Between Heaven and Earth Date Thursday, April 18, 2024 - 09:29 AM PST Topic Entertainment FORWARD: this is not a piece about hate. Nor is it intended to be a stereotype of any kind. This was written for a class assignment and was told "No Genre Fiction." This was, as my prof said, "Pushing it." I wrote a gothic drama/vampire story, without covering either... anything here that bothers you, it was probalby intentional. 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 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 named the place Exile, but most of the goths simply call it "Evil's." 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 do not wish to share. 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 a vampire. no matter which way you look at it, they are all a little beyond. I watched her milk her drinks for a couple of hours. All she'd ordered was a couple glasses of Absinthe. That is a sure sign of a wannabe. Poppy Z. Brite wrote about a bunch of vampires and they all loved the sickly sweet and slightly poisonous Absinthe. Since then, every wannabe I have seen drinks the shit. 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?" "That's me. Why do you ask?" "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 is may, lady, I don't understand who `them' is." She looked around, making sure no one was listening. "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 the place. I respond with the truth, "Timber talks too much for his own good." "So, you do know a vampire?" "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." 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 it ugly head. I can't explain where it comes from, 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 till 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 judgement, 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 ninth 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. We actually pass through the ninth ward and continue on. 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 wait a minute out front to see which window lights up when she gets to her apartment. As I climb the stairs, one creaks under my weight, and I freeze. After several minutes of waiting in the silence, I continue up the stairs. Taking a moment to figure out which door is hers, I reach for the handle and the door starts to open before I touch it. I step to the side and press myself against the wall as she comes out. Her arms are full of laundry as she traipses down the hall and then down the stairs. I wait till she reaches the landing by the front door and continues down to the basement. The doorknob is cool in my hand and turns easily. Stepping inside the door, I can tell a great deal about this one fairly quickly. 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 the fact is evident from the logo of the show blazoned 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 coffee table is dominated by a 27 inch television, a stereo and a video recorder. 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." The titles only serve to confirm her status as a wannabe. Beside the table, a trashcan overflows onto the floor. The smell of old pizza and booze rise from the can like waves of heat from the sidewalk on a hot summers 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. Footsteps in 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. 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 tinkle 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. Climbing down, I can see her turn the corner onto Independence, heading farther away from the French Quarter. After a mile, she approached an abandoned church. I remember this place. I was hired to be a bartender at a rave here once. the kids used to have them all the time, the raves I mean, but now days, the raves are forbidden by the Police and City Council. The ancient oaken door creaks open. 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 as if she is closing the door to her own tomb; after the echoes died, the silence is almost complete. I slip in the side entrance that we used to use for manning the raves. The ancient 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 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 more with a growl. Something 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 she's so good at it. Something in the darkness moves, but she's blocking my view so I don't notice is. 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 is obvious that she's dead. It's clear that the shot was directly to the face, and if she's not dead, she soon will be. I slip out and head back towards my home, which takes me right past her apartment. I climb the fire escape and dial 911. There's no need for the police to know where I live. On my way out I snag a couple of the video tapes and the lamb curry. It had been a long time since I saw "The Lost Boys." As I walk home, I find myself thinking about irony, especially the irony of this evening. She wanted to find a monster, and she did, but I honestly don't think that was quite what she expected. I have always hated those wannabes. This article comes from Shmeng http://www.shmeng.com/ The URL for this story is: http://www.shmeng.com/modules.php?op=modload&name=News&file=article&sid=76