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From: Andrew Roller <roller666@earthlink.net>
Subject: Till Death Do Us Part 2 of 2 g2
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_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
Andrew Roller Presents
Till Death Do Us Part
_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
Chapter Two
I am standing in my bathroom, gargling. The Sound of Music is
playing on my tape player. I’m not overly fond of it but it was quite
popular in its day. As an accountant I have to interact with clients
and so I’m working my way, as best I am able, through all the popular
books, popular musicals, and popular movies. Hopefully this will enable
me to have an “edge” when dealing with clients, and allow me to become a
“rainmaker”. Not because I’m a better accountant (I’m already quite
good), but because I have a superior “bedside manner”. I read about
this strategy in a popular accountant’s newsletter, “Add to Your
Success!”
As I am listening to Julie Andrews, adding my own somewhat less
musical voice to hers, courtesy of Listerine, I perceive a movement
behind me. I stop in mid-gargle. I gaze into the bathroom mirror.
There, in the glass, I can see the window at the back of my bathroom,
above the toilet.
There it is again. Something black against the glass,
outside. My grip tightens on my cup of Listerine. Foam drips from the
corners of my mouth. I see tree branches beyond my window. It’s an old
tree, in my back yard. The branches are moving. The wind must be
blowing.
Slowly I move to the tape player. I click the “stop” button.
I act nonchalant but I keep my eyes fixed onto my mirror, pretending to
look at myself but really looking at the reflection of the window behind
me.
Is there something between the tree branches and my window, or
not? Is there a cat in the branches? Damn cat. That must be what it
is. That cat that lives with the woman next door is always coming into
my yard and--
I see two eyes. They’re like cat’s eyes but they’re up close
against the glass, not back in the tree branches. I stare at them,
looking into my mirror and the window’s reflection. They stare back at
me. I feel foam run down my chin. The eyes are upside down!
I whirl about. And I see nothing. Just the branches, moving
in the wind. There is nothing there. I race to the window. I hurl it
open and stick out my head. The wind is blowing hard. I peer into the
branches of the tree.
“Damn cat,” I mutter. I see nothing but living wood and
leaves. I gaze down at my yard. Empty. Just grass, and fallen leaves,
brown and rotting. I’ll have to rake those up tomorrow morning or
they’ll kill the grass.
A strand of hair touches the back of my neck. Whisper-soft.
Do I need a haircut? That damn barber-- I tipped him $2.00 and he
didn’t even do a decent job. I do my accounting, why can’t other people
do their jobs? What’s the world coming to anyway?
“I really should get a gardener for those leaves,” I tell
myself. “I just don’t have time to--”
I feel a prick on the side of my neck. Another. Two small
pins puncturing my flesh.
“Yeoow!” I hollar. I yank my head inside my window. I clap my
hand to my neck. “I thought I got rid of all those wasps last summer!”
I am shouting, when suddenly, I realize I am not alone in my bathroom.
Something soft and warm and sleek has come in through the window with
me.
I stare at her. She has pale skin and long dark hair. She is
gazing up at me and there is blood on her lips. She smiles and I nearly
faint. In her mouth, within her succulent ruby lips, I see two sharp
little fangs.
“Hold still,” she says.
“Good God!” I cry. Somehow, despite my fright, I find it
within myself to turn from her. Mixed with my fear I feel a strange
attraction. It is those eyes of hers, always lovely to look upon but
now positively luminous.
“Hold still!” she shrieks, her voice childlike and high. I
race from my bathroom. I hear footsteps behind me. I run for my
bedroom. I have a pistol at the bottom of my underwear drawer. I’ve
never fired it. Shit-- it’s not loaded either. I’d read that many
handguns wind up shooting their owner and wanted to make sure I didn’t
become a statistic like that. Yet now, in my panic, I can’t remember
where I’ve put those damn bullets!
Underwear is flying out of my dresser as I stand in my bedroom,
frantically groping for my gun. It’s dark. No time to reach for the
light switch-- I’m being pursued by a vampire! I can feel the blood
dripping down my neck where she tried to sink her fangs into me. It is
the same girl I saw in the hospital, in the elevator, and at the bus
stop.
I find the gun. I yank it out of my underwear drawer. I turn
around and, with trembling hands, I take aim at the small figure
slipping into my bedroom from the hall.
Her eyes stare at me. Her long dark hair whispers as she
moves, tumbling over her shoulders, down her back, over her dress in
front where two pert lumps indicate the presence of her budding breasts.
Her teeth flash.
“Don’t move!” I cry. I follow her with the gun as she darts
into my bedroom.
“You wouldn’t, by any chance, have that loaded with silver
bullets, would you?” she purrs. She is confident. I stare at her. She
stares at me. There is moonlight spilling into my bedroom, through the
gauze of the curtains. It is a wavery light, obscured by the curtains
and by trees in my back yard.
“It- it isn’t loaded at all,” I confess in the half-illuminated
darkness. The adumbrated moonlight is the only silver in the room.
“Didn’t think so,” she says. She slips out from behind the
foot of my bed. She approaches me. My hands shake and I drop my gun.
It clatters on my all-natural hardwood floor. I had the carpets ripped
out a year ago because I feared dust mites. Now I’m safe from those but
I’ve got a small, 10-year-old girl in my room with fangs.
“Hold still,” she says. “I must drink or I will die.”
“You-- I--” My mouth goes dry. What do you say to a vampire?
She lifts her dress.
“Don’t do that!” I yell. I see her upper thighs, her panties.
Her belly. Her underwear is white against her white skin.
“If you let me pierce you, I’ll let you pierce me,” she says in
a soft, silvery voice in the moonlight.
“N- No,” I croak.
“Yes!” she snarls. She is upon me. I feel fingers on my neck,
small and cold. Her luminous eyes take on an animal quality. They
redden as she presses her nose to mine and I smell her bubblegum breath.
“Ouch!” I gasp. Twin teeth sink into my neck.
I push at her small body. She is strong-- much stronger than I
imagined. I feel her paps under my fingers and a rush of lust runs
through me.
“Aughggh!” I cry. Somehow I get the creature off me. Her hair
swirls. She falls to the floor, lands on my all-natural hardwood floor
and cries out.
I leap over my bed. She comes after me. I nearly throw myself
through my bedroom window but instead I hit my wall, only my elbow hits
the glass and it shatters, cutting my arm. There is blood and I am
screaming. The creature, long hair and white panties and all, flies
through my broken window and is gone.
The police are at the door. I have my arm bandaged and I
mumble something about interior decorating.
“I fell against the glass, that’s all,” I tell them.
“Mr. Mortimer, do you live alone?” the officer asks. I murmur
that I do. I try to make a lame joke:
“I had the carpeting ripped out a year ago, so now even the
dust mites are gone!” I laugh. He does not.
They leave. I thank them for checking up on me.
As soon as the police are gone I shut my bedroom door and bar
it with a chair from the dining room downstairs. I lock my bedroom door
from the outside, as I stand in the hall. The window in my bedroom is
broken and She might come back. I don’t want to spend the night lying
in there, asleep, with the window open to the night air.
I go downstairs. I turn on the T.V. Then I turn it off. I
need to be able to hear her if she returns. She knows I’m in here. I
consider going to a motel for the night but I sense she has the ability
to watch me and to follow me.
I sit in the dining room, thinking. I am sitting there
half-frightened out of my wits, still on an adrenalin rush but getting
tired. I’ve been up since 5 a.m., when I go for my morning workout to
the gym. The hour is growing late and I wonder how on earth I’ll get up
tomorrow morning.
“I’ve got to get the Johnson account done tomorrow,” I tell
myself.
My eyelids droop. I begin to nod off. Then I awaken,
abruptly.
“This is ridiculous,” I tell myself. Then I feel a pain in my
arm and I realize it can’t be a dream, the blood is real. I feel my
arm, my neck. I feel the pulse in my neck.
The hours pass. I talk to myself and, unwillingly, I begin to
nod off. I am asleep when something inside me senses the pitter pat of
small feet. My eyes fly open. She is there, in my dining room. She
has taken off her shoes and she is barefoot.
“Hello,” she says in a small, silky voice.
“You’re back,” I gasp.
“Of course I’m back. I need to feed,” she tells me in an
ethereal voice that has a creepy quality underlying it, intertwined with
it. “And I need to be fed,” she adds. She lifts her skirt.
“No!” I cry.
“Do you like my panties?” she asks as she lifts her skirt to
her waist. “Do you think they’re pretty?”
Her panties are frilly and small. Little girl panties. I feel
saliva in my mouth. I swallow.
“Yes,” I say.
“Feed me,” she begs, her eyes luminous. There is just a hint
of the blood-red gaze that I’d seen in my bedroom creeping back into
them.
I am running down the street. It is dark. I have bandages
around the elbow of my right arm. I am running in my pajama shirt and
my pajama pants, slippers on my feet. It is cold. I am scared. I can
feel her behind me, somewhere. My front door is standing wide open, I
recall to myself, left open by me as I fled from my house. But I don’t
care. It’s not my house she wants, or any of my possessions. It’s me
she wants. Specifically, my blood. And my penis.
I run up a side street. The homes stare at me. They are dark,
seemingly empty, but I know there are people sleeping in there. I want
to run up to a home, any home, and pound on the door. But what can I
say, standing there in my pajamas? That a 10-year-old girl is after me
and she wants to fuck me? To drink my blood? I’m an accountant. I
have my reputation to protect. People don’t want a child molester doing
their books, especially one who’s crazy.
Out of the corner of my eye I see a playground. The clouds
overhead are thick but I can make out the swings, standing empty in the
middle of a grassy field. I run for the playground. I don’t know why.
Perhaps she will be afraid to come here.
I get among the swings. I grip their chains. I tell myself
that if she appears I’ll manage somehow to twist the chains of the
swings around her. I’ll strangle her or bind her, or both.
“Such pleasant thoughts,” I hear a small voice say. It’s
behind me. I feel a chill run down my spine. I lurch about. I tangle
myself in the chains that the swings hang from. She laughs. I get
myself free of the chains and gaze upon her. The clouds above break and
the moon illuminates her and I am struck by her beauty.
“I must feed,” she tells me. “Hold still.”
“No,” I gasp.
She leaps. I fall backward into the dirt under the swings.
She pounces on me.
“Let me feed,” she urges. Her breath is hot against my face
and I guess my own breath is hot against hers but her face feels cold
when it presses to mine.
Twin needles puncture my neck. My voice tries to cry out but
her palm clasps itself to my rictus-like mouth. Her fingers are cold.
My scream dies in my throat as I feel a sudden, unexpected rush of
pleasure. I feel like I’m drinking but instead it is she who is
drinking. She drinks from my neck. I can hear her swallowing. It is
an animal-like sound, like a cat lapping water from a lake.
The night is still. I lay in the dirt. I want to get up but I
am all swoony and pleasure-laden, the joy in my limbs slowly draining as
the minutes pass.
“Now you must feed me,” she says.
There is a weight upon my groin. And then I am naked there, my
pajama pants opened, my penis exposed to the chilly night air.
“Yessss,” she hisses. Her voice is like that of the snake in
Eden, I think.
“Don’t bite it,” I gasp. But she does not. I feel an
incredible tightness envelop the knob of my dick. Slowly, lying prone
in the dirt but listening to her moan with a mingling of pain and
pleasure, I feel myself penetrate her.
She rides me. In the dirt, amidst the swings that I had hoped
to bind her with. Instead she binds me, with her flesh, and I pierce
her and feed her.
“Do not allow yourself to be exposed to the light,” she tells
me afterward, pulling up her panties, standing by my face as I lie in
the dirt.
“What?” I croak. I am spent, drained.
“Do not allow yourself to be exposed,” she says. I fumble for
my penis. It is no longer hard and extended. I tuck it into my
pajamas.
I sit in my dining room. I’m feverish but I’m afraid to go
upstairs to my bedroom. The door there is still locked. The dining
room chair still leans against the door.
Outside, it is now daylight. I keep the curtains drawn and I
stay within the dining room all day because it is one of the few rooms
in my house that has no windows.
At night she comes. I do not know how she gets into my house.
Perhaps she simply comes through the front door. I tell myself to check
to see if it is properly locked but I am too feverish to get out of the
chair I am slumped in. She mounts me and feeds upon me. Then she has
me feed her. We rejoice in our oneness even as my fever persists.
“Do not expose yourself to the light,” she tells me again,
before leaving.
“I do not even know your name,” I mumble.
“Vicky,” she replies.
I feel stronger. I get up out of my chair. It is night. I go
to my kitchen. I open the refrigerator. Phew. The milk has somehow
gone sour. I toss it into the wastebasket in my kitchen.
I go to the cupboard. I take down a can of ravioli. I open it
and heat it on the stove. I try to eat it but I vomit.
She is standing in the doorway to my kitchen. She looks
beautiful. Her shoes are on her feet. They are glossy. They clack
lightly as she crosses the tiled floor of my kitchen. I am sitting at
the kitchen table. There is vomit on the table. She looks at it and
wrinkles her nose.
“Are you hungry?” she asks me.
“Yes,” I say.
“You need blood,” she says simply. Her long eyelashes bat at
me. I admire the silken cascade of her long, dark hair. Her clothes
are new, beautiful. As if they had never been worn. Yet they are the
same clothes I saw her wearing at the hospital!
I search for her name in my mind. “Vicky,” I finally manage to
say.
“Yes?” she asks.
“Don’t drink my blood anymore.”
“I cannot,” she tells me. “You are like me now. I let you
transform. I could have kept you as a cow, feeding off of you, but it
would have killed you. I didn’t want you to die.”
“Thanks,” I say.
She sits down at the kitchen table. It is odd to see her
sitting there, a small girl, not the lustful creature of the night who
has visited me so many, too many times.
“Do you-- want something to eat?” I ask her. She smiles at me.
“I told you. I cannot drink your blood anymore. It is vampire
blood now. Like mine. Your fever has passed, has it not?”
“I guess so,” I say.
“You look sorta silly in your pajamas,” she tells me. “A
pajama vampire.”
“I’ll-- I’ll change them,” I answer.
“They will always be part of you, I’m afraid,” she says. “I
should have told you. You were my first so I wasn’t thinking. I should
have had you put on a tux or something before I transformed you. But at
first you were not cooperative, so I--” she pauses. “I took what I
could get,” she says at last.
“A pajama vampire,” I mutter.
“You may take them off, of course,” she says. “Burn them, if
you like. But they are imbued into your aura. All living things have
an aura and undead things like us have one too. Whenever you return to
your true self, you will have the pajamas again. See? Just like my
clothes. Always crisp and new, however much I might roll in the dirt in
them, making love to you.” Her eyes flash at me. “We can still do
that,” she adds.
“Not-- not tonight,” I tell her. “I have a headache.”
“Quibbler,” she answers.
“Let me clean up this vomit,” I tell her.
“I sorta like it,” she giggles.
“Girls aren’t supposed to like vomit,” I scold her.
“I’m not a girl. I’m a vampire,” she says. She looks at me
with her large, luminous eyes. Finally she asks, “Have you ever heard
of the littlest angel?”
“Yes,” I tell her.
“You got me instead,” she replies.
30
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