Saturday, August 11, 2007

   Um. Another one!
The edges of the picture in my mind are fuzzy, as if, after years and years, the thick parchment of the picture’s edges had been frayed. They are uneven, dark, but my eyes continue to stare at those missing pieces. I do not want to glance at the center; I know what will be there. My eyes are still drawn to the memorandum, though.
In the picture, there is a windmill, a sprawling line of crops, and a few towering trees, signaling the beginnings of a forest.
I want to tear my gaze away from the seemingly serene setting, but I cannot.
Maybe I look in hope, hope that the outcome will be altered somehow.
Silly.
Pictures, events that occurred in the past can never change. The decisions have been made, the path the people had taken cannot be deterred, as they have already followed that path, and are forever destined to walk that path until the next sign shoots up, offering a choice: this way or that way. Figuratively speaking, the path they take is set in stone; they cannot turn back once they begin walking.
The picture that was at first a faded blur becomes more defined, and the colors darken into vibrant shades of blue, purple, brown, and green.
The picture is slowly coming to life.
So many colors, so bright after the pale cream and black of an old photo that I cannot begin to grasp them, and it takes a few moments for my eyes to adjust.
I have to watch, I know I do. But how, why, is this linked to me?
Out of the inky blackness of night, a woman of about seventeen or eighteen runs. Her feet kick up clumps of grass and soil, and with plops and thuds they solidly hit the ground behind her. Her mouth is spread into a wide “O”, a scream. Tears flow freely down her face, and she bolts through an orderly row of cornstalks, swiping them away from her face.
She collapses against the wide tree trunk of a tree, clawing at the uneven texture of the bark. It was as if she was in a life boat, rearing waves on either side of her, and she grasps it tightly, hoping to God it will save her, and knowing, with melancholy, that it will not.
Her breath comes in ragged gasps, and a wound on her left thigh drips scarlet blood. A knife wound, perhaps?
But then, his voice, a voice that is a purr of seduction, a voice that slays all resistance with one letter in a word. It is soft, so velvety soft. His voice mostly masks ugly secrets he hides, although every move his mouth makes, somewhat reveals them.
“Emily,” he whispers. His voice is warm, comforting.
“No,” she chokes out. “You’re a monster, a beast! I hate you, despise you!” Then, very softly, she says meekly, “I thought you cared for me. You told me you loved me.” Tears drip down her nose and beneath the collar of her shirt. “But now, I know you only wanted me to satisfy…” she does not finish.
In one step, he grabs her wrist, and yanks her to her feet.
“Do not say it,” he hisses menacingly. His lips graze the hollow beneath her ear, and she shudders. “Now,” he says, taking her elbow and crushing her to him, “let us take a moonlit walk, like we always do, or shall I say did, because this time, you will not return.” His voice is low, and softens until it is almost inaudible.
She fights his grip, tears at his arm, and knees him in the groin. He cries out in pain, and loosens his hold just enough that she can pry free. She whips through the forest. Branches of low hanging trees scratch at her body, and she halts in a clearing. His steps, frantic behind her, cause her to choose a direction, and flee. She twists this way and that, trying to bewilder him.
Her foot hits a rock, and it skitters along the leaf foliage that litters the forest floor, and pitches itself into a deep ravine.
She does not hear it. She does not see it.
She cocks her head, searching for a flicker of movement behind her, and steps on thin air.
She plunges head first into the deep abyss.
*
I woke up, panting, my heart racing in my chest and sweat slicking my body. My nightgown was plastered to my skin, and my legs trembled as my feet hit the hard wooden floors in my new home, its placement in the quiet town of New Falls, Montana.
My gaze traveled the length and width of my small room, searching for any unknown identities lurking in the shadows. Each dark image on the walls seemed more menacing and more exaggerated then the real object. The purple paint seemed like a nagging reminder of my dream. Have to paint over those, I thought. The four-poster bed seemed too large for the room, and gave me a sense of claustrophobia.
I let out a shaky breath and padded through the narrow, neutral-colored hallway into the kitchen. I threw open the refrigerator, grabbed the jug of milk, and poured myself a glass. I put it in the microwave, and lounged against the counter, watching the digital red numbers count down the time.
My mum, bleary eyed, stumbled into the kitchen, and blinked, as if trying to remember who I was. Agitated, I reminded her, “Mum, it is your daughter, Gemma.”
“Gemma,” she repeated slowly, and then her eyes lightened up with recognition and darkened when she realized what time it was. “Gemma, what are you doing up so late?” One appraising study of me revealed the answer.
“Bad dream,” she questioned.
I nodded mutely.
“Murder-mystery again,” she asked half-jokingly.
Once again, I nodded. The clock bleated the preparation of my warm milk was complete. I pulled open the door, and banged it shut with my hip. Cradling my glass in my hands, I sipped it slowly.
“You know,” my mum began cautiously, “I’ve been thinking, you’re seventeen, old enough that you don’t need an old woman like me tagging along, and I think that moving from Britain has taken a toll on you, love. Adjusting must be harder, and it’s a Saturday. So I was thinking, how about you go out with some friends today?”
“Mum, I don’t have many friends, right now.” I gazed at her coolly.
“Sweets, you have ah, what’s his name, Thomas Breeve, right?”
*
Thomas Breeve. Thomas had been my friend since I was young, and often we would play together until sundown, creating made-up adventures. However, when he was about to enter ninth grade, his father had to move the family to the United States for his job. Three years following his departure, I followed suit.
The Thomas I knew then was very energetic, very friendly, but beneath it all, he was perpetually disturbed. His mother had recently died, and since then, his father had a hard time maintaining jobs because of drinking problems.
I was not sure how he would be, how he had changed, after three years, but I acknowledged that, yes, I would very much indeed enjoy seeing him again.
I looked his number in the local phonebook, and dialed. The dull tone of an operator informed me to wait until the fourth ring, and if he did not answer by then, that he was out or sleeping and that I should hang up.
I counted the monotone beep each time. 1…beep…2…beep…. Anxiously, I paced in the hallway, and finally, on the third beep, he answered.
“‘Ello,” a groggy voice greeted me.
“Hi, Tom, this is Gemma, remember me?”
“Oh, Gemma! Hi, it has been so long since I have seen you. Are you in town; is this a visit, have you moved here?” He asked me, each question trampling the previous.
“Well, yes, I am in town, this is not a visit, and yes, I have moved here.” I struggled to answer each question that burbled up from him.
“Great, we should talk more, but I have got to go to the loo and etc. etcetera, so, I have a proposal to you. In about half an hour, I will pick you up, and we will go into town and eat something, what do you say?”
I mulled it over silently. Then, deciding, answered, “I will be ready.”
“Perfect, what is your address?”
I gave my address to him, and he sighed joyfully. “This is perfect… anyway, see you soon!”
I placed the phone on its receiver, and pounded up the stairs. My mum looked up the stairs at me. “Who was that, on the phone?”
“Thomas,” I answered simply.
“Thomas…” she said suspiciously.
“Oh, come on mum, you told me about him last night, to call him. Do not tell me you have forgotten already?”
“No, no, it’s just, I’ve heard some rather unpleasant things about him recently, seems he’s turned into quite the bad boy, according to some of the women in town today.” Here, she touched her nose. “Best to step carefully around him, gossip is based on some fact.”
I touched my nose, too. “But it is also based mainly on fiction.” I rolled my eyes, and slammed my door shut to my room.
*
At 5 o’clock, I was reading a magazine, my cat, Alexandra, in my lap, purring contentedly. A knock on the door caused my heart to jump into a maniacal frenzy, and Alex jumped off my lap, the hair on her back on end.
My mum answered it. The door creaked as she swung it back, and visible behind the glass front door was Thomas. As I began to stand up, I brushed off my skirt, and eavesdropped into the conversation.
“Oh, Thomas, what a pleasant surprise, “her voice was filled with contempt. Thomas answered pleasantly back,
“Mrs. Algernon, you are looking lovely today,” his voice trailed off and he peered behind her shoulder, eyes locked on me. His eyes were pleading, and my mum, catching on, whirled to give me the full force of her green eyes, and what she was saying with them was, “Be careful.”
The tension was almost tangible, and, stiff-legged, I walked to the front door, past my mother, her eyes like lasers in my back, and grabbed onto Thomas’ arm, pulling him out the door.
*
My body was embraced in black leather as I sat in the passenger seat of Thomas’ Mustang convertible. He made small talk with me as he one-handedly steered the car along the deserted roads. “So, how do you like Montana so far?”
“It is nice, very scenic, but to be honest, I am a bit home-sick.”
He glanced at me with sympathy, “It takes awhile to adjust. Soon, it will be better.”
I studied him. “What about you, how are you doing? I have not seen you for three years, and I would like to know all that I have missed recently.”
“Where do I begin,” he laughed, “well, I will graduate from high school this year, I have a job as a farmer’s assistant, and, hmmm. Today, I was able to see my best friend.” He smiled at me.
I smiled back.
“But, that is only the beginning, those are just the basics. Ah, Countryside Inn,” Thomas was instantly distracted by a neon yellow sign proclaiming the inn’s presence, and he pulled into a parking lot.
The first thing I noticed when I entered with him, and he asked the waitress for two menus was his physical appearance. He was now a gangly, tall young man, his shoulders were broad, and his mouth was wide. His hair was dyed light blonde, compared to his once chestnut-colored hair, and to be honest, I was disappointed. I thought his red hair had made him look remarkably cute.
His clothing was also different. Three years ago, he would not have come near a cashmere sweater. Now, he was wearing a light blue one. I was curious as to how he had gained enough money to buy the fine things he now obtained. His father, when I knew him, only managed to earn enough to just barely scrape by, and if that was the same, there was just no possible way he could have earned these merely through an assistant farmer.
I followed him to a booth, where I slid onto one side, he, the other. I flipped through the menu absently, glancing through the glass wall into the bar section of the restaurant.
Staring back at me was a man of my age or a bit more, his face slightly covered by shadows, and his black hair covering his eyes. He pushed it away…
And there was the man from my dreams.
*
I jerked my head away, and then kicked Thomas in the shin under the table. His eyes sought mine. “What was that for,” he asked, annoyed.
“That man, over there, sitting in the shadows, who is he?” My heart was pumping faster and faster with each passing second, and I swore I was going to have a heart attack. I waited impatiently for my answer.
Slowly, Thomas replied, “That MAN, if you would like to be polite in terms, is… not much is known about him. He always is hanging around bars, searching. He is never in the same bar twice. Some people call him Ghost, because he is there one minute, gone the next.” His eyes darted over to Ghost. “The only thing I can tell you about him is that he was in jail once or twice. You do not want to be with him alone.”
We were crouched over the table, silently staring at each other when the waitress walked over.
“Would you like…” Thomas silenced her with a dismissal with a wave of his hand. However, the waitress refused to go away. Thomas puffed out his chest, about to blow her off, when the waitress said amiably, “Miss, in the bar, there is a man who requests your company.” To Thomas, she said, “Deflate your chest, and stop acting arrogant.”
Thomas stared at her, flabbergasted, on his face a cross between pure surprise and anger. This was most likely the first time he was reprimanded by a waitress.
The waitress turned her attention back to me. “Miss, he’s waiting.”
*
I walked, past laughing people, past waitresses and waiters with trays loaded with food, and into the cloudy smoke of the bar. I looked this way and that, searching the shadows for him. I was about to turn back when he appeared in front of me, out of a seemingly nowhere.
His eyes were dark, almost black, like coals. He was taller than Thomas, and not as gangly. It looked as if I made a misapprehension. He looked older than me. Maybe in his twenties. His voice was deep, and had the faintest tinge of an accent, probably French or Romanian.
He had an aurora of power around him, and he was frightening. He studied me. Then, he spoke. “Are you frightened, Gemma?”
“Yes,” I said softly. In my mind, I was bewildered. How did he know my bloody name?!
“Don’t be.” He took my hand, and peered around, his eyes catching Thomas and the waitress, bickering. He pulled me out the doors, and into a blue car, an older one.
I yanked my hand away, and scowled at him. The car was cold, and it was not just the cold giving me shudders throughout my body. “Who are you,” I asked. “What do you want with me?” It took him a few moments to reply. He played around with the buttons of his jean jacket, and he looked up at me, and held his gaze steady with mine.
“I am Vincent Comera, and what I want with you, is to help you.”
“You sound like a guardian angel. Honestly, though, I do not need help, but thanks anyway.” I smiled wryly.
He held my arm in an iron grasp and I grimaced in pain. “I’m not a guardian angel, far from it, I’m a vampire.”
“Ha ha, Vincent, you do not think I am that gullible, do you? Listen, I stopped believing in ghost stories when I realized the real chilling tales were dreams. And that was at age five.”
“You’ve had strange dreams? Gemma, you don’t understand. I sent you those dreams, it wasn’t something your mind just created, it really happened.”
“You are right, I do not understand. Who are you really? Thomas told me that you went to jail two times.”
“I was hungry,” he said miserably.
“What?” Blood flowed in my ears, and my heart was erratic. My fingertips felt numb.
“I couldn’t help myself, she was so near, and she smelled so sweet. I hadn’t eaten for months; I was busy tracking down a killer… “
“Wait,” I halted him, “you are a vampire, and you are not the killer?”
“Yes, like I told you.”
Still unbelieving, I asked, “Where are your fangs, Vincent?”
He smiled a sad, lonely smile. “They only are unsheathed with the promise of blood.”
“Show me,” I challenged him. He shrugged, and leaned forward. Although my primitive instincts told me to run, I held my ground, and felt his lips on my neck. His lips were cold, and I marveled at how odd the sensation was when I felt a sharp searing pain on my neck. When my eyes looked towards the restaurant entrance, I saw Thomas staring right at us.
*
“Ok, I now know that you are a vampire,” we were still in the car, and I was rubbing my neck, pulling my hand away occasionally to see if it had stopped bleeding. “But, what did you mean when you said that you sent me those dreams?”
Vincent sighed. “What I meant, was the person, the woman, I knew her. She was my sister. Or I should say she is my sister. I found out about the accident, or supposed murder when she didn’t come home that one evening.”
“Wait,” I said, shocked, “She fell into a ravine, there was no way she could have survived that. “
“She’s a vampire, like me, she can survive. Unfortunately, though, she did suffer some brain damage, and she is in a mental hospital right now for some depression. It happens every few hundred years, a vampire falls in love with a mortal, and the mortal ends up dying or hurting the vampire…that’s why most vampires avoid humans, humanity is a desirable trait for the undead. So desirable that some vampires try to obtain it, although they realize they can’t become human once again, it’s refreshing. Being cold all the time, never eating human food, never being able to bear children, we live lonely, long lives. We’re pretty much stripped of the joys of human life. The only way we can become warm is feeding on a human, and that is temporary, to reproduce, a human has to share blood with a vampire. Honestly, though, there is nothing that I wouldn’t do to become a human again.”
I touched his arm. “There is no turning back, right? It is like when I was little. I would always phrase moments that were bad as, “being in a forest” and when something good happened; I would describe it as “being out of the forest.” But no matter if it was a good or bad moment, I was still on a path, it was different, each path led a different place if I chose another option when I was faced with it, but you know what? When I chose wisely, I was “out of the forest” and in the sunshine. You just have to remember to think about things and remember to think about the pros and cons and always try to choose the pros, and you will always be in the sunshine. Basically, like Helen Keller said, ‘Keep your face to the sunshine, and you will never see the shadows.’”
He nodded slowly. “I think I understand.”
I laughed. “I hope you do, because I cannot explain it any better. So, can we go visit your sister? I think she may be able to help us find out who hurt her.”
*
The mental hospital was a large, white brick building with ivy crawling up the walls and pleasant little gardens labeled “vegetables” or “fruit”. When we entered through the solid wood doors, Vincent headed immediately to the desk and talked with the receptionist. She nodded, and then once shook her head, and then laughed.
Vincent beckoned me to the desk, and the receptionist asked me to sign my name in the guest list. When we began to tread down white hallways, I asked him what he had told her.
“I told her you were my fiancée.” He said simply.
I punched his arm, and, to humor me, he pretended it hurt.
Vincent blocked the doorway with his body, and then faced me. “She speaks in poems and riddles now, so you may have some trouble understanding her,” he said softly.
I nodded, and brushed past him into the room. It was small, with a window that was locked and a tranquil waterfall scene painted on the walls. There were no objects or magazines that she could play or read, as they were especially concerned about depressed patients, because they tended to act irrationally.
There, feeble in the large bed, was Vincent’s sister. She smiled a smile that seemed to me to be hiding something. Vincent hugged her, and she stiffened.
“Emily, this is Gemma. Gemma, this is Emily,” he made the introductions.
Emily squinted at me. She seemed to once have been a pretty girl; her black hair was tied back in a red ribbon, her eyes were dark, her lips had little dimples near them, suggesting she smiled a lot, and she was petite. However, she was very fragile looking, like she would break if I touched her.
“Beware the man you think is true,
Beware the man, who knows you well,
Beware the broken spirit,
Beware his deceiving words.”
*
She lapsed into silence, and would not say another word. I glanced at Vincent, and puzzled, he shrugged.
Vincent kissed her cheek, and I squeezed her hand and left her a piece of paper and a pen as a nurse bustled in, ushering us out, telling us our visit was, “tiring the patient out.”
When he dropped me off at my house, I paraded up the stairs, dropped myself onto my bed, and pulled out a piece of a napkin where I had written Emily’s words.
I tore a piece of notebook paper from my notebook, and began to write. My list had Vincent’s name on one side, Thomas’ on the other. I wrote key points about each. Vincent was a vampire, and he told me Emily was his sister, however, why would Emily stiffen when Vincent was her brother?
He had a blue car, and blue cars were known to be a common choice of people who had to escape scenes often, because there were many blue cars and they blended in with others.
He told me he killed two people, or at least one, because he was “hungry.”
He knew my name.
He told me he lived a lonely life.
He hid in bars, never seeking direct daylight.
Thomas had mysteriously obtained items that were more expensive then he could afford, and he was also an assistant to a farmer, and Emily’s injury occurred near a farm.
He had/has family problems.
My mum had warned me about him.
My list had multiple clues scrawled off, and scribbling under the names. I tapped my pencil against my teeth. Both men knew me fairly well, both either had or were pretending to have broken spirits, both, to me, were trying to steer me away from the true criminal. So… the real question was, who did I think was true?
*
As I wearily stepped down the stairs, rubbing my eyes, I glanced over to my mum, who was talking on the phone with one of her girlfriends.
“I know, Betty, I’m very proud of Thomas’ father, it seems he really has decided to move on with his life.”
Pause. My body was tense, I felt like I was going to fall into a million pieces.
“Yes, I know! His son is very well-mannered, he works for a farmer now, you know? I don’t know why those women would ever call him a bad boy. Maybe at one time he was, but he certainly isn’t now. He took my daughter on a date you know? Betty, I’m just very surprised that Thomas’ father decided to take a job as a doctor, it seemed so unlikely, but I guess it’s reasonable to try to save people when you couldn’t even save your own wife.”
I raced up the stairs, and wrote quickly, Thomas’ father got job as doctor, explains cashmere etc. Mum does NOT believe he is a bad boy, just local gossip.
This meant only one thing.
There was a rap on my window. I spun around, fearing that someone was there, but it was only a tree branch scraping there. I sighed with relief, but then, there it was again.
I trembled, and pushed my blonde hair away from my face. Lightning shot across the sky, and lit up a figure in the tree near my window. I was about to scream when the silhouette shot through my closed window, and grabbed me around the waist, pulling me towards him and clapping a hand over my mouth.
“Do not, scream, Gemma,” a frantic voice whispered. My eyes widened, Thomas? He continued, “I saw you in the car with him, and I was not sure what to do to help you, so I decided to do some research on him. When I said he went to jail two times, I was not kidding. He killed two women, murdered them, slit their throats. Emily? Not his sister, she was his fiancée and he tried to kill her. Luckily, because she grabbed onto a branch somewhat down the way in the ravine, she survived. She was not a vampire, like him. He seduces them, promises them things, and kills them. He draws power from their desires and weaknesses. I came here because, I saw his car, and it was heading in this direction. We have to call the police, Gemma.”
*
Blinding red and blue lights and sirens poured down the roads into or near our house. Vincent had arrived a few minutes after we called, and was intent on harming me. Thomas, however, intervened with the threat of exposing him to fire, and guarded him until the police came.
As he was ducked into the police car, he hissed at Thomas, revealing sharp fangs, and then smiled alluringly at me. His words felt like ice dripping down my spine. “I’m always cold, Gemma, always cold. Blood is the only thing that warms me. I will have yours.”
Thomas silenced him with a fearsome snarl. Addressing the nearest police officer, he said, “Please, at any time, shut him up.”

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