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Andrew Roller Presents
Till Death Do Us Part
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Chapter Three
The woman next door has proven useful. We feed on her late at night.
It was appalling to me at first, eating my neighbor. But I am hungry, and
only blood satisfies the hunger. Human blood.
I am standing in front of my bathroom mirror, gazing at myself. Or,
rather, not gazing at myself, for only my eyes show in the mirror. When I
close an eye, it disappears. Vicky stands with me, watching me, smiling.
She holds my hand. Her fingers intertwine with mine. Her fingernails dig
into my palm, like catÕs paws. My own are long. They grew during the
fever, while I was transforming from what I had been into what I am now.
I feel no desire to cut my nails. Vicky tells me they would only grow back
if I did.
ÒYou are 38 now, forever,Ó she tells me.
ÒAnd you are 10,Ó I reply.
ÒAnd now we are 6,Ó she says.
ÒWhat?Ó I ask.
ÒA book I have, in my bedroom.Ó
ÒOh my God!Ó I shout. I turn and look at her. She does not show in my
mirror, except for her eyes. ÒWe have been...Ó I cannot say it. WeÕve been
fucking for days, weeks perhaps? Fucking by night and drinking the blood
of the woman next door when we are hungry. ÒWhat about your mother?
Your parents?Ó I ask her.
ÒMy parents are divorced,Ó she says. A note of sadness in her voice.
ÒYes... but--Ó
ÒIÕm missing,Ó she replies.
I lie down in the dining room, under the dining room table. Vicky lies
down beside me. ÒI want a bed,Ó she tells me. She is naked, but her
clothes, which she took off upstairs, are beginning to magically reappear
on her body.
ÒWe have a bed,Ó I answer. It is a wonderful bed, at night, open to
the night air and the night sounds. But I must tape her mouth when we
fuck, for she likes to scream.
ÒNot that sort of bed,Ó Vicky replies. She pats my chest. ÒThatÕs a
fucking bed.Ó
ÒWell, we canÕt sleep up there, honey. Not in the daytime. The
sunlight streams in and I canÕt keep it out.Ó
ÒTonight, letÕs go shopping,Ó she tells me.
ÒAlright,Ó I answer.
There is only a sliver of moon and I like that. Too much moonlight
reminds me of the sun. I am afraid of the sun now, though I have,
somewhere within myself, a longing to see it. How strange it is to live
only at night. I must wait for the sun to set to get up; before daybreak I
must scurry back to my house and hide in the windowless dining room.
ÒThere,Ó Vicky says. She points. We are on top of a building, looking
down on another building. It is low to the ground, only one story tall.
Between us and the building there is a birch tree. The moonlight softly
gilds its branches with silver.
ÒThatÕs a mortuary,Ó I tell her.
ÒI know,Ó Vicky answers. ÒWe can get our beds there.Ó
ÒHuh?Ó I ask. ÒThereÕs nothing but dead people there, and coffins.Ó
My voice freezes in my throat. I look at her. How beautiful she looks in
the moonlight, with her silver-glinting hair. And yet, is she-- are we?
ÒWeÕre like the dead, but we can move,Ó she smiles. ÒItÕs fun being
dead.Ó
ÒNo its not!Ó I cry. There is a rattle of cans somewhere. A cat lets
out a howl.
Together we drop from the building into the birch, then down to the
ground. There is a gracefulness to our movements. We move like the wind,
not heavily and lumpishly, as dead bodies would move.
ÒWeÕve got to break in,Ó Vicky tells me. She looks at me
expectantly.
ÒAlright,Ó I answer.
I am prying at a window when I hear a sound behind me. Then a light
flicks on, suddenly. I am illuminated.
ÒHey! You there! What the fuck do you think youÕre doing?Ó a voice
asks.
I whirl about. I am blinded by the light. Good God! Turn off the damn
light! I move, quickly. Where is Vicky? I manage to escape the light but
it follows me and finds me. I dart away, stumble. I am lying on the ground
when he walks up to me. There is a second one behind him. They are both
armed, wearing blue. There is the crackle of a police radio somewhere.
The police!
ÒIÕve seen people break into homes at night, and the bank, but a
mortuary?Ó a gruff voice says. ÒYou must be some kind of a weirdo.Ó
I look at him. He is husky. I am slender by comparison. Always have
been. He peers at me, angrily. He has his gun drawn, a pistol. I see a
figure approaching behind him. A second man, dressed in blue. He is
holding a shotgun. The first man reaches down and grabs my arm. He
twists it behind my back.
ÒOw!Ó I cry.
ÒIÕve got the weirdo,Ó the man yanking my arm announces to his
partner. ÒSome kind of fairy hippie dude with long hair and fingernails.Ó
I find I have strength. I manage to pull my arm back towards my
side, out from behind my back.
ÒHey! Hold still!Ó the cop yells. He points his gun directly at me.
His partner aims his shotgun. I feel a great welling-up of fear and then,
just when it seems likely to burst, to make me weak and defeated, I think
of the neighbor woman, and of the whole neighborhood of sleeping people,
all tucked into their beds, defenseless.
I laugh. It is a weird, creepy laugh, and I donÕt know how my voice
has changed so. I look at the policeman holding his pistol and the second
one holding his shotgun.
ÒYou wouldnÕt, by any chance, have that loaded with silver bullets,
would you?Ó I ask.
ÒHuh?Ó the policeman answers.
The coffins are under the dining room table. Vicky looks at me. I
look at her.
ÒIÕm full,Ó she says.
ÒMe too,Ó I answer.
ÒIf we eat policemen every night IÕm going to get fat,Ó she says.
We climb into our coffins and we sleep.
There is the sound of a door being flung open. I awake. ItÕs dark in
my coffin.
ÒGood God! Look at this place!Ó I hear, distantly, beyond the dining
room.
I feel a chill in my bones. Suddenly I remember, as if recalling a
distant dream, my former life. I had a life once, didnÕt I? A sort-of, so-
called life. I was 38, unmarried, an accountant.
ÒWhat happened here?Ó a woman asks.
ÒGuy mustÕve left. Shit. Some kids mustÕve been using this place as
a party house.Ó
ÒLook! ThereÕs a dead cat rotting in the corner.Ó
ÒOmigod!Ó
I open the lid to my coffin. I peer out. The lid of VickyÕs coffin is
up, slightly, and I see her eyes staring at me. They look frightened.
ÒLetÕs get some light in here!Ó one of the voices says. I hear the
sound of curtains being opened. I stare at the door to the dining room. It
is closed, we are safe in here, in the windowless dining room, but as I
stare at the door light appears underneath it.
ÒWhatÕs in this room?Ó I hear. I look at Vicky and motion her to get
down. I do too. The lids to our coffins close just as the dining room door
is opened.
ÒHuh. ItÕs a dining room.Ó
ÒNot a place IÕd want to eat.Ó
ÒIs there a dead dog in there too?Ó
ÒNo. Just two coffins.Ó
ÒShit!Ó
ÒWhat in GodÕs name?Ó
ÒWhat are two coffins doing in here?Ó
ÒUnder the dining table?!Ó
ÒWeird fucking kids.Ó
ÒGo look in the coffins, Harold.Ó
ÒYeah, right.Ó
ÒI guess weÕll be foreclosing this property, huh?Ó
ÒOh, yeah. Put it in the MLS as Ôformer teen party house, once owned
by an accountant who left without a trace.Õ
ÒDead dog in the living room included at no charge. Unwanted dinner
guests may be disposed of in coffins under the dining room table.Ó
The door closes. I feel myself breathe a sigh of relief. It is a
strange exhalation; stale air, as if from lungs long dead and decomposed. I
do not really feel my lungs fill when I breathe in. When I breathe out it is
a sort of halfhearted motion, more a distant memory of a past life, of a
past gesture, than anything that is real or needed.
A second door shuts. Slams shut. I lift the lid to my coffin. They
are gone.
The lid to VickyÕs coffin rises. She looks again at me and I no longer
see the fright I had seen before.
ÒWe canÕt stay here anymore,Ó I tell her.
ÒI know,Ó she whispers.
I look at the door to the dining room. There is still a sliver of light
underneath it.
ÒWe must wait until itÕs dark,Ó I tell Vicky.
ÒYes,Ó she answers. Her voice is like a hiss.
I lay again in my coffin, in the welcome darkness of it, but I am
troubled and cannot sleep. I hope Vicky is able to sleep. We will have to
search for a new home tonight.
30
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