a couple of perks

I watched The Perks of Being a Wallflower last weekend and it was great and it made me both happy and sad.  I related to Charlie, the main character and an outcast of sorts.  I could not relate to the Charlie who finally found a place he belonged.  But good for him.

I just wondered if there was a story out there about a boy who never found his place.  Where was the tale of the guy who sat at the lunch room table by himself?  Where's the book about the boy who reached the end and found nothing was resolved?  Stories like that don't exist because people don't want a depressing ending.  They need to have hope for the boy because they are the boy and if the boy doesn't make a connection, they fear they won't either and no one wants to consider that could be a reality for them.

So we set him up with some good friends and a crush and he gets kissed and holds hands under the stars and it's book perfect.  And we feel both happy and sad because we don't have that but the boy is us and so if he finds it, so will we.

But some people know better.

In the movie (and book), Charlie writes letters to someone, chronicling a year in his life, but we are never told who he writes.  And it made me want to write letters to anonymous people, too.  What if I selected an address out of the phone book and wrote to this stranger, told him or her what was going on in my life?  What if I sent several strangers these kinds of letters?  What if I followed up every month or two?  "Hi, it's me again.  This is what has happened since the last time I wrote you."  But I'd keep myself anonymous as well.  A letter written from the heart and sent to one stranger from another.

Of course, it could be borderline creepy.

I think there's something kind of romantic and beautiful about reaching out to a complete stranger, making an intimate connection, sharing personal struggles and triumphs through a filter of anonymity.  I like the juxtaposition and the...well, borderline creepiness of it, to be honest.  I just know if someone sent me a random anonymous letter that let me glimpse into their life, I'd be fascinated.  Well, it was a good life with good writing, of course.  I don't need anyone sending me their school schedule or grocery list.

Oh, and I listened to the author/director commentary after I watched the movie and it was almost better than the movie.  He delves deeper into the book and the movie and the characters and how he felt about making the movie and writing the book and all the feels he tried to capture and it was just nice and warm and beautiful and I recommend it.

in spite of the frost

"You're not alone, you'll never be
just like the stars lay over sea..."
-Jem, You Will Make It

"This could be a movie, this could be our final act,
we don't need these happy endings..."
-Funeral for a Friend, Drive

Hands 10 and 2.

He watched the broken yellow lines slide beneath his car, one after the other, hypnotic in repetition. Gliding through liquid time and space. The drive, the road, the interior reaching different levels of quiet calm. The kiss of wind. The lulling hum of the engine. The soft squeak of leather from shifting matter and a thumping chest. He turned up the music and exhaled as the tempo traced 'round his ears. Steam from the coffee in his cup holder rose and twirled in the air.

He felt the warmth in spite of the broken heater and the frost outside. It wrapped around him. Around them.

He reached across the caffeine and crumbs and slid his hand in hers. He kept his eyes on the road, his concentration on the yellow lines, his skin on the other, foreign skin.  Cashmere atop tendons.  Cool and fragile.  A burst of nerve cell signals.

He had written this scene so obsessively, dreamed this dream for so long, a dream miles away from reality.  Was it possible that when she came to him, materialized in bones and blue eyes, he had willed her into being?  Had he etched her into the interior of his retinas, cones and rods vibrating, crafting her shape and angles? Or had the divine hand peeled back its palm and formed her with featherlight lips and sent her to him?

Did such mercy exist?

As far as his memory could reach, he had traveled with a knife in his neck. It was a pain he knew better than himself. An old companion. A disease he wore like a winter coat. And then she came and withdrew the blade with breathtaking ease. Without the obstruction, he was able to look up away from the dirt and into the sky.  Eyes opened with a mobile spine.  This was how humans lived, how they felt.  This was the way it always could have been.

He was a pauper turned to a prince. A bug into a boy.  He wasn't used to such delectable treatment from anyone. It was scary and unnerving and unrelenting. It was decadence and sugar and flooding. It was a revelation, a religious awakening.  God existed in the space between pressed lips and pounding hearts.

Despite his resolve, he smiled, sank into the seats and into the moment, fleeting pleasures of pavement and porcelain.  The sun was spinning back around to find him but for those moments, the world was asleep and they could sneak away to enjoy the shadow sky, just the two of them, reveling in the moonshine and kissing under the holes poked through the charcoal veil of heaven.

He said if only they could escape the sun, driving off the path and into their own world, from gravel to grass to galaxy, they'd be free of it all.  She whispered something but the music drowned out her words, consonants cut up and lost in the percussion. 

He felt her touch withdraw. He looked down and noticed the cold coffee.  He looked to his right but only saw a blur of green from the passenger's window as the trees rushed past him, felt the jolt of a popped valve, smelled the black streak parallel to the yellow lines. 

He found his answer. 

He watched, suspended, his neck tensed, as the trees lifted off the ground and tumbled in the sky.

writing my second novel

I participated in National Novel Writing Month again this year.  I did it back in 2010 and skipped 2011.  I almost didn't do it again this year because I have too many other book projects I should focus on but then I did it anyway and actually started on the 2nd.

The reason I participated in 2011, and one of the basic ideas behind National Novel Writing Month, is because I wanted to write a book.  I had been working on my memoir for years and not making much progress and so having guidelines really helped me discipline myself.  I had a goal and I managed to not only meet it but surpass it.  It was a great feeling and once I knew I could actually write a book, I was satisfied.  I think that's why I didn't do it the next year.

But this year, I decided to do it again.  In one way, I wanted to see if the first book was just a fluke because I actually had no trouble writing it.  Every day I sat down, the words flowed and it was a good feeling to know there was a story inside me.  The other fun part was I had the flimsiest idea and yet I let the story tell itself and nothing ever felt forced or rushed.  It just fell into place.  I wanted to see if I could recapture that.

In some ways, I did.  The idea for my first novel was a very basic idea that I had been floating around for maybe a year or two.  My idea was that I would maybe write a short story based on the idea but I never went as far as to develop it into something.  With this book, however, I had a good idea of how I wanted the story to go.  I've had this concept in my head ever since 7th grade and so I've had many years to mull it over in my mind and kind of expand the story.  It's a dumb story but yet it's one I've kept going back to and thinking about and so in a way, I feel I need to write it down and tell the story.  Because of that, I thought it would be a good idea to use for National Novel Writing Month because neither the story or NaNoWriMo are too serious so they fit together.

The cool/weird/disheartening thing is the story isn't finished.  The story in this book is finished but the story itself will continue.  I don't know if I should wait until next November to write the next part or get started sooner.  Well, I actually need to finish my memoir first and after that, then I can decide which project to tackle next.

It's been a long month and I'm glad I did it but I'm also glad it's over.

thoracic cavity

Wind separated leaves from limbs in the darkness.  They pirouetted down onto the boy and girl as they lay in the grass beneath an old tree.  Ligaments wrapped together, he supported her neck with his shoulder and she slid her hand underneath his shirt.

"You're not as dead as you think," the girl said.

"Oh yeah?  How do you know?" the boy asked.

"Because of this," she said.  "Us here.  Now.  Sharing this moment.  Connected to the earth.  To each other.  Isn't it beautiful?"

"It's sufficient," he said as he brushed a fallen leaf from the girl's hair.  

"You can't fool me.  You wouldn't be here with me, like this, otherwise."

The boy shrugged.

"It's all of us," the girl said.  "You are alive because I am.  Because the world doesn't spin for the dead."

"Oh, God," The boy rolled his eyes, stifling a laugh.

"No, seriously," she said with a giggle.  "Your eyes sparkle like the shooting stars above us.  Your stubble is gritty like the dirt beneath us.  And your chest," she said as she gently pressed on his sternum, "is warm from the blood rushing through us.  I know you're alive because I can feel it in you."

"Actually, I just had a sip of this white chocolate mocha," the boy said, raising his Starbucks container.  "What you actually felt was it pass into my stomach.  That's all."

The girl stared with blank eyes as the boy drained his cup.

fifty shades of what women want

At the behest of my work girlfriend (who I will refer to as WG for short), I read Fifty Shades of Grey.  I didn't really want to but she kept insisting and I thought it could be something new we could discuss.  We've never talked about books before so I was looking forward to an intellectual exchange regarding fictional characters and their motivations.

But as I read, I kept pointing out problems I had with the book.  Christian Grey was too perfect, too mysterious.  Anastasia Steele was too innocent, too inexperienced.  Early on in the book, she said she didn't know why she was falling for him.

"That doesn't make any sense," I mentioned to WG.  "He's super rich.  He's super handsome.  He's graceful and just distant enough to leave her wanting more.  That's reason enough to fall in love with him.  Any girl would.  Heck,  I think I'd fall in love with him, too."

WG laughed.  "Well, he does have some physical flaws, though.  He's not perfect."

"Oh, yeah?  What?  Is his penis so large he can't find comfortable underwear?  What a tortured soul!'

She laughed again.  Ah, such a nice sound.

"So, what is so appealing about him?"

"I don't know," she said, her kohl-lined eyes wandering off to the ceiling, pondering.  "I guess I just like that he's dark."

"I'm dark," I said.  Hello, I was dead for three years.

"No you're not," she said with a smirk.  "You're just emo.  And you choose to be that way."

Ah, not such a nice sound.  She really knows how to stab a guy right in the face.

"He had a really dark childhood," she added.

"You don't know about my upbringing.  It could have been dark, too."  It wasn't.

"Not like his," she countered.

"You don't know what I've been through!"  Nothing.

I just wasn't that impressed with the book.  I'll admit I jump on literally bandwagons.  I read the Twilight series and The Hunger Games series and I always tried to enjoy the books for what they were instead of what they were hyped to be.  And they were both all right.  But this one I just couldn't seem to get into like the others.  I guess I can understand it's popularity because it's so provocative but honestly, it wasn't as filthy as I imagined, which was admittedly another reason I wanted to read it.  I wanted to see how raunchy it really got.  Maybe I'm just a sick mofo but it seemed a little tame to me.  It's possible things get more extreme in the other two books but I think the first one walked the fine line between kinky sex and all out smut, just enough to titillate and not alienate, which is why it worked so well.  So I give her props for that but the writing is pretty amateur.

The Road in Red: One Flesh

"My will is at God’s hand, never within man’s teeth..."
-The Devil Wears Prada, Revive

Tears of joy flooded Noah’s eyes.  Relief swelled inside him like a warm bath.  He tucked the cane underneath his arm and put his face in his hands.  He had made it.  He had found his home.  Noah quickly wiped his hot cheeks with his palms and sniffed up the loosened snot from his nose.  No, he still had to go inside, still had to make it to the doors.  He hadn't made it yet.  He wasn't safe until he had passed through the threshold, until he had a solid barrier between him and the dead world outside.  The house was still half a mile away.  Being as sick and injured as Noah was, that half a mile felt like fifty.  The warm bath water relief turned ice cold as the realization that he might not make it came over him.  His heart could give out at any time.  Exhaustion was clawing at him.  Hunger was pulling his stomach into the dirt.  Put his home pulled him forward.

Noah walked as far as he could until the pain in his thigh took him to the ground.  It was as if someone had shoved a hot poker right through his flesh to the bone.  Noah tried not to scream, waited for the wave of pain to cease like it normally did, but it did not alleviate.  Sweat poured from Noah’s body causing the dirt to stick to his chest and stomach.  Noah rolled over on his back and could not hold in the hurt any longer.  The pain was not subsiding, only increasing in intensity.  He screamed out in absolute agony.  More liquid dribbled from the corners of his mouth.  The pain multiplied at an alarming rate and even worse, began to spread.  Noah could actually feel the disease of the bite worm its way down his entire leg and up into his groin, other leg and stomach.  It took hold of his testicles and intestines and squeezed.  It felt like everything was being blending in his body, liquified.  It was as if piranhas were inside of him, eating away at his insides, swimming and scurrying up and down the lower half of his body.

Noah fought the pain and turned over onto his stomach.  He began to crawl.  Guttural screeches of misery filled the clear sky and called the creatures to him.

Noah felt chilled to the bone despite the radiating heat of the sun.  The breeze was gone.  The rain was only a memory.  There was nothing and no one to help him now.  Goosebumps sprung along his body and raised the hair on his arms.  Noah continued to crawl, the dirt and rocks scratching at his nipples, his hair clinging to his forehead like a watery glue.  Noah crawled and crawled and seemed to make no progress at all.  He didn't even know if he was moving or imagining himself inching closer to his home.  Noah’s eyes began to cross and his vision started to blur and go black.  The pain came in waves of terrible to excruciating.  The painful poison spread completely to Noah’s legs and up into his chest.  Noah involuntarily vomited a milky yellow bile.  It heaved up in ropey strands, his stomach contracted so hard a rip of pain sliced through his torso and accompanied the pain that was already there.  The bile bubbled in the dirt.  Small particles were floating in it.  Noah crawled through the substance.

In the distance, he could hear the people coming again.  The dead people.  The things.  Maybe one of them was the lady with the tongue?  Had the wicked witch melted in the rain or was she one of the survivors?  Had he shot her, stomped her with his foot or cane?  He couldn't remember anymore.  Noah craned his neck back and with his limited vision, he could see the group lurching up ahead of him.  He was so close to home but he would never make it.  This was it.  They were all around him in every direction and he could not stand and fight.  He was practically dead.  What was going to get him first?  The existent bite mark or another bite from one of them?  Maybe they only wanted fresh meat?  Ever rational, Noah wondered if maybe they'd look over him as damaged, used up, and would go about their way?  Is it going to hurt when they bite into me? he wondered.  How silly a thought.  He was already in so much pain nothing would make it worse.   

Light me on fire, peel off my skin, pluck out my eyeballs.  It's all nothing compared to...this.  This is how it's going to end, after everything.  After making it so close.  God, why?  Why do you let me suffer so much?  Just let me go home or kill me now.  Take me before they do.  

Where are you?  Whereareyou...

Noah saw something dancing in his peripheral vision.  He looked over and it revealed itself to be a fairy.  The tiny woman's skin was made of silk and her wings of glitter.  She was snow white and naked, her breasts heaving as she flew around him.  The wings buzzed in his ear as she flew around his head.  She caressed his chin and ear and quietly sang to him.  He reached out to touch her and as he did, she dissolved into a million particles.

I'm losing my mind, Noah thought.  The infection was starting to reach his brain.  Could he trust what he was seeing anymore?  Were these people even real or was he imaging them as well?  The moaning from the dead grew in range, twisting itself into a kind of song.  The trees above Noah danced and shook their branches to the morbid music that was going to be the death of him.  Sunlight came down, trickled through the moving branches, and resembled the sweeping points of light from a disco ball.  This was all a production, an elaborate musical number that would accompany his death.  The world was putting on one last show before he bowed out.  Noah turned onto his back again and slid his hand into his left pocket.  He looked up and saw a group of them heading his way.  The sun was shining directly behind them, their heads pitch black against the blinding sun, a halo of radiance setting their skulls aglow.

They looked like angels.

Noah blinked through teary eyes.  Three woman, one man and two that were indistinguishable.  They were fresh.  No missing body parts, no gashes or lacerations.  Some of them still looked human.  Maybe they were.  Maybe they were coming to save him.  But the groans told him different. 

Whereareyouwhereareyouwhereareyou...

Noah reached for the familiar lump and pulled it out of his pocket.  He raised the small box to his eye level.  He opened it and smiled.  The sun shone brightly on the elegant ring that sat safely tucked inside, untarnished.  The sparkle carried his mind off into his memories, the one place the sickness had yet to reach, the only scrap of safety he had left.

The Road in Red: Alone

“Oh, God!” Noah screamed.

Surrounded by dead bodies that were closing in all around him,  Noah realized there was no way to break through their rotted line of flesh.  The man and woman and their followers were closing in behind him and the new group wasn’t too far ahead of him.  Noah only had two bullets left, not even enough to put a dent in either group.  For a second, Noah thought that he should just take his chances and jump into the woods but quickly tore that idea from his temples.  The woods were too dense, too full of hiding places for those people.  They could be behind any tree, ready to grab him by the arm or neck and pull him down and that would be the end.  Noah then thought he could tackle them, break through their line.  The ones ahead looked a lot frailer than the ones behind him.  They had been dead for a long time.  Maybe they’d go down easily.  But what if they didn’t?  He could handle one but if two or three of them grabbed him all at once, he wouldn’t be able to fight them off, especially with the throbbing in his leg that was slowly crippling him. 

Noah stood there, not knowing what to do.  His mind raced but he couldn't think of anything in particular.  In an attempt to come up with a split second solution, he froze as a trillion other things blurred past the eyes of his mind.  Looking down, Noah noticed there were no tree limbs or heavy rocks for him to use, nothing to help him.  The rain began to hit his head harder, fatter drops of water splashing off his nose and hands.  Noah pulled out his gun.  With no more time to organize a surefire strategy, he decided to shoot the ones closest to him and hope they’d go down.  With enough luck, they would create a hole large enough for him to squeeze through.  The odds weren’t good but Noah was battling a sudden onset of exhaustion, fear and tremendous pain that wouldn't allow for a better plan.  The rain spread out and came down harder, drenching Noah and making visibility low.  The groans of the people were drowned out by the falling rain, splashing down on everything, turning the ground into slippery mud and stifling Noah’s concentration. 

One of the men approached, staggered, lunged his red hands at Noah, his mouth open, ready to receive Noah’s flesh. 

"Father, forgive them; forgive me," Noah said and with a flash of light, he shot the man in the face.  The man went down in a wet heap on the ground.  Noah aimed for the next person in line.  It  was a teenage boy not much younger than him, his throat torn open, his Adam's apple dangling onto his chest with every soggy step.  Noah raised his gun to the teenager and as he concentrated on the face of the person he was going to kill, Noah saw that the hair on his head was falling out, being washed away by the hard rain.  Noah’s eyebrows flared up in confusion.  In a matter of moments, the boy's nose fell right off his face.  His lips and cheeks were next, sloughing off his skull like wet tissue paper.  Soaked lumps of rotted meat slid off the teenager, splattering on the ground that was turning into thick mud.  Splat, plop, splash.  His outstretched arm, wet and full of protruding veins broke off at the elbow and fell with another wet thud.  Around him, the other people were also feeling the effects of the falling water.  One severely decomposed man’s head fell completely off his body, sending him to the mud with a sickening plop.

It was the rain.

Suddenly, Noah remembered what his grandmother had told him. 

“The rain is only God’s tears, sugar.  It’s His way of letting us know He’s watching over us.  When the world has become too wicked, the Lord becomes sad and cries.  His tears fall from Heaven and those tears wash away all the bad.  When the rain dries up, man's sin has been cleansed and everything is made good again.”

Wash away all the bad.

One by one, the dead people collapsed and did not get back up.  They tried but the muscles that moved them were disintegrating.  They were becoming skeletal, the hard rain stripping all the flesh from them, the rotting smell of death and fat melting in the mud.  The rain fell intensely and Noah thought he heard a clap of thunder.  Or maybe it was a faraway gunshot.  Out of the estimated fifteen dead people, all but three had fallen, writhing in the mud, bellowing, dying again.  Enough were down to allow for Noah's escape.  He started to run through the mud and quickly slipped.  His legs flew out from underneath him and he fell on his side with a hard thud, right onto the bite wound.  Despite the softening blanket of mud, the ground beneath was still hard and provided no cushion for Noah's fall.  Pain ripped through Noah’s leg like white hot lightning and Noah screamed with abandon.  Rain fell into his open mouth, momentarily choking him. 

After a few moments of cradling himself in the mud, Noah collected himself.  The three dead people were still after him.  He had to get up.  He looked behind him to see the dead slipping and sliding in the mud.  One wasn't wearing shoes.  He couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman.  It also slipped in the mud and upon impact, its left leg fell off at the knee and its left arm fell off at the shoulder.  The others slid clumsily, trying to gain traction while keeping their focus on him.  If the threat of being eaten wasn't so close, Noah might have considered this comical.  If he weren't so exhausted, he might have laughed.  The dead thing on the ground pulled itself through the mud with its one good arm.  The other two were still coming, their faces slowly melting under the merciful rain.  Noah got back up and continued to run.  Their bodies fell out of view but their moaning followed Noah the whole way.

The Road in Red: Splinter Group

The lady with no jaw was coming for Noah.

She looked iridescent and ghostly in the limited light that struggled to break through the clouds.  Noah groped at his pockets.  The gun was in his right, the other item in his left.  He surveyed the ground beneath him.  Spotting a reasonably large tree limb, Noah picked it up and went to meet the woman. 

He found her, her arms outstretched, her tongue lapping at her teeth, her legs struggling to keep up with her urge to feed.  Noah's throat tightened.  His lower lids began to sting with the saline that was trying to crawl through.  His cheeks flushed.  His chest turned to lead.  Pity washed over Noah.  This woman so desperately wanted to eat him.  The one eye she had widened, glistening blue like the ocean, the depth of her hunger unfathomable.  Her tongue wagged at the sight of his skin.  If she had any lips, she might have been smiling. 

Noah had to do this.  This woman, this soccer mom or president of some club, this daughter or wife, this human being needed to be killed for her own peace.  Kill or be killed.  He hated killing them.  He just had to.  He thought about the old man.  He thought about the man before him, the two women, the child.  But with the exception of the old man, they were all sanitized by distance, dispatched by his gun.  He did not have the luxury of a bucketful of bullets anymore.  He had to get his hands dirty again. 

Please, God, forgive me.  Where was Gran?  Where were those cookies?  The woman got closer. 

No, I can't think of this now. 

Noah's mind tried to take him away from the happenings, an instant involuntary self-preservation mechanism.  He would go insane, snap if he had to deal with what he was going to have to do again.  His sanity was on the brink of breaking but he was also within teeth's reach of death.  Noah had to overcome his fear, his reservations, his own mind.  He breathed in the deep, death-filled air in a vain attempt to calm himself for the job at hand, to forget about the wonderful times that once brought him peace.  Those times were done.  Vanished forever in a fog of dead flesh.  Noah readied the tree limb.  He cleared out his mind and focused all thoughts on his swing.

But as the woman approached, Noah heard a shuffling from behind him.

The Road in Red: Sympathy for the Devil

A few yards ahead, Noah spotted one of them.  It was a woman.  Her back was facing him.  She was shuffling along the edge of the road among the opening of the trees.  Noah took in a deep breath and fixed his eyes to the back of her head.  He grabbed his gun from his pants and ran his hand along his left front pocket.  Still there.  It was comforting, reassuring, motivating him to continue forward to reach the end of this journey, of all this madness.  Noah slowed his pace, picking up each foot high off the ground so as not to shuffle and cause noise.  He inspected the ground before stepping to avoid any rocks or twigs.  His eyes took hold of the woman’s head as he slowly inched his way toward her.  Stepping carefully.  Slowly.  Methodically.  The woman just stood there, sometimes leaning one way or the other but mostly just standing still.  Noah had wished she’d walk around, at least for a bit, so that the crunching of her feet in the grass would somehow mask the sound of his own footsteps.  God, what was in front of that tangled mess of hair?  He tried to subdue his imagination, to stop the possible images of the woman's torn face from flooding the front of his mind.  He had seen some terrible things in the past few days...or was it weeks...but he still hadn't gotten used to the human carnage that still churned his stomach.  He had his gun and he could just shoot her easily but he didn’t want to waste bullets if he didn’t have to.  He only had four in the chamber and no more.  What if he needed them when he found himself in a more desperate situation?  What if the bullet he used on this woman could be used for when one of those people was right on top of him?  And there was no telling how much longer he would have to walk.  How many times had he driven down this desolate dirt road and never paid attention to the length of the drive, to the road signs, to the landmarks?  He had no idea how far away he was from safety and he cursed his careless ways.  He had never paid attention before but now he was making up for it, focusing all of his energy and concentration on his surroundings.  He couldn’t let another person sneak up on him like that old man.  He felt blessed to survive one close contact encounter.  He wasn't sure he'd survive another. 

Noah inched his way beside the woman.  Several feet of dirt separated them.  The closer Noah got, the more he could hear the woman.  She was moaning.  Was she is pain?  Was she tired?  The moaning became louder, more unsettling as he passed.  There was a wetness to the noise, as if she was gargling mud.  Moist.  Drowning in her own fluid.  Yet, alive.  A part of him wanted to shoot this woman, to put her out of her misery, to relieve her of the burden of her hunger.  He contemplated the woman just like he began to contemplate the old man.  Then, he stopped himself.  No, he had no time.  He couldn’t lose focus.  Besides, he didn’t want to kill anyone if he didn’t have to.  It felt filthy, sinful.  Noah stopped momentarily, lost in the wave of thoughts that seized his body and locked it into place.  These people had to be dead, right?  Shooting them would not be sinful.  I am not committing murder, he tried to rationalize.  But, there was no rationalization left.  Nothing made sense anymore.  The very nature of life and death was done, no more.  None of the rules of humanity or morality existed once the first dead body woke up.  Now, there was just survival.  There was just making it to the end alive.  Noah stared at the back of the woman's head, not looking at her but through her, allowing his mind to take him out of the dirt road and into some semblance of balance, into something that he could wrap himself in, a blanket of sanity, security. 

And then she shifted.

The Road in Red: Of Rain and Rapture

A work of fiction presented in five parts.

“Now this will be the plague with which the Lord will strike all the peoples who have gone to war against Jerusalem; their flesh will rot while they stand on their feet, and their eyes will rot in their sockets, and their tongues will rot in their mouth.  On that day a large-scale panic from the Lord will spread among them. One person will grab the hand of another, and one will attack the other.”
- Zechariah 14:12

Noah felt the pain of the old man’s bite rip through his thigh, as if someone had injected boiling water into the veins of his leg.  The filthy old man managed to break Noah’s skin despite the thick denim material of his jeans.  Noah howled in pain, which only seemed to make the old man sink his teeth harder, deeper, into Noah’s thigh.  His withering arms flailed at Noah, tearing at his shirt and jeans.  Noah reciprocated, jerking his body and kicking up his legs the best he could, fighting the dead weight of the old man.  Noah hit the man in the head with his fists, clawed up clumps of dirt and threw them in the man’s eyes but it didn’t stop him.  The man held his grip on Noah’s thigh.  Noah managed to inch himself closer to the gun that was bucked out of his hand when the man tackled him.  He kicked and clawed and screamed his way to the gun, wrapped his finger around the trigger and then aimed it at the hungry old man’s face.  He started to squeeze the trigger but thought better of it.  He didn’t want to waste any bullets if he didn’t need to.  Instead, he took the end of the gun and jammed it into the old man’s ear.  The old man immediately let go of Noah’s thigh, a ropey string of slime and saliva coming off the bite.  The old man, too, howled in pain, an inhumanly low gust of agony that escaped his bloodied lips.  Noah repeatedly struck the old man in the ear and face.  His skull didn’t give as easily as Noah had hoped.  He was a fresh one.  Noah freed his good leg from under the old man and kicked him in the chest with all of his might.  The old man fell back and Noah took advantage of the man's temporary disorientation and pounced on him, straddling him to keep him pinned to the ground.  Noah raised the gun in the air and slammed it down onto the old man’s face, crushing his nose and releasing a spray of coagulated blood and cartilage.  The gun came down again and again, slowly caving in the old man’s face until it was nothing more than fragile bone covered in a thick mass of blackened blood and disassembled brain matter.  His arms and legs fell to the ground.  Shaking.  Twitching.  Still.  Noah’s chest heaved in a rush of adrenaline and exhaustion.  Noah stayed on top of the man for a few minutes, allowing his breath and heart beat to slow before using the old man's shirt to clean the mess off of his gun.

Noah got off the old man and stumbled to his feet.  He wiped the sweat from his face with his forearm.  Looking down, Noah contemplated the bloody mess that once used to be a man.  No, he didn’t have time for that.  Noah felt a rush of nausea hit his stomach but he willed it away.  He pulled his pants down to his knees and inspected the damage.  Jagged red marks formed an ellipse right between Noah’s kneecap and groin.  The old man hadn’t bitten too deep or managed to tear away any flesh but it still stung like hell.  Small scratches from the old man's fingernails were scattered about Noah's arms.  Most of them weren't deep, just superficial and slightly raised.  His stomach was sore on the outside and nauseated inward.  No time to be concerned.  Noah had to get back to his destination.  He’d be okay if he could just make it there.

The dirt road seemed to stretch into oblivion, when in reality it was just a few more miles.  Noah was flanked on both sides by the density of trees, their trunks and branches and twigs intermingling and creating a web of cover that was both a good and a bad thing.  They provided good cover and protection for him but also for them.  Noah could see nothing but straight ahead, which didn’t bother him in the slightest.  It made his destination easier knowing he wouldn’t have any detours or distractions.  It also made it more dangerous.  Those people could be hiding behind any tree, lumbering around in the tall grass and he would never know until they were upon him.  That was the case with the old man whose skull he had just bashed in.  Noah lost his concentration for only a few minutes.  He wasn’t paying attention, got to close to the trees and the man lept at him.  Noah silently swore at himself for being so careless, for not being alert enough.  He ran his hand over the lump in his front left pocket.  It hadn’t fallen out during the fall.  Good.

The light from the sun that was illuminating his path was becoming dimmer.  The sky was graying.  Clouds were filling in the blank spaces in the sky, meshing the red dirt with the gray sky into a muddled brown.  The air was dusky and dark.  This was good.  He had heard they didn’t have good eyesight.  Unfortunately, neither did he.  Noah had been walking for so long.  How long, he didn't know.  The days were flowing into one another with the same monotonous activities of walking and evading, sometimes running and defending against those people.  Monday, Tuesday, Deadday, Rotday, one giant day of the week, one giant week of the month, one giant lifetime of oblivion.  It would have been nice to sit somewhere but to sit in the road would have been stupid.  There was no shelter.  He had to move quickly through the darkening sky.  It looked like it was about to rain. 

“Fantastic,” Noah said out loud, right before putting his hand over his mouth.  His eyes widened in fright. 

No sounds! he reminded himself.  It was bad enough that he had to walk the dirt road filled with crunchy leaves and twigs.  He didn’t need to bring any more attention to himself by speaking.  Those people could hear him and would for him.  They were attracted to noise and movement.  Noah calmed himself down and continued to walk the path as it continued to blur in front of him.  Rain was definitely coming.  Just how soon?  Noah felt an unease come over his skin, sinking into his stomach and coming up through his throat, thickening his tongue and closing off the air in his lungs.  He shuddered.

Blood: Love Leaks From Her Neck

Although I was convinced vampires have no capacity to feel true love, something was definitely happening with this girl. I was wanting her, desiring her in a different way than all the rest. For some reason unbeknownst to me, I was the one spilling my guts.  I wasn't used to being on the other end of the unfurling.  Was it possible that I was simply unloading on this dumb girl, that I had held in all these feelings for so long that I had to dump them on someone, anyone?  Or was she special?  Was she somehow bringing this out in me?  Was this really happening? Was there a different kind of lust present, not just a blood lust, but a lust for love? I knew she was into me but I just couldn't figure out if that feeling was being reciprocated. It had been so long since I had felt a genuine human emotion that didn't involve negative energy. And despite my efforts to warn this girl against my kind, I hadn't managed to scare her away. Dare I say, I admired that?  Maybe she was too far gone, too far pathetic for me to get inside of her brain. No matter, that wasn't the part I was interested in getting inside, anyway. This girl had affected me in a way no other human had before in my entire existence as a vampire. And the longer I let her live, the longer I talked, confided in her, the more she intrigued me. It was almost as if she could look into my empty eyes and feel the hurt I endure daily. Although it is impossible for her to know such pain, she seemed to think she did. And that was almost comforting. I had felt as if my emotions were on the brink of...humanity. Although I strike fear into the hearts of humans, I was actually the scared one in this situation. All these new feelings and emotions were trying so hard to tear themselves out of my cold corpse. Was I becoming the impossible, a vampire capable of loving a human, of loving at all? I was going to try one final time to convince this girl that being a vampire wasn't the way to go. The fact that I even cared to tell her threw me off balance. Why should this even matter to her or anyone else? She was nothing but nourishment, yet I couldn't help but to try to warn her, couldn't help but to want to make her run away, to somehow free her from my unwilling hold over her heart.  I think I was wanting to save her.  Lesson three:

In the most basic sense, vampires are drawn to blood because blood is life. It's a drug, yes.  It's a substitute for love, sure.   But most of all, it's the representation of life that runs through the veins. We vampires are without life and so we crave it just like we crave blood. Even in death, we crave to crawl back into skin that is warm and alive. With each neck we nurse, we gain a little bit of life back. Just as you humans cannot escape death, we cannot either. We do all we can to stop it. And even when we lose to death we cannot accept it. We are greedy for life. Vampires are always in a frenzy to be free from the shackles of our shells. Becoming a vampire is the equivalent of being locked in a coffin while you are still alive. It's claustrophobic in this skin. When you're human, you want to die, but when you become a vampire, you just want to live. It's the ultimate irony. There are so many untapped desires the living have yet to explore and the dead aren’t ready to give that up just yet.

Vampires are still human in some respects. We walk and talk and put on the appearances of normality. The frustration is that we can cover up our curse as much as we'd like, but we can never be who we were. We can pass for human, yet we never will be. We don't breathe, so our chests don't ebb and flow in our sleep. We don't cast a reflection. I don't even remember what I look like anymore. I was turned before cameras were invented, so I don't even have a picture to remind me of my features. I don't know what color my hair is, what my lips looks like, even the hue of my eyes. Although vampires gain sustenance from blood, we can eat, yet eating isn’t necessarily recommended. Since our bodies cease to function upon death, the food isn’t digested and it just sits in our stomachs until we throw it back up. And perhaps the biggest disappointment, the thing I miss the most about being human, is the fact that vampires cannot participate in sex. Sex is destroyed in death. We have been compensated in other ways, although they pale in comparison to climaxing. We are granted new eyes, eyes that can see everything. Our eyes can pierce souls, can hypnotize and paralyze, eyes that draw the living to us. Upon our death, time dies as well. We are preserved in tight, youthful skin that holds our attractiveness. We are forever young and forever beautiful. We are given an insatiable lust, a lust that lingers on the flesh of our victims, an intoxication that dizzies and leaves them vulnerable. We smell of sex and seduction. It seeps from our skin. Our lips are full of flavor.  Yet, what's it all good for if we can't indulge in our own attractiveness, if we can't use it for sexual gain?  Yes, it gets us the blood but what about the other parts?  Oh, how I miss those other parts.

As I spoke, I became fixated on the tightness of her body, the tightness of her dress and realized this would be the point where my pants would become tight, if only my organ was functional. Just because I cannot become physically aroused anymore does not mean I don't get hot in other ways. My hard on comes from my head. It's a mental stimulation, a memory of what once was. And I could tell as I spoke of sex, she became hot as well. She crossed her legs and I noticed she wasn't wearing any panties.  She licked her already wet lips. The leather let out a dull squeak as she inched closer to me, as she looked into my eyes. Although I was the vampire, it seemed as if she was hypnotizing me. She reached out and touched my jaw, her warm fingers running down my face, a warmth I haven't felt in so long. I'm always cold, so cold, and her fingers were like fire. She pressed to continue, to go on with all the ways in which I could make up for my vampiric impotence.

Oh, and to bite someone is to make love to them. It’s almost as good as the real thing. There are so many similarities between sucking necks and having intercourse. The neck is smooth and warm, the blood just under the surface of the skin provides the heat to initiate action . The neck throbs in ecstasy. It’s wet and delicious. And when we reach the point of penetration, after our teeth elongate and become firm, we sink into a state that is solidly sublime. Once I’m inside of her, our bodies are joined.

She began to get really turned on, her chest heaving out, close enough so that her breasts brushed against my chest. Both of her hands were on my face as she pulled me in for another kiss. This one felt so different, so much warmer, so much more tender. My lips tingled as our mouths mingled. She tore off my shirt and I ripped her dress off in one quick motion. We stood there, both topless, my stomach rock hard and her breasts like two perfect planets orbiting her torso.  Our hands attacked each others bodies in a throbbing fever. I continued to talk in between kisses.

And for as long as I’m sucking the sweet sustenance from her, our veins pulse at the same time. She breathes life and love into my body and I finally feel I am alive once again. And I am human again for as long as I'm sucking, for as long as we both share this blood, this crimson creator of life. We are as one, hovering over a perfect harmony of pleasure and pain.  God, don't you want to feel it?  Don't you want to climax from the inside out, to feel the millions of nerves being tingled, to shudder from such ecstasy, to feel it flowing in and out of you, to feel me touching you from inside your skin? 

Holding her body in my arms, something came over me, something so strong I was compelled to complete the task my body had ordered upon me. It was stronger than a sexual drive, more intense than any arousal I had ever felt. My lips made their way from her mouth to her neck. And she was lost in my arms again, just like all those hours ago on my couch. I ran my hand through the softness of her hair and gently pushed her head to one side. A line of translucent blue emerged from her satin skin. My canines carved themselves into points again and I lowered my sights onto that blue. In an instant, I had pierced her soft neck, my teeth passing the skin and flesh and landing in that line of blood. A small whimper passed her puckered lips and then an undecipherable moan filled my apartment. I couldn't tell if it was from the pleasure or the pain. Where was she on this journey? Where was I?  My teeth retracted as the punctured vein produced that sweet substance from her neck. It bubbled up like oil, thick and dark and revolting yet irresistible.  The coppery crimson liquid flowed like a waterfall from her body and I sucked it down in satisfaction.

"Yes, yes," she said. "You're doing it. You're turning me. And we'll be together forever." 

I could feel the smile on her face injected into those disgusting words. Yes, I was going to change her, to keep her with me, explore her further.  I was going to tear her apart and piece her back together, make her follow me, make her lick my feet and wash my hair.  Oh, God, the blood was going to my head.  Sweet, delicious, disgusting blood.  My eyes rolled back from behind closed lids.  It was all happening so fast, my brain buoyant in the red stuff.  I was getting close, coming to the brink of her burning.  I had to stop.  Wet, sloppy noises took over her moaning.  She grew silent, her breath easy and fluid.  

"I love you," she whispered in an exhalation of breath. 

My blue or brown or black eyes shot open.  My tongue ran over the puncture wounds like a vacuum.  This girl had done something to me, something I wanted to learn more about. But, her words reminded me of her incessant ignorance and her vapid shallowness. If only she would have kept her mouth shut, just like most girls should. It seems every time they open their lips for anything other than insertion, they ruin everything.  I continued sucking, let the moment overtake me as I was overtaking her. I would not turn her. I would not let her survive. I was reaching nirvana with every drop.  And as the blood slowly drained from her body, the pain and the emptiness set in. And she knew it. She screamed but I muffled her mouth with my perfectly manicured hand. She bit my fingers in desperation, but the pain was insignificant and not enough to let me go. I was no where near hurting as much as she was.  I began to bleed from her bite, my blood smearing all over her mouth.  Choking.  Wheezing.  Muffled excruciation.

"How's it taste?" I asked her. 

When I first bit into this idiot child, I was reminded of the time I was the one on the receiving end of the puncture. And I realized I was just repeating history, doing the exact same thing that was done to me. This girl had fallen in love with me and I had strung her along, having made up my mind from the start that I would kill her. But, to my credit, some reservations did manage to seep into my thoughts.  I played with the idea of turning her.  I guess I forgot to tell her vampires are fickle as hell.  She should have known it was coming.  After explaining all that blood does, all that it means to us, how could she not understand our insane lust over the flow of red? And I knew that I would no longer string her along. I knew I could not turn her and then abandon her like was done to me. No, this girl was too pathetic. She only deserved to die. I felt a responsibility to end her sick sadness. I was doing her a favor.  Letting her down not so gently.  Community service.

I realized there was a lesson to be learned from my exchange with this empty, lonely girl. There was a clarity in the crimson. I had tried to change, had tried to love this bag of blood, but my carnal cravings had conquered this crush I had developed for her. I learned that you are who you are and there is nothing that can do to rearrange or interrupt the natural cycle of your existence. It is the blood, not love, that keeps me going, that preserves my pale skin, that maintains my sexual magnetism. I learned that love is found in a heart that beats and not a vampire that eats. I granted her a gift alright, just not the gift she wanted, not the gift that only I can give. I did not grant her the gift of eternal life, but that of death, a gift anyone could have granted her. It’s unfortunate she sought me out. Her mission for immortality was wasted. And so was her time. But, not mine. I benefited from our erotic encounter.

When her body was fully drained, before her last breath, she let out a scream reminiscent of ecstasy.  Her body shuddered and I savored her death throes. And I realized that this was better than sex any day. To have a belly full of blood and a girl's life climaxing in my arms is more enjoyable than any orgasm I've ever had in humanity. I wondered if it was as good for her as it was for me.  I allowed her emptied and lifeless body to slip from my well defined arms and fall to the floor in a crumpled heap, her warm, wet juices dripping down my chin. And I thought of how it reminded me of old times...

I thought I had loved her but I realized I had mistaken love for hunger pains.

The End.

Blood: I Only Love You For Your Body

This tender and all too trusting young girl still wasn’t convinced. Yet, I was completely convinced of her utter incompetence.  Sitting there, nothing more than a doggy bag of blood to me.  Perky breasts.  Glitter in her eyes.  Wonder.  Amazement.  Idiocy.  I guess my monologue on my mammoth obsession for blood wasn’t enough to turn her away from being turned. There she was, gripping the couch, her lacquered fingernails pressing hard into the leather.  She was licking her lips, hanging on every word I said.  My talk of addiction didn't sway her, send her screaming for the door that she wouldn't be able to escape.  I suppose she has an addictive personality. Perhaps I had only reinforced her idea of being undead. Perhaps I only stoked the fire for her hopes of fangs. Perhaps her stupidity was only out-shined by her curiosity, a curiosity that fought against logic and fear. This girl had balls. I was a vampire who had brought her back to my place solely to suck on her neck yet she showed no signs of fear on her feather light features. And she was interested in me, in my lifestyle. And I couldn’t help but to feel something among all of this madness. Among this shroud of sheer absurdity over this situation, I saw something shining in her eyes. My powerful perception told me it was more than a curiosity. It was more than a yearning to be something else. It was an interest in the man behind the pale skin and seductive stare. And what was even more bizarre was the fact that I might have been feeling the same way about her. I wanted to know more about this girl, this empty headed and entirely fake girl. I wanted to see what was beyond all the plasticine and perfume. I wanted to see the girl’s insides. And for the first time in a long time, I meant it metaphorically. I was drowning out her droning on about becoming one of my kind, when I heard the word "love" bubble up from her plumped lips. My attention snapped back and I asked her to repeat herself. She said she would absolutely love to become a vampire. I told her that would be the last thing she'd ever love.  Lesson two:

The problem with love is that vampires can't. We are simply incapable of doing so. When the body dies, love is left to rot. The body is preserved, but the heart decays. You claim my condition is a gift you want me to give you. In fact, it’s no gift at all. It’s a curse. This curse of the vampire is that we are removed from love. Love originates from the heart and since our hearts don’t work anymore, neither does our capacity to care. I have feelings that are limited to anger and frustration. I've never felt warmth since turning. I have never felt happiness on my own, only that empty kind of happiness that seeps from strangers, the kind I lavishly lap up.  Ultimately, though, it's unsatisfying, like drinking chalk.

Although I am no longer human, I still carry some human attributes. Mainly, all the negative ones. It seems as if my emotions have been filtered, only leaving the offensive ones behind, bitterness being the biggest one. I'm bitter that I'm not alive, yet I'm not dead. I'm trapped.  It's like being stuck upside down in a hole.  Your spine cramps and the bulk of your body weighs down your lungs.  Breathing becomes labored.  Your existence becomes miserable.  I'm bitter that I have to hunt my food like an animal. I'm bitter that I have become something more, something powerful and wise, something superior to you humans yet I have to hide away like a lower class creature.  It's like discovering you can fly but you have to keep your feet glued to the ground.  I'm bitter that I can feel what everyone else feels but I have no genuine feelings of my own, except those of rage and regret.

We seek out love but it is impossible. You see, love leaks into the veins. It’s pumped throughout the body by the heart. And for vampires to find love, we must seek it through sucking. Not to tarnish my image or display my weaknesses to you but we vampires are lonely creatures, too. This is another one of our human-like characteristics. What humans don’t understand is that death does not diminish the need to connect. We seek out victims, not with malicious intent, but with the need to feel close to someone. We are always so cold, always so ice cold. We can’t feel the sun and we can’t feel the skin of the living, not unless we are tearing it off.  The only way to feel warm is to smear that blood on ourselves, to ingest it and feel that sickening syrup slowly slide through our bodies.  God, doesn't that sound pathetic? Another reason I hate myself.  There's this inner conflict, this tangle of superiority and human-like weakness that spins inside me like nails in a blender. 

As much as I believe otherwise, vampires are viewed by the majority of you humans as a subspecies.  I guess there are those like you who realize we are exceptional but by most we are unneeded and unwanted. No one would ever choose to love a vampire. And even if they did, we can’t love back. Since they don’t choose us, present company excluded, we must choose them, love them against their will, and force a love out of them that is empty and unsatisfying. It seems cruel but it is a means for survival. It's no different from you humans. When I'm at that club, I see men stalking their prey just like I do. And at the end of the night, you are used up in very much the same way, just used for sex instead of blood.  Except, with them, you live to tell about it. But, really, am I all that different? We are forced to feed on blood, not only for nourishment, but a little connection.  Isn't that all you men and women are looking for, a little connection, a little contact to make you feel less alone in this great red world?  Without that connection, we are loveless. And without love, we are nothing.  And nobody wants to be nothing, not the highest ranking creatures or the scum of the earth.  Love, all consuming, all negating love is still at the center of everything.  As much as I hate it, love does transcend death.  Love still matters to every living, dying and dead thing.  Although vampires have been ushered into the underworld, we still retain the knowledge of what is important in life, a life that has been robbed of us, a life we still yearn for. Although we cannot obtain love, it is still a goal of ours. We still want it just as much as we did when we were alive. And perhaps that is our ultimate punishment. Not only are we locked away from the light, but from love as well. And we seek that love, very much in vain, through the veins. But, don't get so uppity. You humans do it, too. You all look for love in all the wrong places. Usually the wet ones.

I fell in love only once before I became a vampire. It was with the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Even after all these hundreds of years, I have never met anyone as beautiful as her. You don't even come close. I was immediately smitten with this beauty. It wasn't only her face, or her breasts, but it was her grace, her charm, her love that pulled me in to her. Unfortunately, the joke was on me. Turns out, she was a just another vampire and all those qualities of her character were a facade. She reeled me in just like I did to you.  Do you get it yet?  Are you paying attention, you twit?  Don't think I am interested in you.  Don't think my eyes shine for you.  For as I said, vampires just don't exhibit those kind of warm characteristics. It was just the mechanics of a vampire, those fake feelings that force unsuspecting victims to fall into their fangs. I wanted to give her my heart, but all she wanted was my blood. She strung me along for a few weeks before she bit me. Sometimes, I feel the greatest pain she plunged into me was not her teeth, but the hopes for some great love, a promise of something more than myself. She kept me around just long enough for me to fall in love with her. She had fooled me, had betrayed me into thinking I had found something real for the first time in my existence. I suppose my only consolation was the fact that she turned me and didn't just kill me. Hm, some consolation.  She even kept me around for a little while after I became a vampire. But, it was only long enough to teach me how to survive being a blood sucker. She soon left me and I was left so bitter. For the longest time I questioned her motives for turning me into a vampire. At first, I thought she was doing it so we'd be together forever. Then, I thought maybe she did it out of pity, that the time we had spent together maybe actually meant something to her and she didn't have the..."heart" to just kill me. I'll never know her true intentions. But, it couldn't have been love. I am convinced of that.  Love does not hurt.  Love does not transform.  Love does not kill.

But, it doesn't stop me from seeking it. And the closest thing I've come to feeling love is feeding on lovers. I like to search out the most vulnerable, most desperate girls I can find. Those are the tastiest. They have so much love within them and no one to give it to. Their blood is spiked with it.  So, I gladly take it. All that blood infused with so much love just tastes so sweet. It's just like red sugar. And that drug effect takes place once again, lined with love. That bitterness inside, the remnants of humanity, dissipates for as long as the blood coats my cuspids. You see, I don't just crave blood for the numbing properties, but for the bits of love that linger in the lining of the veins. It retards my regression into madness. Without that love located in the blood, I would disappear into the darkness.

To be continued...

Blood: Eternal Entropy

My dinner sat across from me on my couch. I admit I was both intrigued and angered by her lack of fear in regards to my condition. My immediate reaction was to tear her to pieces. How dare she not tremble in my presence! But what had angered me had also sparked a curiosity within, a dull burning I had not felt in years. It was some sort of...desire, a lust for more than nourishment. It was a lust for knowledge, a lust to know more about this meal. It was a lust for expression. Instead of being scared, this girl was stupid with excitement over meeting me, an actual existing vampire. She even informed me I was the reason she went to that particular club. She had heard it was a popular vampire hang out. And that’s why she made sure she went alone. She then proceeded to deliver a sob story that I didn’t really care to hear.  Something about intentionally  making herself an easy target with the short dress that exposed most of her tight body, the hair that was styled within an inch of its life, the makeup like plaster.  All of it in an effort to be picked up, all in an effort to find someone to show her a little love. Man after man had taken her and thrown her away, much like I was going to do, all because she thought she couldn’t do better. She felt her life was miserable, meaningless, so that’s why she wanted to become one of us. So utterly misguided.  She had naive fantasies of how much better things would be for her as a night walker. She dreamed of the power and the strength and her ability to finally be the one in control. And of course, who wouldn’t want to live forever? Her pathetic story only made me want to kill her even more, to put her miserable existence to an end. And then she asked me about the blood. Did I truly crave it? Was it enjoyable? Did blood taste different from victim to victim? Oh, the blood. It is so much more than a liquid that spills down the throat. The power of blood cannot be comprehended until you have turned and tasted the intoxication of crimson. Until then, that wet matter that courses through your body cannot be truly appreciated.  Lesson one:

Blood is actually a disgusting form of food. Vampires do not gain pleasure from piercing necks. Blood is thick and viscous, a texture that slips sickeningly past the tongue. It's warmth is not satiating, but sickening. It's coppery coating glues itself to the tongue and sticks to the roof of the mouth. It doesn't go down easily.  It's a struggle to swallow, yet uncompromisingly irresistible.

Despite my immortality, I am dying every day. I am immortal, yet I am decaying. My skin is tight, but my mind is loose and unraveling. According to your narrow view of time, I have been a vampire quite a while, a few decades.  But when you think about how long I'm going to be around, it only amounts to the bat of one of your fakes eyelashes.  And despite time being a dead, obsolete device to me, I cannot imagine stretching myself into eternity. I cannot comprehend forever. I am locked into this body with no escape. For anyone else, it might be a dream come true but I am existing in a nightmare. Eternity isn’t such a dream for someone who hates themselves. You see, I have a slight problem with self-loathing.  I'm a bit depressed.  Or, I was when I was alive.  Turning into a vampire didn't change that.  I grew stronger, sharper, but felt as discontent as ever.  Don't think you'll change for the better, either.  You'll still be as sad and pathetic as you are now.  You humans always dream of better things, always wait for some kind of mystical transformation that will never come.  You don't make the effort to change yourselves.  You sit on your hands and wait for someone or some thing else to do it for you.  When I realized my sadness would be my only true companion until the end of everything, I considered ending myself right then. I've played with the idea of stepping into the sun and smelling the sweet sulfur as my skin burns, cracks and dissolves in the daylight. But, there’s something that keeps me in the shade. It’s the drive to live, the drive to maintain. It’s a drive that is even stronger than the human will to live, that instinct to just exist.  You see, there is evil in all of us, lurking in our limbs. It is while we are human that we learn to control this evil, to conquer or at least contain our foul tendencies. But, becoming a vampire unleashes that evil in us.  It's a door that comes off the rusted hinges, a gaping wound in which all the agony comes spilling out.  It consumes our corpses and causes us to rise again, to spread our evil like a disease through the blood. And that evil is eternal. Weak humans have the choice of ending their lives. Vampires have no say in the matter. Evil has a will to live that is stronger than anything I have ever felt in my years of existence, in life and in death. It is a presence that shall never perish.

To make matters worse, vampires are ultra sensitive to everything around them. In a crowd, I can feel whatever anyone and everyone else is feeling. When I walk into a club, I am bombarded by sexual tension, excitement, obsession, depression and desperation. I've come to learn that these clubs and crowds of people are more messed up than they let on. Humans are blinded by bodies.  They cannot see past flesh, cannot comprehend beyond the tongue and hands and genitals.  Words so easily fool you.  You all are not intuitive enough to see what people are like on the inside.  Even more pathetic, you do not care enough to try.  But as for me, I can't help but to know what you all look like without the protective coating of flesh and clothing.  Let me tell you that no one is normal. I can feel everyone's flaws. I can tap into everyone's pain and it's sickening. Being human casts a veil of protection over your heart because you can't handle the reality. Humanity hazes your vision of the true world. It numbs the nerves. But, for me, I can feel every prickling portion of pain of those around me. I am exposed to the suffering of souls. I am never at ease. The pain is ever present. But, that is just one part to my assortment of abilities.

We are also imbued with powers of persuasion. Our eyes can pierce souls. Our hands can provide pleasure. Our kisses are quite literally intoxicating. And these abilities are solely for the purpose of obtaining prey. These skills help us survive. And the pain gives us the drive to devour. For you see, the only substance that can stifle my suffering is blood. My sexually hypnotizing nature is what helps me get what I need, built into me like the speed of a cheetah or the powerful jaws of a shark, and the pain that pummels all of my parts is what keeps me coming back for more.

Blood is like a drug. It numbs these foul feelings that consume me. You know, I never realized how bad humans had it until I was surrounded by their suffering. I thought my own depression was as bad as I'd ever feel.  Taking on the suffering of others only compounds the hatred I have for myself.  It amazes me how you all can continue to live under the circumstances of the world.  How you all don't slit your wrists or shoot yourself in the head is a mystery to me.  I wonder what keeps you all going, what makes you wake up into a world of chaos. It’s been so long since I’ve been human, I don’t even remember what it’s like to live for something. What do humans live for?  What is there to live for, anyway? You all lug around your loneliness and carry your pain in your pocket and yet forge ahead in these frustrating times. It’s a conundrum. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad you all don't kill yourselves.  If you did, I'd go hungry.  I mean, you really don't want to die, do you?  It's not the death you're seeking, it's the release from the pressure, that vice grip on your heart.  You only see the end product, the vampire you'll become.  You don't think about the process, how you'll have to endure death to enter eternity, how my venom will trickle through you, burning at every cell, taking you over from the inside out, killing you endlessly.  Is it worth it to you?  You think you know pain.  Your pain has all been in the mind.  You have never tasted pain, never even come close.

No, blood is nothing you’d want to have taint your tongue. It has the texture of phlegm. It stains the mouth. It burns the throat. Yet, from the first sip, you’ll never recover. Believe me, there’s no going back. When I was human, I befriended several drug addicts, even ate a few after I turned, and their tales of drug lust are nothing compared to going too long without blood. That’s an indescribable pain that cannot be articulated.  It's worse than the pain of humanity, more searing than the flames of hell. Cigarettes, alcohol, methamphetamines, Coke, X, all dissolve in death. But, blood sticks to your bones. All those synthetic addictions pale in comparison to the taste of blood, how it transcends all troubles, how it temporarily kills that pain that crawls up my neck and digs into my brain. It’s something I hate, yet can’t “live” without, just like how I hate you humans but can't go on without you, either. I’m in a constant struggle between lust and loathing. The thing I need the most, yet hate the most, can only be provided by the things I need the most, yet hate the most. As with any drug, the euphoria of flowing blood soon fades. Then, it’s time to kill again. I don’t particularly enjoy killing people, just so you know.  Yes, I'm a monster but I'm not a monster just for the sake of being one. Don’t get me wrong, I could care less if you humans live or die.  You all are as inconsequential to me as a cockroach.  As long as there are enough of you blood bags to keep my belly full, I could care less about the rest of your population.  Yet, I take no particular enjoyment in taking lives. I’m not some sick serial killer who seeks satisfaction from slashing throats. I only kill to live. Am I really any worse than you who kill animals for your sustenance?  Sure, they are simple creatures in comparison to you but you are a simple creature in comparison to me.  In fact, I’m doing humans a favor.  Death opens the door to peace. I unlock that door.  The question is, do you deserve death, that final path to peace? Maybe I don't get much pleasure from killing but I do enjoy a little torture.  You anger me.  You make me out of my mind with your stupidity.  Maybe I should grant your wish.  If I were merciful, I'd drain you and let you die.  But, maybe I should I extend your suffering into an incessant existence, present you with this "present" you have deemed the perfect solution to quell your crushed heart. Maybe I'll make you my pet.  Should I spare you the torment of a truly tortured existence or let you find out for yourself how horrific my "life" really is?

To be continued...

Blood: Prologue to a Puncture

A work of fiction written July 2007.

When she asked me to tell her about myself, I thought why not. I had some time to...kill. After all, the night was still young and I had no need to go out again. I knew from the second I saw her that she’d be coming home with me.

I first noticed her across the dance floor in a trendy club uptown, some cramped building with monochromatic colors and minimalistic furniture.  I was leaning against the wall with an overpriced drink in my hand, a few ounces of ruby-colored vodka.  I was looking, waiting, salivating.  Suddenly, like a curtain that unveils to reveal a grand prize, the sea of people parted, leaving her single in my sights. She was standing at the bar, a mixture of nerves and excitement along her brow, just above her immaculate eye makeup. I could tell this wasn’t the first time she had been in the club. She looked around, not as if she were new, only slightly uncomfortable. I guessed she had been here before, but with girl friends. This was the first time she had come alone. Her brunette stick straight hair was parted down the middle and arranged in front of her breasts which were barely covered by her tight fitting shimmer dress. The strobe lights illuminated her hair and skin in a technicolor of tints. Her face was lineless, clueless.  Her body taut, tasty.  She was young, tender, smooth. Most importantly, I could tell she was easy.

I slid my way past the gyrating bodies and headed straight for this girl, this tasty morsel who out-shined the rest of the plastic people who were slinging their drinks and grinding their crotches into each other. She noticed me coming toward her and turned away. A shy smile spread across her glossed lips. In that instant I knew she would do whatever I wanted. I slid my way next to her and introduced myself. Her smile grew wider and whiter. Perfect teeth.  Fake.  I knew she thought I was hottest guy in the club. I was.  I wasted no time and quickly offered to buy her a few drinks. We engaged in small talk but I knew it was all just a formality and ultimately she’d be back at my place. It was all just meaningless dribble to me. I could care less about this girl and realized she would be a lot hotter without a tongue. Right from the first look into her cloudy eyes, I could see her desperation to be loved. I could smell the loneliness clinging to her clothes. It mingled with the mint in my drink and the delicate perfume which hovered over her like a halo. Her smell made me as intoxicated as I was trying to get her with every fresh drink I put in front of her. She lapped them up like a dog.  Like a little bitch.  She was my favorite type of girl: lonely, painfully insecure. These types were the easiest to bag. After I quelled her comprehension with a couple of Cosmos, I instructed her to leave with me. Yes, instructed. She was not in the right mind to deny me.  The alcohol had allowed me to dominate this girl, although I imagine I could have without it. Still acting like a dog, eager to please me, she agreed to leave with me, a total stranger, a man she had never met yet intended to let screw her. She was desperate for a little attention, hungry for a little affection. I was hungry, too.

On the way to my apartment, she clung to me tighter than her dress clung to her hips. She was a really sad girl. Terribly insecure. She was looking for a strong, handsome man like me to suck away that sadness. I was more than obliged.

I opened the door to my place and she opened her mouth to tousle my tongue. She wasted no time. It had been a long time since she had been in the company of a man. Her hands were everywhere, her breath smelled Jolly Ranchers and innocence.  She peppered my face with soft kisses, her lip gloss smearing across my cheek. I hate when girls do that. Disgusted, I pulled her face off of mine and pushed her onto my couch.  She landed with a soft thud, a coy smile carved into her mouth, her eyes illuminated by lust.  By this reaction, I could tell she liked it a bit rough. Not only was she pathetic and miserable, but there was a touch of kink in her as well.  I could work with that.

I straddled her on the leather couch and with every deep kiss, her moans got louder and I became more aroused. She was dumb and disgusting but she was also smoking hot. I went down to her throat and tickled it with my lips, flicking my tongue over the length of her neck. Her head went back and her shimmering hair fell away from her shoulders. The couch squeaked in response to her wiggling. I love that sound. I placed my hand on her head and clutched a clump of hair, then roughly pulled her head to one side. A giggle floated up from her face.  Yeah, she definitely liked it hard. Maybe she even enjoyed a little pain. I wondered how much she liked. I wondered how bad it would hurt before those screams of pleasure pushed into pain. I’d find out soon enough.

I licked her neck until it was nice and wet, ready for me to penetrate.  A delicate blue vein ran right below her bejeweled ear, presenting itself like a gift.  Just what I was looking for.  I caressed it with my fingers, cajoled it to rise from her skin and finally knew it was time. With her eyes closed she would never see me coming. I opened my mouth and allowed my teeth to elongate. They pushed forth out of my gums and formed razor sharp tips. I went down on her neck slowly, savoring those last few seconds before desire turned into death, licking up and down, softening the skin for easier injection. Just before I could penetrate the soft flesh of her throat, she turned her head and opened her eyes.

Sometimes I have these girls in so much ecstasy they lose all sense of time and location. They usually close their eyes and submit to my seduction. Sometimes they do catch me right before I bite but it doesn't stop me from doing the deed. I prefer them never to notice, as their screams disturb the neighbors. I then have to go to the trouble of speaking to those worthless bags of flesh and apologize to them by lying and say I was having rough, loud sex. That usually gets them off my back, although they are left feeling awkward by my direct openness.  Idiots.  I looked at this sexy, yet stupid girl and she wasn't screaming. She didn't look horrified at all. Actually, she looked quite amused. Her sparkly eyes lit up in wonder. I had to lean back in my perplexity. Her smile became huge. My teeth immediately retracted in disgust and confusion.  An unfortunate case of involuntary shrinkage.

I didn't really know how to go about dealing with this new turn of events so I simply asked her why she was smiling. She excitedly told me I was a vampire.  She acted as if it were some revelation to me, as if she was telling me I had won a million dollars.  I knew who I was but she had no idea the danger she was in.   Her voice rose in an annoyingly high pitched tone that scraped my ears. She told me she had always wanted to meet a real vampire, always wanted to be turned into one herself. I had to laugh at her idiocy. Was she being serious or was she just delusional with fear? I shot a look into her eyes which caused the sparkle to fade. She became the confused one. I informed her that she in fact did not want to become a vampire. It was nothing like in the movies or in those homoerotic books. It was actually a sick existence. But, she only looked at me like I was lying to her, as if I was trying to convince her of something she knew to be untrue. I could tell she was stupid when I first met her, so I guess it was no shock that I couldn't persuade her into believing something she had already made up her mind about.  Stupid, ignorant, stubborn humans.  She was in the dark on the issues and she was intent to remain that way.  I'm I'm to be honest, I was slightly surprised, slightly intrigued to see there was no fear on her overly made up face. This confused me and when I get confused, I get angry.  And when I get angry, I get mean.  And when I get mean, I leave nothing left.  I leave no nerve untouched, no vein uncharted until I place my meal into such unspeakable pain that they beg for death, pray for it.  And I deliver it at a dawdling pace.   Normally, these little girls only have two reactions to me: I make them hot and then I make them scared, which makes me hot. That was the way it has been for years and years. This one was ruining my rhythm.  I was ready to kill her right then and there but something held me back, an indistinguishable something that prevented the puncture.

I guess this girl had piqued my curiosity. I guess there was nothing wrong with keeping her around a little longer, just to see how idiotic she could be. She'd be my entertainment before she was my dinner.  She made herself comfortable on my couch and then propped her chin on her hand. She leaned forward and asked me to describe my “life” as a vampire. I had simply planned on tearing her throat out and after disposing of her body, catching up on some sleep. But, this girl’s stupidity was intriguing. I had never met anyone who was genuinely excited to meet the deliverer of their death. Perhaps it was her inebriation or sheer lack of brain cells, but I suppose she still believed I was interested in her for more than her body. I suppose she believed I wouldn’t harm her. I suppose she believed I’d even grant her my gift. She was lucky I wasn’t too hungry and didn’t have any plans for the rest of the night. I didn’t mind stringing her along for a few hours longer. I know it’s incredibly rude to play with your food, but I have to admit it was a different feeling knowing she was still so into me even after she knew what exactly I was. Besides, I hadn’t engaged in an actual conversation with anyone for years now, if you don't count the usual small talk to lure unsuspecting blood bags back to my apartment. So, I decided to set her straight on what being a vampire truly meant. I leaned back on the other side of the couch and began to explain to her why exactly she should never want to be like me...

To be continued...

Corpse Crush

A work of fiction, written February 2007.


I knew he’d be here. He always adored football. He’s with his friends now, practicing. And he’s just as handsome as when I saw him a few days ago. Or was it a few weeks? I forget. Time seems meaningless around him. Actually, everything seems meaningless around him, except for his arms around me. I love to watch him play. I believe I could stay here forever and just watch his body move. It’s hot today. Maybe he’ll peel off his shirt. He is so gorgeous. Brown hair. Beautiful brown eyes. Tall. Dark. Handsome. What more could anyone ask for? So strong, too, the way his muscles flex when he moves. And that tooth. Cutest thing in the world.

Millie had repeated Greg’s description in her mind a thousand times. Although her head was fuzzy, she knew she’d never forget his face or where to find him. As Millie would repeat the specifics of Greg’s face, she would always find something new about him that made her fall in love all over again. This time it was the trail of hair that bloomed on his bellybutton and snaked its way down his abdomen and into his underwear. Millie had caught a glimpse of it when Greg had jumped up and extended his arms to catch the ball, his shirt lifting up in the process. Millie had seen him shirtless before and always noticed the hair but something about this time made it particularly sexy. It was the teasing aspect that turned her on. Just a glimpse of that hair that lead to other places. Millie found herself falling in love with every inch of Greg’s body, even the inches she didn’t know about yet.

Millie stood on the outskirts of her high school football field, safely behind the diamond patterned fence. She watched as Greg played football with a few of his friends. This became a routine for Millie. At least three times a week, she would pass by the football field after school to see if Greg was there. Sometimes he was and sometimes he wasn’t. He and his friends didn’t have a set schedule to play, only when the mood struck them or one of them didn’t have to go to work. When he wasn’t there, an ache of disappointment would fill Millie’s insides. Sometimes other girls would stay after school and join Milie in watching Greg play, although they never actually joined her. They would stand in her general area, sometimes smile at her, but never talk to her. Millie didn’t mind. She knew she was Greg’s biggest fan, that the bubble headed blondes could never love him like she did. No, not in the slightest. It was this fact that kept Millie from getting jealous of the prettier, skinnier girls.

Not that Millie was ugly or fat. She just lacked a little self confidence and thus, only felt that way. In fact, Millie was quite cute, if not a little plain. She kept her strawberry blond hair a little past her shoulders, mostly always straight and parted down the middle. Millie didn’t wear makeup as she always felt fake under it and a bit clownish. The reason could be that Millie was never taught how to apply makeup correctly. She wouldn’t dare ask her mother because she was prone to applying too much makeup herself. And Millie didn’t have any girl friends so she never bothered. And she didn’t need to. Millie’s complexion was fresh and creamy, a welcome change from her bout with acne she had had a few years before. Millie always looked neat and clean but never went out of her way to look gorgeous. If any random stranger were to comment on her style, one might say she’d be a very gorgeous girl if she would only fix herself up a bit more. A little blush, a little mascara. Some would even say it seemed like she tried to underplay her figure. And they would be right.

Millie went through all the typical teenage trauma: terrible skin, awkward growth spurts that left her body out of proportion and gawky, bad fashion choices. Middle school was a terrible time for Millie. Her fragile self-esteem couldn’t carry the burden of her braces so she became a hermit. But, once Millie hit high school, she had outgrown her problem skin and no longer needed her braces. Something else happened to Millie as well. She grew breasts. Big, round, beautiful breasts.

While other girls were developing early, Millie remained flat and frustrated. Millie’s mother swooped in to save the day with a typical Mom’s “when I was your age” speech. She assured Millie that one day she would develop and that she was just a "late bloomer." Millie always cringed at that awful and outdated expression.

“I didn’t develop until I was fifteen,” her mother told her one day. This did make Millie feel a little better and even more so when she looked down at her mother’s chest. Despite being a forty-two-year old woman who breastfed both Millie and her little brother, Billie (which consequently did lead to a bit of sagging) Millie’s mother had quite an ample bosom.

Those will be mine one day Millie thought to herself in wide eyed wonder.

Sure enough, that summer, Millie began to grow. It was as if a signal were sent to her breasts telling them they were lagging behind. And they were catching up very fast. A few weeks and several trips to the mall for new bras later and Millie had a beautiful new figure. She could only imagine the surprise on the faces of all those she knew when she came back to school with one new hairdo and two perky breasts. She was even asked by a few envious girls if she had a boob job over the summer!

Millie’s beautiful new body did backfire to some degree. Not only did she feel good about her new body, so did a lot of the boys in her grade. Millie’s new look lead to lots of attention from her male classmates. Some of it was good but most of it was creepy. Millie would sometimes catch guys staring at her chest in class. This made Millie very uncomfortable and so she withdrew from people again. She also began to wear the most unflattering clothes she could find. Millie was insecure in middle school because she felt she wasn’t pretty enough and now, in high school, she was feeling insecure for being too pretty. She wondered if she’d ever feel good about herself like the other girls.

To get her mind off of her troubles, Millie would draw. It seemed Millie had a hidden talent for art, a talent found while seeking solace from the cruel world when she was “ugly.” As Mille battled through her awkward period, her weapons were pencils and paper. Millie expressed her emotions through her art. Even Millie’s mother was surprised at her daughter’s talent, as she could barely draw a stick figure man. Then, she remembered Millie’s father used to draw when he was a very young child. Perhaps it was another gift he passed along besides his nose and deep gray eyes.

What once was a passion for Millie fizzled itself into a hobby once school started back. She wasn’t able to draw very much until she was able to take an art class. Her teacher, Mrs. Bentley, was thoroughly impressed with Millie’s work and encouraged her to enter the different local art contests that were held in the area. She entered in several, placed in many and even one a few first prize ribbons. Not too bad for an amateur artist.

Millie fell in love the day she was harassed by a group of football players in front of her locker after fourth period. She was exchanging the books in her backpack when Peter (known as Pete the Perv to all the girls in school) walked up to her and put his elbow on a locker next to hers. Standing next to him was his right hand man, Kent. There were two other guys standing with them but she didn’t know their names. They were in a grade below Millie and the only people Millie knew were people with which she shared classes. But, Millie knew that collectively they were known as the Circle Jerks, not only because they were jerks, but because a year earlier they were all caught by Coach Bowers in the locker room engaging in a mutual masturbation session. No one dared call them that to their faces, though, as the few people who did ended up with bloody noses and bruised bodies. But, when they weren’t within earshot, people would say under their breath, “Watch out, the Circle Jerks are coming!” Then, people would scatter like dropped marbles. And they scattered for good reason. Pete the Perv was the leader of the sleaze gang and he was the biggest womanizer to ever enter Green Hills High School. He was a serial cherry popper and was proud of it. His two passions in life were football and sex, not unlike other men, but Peter just took it way too far.

Peter relied on his good looks and fake charm to bag the girls. He wasn’t a stunning looking guy, but he did have a boyishly handsome face and a decent body from all those years of being on the football team. It also helped that he was rich. He went through condoms like Kleenex. Peter would find a pretty young (and naïve) girl, make her feel like she was the prettiest girl in the world, then, just as he would gain all of her trust, he would have sex with her and then dump her. That is, unless she was a great lay. In that case, he would bang her a few more times and then dump her. His philosophy was “befriend 'em, bed 'em, then beat those bitches to the door!”

Peter left a seemingly endless trail of broken hearts and broken hymens. After being used, the girls were confused and more than anything, they were angry. Despite his experience, Peter wasn’t very good in bed. He wasn’t very well endowed, either, and didn’t know what to do with what little he had. And although these poor young girls were virgins, Pete liked it rough. He would mount them and then drive himself into them as hard as he could, pump a few times and then climax, releasing the most unattractive squeal of satisfaction. But, the girls were never satisfied. And because of the way he had viciously violated their insides, they were not only left with bruised hearts, but with bloody bed sheets as well.

Millie silently groaned to herself when she saw Pete the Perv and his gang come up to her.

“Hey, there, Millie,” he said it a sickeningly sweet voice. He barely knew Millie and had never even spoken to her until he noticed the two attractive growths on her chest.  His glassy brown eyes zoned in on the buttons of Millie's cardigan, the way the fabric stretched across her breasts, the way they slightly rose with her breath.

“Hi,” she said in a politely dismissive tone. Millie quickly zipped up her backpack, crossed her arms over her chest and gave Peter a politely dismissive smile.  She tried to walk away but Peter stopped her and softly grabbed her arm. The spot where Peter put his hand sent ripples of goose bumps up and down Millie’s arm.

“So, I noticed you’ve done some growing over the summer,” he said in a cocky manner. His tongue poked out of his mouth and slid across his thin lips, leaving them wet and shiny.  Kent and the other two were leering at Millie. She could actually feel their eyes fondling her chest. “Can I squeeze them?”

Peter wasn’t good with tact.

“Okay, I’ve really got to get to class,” Millie said firmly. She shrugged off Peter’s arm and started again when he stopped her again. He grabbed her arm once more, this time a little harder.

Peter stepped closer to Millie, his thin, wet lips only centimeter's from her ear.

“I don’t think you answered my question,” he said, almost hurt.

“The answer is no,” Millie said flatly.

“No one says no to Peter Caravelli,” Pete said, as if she should have known better.

“Well, I just did.”

Peter’s grip on Millie tightened until he started to hurt her. Millie’s eyes grew wide with fear. Peter started to say something else when a booming voice interrupted his own.

“Hey! Stop it, Peter!” Greg shouted.

Peter looked over and saw Greg walking up to him. He let go of Millie and then smiled a sickeningly sweet smile at Greg.  It was the kind of smile he'd flash anytime he got in trouble or if he was trying to impress a girl.  Millie could see how his smile would soothe anyone he angered and trap any girl he wanted to conquer.  It was a good smile, an attractive smile, one that lit up his whole face and invited his eyes to become brighter.  It was deceiving.  If she didn't already know what a sleaze he was, she might have been charmed.

“We were just having a nice conversation,” Peter said.

“I highly doubt that. Now, why don’t you and the rest of the Circle Jerks go away,” Greg said.

Fire rose in Peter’s eyes. The sweetness on his lips dried up into a frown.  If it were anyone else but Greg, that person would have been paralyzed. But, Greg was probably the best football player on the team and Peter looked up to him for his skill, respected him. Peter let it go because it was Greg. He and Kent and the rest of them slinked off down the halls and out of sight.

Millie and Greg locked eyes. In that split second, Millie felt something she had never felt before.  She felt love for a man. Her father died when she was three and she had no memories of him.  Any that she might have had when she was younger slowly faded away with age. She had no uncles and only a few male cousins but they lived out of state so she never saw them. It was mainly just her and her mom. Millie never had a male figure in her life. Millie had never loved a man before. That was, until now. And in that split second, she not only felt love for Greg for saving her from Peter, but she felt a lifetime of love for him. She fell in love with those brown eyes of his and fell in love with his heart.

Millie knew of Greg, just like she knew of a lot of people without ever actually knowing them in person. Millie knew that Greg was on the football team and that he did well in school. She also knew Greg wasn’t a typical dumb jock. His name was always found on the honor roll and he would speak to everyone in the halls, no matter if they were rich or poor, black or white, gothic or preppy. Greg was just a friendly guy who had love in his heart for everyone and he spread that love around. And now Millie was catching some of that love and sending some back to him. Millie had always found him attractive from far away, but now that he was closer, she could see what a truly handsome guy he was. His short, cocoa colored hair shined like glass under the florescent lights. If Millie had to define its style, she would have said “just after sex bed head.” Greg was tall, over six feet Millie guessed, and quite lean. He wasn’t muscle bound and he certainly wasn’t skinny, but just the right amount of muscle. His tight t-shirt defined his toned arms perfectly. He was a shirt and jeans kind of guy, wearing his letterman jacket on cold days. His sparkling eyes always gave off a sense of warmth and openness. The brown reminded her of hot chocolate and she was instantly comforted by them, warmed by their gaze. Greg’s skin took on a golden hue due to his many football practices outside. And now that he was smiling at her, Millie noticed his teeth. They were pearly white, but not perfect. His right canine tooth slightly crossed his lateral incisor. This broke Millie’s vision of his perfection at first, then only reinforced it. That slightly crooked tooth showed that Greg was real, not some unattainable Adonis. He was genuine. His imperfections made him perfect. Millie called them his “unperfectly perfect” teeth.

“Sorry about Pete the Perv,” he said.

“Oh, um, it’s okay,” Millie stammered. “I guess it’s a good thing you came along. Since he’s your friend he listened to you when you told him to leave.”

Greg laughed and Millie melted underneath the sound.

“He is not my friend! He is on my team, but that’s where our relationship ends. He’s a total jerk and treats women terribly.  Actually, he treats everyone terribly.  Listen, if he ever gives you trouble again, just let me know, okay? I’ll have a talk with him. For some reason, he listens to me.”

Millie fell a little more in love with him. He not only had a beautiful face, but a beautiful soul as well.

“I’ll do that, thankyousomuch,” she said way too fast, a huge smile spreading across her face. The intensity of his beauty was too much for her to take and Millie had to look down at her shoes.

“Well, I think the bell is gonna ring soon.  I gotta get to class before I'm late. I’ll see ya around, Millie. It’s Millie, right?”

Oh, my God! He knows my name! He knows my naaame!

“Right!” she said in a high pitched giggle. Millie heard the word reverberate in her ears and quickly realized how stupid she sounded. She wanted to die.

Greg only smiled his “unperfectly perfect” smile and then waved goodbye to Millie before heading off to class.

Millie’s smile only grew as she closed her eyes and sunk in the events of the last few moments. She thought to herself, I just talked to the man I’m going to marry.

Although Millie had never had a crush on a boy before, she knew that this wasn’t just a normal crush. She knew this was real, true love. Millie never doubted her feelings for one second. She was enamored with this Greek god, this beautiful being who had swept in and swept her off her feet while protecting her from Pete the Perv.  The shrilling sound of the bell crashed inside Millie's head and brought out of her daydream romance with Greg.  She practically floated to class.

Memories flooded back to Millie as she stood on the football field. She recalled her first meeting with Greg and the encounter with Peter. A streak of hatred ran through her body at the mention of Peter’s name, although she didn’t know why. Millie had forgotten a lot of things over the past few days. Or weeks, or months? Millie put one hand through the chain link fence and pretended the material between her fingers were Greg’s fingers. She caressed the fence in hopes that somehow she could transfer the sensation of her fingers over to Greg just by the power of her heart. Millie looked down and noticed a red card in her other hand. She turned it over and looked at it. A Valentine. Suddenly, Millie remembered. It was Valentine’s Day. And she remembered making the card for Greg.

After meeting Greg for the first time, the next few weeks were filled with Millie seeing Greg in the hall and he would always wave and flash his flawless smile at Millie. Millie would drink up every drop and feel full for the rest of the day, satiated by the daily slices of Greg she would get to indulge in. They never had time to talk as they were always walking to their next class. Not that Millie would have spoken to him, anyway. Millie was painfully shy despite her beauty. And she doubted Greg even thought of her more than just another victim of Peter. But, she loved him regardless, whether they talked or whether she’d silently see him pass by. As long as she could look at him, she realized she was okay. He was her link to her world. And her world was Greg.

Millie decided to use her art to show Greg just how much she loved him. Millie didn’t have any pictures of Greg and would feel way too awkward asking for one, so she dug out her old yearbook from the year before and found Greg’s picture. He looked younger in the picture. His face was a bit fuller, his hair a bit longer, but that smile was still the same. And those beautiful eyes. Millie decided to take Greg’s proportions from the yearbook and draw him as he was today, more mature, more chiseled, more beautiful. Millie never had a problem drawing people. Sometimes she was so good the drawing would look photo realistic. But, knowing the picture was going to go to her future husband, Millie put herself under a lot of pressure and she had a hard time getting it right. After several nights of crumpled paper and broken pieces of chalk, Millie finally finished. She stood back, her cheeks and forehead smudged with charcoal, and was happy with the final product. She just hoped Greg would be as well.

Millie had planned on giving the drawing to Greg the next day, but before she could put the picture away, she had second thoughts. Would that be weird? Would he think I was a creepy stalker? We’ve only talked once. What if I scare him away? No, I can’t do that. I can’t give him this picture. Milie put the drawing of Greg away in one of her drawers.

Now, looking down, she remembered that she realized it wasn’t weird or creepy at all, but a beautiful thing to do for someone else. And she felt in her heart he’d think so, too. Millie was struck with many realizations in the moment that she glanced down at the Valentine card with Greg’s picture in it. Millie remembered her newfound bravery in the decision to give the picture to Greg. Her head began to spin with memories and realizations.  Millie wanted to express her love for Greg even though she knew he would never fall in love with her. Without the worry of wondering about his reaction to her declaration of love for him, Millie knew she’d be able to give him the picture with a little Valentine thrown in, in honor of the big day. Millie knew Greg wouldn’t fall in love with her. Everything was coming back. It was very clear in her head now. Millie wasn’t feeling insecure, only certain of this. She wasn’t worried about her silly problems she used to have. It’s not that Millie didn’t feel pretty enough or thin enough. No, Millie had a much bigger problem.

Millie was dead.

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