Imaginary Vampires

The squirrel cried out in anguish as the tire flattened its body, sending it quickly to its maker. Dana didn't seem to notice the car flying inches over the pavement; he was too busy seething at the latest crack about his name. Dana's child, Dylan, who was obviously not his child, as he looks suspiciously, exactly like the ex-pool boy Pepe in midget form, was bouncing around the car, jumping up and down in his seat, screaming, "When are we gonna get there?? I don't wanna give him the present, I wanna keep it!! Will there be cake??"

With every question Dana grew more and more irritated, and quickly pressed on the gas pedal. Unfortunately, the police officer did not accept the excuse of irritation as a plausible reason for doing sixty down a residential street.

"I'm very sorry, Officer, I-"

"Son, do you know exactly how fast you were going?" The officer
towered above Dana, and positioned his dark navigator glasses on his face. His uniform was clean and pressed, and his random arrangement of various medals gleamed in the sun as a fall breeze strayed in through the window.

"Well, no, I-"
"Do you realize that this is, in fact, a twenty-five speed zone?"

"Yes, and I-"

"Do you realize the dangers that can occur when you are, in fact,
traveling that fast down a street like this? Do you know exactly how many stupid house cats live on this street? Do you know exactly how many heartbroken children there would be if everyone went that fast down this street?" The officer then got very serious. "Do you?"

"Well...no, but I-"

"A lot." The officer pulled a crumpled notepad from his back pocket.
"I'm going to have to give you a citation. I need to see your license and registration." Dana pulled out the documents and handed them to the officer who studied them carefully.

"Is this insurance for you or your wife?"
"I believe-"
"It says here that this insurance is for a Dana..."

"I am Dana."

There was a pause. "Your mother named you Dana?" The officer became
very serious. As Dana wagged his head up and down, a gut-bellied howl roared from the officer's mouth. He then inspected the license and erupted a second time in an explosive sound that was a sign of extreme amusement.

The officer's hands were holding his gut as if it were a balloon about to be popped. "And what's your son's name?" he managed between laughs.

"Dylan!" the child screamed. Dana groaned as Dylan jumped around the car.

"Is that child wearing a safety buckle?"

Dana wanted to scream, "DOES IT LOOK LIKE THE CHILD IS WEARING A SEAT
BELT?" but, instead, just moaned, "No."

Dylan had found an umbrella under the back seat of the car. He climbed into the front and immediately began poking his father, crying out, "Me Indian. You evil cowboy, me win! Me win!"

"I'm going to have to give you a citation. Both for speeding and for not properly buckling your child." The officer wrote the amount on a long slip of paper. He handed it to Dana, and said, leaning into the car, "Have a nice day."

Dylan incessantly prodded Dana with the umbrella the entire way to the other brat's birthday party. The car screeched to a halt in front of the worn house. Dana stepped out of the car, barely avoiding a child's wrist as the chalk outline was completed.
The passenger door opened and the car made a frantic ding-ding-ding-for-the-love-of-God-shut-the-door-or-the-world-will-end-ding-ding-ding. Dylan ran straight through a mud puddle and pinned another evil cowboy to the ground, poking him in the forehead with the umbrella. "Dylan, come back and give your daddy a hug."

Dana kneeled as if proposing and spread his arms out wide, only to have the little monster run back and kick him in the shin. An unknown child shouted, "Door's open!" and slammed the passenger door against Dana's head.

Dana hobbled around the car and drove home, throbbing. The quaint, one-story starter home glared at him. The secrets it held were darker than the devil, Dana thought. The car died.

Dana staggered up onto the porch and cried as he fumbled with his keys. "All I want to do is make some tea and take a nap." As he stumbled back to the kitchen rubbing the purple spot forming on his head, he could see the visible signs of violence scribbled into the walls.

Each violent act had begun with an accident -- an accident -- and usually stopped after screaming tension and more violent acts had ensued. He knew his wife had a bad temper, but he had loved her anyway.

Faded flower wallpaper caved in where his head had shot into it after he had tripped over a box left in the middle of the floor. A yelling fight rang through the small house over whose fault it was, ending in an embarrassingly red forehead and a badly bruised ego. Another corner retold the tale of bloodied arms poked by coat hangers as the closet was being cleaned out. His stomach churned in terror as he passed the television where he had received a hard, swift blow to the stomach by a vigorous exerciser.

This aerobic woman had long since packed her bags, declaring insanity and admitting herself into an institution after she had five anger spells and purposely dropped several glasses. "I can't stand this! I need a break!" She had left the next day with no more than a goodbye kiss and a few "don't worry"s.

That had been weeks ago, and Dana was finally starting to get used to a screaming, whining child and, on the rare occasions when the child was running in the streets or playing at a friend's, a silent house filled with inactivity.

The kettle sung as Dana cut off the fire underneath. His skin scorched as he held the pot, pouring boiling water into a cup. He dropped a tea bag in and began to search for the gauze.

A large white strip engulfed his blisters, and the remote's plastic buttons seemed to be glued in place as the red wounds throbbed with every movement of his hand. His sleeve slid up his arm as it extend towards the monitor, revealing a large purple stain on his wrist with a drawn-on vampire, mocking with its fangs. He flipped channels until he stopped on a toupee-topped newsman who was standing in front of a tall fence.

"Earlier today, three women escaped from the Burland Mental Hospital." Dana's thoughts raced. Could she have been one of the escapees? No, he thought, she's voluntary, she wouldn't need to escape. "The names have not been released but rumors have been spreading that one of the escape artists was voluntary. The institution does not know why this patient escaped, but, then again, this institution is a home for the crazy and mentally ill..."

The newsman's voice faded as Dana grew stiff. A familiar, long forgotten odor rose from the corners and crevices of the house into his nostrils. It was perfume. Her perfume. Only she would need to drown herself in the horrid smell, even when institutionalized.

He sipped his tea, trying to convince himself that he was only imagining the scent; it was only, after all, paranoia. Suddenly a loud bark resonated through the tiny slum. "Son of a bitch! I'm gone for three whole weeks and suddenly the house becomes a garbage dump!"

It was her: Rosanna. He could not believe that he had once been so madly in love with her that he once walked into a pole, staring at her. She had consoled him with a scream; a lovely, high-pitched scream. Everyone in a five-foot vicinity had given her dirty looks for invading their eardrums, but he was mesmerized. It was love at first scream.

They were promptly married five weeks later after Rosanna had decided that, to rebel, getting married two days after her eighteenth birthday to a twenty-seven year old would be a great idea.

He sat up. "Rosanna... honey, is that you?" he said softly. The shatter of glass sounded through the living room. "Are you okay? Please don't break any dishes, I don't want anyone to get hurt."

Pounding footsteps pursued Dana. "What's wrong with you? I'm supposed to be resting but I can't relax at all when I know you're here tearing apart my house. You slob, you can't even pick up your sweaty shirts off the floor. I can't deal with this anymore, I just..." She stopped and sniffed the air. "Is that tea?"

She sat back into the couch and picked up the ceramic cup. She swallowed hard, a bulging lump of tea sliding down her throat. She sat thoughtfully for a moment, then stood with a horror-movie sigh. Dana backtracked as she advanced, trapping him against a wall.

"You can't even make a cup of tea properly, you moron!" Throwing the cup, (which barely missed slapping Dana in the head) she screamed, "There's no sugar!"

"Look, honey, we can work this out."

She threw the cup's resting plate. "Don't you honey me! I'm not a baby!"

Dana released a high-pitched screech. "I can't take...much more of this."

"You? You can't take much more of this? Much more of what?" Dana was pacing back forth, audibly reassuring himself that he was not the crazy one.

But, nonetheless, something broke, and soon enough, Dana was packing his bags, throwing in anything he grabbed onto. He found himself rushing out the door, saying, "Dylan's at a birthday party over on Smithen Avenue, you know the kid. I... I'm just a little bit frazzled. I need to...fill the car with gas."

The men's loony bin over at Burland Mental Hospital received one more rambling, fumbling lunatic, who shook at the sight of roses and convulsed on the floor when forced to exercise. Dylan grew up fatherless, Rosanna lived husbandless, and Dana finished his life as just another name in a file.

END

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