"Afterlife" part two

“Get away from me!” I pushed him now, and like a miracle he swayed back, allowing me to reach the door. To my horror, yet not really surprise, it was bolted from the other side.

“Let me out of here!” I beat against the fortified wood, which stood surprisingly firm.

“Now, screaming isn’t going to help us any, my pet.”

“Stop saying that, stop giving me those names!”

“Screaming won’t help us any, Carmen.” I stopped beating the door. So he did know my name.

“How do you know me? What do you want? What have you done to me?!” I was losing it again. Screaming wouldn’t help, but that sure as hell didn’t mean that I wasn’t going to stop.

“We met at that silly little get together you were leaving, remember? Well, not really met, I guess you could say I caught sight of you and that was that.  I usually only go to those snoozer bashes for a little snack,” I went numb; a little snack? “but then you were there. I knew from the moment you walked into that room full of animals that you were meant for better things. I meant to watch you for a while, maybe woo you first – as is the custom - but then there was that nasty little accident, and I decided for you.”  Chills ran up and down my spine like an electric current, a lump was forming in my throat,

“Decided what for me?”

“Why, that you would be with me forever, of course. I wasn’t about to let you go to waste in that mortal shell, and I most certainly wasn’t about to let you die.”  A mortal shell…so was I immortal, now? All of a sudden things began to click; I began to put everything together …I had to be dreaming, now. This was a dream, for sure.

“I’m dreaming, aren’t I? This has to be a dream. Immortal – ha…there’s no such thing! What you’re suggesting is stuff a nerdy Twilight kid might believe but – “ my eyes caught Fio’s; he was looking at me in such a way…a knowing way, my god he was amused! Like I was a child on Christmas morning, gushing about how I got everything I asked of Santa…when there is no Father Christmas at all…it’s all a ruse.  He started to laugh.

“But…that’s impossible…”  Oh god, wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up!

“Not so impossible, my Little Sparrow.” It was starting to rain again, the first heavy drops could be heard on the window panes; a roll of thunder shook the frame of the house. I wanted to cry. Could vampires cry?

“Don’t be sad, princess, please don’t be sad. I have been alone for so long…for centuries, my pet, and I couldn’t bear it a moment longer. Can you even imagine how it felt – an eternity alone?” he caressed my cheek; his words were no comfort; sympathy eluded me.

“How long?” I asked

“Too long.”

“No, how long since…”  I was not all too sure how to even ask him, “how long since my… accident?”

“Oh, that,”  he saw me breaking down, “about three days.”  I focused on keeping my breathing even – I didn’t even know if I still needed to breathe, but the familiarity of the action was comforting all the same.

“And…what am I to my family, now?”

“…Dead, my pet. You must be dead.” A tear escaped me. So, vampires do cry. Fio didn’t miss my reaction.

“Well, princess, I think you’ve had enough for today. I’ll leave you alone, now. The bathroom is through that door, there,” and he motioned to a tall, narrow crimson door on my right. “a nice long bath usually helps. Everything you need is in that wardrobe there. ” his hand waved to the over-large piece of furniture to my far left. He looked down at me, his eyes surprisingly warm for a monster, but then again I was a monster, too now.

“Everything you see is yours.” He whispered, kissing me gently on the forehead; he softly knocked three times on the door, which in turn opened into darkness, and was gone.

The room did not miss his presence; it stood open and gaping as it had before, yet I was suffocating. I stood there for a while in a nauseating daze, waiting to wake up from this nightmare I had so precariously been dropped into.

When I woke up I was in the bathroom, which in any other circumstance I would have been thrilled to call mine. The ceiling was high, like in the bedroom, with plaster moldings of cherubs and flowers in the corners. The floor was an array of warm-colored ceramic tile; the walls were painted a welcoming textured shade of dark pink. There was a wrought-iron stove in the back right-hand corner, with a rack secured over it. A long counter occupied half of the wall to my left, over which a long narrow mirror spanned the length of the entire wall, just high enough to reveal only my shoulders, neck, and face. There was another narrow door on my right, which I assumed led to the toilet, which I nearly bolted to with the bile rising in my throat.  In the middle of the room was the tub – which was more of a small pool. It was nearly a perfect square, large, and was set deep into the floor, so that even though the brim reached a foot above the tile, it was a good two and a half feet deep. Directly above was a shower head fixed perpendicular to the ceiling and was about a foot in diameter.

I could find no switch to turn on the studio lights placed in modest corners, but found I could see without any trouble with the light of the live fire in the stove and the long row of candles on the counter. I closed the door and locked it, feeling not at all secure.

The stove made the room pleasantly warm, and the only temperature of the water seemed to be room temperature, warm, or hot. On the floor of the tub a careful bed of lavender had been made – I hadn’t noticed when I began to draw the bath – and soon the room was heavy with the opiate aroma. I was about to hang my clothes on the rack above the stove, but soon realized that they were ruined. My transformation had healed my body from the accident, but not my attire; angry rips and holes stared at me from my jeans and tank top, my sweat-shirt in the other room was no doubt in the same condition. I dropped them into a tall wicker basket in the far left corner and grabbed a towel from a stack folded neatly on the floor nearby it. I heard the lock click as I turned the knob and I stepped into the room.

The room was eerie and silent. I rushed with quiet steps to the wardrobe and opened its doors. Inside was an array of fabric; outfits I had only seen in graphic novels and Lolita fashion magazines. Reds and whites and pinks and blacks confronted me; leather and lace hung stitch-in-stitch on the hangers. Below was an army of shoes – which weren’t so bad, but looked very expensive. I rummaged through the mess of fancy, looking for some simple sweats or flannel pajamas, but could only find something as simple as a long, ivory nightdress that tied up in the back and was made of a scandalously see-through silk. I lifted the hanger from the bar and hurried back into the bathroom, locking the door again behind me. The water was a few inches from the brim of the tub; I turned it off and, after hanging the gown from the stove-rack, lowered myself into the steaming bath.

The warm water seemed to seep into my bones and release everything.
I spread my fingers on the surface of the water; they were not so different. I let my hands roam my body, but every curve was intact, there was not a scratch, not even a bruise.

I think I was still trying to wake up, so maybe I believed falling asleep was a solution. All the answers I got were dreams.
Blue eyes…the smell of smoke…




There were long black curtains that disappeared high above me.  Everyone was rushing around; oddly quiet; the world was mute.  Everything was so familiar, like I was at home here…so why was I so lost? Like a ghost I made my way through the people, until I slipped right through a boy with a multi-colored Mohawk and white and green make-up. I knew him…who was he? I looked past one of the curtains into a scene of discolored metal and people clad in leather and fishnets. A stage.  I heard a voice behind me, so familiar – my voice. I heard another low, rough voice with my own, and I felt a chill. I knew that voice, didn’t I? I turned.

I saw myself, hair wild and braided with bright orange extensions; my make-up was smoky and dramatic; prepped for the stage.

This was Hamlet. A Shakespearian tragedy…I was…Horatio? Yes, I remember being alive in the end, I remember holding someone as they died.

My gaze turned to the form in front of the costumed me – I nearly didn’t see him for he was all in black, but when I moved to stare at our profiles I could make his face out clearly. He was rough – clean and shaven at that moment – perhaps for the sake of the show, though somehow I knew that he usually wasn’t. His brown hair was gelled and mussed into odd angles; a little mohawk sticking out in the back. Dark make-up shadows made his eyes sullen and reminded me of death – as did the grey hollows of his cheeks. When he spoke, his deep voice shook me to the bone – arousing a sensation in me I faintly recognized.

We were speaking of something – the last scene, the death of Hamlet, his death. In the middle of a sentence I saw myself mouthing to him, as I looked up to meet his gaze, he moved forward, and I saw his lips on mine, watched my own body shudder as his fingers brushed my cheek. He kissed me…I couldn’t explain what I was feeling as I watched…my stomach felt like it was full of warmth – butterflies; my breathing quickened; heat crept into secret places…I found myself smiling as I realized I was watching a memory.

The next memory was in daylight, the colors vivid and bright. ‘Hamlet’ and I were wrestling over an old blue armchair; he was tickling me, laughing as I swung my fists at him aimlessly while he attacked my sides. The look in his eyes – his beautiful steely blue-grey eyes – brought a blush to my cheeks, which he kissed, and then slid over to meet my smiling lips with his.
Another memory: we are alone in a room, his hands slide without hesitation up my back, his fingertips caressing my bare skin. His hands are soft and dry and warm.

He was so warm…
Oh god, what was his name?




         
I opened my eyes. The room was blurry and slightly purple, but I was wrapped in pleasant warmth.
I bolted upright when I realized I had been sleeping underwater.

I guess vampires didn’t need to breathe.

That was the dream; the warmth and the laughter and the life. This was the reality; the alien and the solitude and the sorrow. This was my reality now.

Why couldn’t I remember anything beyond four nights ago – my mother and the party and the accident – why was my life such a fog? The fragments I grasped at in my sleep must have been real, but why could I remember nothing else? Who was the boy with eyes the color of the sky before a storm and warm hands…I wish I could see him, I wish I could remember his name.