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1981
bettie_x's birthday. Spoil her.
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| Fiction: Between Heaven and Earth - Chapter one |
Posted by
feralucce on Wednesday, March 19, 2003 - 04:01 AM PST
It has taken a great deal to get her to this point. You see, she's always been a little weird, one of those "goth" people. She wears black all the time, including black lipstick and nail polish. She's always taken great pleasure in scaring the "mundanes" and being generally unnerving.
She came into my bar a couple years ago. When most people say "my bar," they mean the place they hang out in. When I say "my bar," I mean, my bar. I own the place. It’s not a fine dining establishment by any stretch of the imagination, but it’s mine.
I named the place Exile, but most of the goths simply call it "Evil's Inn." By default, that makes me Evil. That's the way it is. We all have a name we share with others. Some of us choose ours, others get theirs given to them. But most of us use them to hide things we don’t wish to share. Let’s just say, Evil is better than what I was born with. She came in using the name "Lyric."
Lyric. Something about a goth named Lyric just doesn't sit right. I know a Timber, an Athena, and even a Diablo, but Lyric? Her name is not the only thing weird about her. This chick is one of the wannabes.
I guess I should explain. A wannabe is one of those unbalanced people that want, with all their heart, to be a vampire. Some pretend to be, some spend their life searching for a vampire to turn them, and others simply believe they are. No matter which way you look at it, they're all a little outta' whack.
I watched her milk her drinks for a couple of hours. All she'd ordered was a couple glasses of absinthe – a concoction brewed from wormwood, served over sugar, sharp, sweet and mildly poisonous. That is a sure sign of a wannabe. Some popular author wrote about a bunch of vampires and they all loved absinthe. Since then, every wannabe I have seen drinks the shit. New Orleans has it’s own devilish brand of brew, bolder than all of its cousins put together – Chartreuse, so named for its color. The stuff isn't made here, it's French - go figure. It's the only brand I'll serve.
She motioned for another drink. I handed her the drink, and she said, "You know where any of them can be found?"
I know what she means, but I am not ready for this discussion, so I play it dumb, "Any of `them'? I don't follow."
"Umm. You're Evil, right?"
“Well, only as a hobby… I mean, I only kick puppies and juggle kittens. I leave the hard core stuff to the professionals.”
She blinks at me, and I hear the distinctive sound of a paradigm shifting without a clutch. “What?
I sigh, "Yeah. That's me. Why do you ask?" Everyone’s a critic.
"Well, there's this guy, Timber. He told me that if anyone knew where to find one, you would," she said, looking annoyed about having to explain herself.
"Be that as it may, lady, I don't understand what you’re asking me. Who is this mystical ‘them’ you are talking about?”
She looks around, making sure no one was listening. Her eyes were a pleasant shade of green. She was so earnest about this vampire thing that I could only pity her. "I'm looking for a vampire, or more than one if you know where they are."
I get this shit all the time and, frankly, I can't stomach most of it. I must admit, though, Timber was right. If anyone knew a vampire, it'd have to be me. You see, I've never seen a vampire, that I know of, but if they
exist, they'd be in my bar. It's not like I try to attract the freaks, but they just love this place.
I respond with the truth, "Timber talks too much for his own good."
"So, you do know a vampire?" I could almost hear the italics in her words.
"Listen, lady. I see some weird shit, I mean, just fuckin' look around you. This place is a little lacking in the mundane, but I don't know any vampires. And, if I did, I would not be tellin' people about it."
"I see. You do." Her eyes grow wide and she stares into me, like she can intimidate me into revealing the “truth.”
With a sigh, I tell her, "Believe what you want." Normally, I would just walk away from this, but grandma's gift chose this moment to rear its ugly head. I can't explain what it is, or how it works, because I don't understand much about it. All I do know is that sometimes I just know things, things that I shouldn't know. And, with this girl, I know she's gonna' die.
Fortunately, she stays around 'til close. In most bars, last call is so busy that it takes several hours to clean up, but the goths leave me alone enough that I can get the place clean and leave with them. When I lock up, she heads for the ninth ward. Needless to say, that is not the safest place to be. In spite of my better judgment, I follow at a distance. At least I have a good excuse for going this way. I need to kick Timber's ass, and his house is in the ward.
We walk past Dauphine, the sounds of revelry on Bourbon Street drifting to us. We walk past University, the hookers and pimps watch her with hungry eyes. Then I walk past them, and none of them will even look at me, I make them nervous. Something tells them I have the sight, and the last thing they want right now pity.
We actually pass through the ninth ward and continue on. She walks with a purpose. She turns off on Elysian Fields and I hurry to catch up with her. I manage to get to the corner just in time to see her go into an apartment building.
I stand in the street, looking up. It only takes a minute of waiting for a window to light up as she enters her apartment. I enter the building – not sure why I am doing so. As I climb the stairs, one creaks under my weight, and I freeze. After several moments of waiting silently in the stairwell, I continue up the stairs. Taking a moment to figure out which door is hers, I reach for the handle. I’m moved by a morbid curiosity about what lies within. The door starts to open before I touch it. Stepping to the side, I press myself against the wall as she comes out.
She steps out and turns away from me, never even noticing my presence. Her arms are full of laundry as she traipses down the hall and then down the stairs, humming tunelessly to herself. I wait 'til she reaches the landing by the front door. She continues down the stairs to the basement. The doorknob is cool in my hand and turns easily. Stepping inside the door, I can tell a great deal about Lyric.
The first thing that catches my eye is the posters hanging on the wall. Several of them feature characters from a popular television series, "Buffy, the Vampire Slayer." I've never watched it, but their origin is evident from the logo of the show emblazoned across the bottom. Directly above the bed, a man with a quizzical expression on his face stares toward the front door. I know the actor, but not the character. David Boreanaz. His well-defined and strong features make him an obvious choice for a place over the bed.
Across from the bed, there is a desk with a computer on it. The background on the computer monitor has characters from the old soap opera, "Dark Shadows." I remember that program. It was the only soap opera to have one of its main characters a vampire. Barnabas Collins was his name. Barnabas glares across the bed at David, the two warring for the right to watch over the young lady.
On the right, a 27-inch television, a stereo, and a video recorder dominate a coffee table. Movie tapes lay scattered on and around the table. In spite of their placement, every tape is in its cover, and the covers are immaculate. The dust covers sport titles like, "The Lost Boys," "John Carpenter's Vampires," and "Fright Night." If there were more to her collection than these, I would say she was a hobbyist, but the lack of other titles only serves to confirm her status as a wannabe.
Beside the table, a trashcan overflows onto the floor. The smells of old pizza and booze rise from the can like waves of heat from the sidewalk on a hot summer’s day. The can reminds me of a mother hen squatting amongst her chicks. Only this time, the chicks are coke cans and Reese's peanut butter cup wrappers and Doritos bags. I stare at the hen until I can feel it return my stare.
Her laundry is very evidently separated by clean and dirty. Unfortunately, they seem to share the same space, the floor. The laundry forms a nest around the bed, a place to stay safe and keep warm. There is a separate pile of laundry for her under clothes. Demi-bras, thong panties, and various other silken things populate this pile.
I move into the kitchen looking for more information. I open the refrigerator. It's mostly empty space. There is a carton of milk. A Styrofoam take out container smells faintly of curry. I open it to see what it is. Lamb curry has always been one of my favorites. I find myself salivating while staring at the yellow rice and chunks of meat.
A loud creak from the stairwell tell me that she is on her way back up to the apartment, and I hide in the bathroom. Unlike the rest of her apartment, there is a sterile quality to the bathroom that is reminiscent of a hospital room. The irony of its cleanliness when the rest of the apartment is in squalor is not lost on me. She comes in and there is a faint rustling as she sheds her clothes, and then the rustling starts again. A moment later, her keys jingle and the door opens, closes and the bolt shoots home as she locks it on her way out. There is a fire escape outside of the bathroom window and the window is unlocked, so it will not be noticed if I slip out.
I am on the catwalk as she leaves the front door. The steps squeal as they pivot on their hinges. Amazed by her obliviousness, I climb down. I can see her turn the corner onto Independence, heading farther away from the French Quarter. After a mile, she approaches an abandoned church. I remember this place. I was hired to be a bartender at a rave here once. The candy kids used to have them all the time, the raves I mean, but nowadays, the Police and City Council forbid the raves. Fucking Nazis.
I slip silently into the side entrance that we used to use for manning the raves. She enters through the front. The ancient oaken door creaks open. My gift reveals her psyche in intimate detail. The sound shatters the silence as easily as a hammer on glass. Lyric's heart skips a beat as, for just a moment, it sounds as if someone opened another door in the distance. She snickers at her own fears as the sound echoes again. She closes the door and it feels like she is closing the door to her own tomb. After the echoes die, the silence is almost complete.
The venerable church has not been used as a place of worship since the late seventies, but the signs of recent occupation are readily apparent. Footprints in the dust lead into the distance. Lyric jumps as a pigeon takes flight from the rafters. The sound of her squeal of fear bounding back to her quickens her pulse once more.
She opens the door at the back of the sanctuary without much sound at all. She stops for a moment, the incongruity of the well-oiled hinges in a place like this striking a nerve. The darkness beyond the door presses against the shaft of light piercing the room. The smell of old whisky and sweat permeates the air, hanging there like motes of dust in a shaft of sunlight. As she strikes the match, she squeals again as two eyes flare in the darkness beyond.
The cat hisses and arches its back, obviously annoyed by the intrusion of the light. The cat glares for a moment more then retreats to the shadows once again with a growl. Something else moves in the shadows. Lyric screams and drops her match, becoming hysterical. It seems she does this a lot, the hysterical part, I mean. It just seems like she's so good at it. I wonder where she studied.
Something in the darkness moves, but she's blocking my view so I don't notice it. At least I have an excuse for not seeing him. The bum only moves slightly, but that is all it takes to pull a trigger. The muzzle flash is impossibly bright and the sound deafens me.
She falls. Hard. From my spot in the shadows, it's clear that the shot was directly to the face. If she's not dead, she soon will be. My gift mercifully releases its grip on me as she fades away. Grandma said it would never be wrong, but sometimes I wish I could help.
read the rest here
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| Between Heaven and Earth - Chapter one | Login/Create an account | 9 Comments |
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Re: Fiction: Chapter one: Between Heaven and Earth
by Meranda_Jade (Meranda@mymind.com)
on Mar 20, 2003 - 10:20 AM
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Maybe I'm wrong, but this is eerily similar to Poppy Z. Brite's "Lost Souls" Some names seemed to have been changed, but that's about it...
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You sorry SOB !
by Geist (tattooedslacker@yahoo.com)
on Mar 21, 2003 - 08:42 AM
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Ok, now I'm really pissed Feral. Not only are you a wonderful photographer but you write better than me too !!! Joo bastard.... :P
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