Vampires: The Recent Undead (10 page)

I just love the image of that—some old wise man in flowing robes, just getting up and dancing.

I’d love to be able to dance. I love music. I love the way I can feel it in every pore of my body. When your body’s moving to the music, it’s like you’re part of the music. You’re not just dancing to it any more, you’re somehow helping to create it at the same time.

But the most I can do is sort of shuffle around until I get all out of breath and I never let anyone see me trying to do it. Not even Apples.

Boy, can she dance. Every movement she makes is just so liquid and smooth. She’s graceful just getting up from a chair or crossing a room. And I don’t say this because of the contrast between us.

But none of this helps with what she’s told me. All I can do is feel the weight of the door that she closed behind her and stare at the ceiling, my head full of a bewildering confusion.

Normally when I have something I can’t work out, Apples is the one who helps me deal. But now she’s the problem . . .

Did you ever play the game of if you could only have one wish, what would you wish for? It’s so hard to decide, isn’t it? But I know what I would do. I would wish that all my wishes come true.

But real life isn’t like that. And too often you find that the things you think you really, really want, are the last things in the world that you should get.

I’ve always wanted to be able to walk without my leg brace, to run and jump and dance and just be normal. And breathing. Everybody takes it for granted. Well, I wish I could. And here’s my chance. Except it comes with a price, just like in all those old fairy tales I used to read as a kid.

I have to choose. Go on like I am, a defect, a loser—at least in other people’s eyes. Or be like Apples, full of life and vigor, and live forever. Except to do that I’ve got to drink other people’s blood and everybody else I care about will eventually get old and die.

What kind of a choice is that?

This is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to try to work out.

I get Mom to drive me to the mall the next day. I know she worries about me being out on my own, but she’s good about it. She reminds me not to overexert myself and we arrange what door she’ll meet me at in a couple of hours, and then I’m on my own.

I don’t want to go shopping. I just want to sit someplace on my own and there’s no better place to do that than in the middle of a bunch of strangers like in the concourse of this mall.

I watch the people go by and find myself staring at their throats. I can’t imagine drinking their blood. And then there’s this whole business that Apples explained about how she only feeds on bad people. That just makes me feel sicker. When she told me that, all I could think about was that time at dinner when I announced I was becoming a vegetarian and the look on her face when I told them why.

You are what you eat.

I don’t want the blood of some freak serial killer nourishing me. I don’t even want the blood of a jaywalker in me.

After awhile I make myself stop thinking. I do the people-watching thing, enjoying the way all these people are hurrying by my little island bench seat. But of course, as soon as I start to relax a little, some middle-aged freak in a trench coat has to sit down beside me, putting his lame moves on me. He walks by, once, twice, checks out the leg brace, sees I’m alone, and then he’s on the bench and it’s “That’s such a beautiful blouse—what kind of material is it made of?” and he’s reaching over and rubbing the sleeve between his fingers . . . 

If I was Apples, with this vamp strength she was telling me about, I could probably knock him on his ass before he even knew what was happening. Or I could at least run away. But all I can do is shrink away from him, feeling scared, until I see one of the mall’s rent-a-cops coming.

“Officer!” I yell. They’re all wanna-be-cops and love it when you act like they’re real policemen.

The pervert beside me jumps up from the bench and bolts down the hall before the security guard even looks in my direction. But that’s okay. I don’t want a scene. I just want to be left alone.

“Was he bothering you?” the guard asks.

I see him take it in. The leg brace. Me, so obviously helpless—and damn it, it’s true. And he’s all solicitous and pretty nice, actually. He asks if I’m on my own and when I tell him I’m meeting my mom later, offers to walk me to the door where I’m supposed to meet her.

I take him up on it, but I’m thinking, it doesn’t have to be this way. If I let Apples change me, nobody will ever bother me again. It’d be like my own private human genome project. Only maybe I’m not supposed to be healthy. I keep thinking that maybe my asthma and bad leg are compensating for some other talent that just hasn’t shown up yet.

I think of people throughout history who’ve overcome their handicaps to give us things that no one but they could have. Stephen Hawking. Vincent van Gogh with his depressions. Terry Fox. Teddy Roosevelt. Stevie Wonder. Helen Keller.

I’m not saying that they had to be handicapped to share their gifts with us, but if they hadn’t been handicapped, maybe they would have gone on to be other people and not become the inspirations or creative people they came to be.

And I’m not saying I’m super smart or talented, or that I’m going to grow up and change the world. But it doesn’t seem right to just become something else. I won’t have earned it. It’s just too . . . too easy, I guess.

“There’s a reason why I am the way I am,” I tell Apples later.

We’re sitting in the rec room, the TV turned to
MuchMusic
, but neither of us are really watching the Christina Aguilera video that’s playing. Dad’s in the kitchen, making dinner. Mom’s out in the garden, planting tulip and crocus bulbs.

“You mean like it’s all part of God’s plan?” Apples asks.

“No. I don’t know that I believe in God. But I believe everything has a purpose.”

Apples shakes her head. “You can’t tell me you believe your asthma and your leg are a good thing.”

“It might seem like they weaken me, but they actually make me strong. Maybe not physically, but in my heart and spirit.”

Apples sighs and pulls me close to her. “You always were a space case,” she says into my hair. “But I guess that’s part of the reason I love you as much as I do.”

I pull back so that we can look at each other.

“I don’t want you to change me,” I say.

Apples has always been good at hiding what she’s feeling, but she can’t hide the disappointment from me.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her.

“Don’t be,” she says. “You need to do what’s right for you.”

“I feel like I’m letting you down.”

“Cassie,” she says. “You could never let me down.”

But she moved out of the house the next day.

Three: Appoline

Life sucks.

Or maybe I should say, death sucks, since I’m not really alive—but everybody thinks death sucks because for them it’s the big end. So that doesn’t work either.

Okay. How about this: undeath sucks.

Or at least mine does.

I had to move out of the house. After four years of waiting to be able to change Cassie, I just couldn’t live there any more once she turned me down. I can’t believe how much I miss her. I miss the parents, too, but it’s not the same. I’ve never been as close to them as Cassie is. But I adore her and talking on the phone and seeing her a couple of times a week just isn’t enough.

Trouble is, when I do see her or talk to her, that hurts, too. Everything just seems to hurt these days.

I’ve been thinking a lot about Sandy Browning, my best friend in grade school. We were inseparable until we got into junior high. That’s when she starting getting into these black moods. Half the time you couldn’t see them coming. It was like these black clouds would drift in from nowhere and just envelop her. When I discovered she was cutting herself—her arms and stomach were crisscrossed with dozens of little scars—I couldn’t deal with it and we sort of drifted apart.

There’s two reasons people become cutters, she told me once, trying to explain. There’s those that can’t feel anything—the cutting makes them feels alive. And then there are the ones like her, who have this great weight of darkness and despair inside them. The cutting lets it out.

I couldn’t really get it at the time—I couldn’t imagine having that kind of a bleak shadow swelling inside me—but I understand her now. Ever since Cassie turned me down, I’ve got this pressure inside me that won’t ease and I feel like the only way I can release it is to open a hole to let it out. But it doesn’t work for me. The one time I ran a razor blade along the inside of my forearm, it hardly bled at all and the cut immediately started to seal up. Within half an hour, there wasn’t a mark on my skin.

Sandy had been completely addicted to it. Her family moved away the year before I became a vamp and I don’t know what ever happened to her. I wish I’d been a better friend. I wish a lot of things these days.

I wish I’d never talked to Cassie about my wanting to turn her.

Sometimes I wonder: did I want to do it for her, so that she could finally put aside the limitations of her physical ailments, or did I do it for me, so I wouldn’t have to be alone?

I guess it doesn’t matter.

I’m sure alone now.

I live in a tiny apartment above the Herb and Spice Natural Foods shop on Bank Street. I like the area. During the day, it’s like a normal neighborhood with shops along Bank Street—video store, comic book shop, gay bookstore, restaurants—and mostly residential buildings in behind on the side streets. But come the night, the blocks up north around the clubs like Barrymore’s become prime hunting grounds for someone like me. All the would-be toughs, the scavengers and the hunters, come out of the woodwork, hoping to prey on the people who come to check out the bands and the scene.

And I prey on them.

But even stopping them from having their wicked way doesn’t really mean all that much anymore. I’m too lonely. It’s not that I can’t make friends. Ever since I got turned, that’s the least of my problems. It’s that I don’t have a foundation of normalcy to return to anymore. I don’t have a home and family. I just have my apartment. My job at the coffee shop. My hunting. I can’t seem to get close to anyone because as soon as I do, I remember that I’m going to be like I am forever, while they age and die. Sometimes I imagine I can see them aging, that I can see the cells dying. It’s even worse when I’m back home, seeing it happen to Cassie and my parents, so it’s not like I can move back there again either.

That’s when I decide it’s time to track down the woman who turned me.

It’s harder than I think. I don’t really know where to start. Because she found me outside a concert at the Civic Centre, I spend most of December and January going to the clubs and concerts, thinking it’s my best chance. Zaphod Beeblebrox 2 closes down at the end of November, but Barrymore’s is still just up the street from where I live, so I drop in there almost every night, sliding past the doorman like I’m not even there. I can almost be invisible if I don’t want to be noticed—don’t ask me how that works. That’s probably why I can’t find the woman, but I don’t give up trying.

I frequent the Market area, checking out the Rainbow and the Mercury Lounge, the original Zaphod’s and places like that. Cool places where I think she might hang out. I go to the National Arts Centre for classical recitals and the Anti-Land Mines concert in early December. To Centrepoint Theatre in Nepean. Further west to the Corel Centre. I even catch a ride up to Wakefield, to the Black Sheep Inn, for a few concerts.

This calls for more serious cash than I can get from my salary at the coffee shop and the meager tips we share there, so I take to lifting the wallets of my victims, leaving them with less cash as well as less blood. My self esteem’s taking a nose dive, what with already being depressed, making no headway on finding the woman, and having become this petty criminal as well as the occasional murderer—I ended up having to kill another guy when I discovered he was raping his little sister and I got so mad, I just drained him.

It’s weird. I exude confidence—I know I do from other people’s reactions to me, and it’s not like I’m unaware of how well I can take care of myself. But my internal life’s such a mess that sometimes I can’t figure out how I make it through the day with my mind still in one piece. I feel like such a loser.

I have this to look forward to forever?

Cassie’s the only one who picks up on it.

“What’s the matter?” she asks when I stop by for a visit during her Christmas holidays.

“Nothing,” I tell her.

“Right. That’s why you’re so mopey whenever I see you.” She doesn’t look at me for a moment. When she does look back, she has this little wrinkle between her eyes. “It’s because of me, isn’t it? Because I didn’t want to become a . . . to be like . . . ”

“Me,” I say, filling in for her. “A monster.”

“You’re not a monster.”

“So what am I? Nothing anybody else’d ever choose to be.”

“You didn’t choose to be it either,” she says.

“No kidding. And I don’t blame you. Who’d ever
want
to be like this?”

She doesn’t have an answer and neither do I.

Then one frosty January evening I’m walking home from the coffee shop and I see her sitting at a window table of the Royal Oak. I stop and look at her through the glass, struck again by how gorgeous she is, how no one else seems to be aware of it, of her. I go inside when she beckons to me. Today she’s casual chic: jeans, a black cotton sweater, cowboy boots. Like me, she probably doesn’t feel the cold anymore, but she has a winter coat draped over the back of her chair. There’s a pint glass in front of her, half full of amber beer.

“Have a seat,” she says, indicating the empty chair across from her.

I do. I don’t know what to do with my hands. I don’t know where to look. I want to stare at her. I want to pretend I’m cool, that this is no big deal. But it is.

“I’ve been looking for you,” I finally say.

“Have you now.”

I nod. Ignoring the hint of amusement in her eyes, I start to ask, “I need to know—”