe. The cheap cologne is a pain but at least he doesn’t wear a lot of it, and he doesn’t smell like garbage. That’s a plus.

He’s probably getting ready to go somewhere tonight. I need to go out too, I haven’t fed in almost four weeks. I’ve been surviving on blood treats, but I’m low on those. I’ll just hit a night club, that’ll be the easiest way to deal with the thirst tonight.

Blood, blood, blood, why are all of my nice clothes covered in blood? I can’t make Wesley wash clothes. He’d be suspicious about the blood. That lie a month ago when he caught me covered in blood about the rave was stupid. I should have said I was at an animal rights protest or something, but I didn’t expect him to ask, and I couldn’t think fast enough. None of my previous roommates have been so nosey, then here he comes rattling off forty-seven questions every time I see him. He’s got cheap rent and a place to stay, all he has to do is some basic cleaning. The ad said repairs, but there’s not even a lot of repairs to do. I honestly don’t need to keep him around. He can be disposed of. The only reason I take roommates is for the housekeeping, and I can find another person taking the same deal.

I settle on a pair of black high top air forces, some olive cargo pants and a black long sleeve shirt. Simple, but with a silver chain and a few rings, it’s enough to get me in any club around here. I stand out but not enough that I look like a potential problem. It’s good enough that people will remember seeing me, but I can vanish without being traced as well. I make sure to grab a towel for later and I’m good to go.

“Where are you going,” Wesley asks as I exit the basement into the kitchen.

“Out.”

“Where to?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Want some company.”

“Nope.”

“Want to eat first? I’m making burgers,” here come all his questions.

“Pass.”

“How about we watch a movie together?”

“Just told you I was going out.”

“It doesn’t have to be tonight.”

“Then ask me later.”

“It wouldn’t kill you to let a little kindness into your heart.”

“It might, you don’t know that.”

“Do you have a witty comeback for everything?”

“Nope,” I grab my keys from the counter and head towards the front door.

“Have a good night”

“Yeah, you too.”

Nobody ever looks twice at an old Ford Taurus. It's not a super nice or rare car. It’s a car chosen for function, not design. I’m not smart, but I know how to go unnoticed and how to survive. That’s why I don’t mind driving around until I find the right club for tonight. Sanity has too many people to move around effectively. Menagerie is almost empty, just showing my face there will make sure people remember me. But Club Decay is just right. Enough people that nobody will notice one person missing and small enough that one or two people can remember seeing me. I park three blocks away and walk to the door. A good way to avoid the crazy price of parking and if things go bad, a little vampiric speed and nobody knows where I went.

I’m only half vampire, I get most of the strengths, and none of the weaknesses. I’m not as strong as an older pure blood vampire and never will be, but most people wouldn’t match up without some magic. Not as fast, but I can move faster than most can see for a few minutes before I’m tired. I don’t heal as fast, but it still takes a lot to hurt me. I’m a night person, but sunlight doesn’t bother me. I also don’t need to feed on blood as much, I can get by on edible blood snacks, regular food and stored blood for about a month before I need fresh blood. I wish this was more like the Blade movies sometimes. I don’t really have any reason to hunt other vampires, but I’d love to just take a serum every now and then, so I didn’t have to hunt. Sadly, that’s not the world I live in, so I do what I have to. Even if I don’t know why, I want to keep living.

I hate clubs, the music is way too loud for normal people, but with my hearing, it can be disorienting. I’m not wasting any more time here than I need to. I order a Jack and coke at the bar; it’ll make it seem as if I’ve been here for a while as I move through the crowd. I know what I’m looking for. A woman, not necessarily alone, but bored with being here. If she’s annoyed, she’ll be hard to talk to and not responsive to me. If she’s bored, she’ll just be excited that someone is paying her attention. It doesn't take long for me to find someone. She's sitting alone at a table, but there are multiple drinks meaning her friends are probably out dancing and she's in charge of watching the purses and drinks. She isn't doing that, instead she's scrolling through her phone, probably looking at social media. Her face isn't ugly, but she's not Angela Bassett either. She's a little thinner than the women I normally go after, but I can live with it.

"You busy," I initiate the conversation.

"No."

"Would you mind if I sat here."

"Yes, these are my friends' seats."

"Then would you mind if I stood here while we talked?"

"I don't feel like talking."

"Alright."

I don't bother continuing the conversation. I'm not going to harass her for her blood, there's other women here tonight. Rejecting me saved her life, so I can't be mad at her. I'll just move on and try someone else. But the options are slim. Most people are here in groups, but there are more men than women. I hate that. When there's more men than women, fights tend to break out over the women available. I don't like fighting. Before I can find my next potential, a fight breaks out. I knew this was bound to happen. The music stops and lights come up as security intervenes, but the night is over for me. Everyone will be too on edge with adrenaline for me to take anyone home now. A few others make their way outside the club at the same time as I do. I hang around for a moment and watch as the fight participants are brought outside.

More people follow, each seems to have assembled their own group of friends. Almost as if it were a movie scene, someone fires a gun into the air and people scatter throughout the parking lot. For a moment I contemplate just snatching someone in the chaos, but that's never been my style. I help a woman to her feet as she falls in the chaos. It doesn't absolve what I'm going to do later tonight, but it makes me feel a little better about it. I hear the sirens in the distance before anyone else does.

The entire area is going to be on high alert tonight. I'll need to postpone my feeding for another day. Anything I do around here will get too much attention and by the time I get to the other side of the city it'll be too late to do anything else. I might go on the rare morning hunt tomorrow.

Author Note: Did you get the wrestling references? If so, I do a pro wrestling podcast with my friends.

4.2 - Bedtime Prayers [Wesley]

2024-05-17T12:00:00.009-04:00

It is important that educators have some basic grasp of psychology. It can assist in the understanding of different learning characteristics between children, adolescents and adults. Individual differences and disabilities also play a large role in the classroom. I honestly can’t believe professors are giving homework during the first week of classes. We haven’t truly adjusted to our schedules yet and here we are, two chapters deep in the textbook with an online quiz due Sunday. Psychology courses always seemed to bore me. It should be really interesting stuff, and maybe it will be helpful when I’m a teacher, but so much of the material feels to be unclearly wordy or difficult as if by design.

I need a break, for my own sanity. I grab a small bag of Doritos from the cabinet. Cool ranch has always been my favorite. I think I loved them as a kid because they looked like little beige Christmas trees. All the red and green looking like lights. Kareem didn’t have any snacks or any real food here before I came. He wasn’t picky about what I chose to buy but he also doesn’t seem to eat much food at all. In fact, I don’t think I’ve seen him do anything other than watch movies in the few days I’ve been here. As far as I can tell he doesn’t work, and he isn’t exactly rich either. I don’t know anything about him other than his tattoos at this point.

I’ve noticed he changes underwear and socks each day, but I never saw him in actual clothes until this evening. He followed it up with some great smelling cologne before he left. I asked where he was going but he didn’t do anything but grunt at me. If it wasn’t for his constant film watching I’d be sure I lived with an animal. Kareem just has no intentions of ever socializing with me, I’m just another person in the house, when he actually acknowledges I exist. I offered to cook him dinner last night, but he only ate a single piece of chicken after I went to bed and didn’t mention it when I saw him today. I’m really wondering where he went tonight. I can’t see him going out and having a good time anywhere or meeting with friends. He doesn’t seem to be the friendliest person. I’ve got so many questions for him, and I know he’d just give me that cold vacant stare if I were to ask. I just wish I could force him into a game of 21 questions. Where are you from, what’s your favorite color, why do you love movies so much, did you ever go to church, what’s your favorite sport?

“Shouldn’t you in bed schoolboy,” a voice startles me.

I drop my bag of Doritos in a panic before realizing the voice belonged to Kareem. He managed to catch the bag before it hit the floor. Eating a single chip before handing the bag back to me. Kareem’s shirt is ripped and there’s some kind of red liquid splattered across his entire body. It blends well into his black shoes and jeans; it’s most obvious on the white shirt and jacket he has on. I take the bag of Doritos but can’t seem to pull my eyes away from his.

“Past your bedtime,” he reminds me again.

“I can stay up late if I want to.”

“Yeah, but things get really scary at night. Especially for normal people.”

“What do you mean normal?”

“Just, normal. You’re not special.”

“Oh, well thank you.”

“Just trying to give you my best Joe Clark impression. Have to keep the kids in school.”

“I’m pretty sure we’re the same age.”

“Yes, but I am the HNIC,” he smiles and I force a laugh to ease the tension even if I’m the only one feeling it.

The face tattoo is really unappealing, as are the neck tattoos. When he smiles, it’s almost adorable. He smiles like a kid that hasn’t figured out all of their facial muscles yet. I’m pretty sure he wanted to show his teeth as he smiled, but his lip got caught on those same teeth and he chose not to. Still, it is a nice smile, one that could light up a room. Instead, he sits in the dark, bottom lip poked out in a perpetual frown. I smile back, and he instantly stops smiling as if I were making fun of him.

“Why the fuck are you smiling,” he asks.

“I thought we were just having a nice moment.”

“Speaking to you is a moment? Is your life that pathetic?”

“No. I just want to know about you if we’re going to be roommates.”

“Then ask away.”

“Where are you from?”

“Here, Saint Paul.”

“How old are you?”

“twenty-seven.”

“Woah, you look nineteen at the most.”

“Is that it?”

“Where did you go tonight,” the question I’m most curious about.

“I went to a rave.”

“Is that where all the red spots came from, and how you ripped your shirt?”

For the first time he seems to be aware of his appearance. Glancing down at his clothing he pokes his fingers through the holes in his shirt before moving and examining each piece of red on his jacket. For a moment he stops and stares at his hands, unsure if they have the same red on them, only letting out a quick sigh when he realizes they do. He removes his jacket and runs the inside of it across his face and hands, attempting to clear it away from himself but only manages to smear it across his face. He does all of this as if I’m not standing here waiting for him to finish the conversation. Feeling unsatisfied he opens the door to the basement to leave again without speaking.

“Are you okay?”

“Why do you care?”

“Because we both live here together now. If something is affecting you, then it will eventually have an effect on me.”

“So, you’re just caring about yourself. Thanks, but I don’t need fake caring.”

“Cary each other’s burdens, and in this way, you will fulfill the law of Christ.”

“What?”

“Galatians, chapter 6, verse 2. When you read The Bible, that’ll be your favorite chapter and verse.”

“No, it won’t. I’m not going to read The Bible, The Quran, or any other holy book you throw at me. None of them will solve my problems.”

“I might be able to, if you just told me what’s wrong.”

“You can’t. Make sure you cut the lawn tomorrow. It looks disgusting.”

“Do we have a lawnmower.”

“Check the shed, if not find a crackhead. I’ll pay you back whatever they charge.”

“Anything else you want done tomorrow?”

“You could stop speaking to me.”

“I thought we were becoming friends.”

“I don’t need friends.”

“Then why did you get a roommate and make the rent so cheap?”

“You think you got it all figured out don’t you. You probably love quoting Bible verses at people. All your Bible thumping and prayers haven’t gotten you anywhere.”

With those words Kareem vanishes into the darkness of the stairwell as the door closes behind him. I try to peak into this mysterious basement that is off limits, but I can’t see anything but darkness down there. I stare at the door after he’s gone, waiting for some kind of sound, maybe for him to reemerge, but there’s nothing. If it weren’t for the sound of me chewing Doritos, there would be absolute silence.

I wonder if Kareem is on drugs. I’ve worked with people who are recovering or still using drugs. When we spoke, he seemed joyful, and even smiled. Then he had a mood swing that took him to the extreme opposite end of the spectrum. Mood swings aren’t uncommon for drug addicts. Then there’s the sitting around in his boxers all day doing nothing but watching movies with no reaction. Drugs aren’t something I can rule out. I know he says this isn’t my business but he needs help. It’s my duty to help carry his burdens so that he doesn’t stumble and fall. I don’t know much about detoxing, but I can help him find a rehabilitation center for sure. The student resource center may have something. I’ll stop by and ask some questions tomorrow. For now, there’s only one thing I can do for him, pray.

“Heavenly father, thank you for surrounding us today with your blessings, I’m standing here for Kareem, asking for your grace, even if he doesn’t know it. In the name of Jesus Christ, I pray that you rebuke every spirit of rage, and addiction that flows through his body. Amen.”

4.1 - Ground Rules [Wesley]

2024-05-03T12:00:00.011-04:00

Pulling into the driveway I'm not sure I'm in the right home, or even neighborhood. Half the homes look like small cheap places but a few blocks away there are huge homes with pools. This one is the largest for at least three blocks but looks to be neglected. The grass is almost to my knees despite the rest of the homes on the block having neatly manicured lawns. There’re a few pieces of siding starting to sag away from the house. Those will need to be fixed before winter comes. It might even need some insulation.

I knew the house would be in bad shape when I agreed to move in here, but the rent was so cheap. All I have to pay is $100, do the yard work, clean and make some repairs around the house. To be honest, it looks better than I thought it would. My dad was a handyman so I was forced to follow him on jobs for most of my life. Making small repairs should be no issue. As long as the roof doesn't leak, the basement doesn't flood and there’s no need for electric work, I shouldn't have any problems.

I make my way through the overgrowth up the stairs to the porch and reach the front door. Before I can knock on the door, it opens. A thin man with a naturally tan skin and dark reddish nappy afro opened the door wearing nothing but boxer briefs. He's thin, but there's no real muscle definition, the love handles and puffy nipples means he doesn't work out much. I could take him in a fight if things go south, clearly this man is not in the business of caring for himself. His arms are heavily tattooed while his torso is bare with the exception of some that make it appear his skin has been peeled back. His sunken and sleepy red eyes tell me he's either just woken up or he's just gotten high. Right beneath those eyes is his most distinct tattoo, in red letters, "vampire," is written in all caps with the letters “ire,” in extra thick font.

"You Wesley," he asks.

"Yeah."

"I thought you'd be a white boy."

"Well I didn't think you'd be one," I joke, but he doesn't seem to laugh.

"Because my name is Kareem," he asks bluntly.

"Yeah," I'm somewhat ashamed as I answer.

"Well I'm not. Don't forget it."

"Sorry."

"Do you want to bring your stuff in or just keep looking over me?"

I expected Kareem to help me bring my stuff in, but he just went back to watching whatever movie he was before I came in. Once everything was inside he finally paused the movie to talk with me. I thought he'd want to get to know me, as roommates usually do. Instead he just wanted to lay some ground rules.

"You know you've got the yard work and repairs, right?"

"Yes," I almost feel like I'm talking to an old man.

"If it's something you can't do, tell me. I'll hire someone to do it. I don't want you screwing things up because you got ahead of yourself," as if his home was in great standing already.

"I should be able to handle most of it. Doesn't look too bad."

"Whatever. Next rule, there's wine in the kitchen. Don't drink it. That isn't for you. You can have whatever else you want, but never that."

"You make it sound deadly."

"It isn't, but you'll wish you were dead if I find out."

"You're a funny guy," I try to force a laugh.

"How am I funny?"

"What?"

"I'm just trying to see how I'm funny."

"I just think you're funny."

"You mean, let me understand this cause, you know, maybe it's me. I'm a little fucked up maybe, but I'm funny how? I mean funny like a clown, I amuse you? I make you laugh, I'm here to fucking amuse you? What do you mean funny? Funny how? How am I so funny," he stands up and starts to pace back and forth.

"I was just saying that the way you speak it's sarcastic and-"

"Sarcastic and what? You said I'm funny. How the fuck am I funny? What the fuck is so funny about me? Tell me, tell me what's funny."

"I'm sorry, you're not funny. I'll go," I stand up. "I didn't mean to offend."

"Sit down you idiot," he easily pushes my much larger frame back onto the sofa with surprising ease.

"What?"

"When you watch Goodfellas that'll be your favorite scene. I thought you said you liked movies?"

"Doesn't everyone like movies? That's just not my favorite genre"

"Whatever. Key is on the coffee table. Pick any room upstairs you want."

"Where do you stay?"

"Basement."

Before I could reply, he had already pressed play on his movie, sat down and put his feet up on the coffee table. I could keep trying and failing to have friendly conversations with him, but I figure the whole thing would be pointless. He didn't seem interested in anything but movies and trying to scare me. I wonder what his deal is.

He really might be crazy. The tattoos should have told me he was out of his mind. The only people with face tats are famous rappers, criminals and people who gave up on life a long time ago. I've never seen any rapper like him before and if he was a criminal he might be able to pay someone else to fix his house. That leaves a person who gave up on life a long time ago which makes sense. I don't smell any marijuana, but he has to have been using it.

I settle on the master bedroom upstairs. It already has curtains, even if they're tacky floral prints, they'll work. It also has an attached bathroom. None of the other rooms were small, but this one is by far the biggest. It isn't messy, just dusty. The entire second floor is dusty, even the other bathroom looks untouched. I'll need to get some furniture. There's a bed in each room, but nothing else. No dresser, no nightstand, and even the beds are haphazardly thrown into each room. Why is he living like this?

"Hey, I thought of another rule," Kareem scares me.

"I didn't hear you come in."

"Yeah, I'm just a quiet guy."

"What's the other rule."

"Never go in the basement. Even if I invite you in."

"Are you running your own Saw game in the basement?"

"Want to see," he asks with a smile. Despite the calmness in his voice my heart drops into my stomach and it’s almost as if the room got colder.

"No, I'm good."

"You catch on quick."

"Always been a fast learner."

"Anything you want to know?"

"Is there a church around here?"

"Do I look like I would know where to find a church?"

"No, I guess you'd probably burst into flames if you walked into one."

"Now look who’s being funny,” I don’t get a chance to respond before he’s gone.

I honestly don’t know if this is going to work out. Kareem just gives me a bad vibe. Some people aren’t very extroverted but it feels like he’s going the extra mile just to make sure I don’t talk to him more than a few minutes at a time. Still he’s the one who started both conversations; maybe so he can cut them short. Earlier he made a joke quoting the movie scene I’ve never seen before. But even then, he really worked hard to intimidate me. I felt like he might really attack me, I don’t think I’d ever been so afraid of another person. Then he just goes back as if nothing happened. If I could examine his body, I’m sure his tattoos would be odd or filled with threatening designs.

Maybe he’ll just keep to himself and watch movies or stay in the basement. I’ll be at school most of the time and once the semester is over I can move out. It’s too late to find somewhere else to stay. I just have to keep telling myself that God wouldn’t put me through anything that I couldn’t handle. Kareem isn’t an obstacle to overcome but a person that God placed in front of me to teach me a lesson, or perhaps I’m here to teach him a lesson.

I wonder if he would be willing to go to Goodwill with me. I could grab some furniture and he’d be help getting everything in the car. Maybe he knows somewhere else I can get some stuff, I’m not from around here so it’ll be good to have the extra set of eyes. I can make this work, I just need to stay positive.

2.35 - Rythe: From Death

2023-06-18T12:00:00.006-04:00

When I checked the morgue after Ci-Ci killed Jonah, he had broken out of his metal cabinet. Somehow, he’s still out there kicking. Since then I’ve been taking self-defense classes and practicing my magic. Next time that monster and I come face to face, I’ll be ready. Sometimes I miss fairy dust, but I don’t need it. Coping mechanisms and controlling my emotions, has been a big help. Learning to control my magic for the first time is probably beneficial as well.

He’ll be back next year, or maybe sooner. Zodiac is probably the only killer that just stopped killing, or Jack The Ripper. Most go back to killing, it’s in their nature. Ci-Ci won’t be here to save me, so I’ll burn his ass into dust if he comes for me.

I finished my story, but I never sent it out to be published anywhere. Decided to publish it on the site I had the kid build for me. I realized there’s a market out there that doesn’t really have news like they should. The supernatural world. I published it there instead. I’ve decided I’m going to report on the supernatural world. The people who read will know what they need to know, or they’ll think it’s some really detailed online fiction. I’m fine with that, the majority of people will just think I’m really into magic and Chicago, but some people will be helped.

That’s my new thing, finding ways to help people, which is really just to help myself. I’ve been fighting internally for a long time but I think I’ve finally found a way to be at peace with myself. Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, people felt inspired by my story in Narcotics Anonymous. I’ve been studying, I plan to start my own group, maybe not like NA. Something similar, something with less praying for help and more helping yourself, or getting help for others.

I make my way into the kitchen and fill a bowl of ice cream. I haven’t had a good binge in a while. I head over to the cabinet, to grab some iced oatmeal cookies. There aren’t any, I always keep some. Who could have taken my cookies? Tituba. I can hear her laughing now, I told her where the cookies were when she was here. That old lady owes me some cookies.

2.34 - Ci-CI: Till Death

2023-06-11T12:00:00.005-04:00

Until death do you part, those are the words everyone agrees to at their wedding. I agreed to them, but if last month had showed me anything, it was that you should stick to those words. I spent the last few years waiting for a man to come back from the grave for me and it made life terrible. Why the hell was I working at the TSA? No offense to anyone else, but I’m way better than that. I fight monsters, I hide under their beds, and scare them at night. It wasn’t for me.

Justin, I’m sorry. I wasn’t there for you. You didn’t die because of me, but you died despite my trying. If I had been on top of my game, Jonah would have never had a chance. I’m sorry I killed your brother. I don’t think I’m going to keep your last name. I’ve deified you, and you were flawed. Your feet stank, you never did the dishes, you always picked the job with the highest pay even if we weren’t qualified. Despite all that you didn’t deserve to die.

I don’t deserve to have my life dictated by you either. I have to step away, do my own thing. Take some trips, maybe meet a new guy. It isn’t really living if you’re a slave to the past. You were my first love, not my life, and nobody said you had to be my only love. My train of thought is broken by my cell phone ringing.

“Hey Erica,” I answer the phone.

“You down for a job,” she asks.

“What you got?”

“Something easy to start you off with. Werebear.”

“Werebear?”

“Yeah, he’s been fucking up the countryside and taking over land. Someone has to put him down.”

“I’ve never seen a werebear. I can’t miss this one.”

I don’t know if I want to be a hunter forever, but for now I need to get back to it. My body hurt like hell after tangling with Jonah. But I missed it, the bruises, the pain. I heal pretty fast, something with the blood magic. I miss the rush, putting my life on the line, I’m an adrenaline junky. Still, I don’t think this is the career for me. The one thing I need right now, is to help people. I’ve been selfish, I still never apologized to Rythe or even Tituba for destroying her home. That’s the real reason I’m working, I need to get her home fixed, she’s been staying with me and I can’t take much more voodoo.

Tituba suggested I try teaching if I want to help people. She said there’s a school in Indianapolis. Hidden, something about traversing catacombs to a magic portal to get in. It all sounds so ridiculous, like they went to extreme lengths to hide the school. She’s never been so it might not be as crazy as she makes it sound. Me as a teacher, doesn’t sound so bad.

2.33 - Rythe: Fire and Shadows

2023-06-04T12:00:00.006-04:00

I look over just in time to see Ci-Ci dive in front of Jonah, one of his hands piercing through her side as he drove her into the ground. Shit, I guess that means she’s out of the game. I rush the last few people out hoping he doesn’t see me and I can leave with them.

“Hey,” Jonah calls out, almost growling. “You hear me,” he keeps calling. A gust of wind makes me stumble.

“Are you talking to me?”

“You’re next. I already killed your girlfriend.”

“She’s not my girlfriend. You’re more my type. At least before you started looking like waling death,” witty banter, please save me.

“That’s good to hear, should make this easy. I’ve never killed a dark elf before,” He forces his face into a smile, almost as if the bones had to lock into place. “Don’t fight back, just let it happen.”

I throw my hands in front of my face and close my eyes as he rushes towards me. Fighting has never been a strength of mine. I keep expecting an impact, but I feel nothing. I open my eyes to darkness, more darkness than I’ve ever seen before. I can’t see anything at all. No, there’s a light. I make my way towards it. It’s a long walk before it gets big enough or me to check out. Just a hole, big enough for me to step through. Am I dead? Did he kill me that fast?

I step through the doorway and watch as Jonah crashes through the side of a food stand. I’m back where I was a few minutes ago, at least I think I am. I moved somehow, away from the danger. I make my move to check on Ci-Ci while Jonah is out of the way. Hopefully she’s alive.

It seems like a thin red film has covered her. Most likely blood, but she doesn’t respond to me. I don’t think she’s dead, she seems mostly alive at least. But she’s in no condition to fight Jonah, and I’m not a fighter. Jonah is climbing from his wreckage and it seems like I don’t have much of a choice.

I try to run and hide but he’s too fast. I don’t even feel the impact, but it becomes hard to breathe as he wraps his hands around my neck. The world goes black again. I can breathe again. Another pinhole, I follow it and walk through just like the last time. This time I’m behind Jonah as he stares at his hands in confusion. I use the moment to sneak away and hide in another food stand.

I know what’s going on here. Sometimes people are just born with too much magic. It happens to all different species. Children shooting lightning bolts. Teenage boys burning holes through prostitutes and barbecuing their abusive family members. All kinds of things happen. For these people it important that they learn to control their emotions from an early age. I was all messed up, so my magic didn’t show up like it normally would. Showed up during an emotional moment.

I did learn to use it when I was in college, but it was just too much to control. Flushing the decades’ worth of drugs out of my system probably brought it back. I’ve been moving through the shadows. I never learned that trick, has to be some kind of defense mechanism. I guess I have to fight back now, since that’s what my body wants. I remove my jacket, and fold it neatly. I’d just burn through it.

“Get out here and fight me you coward,” Jonah yells.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I hear you,” I step in front of him.

“There you are. I’ve had enough with your tricks.”

“Do you have a cigarette?”

“What?”

“Cigarette, I could use a smoke.”

“I don’t smoke,” I can’t tell if he’s annoyed or amused.

“That sucks, your sister flushed all of mine.”

“I’m not going to play your games.”

“Alright, let’s get this over with then. Do you want the chest or the head?”

“What?”

“Chest or the head.”

“I’m going to kill you,” Jonah starts to rush at me.

“I guess it’s the head then.”

I fling a left-handed fire ball at his head he dodges. I throw one with the right at his legs. Party trick, I earned a few beers in my dad with my aim. As few stick him, but he rubs them off. Maybe I’m just not hot enough. I make a run for it, zig zagging, making him work for it. Really would love if that shadow thing would kick in right about now.

I feel one of his bony elbows slam into my back and send me tumbling. For the best, I couldn’t have run much longer anyway. I throw my hands in front of me, and shoot a steady flame. He tries to walk through but it’s too hot. The more fear inside me, the hotter it burns. All of my emotions do it. That’s why I stay high, or at least had been. The flames are starting to toy with turning blue, it’s hot. It’s keeping him back. I can see he’s being burned. But he isn’t stopping. And I’m tired. I’m so tired.

I’m tired of always fighting. I’ve been fighting just to keep living for a long time. Unfortunately, it seems like my body has finally given out. The last of my fire burns out and I stare into the eyes of a burned and pissed off Jonah. Entire pieces of flesh have been burned from his torso and face, yet he still stands and inches towards me.

I just close my eyes, and accept it. I don’t have any energy to fight back at this point. Lore from my homeland says when you die your soul wanders Earth, unable to interact with anyone or anything until you have atoned for your sins. Eventually you’re able to ascend into the great desert and commune with all others. I wonder how long I’ll walk for. I’m not sure if I’ve been a good man or what qualifies being a good man. I really wish I had cigarette.

A hot and thick liquid lands on my face, bringing up some sensual memories. Not sur why that’s where my brain goes in death. A soft thud causes me to open my eyes. Ci-Ci stands before me, holding her side, a blade on her arm and Jonah’s decapitated body lies before me.

“I’m sorry, we’re even now,” Ci-Ci utters before collapsing next to him.