|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 |
| Get Headlines: |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
.
|
|
issue 5
|
| Charades |
|
|
|
|by Holly Day
|
|
The thin layer of ice covering the snow cracks beneath my heavy boots like eggshells, the only sound left in the empty black night. I pull my cloak more tightly around myself, more to hide the fresh
bloodstains than from actual cold. My eternal shadow, nocturnal buzzards, circle overhead, their appetites barely sated by the thin child I led into the field to play, she of hollow bones and little flesh.
I was pretty disappointed with her, too.
I'm glad I let her die.
City lights blink in and out of the trees. A lone automobile roars up behind me, then passes, wheels spraying up slush from the uneven potholes in the road. A little bit of slush lands on my flesh, and I watch it, fascinated, as it seethes and disappears from the heat of my body.
Small packs of domestic dogs stage mock wars in the fields. My fingers curl into claws automatically, unconsciously, but I hold my peace and pass them by without so much as an audible whimper of lust. One dog might not be missed, two dogs might not be missed, but a whole pack of dogs and a missing girl would not go unnoticed.
I reach my driveway just as the sky turns from black to a fluorescent twilight blue. "I'm not going to be good for *anything* tomorrow," I say aloud, more to practice the colloquialism than to actually express a sentiment. The door of the garage yawns open as I approach, and I enter its musty confines gratefully, allowing myself to sink down to the oil-splattered pavement and stretch out on the cool concrete, just for an instant, just enough to let my mind go blank.
An alarm clock goes off from somewhere inside the house. I sigh and climb to my feet, pulling my cloak off and hanging it up on the hook by the door. I stumble into the bathroom and splash cold water on my face without turning on the light. I pull my blood-soaked shirt and jeans off and step into the shower with them, the water from the tap loosening the dried blood, making it wet again, splashing red all over my chest and face, just like last night. I feel myself getting erect at the mere memory of the pale wraith, and I force myself to think about something else.
The sun has almost completely risen when I walk back into the living room, my bare feet leaving wet prints in the worn carpet. I pull on my work clothes--white dress shirt, gray slacks, patent leather shoes--and brush my hair into a straight black slick. Bloodshot eyes stare back at me from the hallway mirror, but otherwise, I look. Perfectly. Normal. I am, as usual, the first person in the office. I start up the coffee machine and wander through the building, letting myself fade into the automaton the company wants to see. My boss breezes in a couple of
minutes later, greeting me with a cheerful "Good morning!" before disappearing into his own office. I smile back an instant too late, then hurry to my desk and try to look busy.
The day passes uneventfully, like always, a million routine details, amillion little lies and vicious gossip and stupid jokes floating through the office. I am too haggard to really pay attention, and spend the day shuffling papers and drinking coffee. I have to stay awake one more day, one more night, and then I can sleep for two whole days.
I am out the door before the clock actually releases me. I have to be back in the field by midnight, and I have to have my prey with me.
The coffeeshops are no longer an option. I met my last two victims there, and I doubt if any other patrons would be stupid enough to leave with me. I hit the coin laundromat instead, bringing my pile of mangled clothing with me.
The only other people in the laundromat are two ancient fat women--the thought of stripping them naked and mutilating them makes me limp. I buy a newspaper and pretend to read, convinced that this is the place, that supper or love or both will meet me here tonight.
And then she walks in. Thin, not too thin, a pillar of marble and bone and flesh. Her thick blue veins pulse flirtatiously along her white neck, beneath her mane of black hair. She sets her basket of dirty clothes down on the counter and begins filling up two of the washing machines, brushing her long hair out of her face with one hand as she separates colors from whites. I catch her eye from over the newspaper and smile--the pleasant smile I've been practicing at work--and she, amazingly, smiles back. I go back to pretending to read the paper, determined not to rush this one.
"Do you mind if I sit here?" She stands before me, empty basket held in one hand, her purse slung over her arm. I grin, somewhat maniacally, and scoot over the slightest bit, making more room for her. "Thanks," she says, sitting down, her leg almost touching mine. "You don't know how many weirdoes try to come on to single women in laundromats."
I nod, trying to think of something to say. I end up clearing my throat and folding up my newspaper.
"You alone on a Friday night as well?" she asks, sympathetically. "I don't know anyone with a real life who does laundry on Fridays." She stares off at the far wall and sighs meaningfully.
"No sense in us both being alone," I venture, hoping it doesn't sound as corny to her as it does me. A little smile plays at the corner of her mouth, as though she's trying not to laugh. I try again, floundering, "I mean, we don't *have* to spend our whole night washing and folding and ironing clothes. We could step out for fifteen, twenty minutes for a beer or a cup of coffee, possibly. The laundry won't get done any faster with us watching it."
"Are you a weirdo?" she asks, point blank.
"Uh, no," I answer, wondering if I've gone too far.
"Okay." She stands up and stretches, her long black hair almost touching my face. "A beer sounds lovely."
We go out to my car and I hold the door open for her, the quintessential gentleman. I pull out onto the main road and watch the sky grow darker, the stars just beginning to peek out from behind the clouds. "Did you have any place in particular in mind?" I ask her, just to appear interested.
"Ah, not really." She seems somewhat preoccupied, staring out the car window at the streetlights and evening crowds.
"Are you all right?" Part of me is genuinely concerned, and the concern feels like a cold knot in my stomach.
"Yeah, I guess." She tosses her hair and looks at me, somewhat sadly, resigned. "I hope you don't think I'm too forward, just taking off with you like this, but I just got out of a really serious relationship, and I
don't know what single people do together, how they're supposed to act, all that stuff. This is a really weird time for me right now."
"For me, too," I say, and leave it at that.
The sky grows black quickly, just as we reach the edge of town. She looks at me nervously, out of the corners of her eyes. "Don't worry," I say quickly, "I just want to show you something. It'll only take a second." I smile the friendly smile again, and slow to a stop underneath the trees. I get out of the car and walk over to her side of the car and open the door for her. She gets out slowly, nervously. "Relax," I say, and begin walking toward the field. After a few seconds I hear her footsteps crunching trough the snow after me.
I turn on her just as we're out of sight of the road. She fights back, much stronger than the pale secretaries and art students I've had here before, but I have the advantage of surprise. My sharp teeth rip through her flesh, first tearing into her left breast, then finding a home in her alabaster neck. The veins spit blood sluggishly into my mouth, down my throat, and I take just enough to make her mine. I drop her onto the snow and lean down to whisper into her ear. "You will not die," I say. "I have given you immortality, and I will be back to claim you tomorrow night. Do not be afraid, my angel." She stares back at me through eyes that see nothing, filming over like ice on a frozen pond. I kiss her lips gently, and arrange her still-twitching limbs in a way that looks somewhat comfortable. Reluctantly, I go back to my car, impatient for the next evening.
And the next evening, I find I have taken too much of her blood, or done *something* wrong, for she is gone. Dogs have ripped her body to pieces, leaving chunks of her out in the open for the birds of the night to carry back to their young. A ripped shred of scalp beckons to me from a tree limb at the end of the field, the wind having turned the strip of long black hair into a macabre streamer. From the right angle, it almost looks like she is there, still alive, hiding behind the line of trees, her long, soft hair giving away her hiding place--but only for an instant.
|
.
|
|
|
|
|
|
