He was Christ deposed. Carraci or Mantegna's Christ-figure; limbs flat, heavy, floppy. He was all weight and doughy flesh, spent and drained on top of those impossibly white hotel sheets. Burial vestments. A couple of flecks of blood around the corner of the top sheet. Christ without the stigmata. Christ's body-sans-blood, because all of his blood was in Irene, now.
Her hand shook as she felt for the pulse that wasn't there. She put her ear against his bare chest to listen to nothing. A slow kind of horror crept over Irene. It made her pupils dilate, her fingers grip the headboard. She listened to the noises in the hotel rooms next to hers. Above. Below. Somebody was wheeling a squeaky cart through the hallways. Probably some middle aged immigrant in orthopedic shoes. She could barely speak a word of English. She wouldn't be able to express what Irene was feeling then, not with her limited vocabulary. Even Irene couldn't adequately describe it. Horror was too gentle a word. Fear was not it. The only way anyone can possibly describe the realization of having killed someone is with the stunned, cold silence that comes after.
Irene dry-heaved into the sink. The drain sucked down the pinkish froth of water, soap, and blood. She was trying to rub the blood out of the corners of her fingers, and off of her mouth. There was so much, but there wouldn't be any evidence of it. Only those three little dots of blood on the sheets.
Irene turned the shower on and stepped into it. She imagined the smell of death on her. She imagined that she could still feel the dead man's clammy hands on her skin. Dear god, she could still taste his blood.
She met him in one of those clubs. Solstice. It was a big, seedy club, and dark. Outside, it didn't look like much. A brick wall and a door, a red velvet rope miming exclusivity when really anybody could get in as long as they paid the cover charge. Inside, it was all red velvet. Cheesy, vulgar red carpet and red velvet furniture; black lights and young girls in bandaid skirts and boys in eyeliner or deep V-necks.
He was one of the nicer ones. He was young and blond and made eyes at Irene from across the room, or tried to. He made a valiant effort to hit on her. Irene, on a normal evening, would have smiled at him and forgotten it, but that night she was hungry. She flirted. She half-listened to his story and thought of the artery in his throat, and the cocktail of drugs and alcohol in his blood.
His name was Daniel, he said. Danny. He grew up in Harper Rock. But he was moving to London, soon. Ontario, that is. He was twenty-one years old, he said, which was obviously a lie. He couldn't have been more than eighteen.
Would Danny like to come back to Irene's hotel room? Yes, he would. So, they went. He took off his clothes. She latched on to his throat, then drank. And kept drinking. And drinking. Until all too late she stopped, and so did his heart.
She heard the death rattle before she heard his heart stop. That one, long exhalation, as if the soul were being released into the ether.
All Irene could think about was the old Friulian tradition (was it Friulian?) of taking the roof of a house of a dying man, so that the soul could escape. After she rubbed her skin raw in the shower, Irene opened all the windows in the hotel room. She looked in Daniel's wallet. Daniel Turner, his driver's license said. Nineteen years old.
Irene left the hotel feeling sick. They'd find the body in the morning. It would be bloated by then. Maybe it would already start to smell. She wanted to cry, but her eyes were unbearably dry, just like her mouth, her insides, which was too bad because she wanted to vomit, too. She kept walking until she got to her apartment in Cedar Court, and saw the lights in the window.
Irene had forgotten that she'd leant the apartment to Ingrid and her husband for the holidays, and that they would be gone on the second of January. She had forgotten that she told them she would take them out for New Year's Eve. She had forgotten her phone on vibrate in her pocket all this time.
Five missed calls and three text messages.
Irene dialed her sister and listened to the phone ring. Ingrid answered, and sounded annoyed.
"I came all the way here to visit you, you know."
"I know," Irene said. Her voice was inordinately calm. It surprised her.
"Well, where are you?"
"I can't tonight."
There was a long, hurt silence on the other line. And then, "Why not?"
"I just can't. I'm not feeling well. I'm sick."
"You're sick?"
"I am."
Another long silence. "Oh. I'm sorry. Do you want me to get you anything?"
"No, Ingrid. What time is your flight tomorrow?"
"Ten in the morning."
"I won't be able to make it."
"Oh."
"I'm sorry."
"No. It's fine. I guess I'll see you some other time."
"Ingrid--"
The line went dead. Irene breathed through her nose--one of those unnecessary gasps of air that meant nothing, really, and felt like forcing air through a plastic bag--and walked away from the house. The tears still didn't come.
Lacrimosa
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Irene (DELETED 3180)
- Posts: 25
- Joined: 25 Aug 2012, 21:04
Re: Lacrimosa
He had lain awake for some little while, hardly stirring on the couch in her apartment. He tried to guess the time, but outside it was pitch black, and there was nothing to tell one second from the next. The clock that was still packed somewhere in one of the brown boxes was still ticking in its usual way.
She said that she didn’t like clocks. That ticking drove her crazy, especially when insomnia still sometimes bothered her. That was why she already had the blackout curtains. That was why she was so used to the night.
He had one of her books in his hand, and had been reading it since early afternoon. He hadn’t done much work. He refused to leave her side. She treated him with a kind of sad deference. Smiled at him—or winced—in a way that he thought was apologetic.
“I did this to you,” she explained, and there was never a hint of triumph in her voice. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”
She explained that he was in her thrall now, quite literally; that she was a vampire; that he was going to want to serve her forever, right until he died, and said if she knew how to break the spell she inadvertently cast on him a week ago, she would. But she didn’t know. Said she’d keep trying.
Ed didn’t mind. Not really. He still felt like himself. He still worked on the reproductions and the paintings, he had the same thoughts, and he was still the same stubborn, willful old man. Only now he had a purpose, and that was to wait on Irene Cui Silje hand and foot—when she let him, at least.
Where was she tonight, he wondered? She said she wouldn’t be gone long. When was she going to get this place decorated? It smelled new, still. The carpet was fresh. But the smell of paper—of that still unfinished manuscript—of ink, of tea, of cooking—it was all sinking in. It was all starting to smell like her, or at least the scents that surrounded her. When she was near, he could always only smell the scents around her, and never that earthy smell that people have sometimes. Never brine. Never warmth.
Ed got up and started fixing himself a drink. Irene always had liquor in her fridge, and now Ed was putting his own liquor there, too. He liked to stick around, some nights. She had books he wanted to read, and the nearness of her was a fine thing. It was peaceful, and lovely, and right. It was almost like being in love, except Ed would more describe his fondness for her as avuncular—maybe paternal. And maybe he was a little in love as well, but she would never hear it. She had a boyfriend.
Ed and Irene talked a lot. They talked about everything. One time they talked and it was very late, almost morning, she got very sad, and she took his face in his hands—his skin almost like liver spotted papyrus next to her smooth hands—and told him how sorry she was. He always laughed and drank a double shot of bourbon. It unnerved him, the way she looked at him, as if she pitied him. It made him feel as though he were something to be pitied, and wondered if there was something wrong with him that he didn’t feel pitiable. It made him so paranoid that he organized and re-organized all of Irene’s manuscripts and books, what little furniture she had, her pantry—everything. At one point, he even organized her cleaning solvents.
Ed was standing at the sink, rinsing out his tumbler of whiskey when Irene, keys jangling, burst into the apartment. Ed looked up. Irene’s eyes were translucent and wet, tears still clinging to her matted eyelashes. She looked absolutely distressed, and when Ed asked her what the matter was, she only crumpled on the couch and wept.
“What’s wrong?” Ed asked again. “Irene, what’s the matter?”
“Everything!” Irene exclaimed, and sounded like a child. "And he--! He loves her!"
It was so melodramatic, and he was so confused, and she looked so distraught when she said it—that statue face of hers, porcelain even when she was crying (it would have been puffed up if she were still human. She would have looked absolutely red)—that Ed almost laughed. But he didn’t laugh; he put his arms around her. “There,” he said. “Tell old Eddy what’s wrong. What have they done to you now?”
She said that she didn’t like clocks. That ticking drove her crazy, especially when insomnia still sometimes bothered her. That was why she already had the blackout curtains. That was why she was so used to the night.
He had one of her books in his hand, and had been reading it since early afternoon. He hadn’t done much work. He refused to leave her side. She treated him with a kind of sad deference. Smiled at him—or winced—in a way that he thought was apologetic.
“I did this to you,” she explained, and there was never a hint of triumph in her voice. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”
She explained that he was in her thrall now, quite literally; that she was a vampire; that he was going to want to serve her forever, right until he died, and said if she knew how to break the spell she inadvertently cast on him a week ago, she would. But she didn’t know. Said she’d keep trying.
Ed didn’t mind. Not really. He still felt like himself. He still worked on the reproductions and the paintings, he had the same thoughts, and he was still the same stubborn, willful old man. Only now he had a purpose, and that was to wait on Irene Cui Silje hand and foot—when she let him, at least.
Where was she tonight, he wondered? She said she wouldn’t be gone long. When was she going to get this place decorated? It smelled new, still. The carpet was fresh. But the smell of paper—of that still unfinished manuscript—of ink, of tea, of cooking—it was all sinking in. It was all starting to smell like her, or at least the scents that surrounded her. When she was near, he could always only smell the scents around her, and never that earthy smell that people have sometimes. Never brine. Never warmth.
Ed got up and started fixing himself a drink. Irene always had liquor in her fridge, and now Ed was putting his own liquor there, too. He liked to stick around, some nights. She had books he wanted to read, and the nearness of her was a fine thing. It was peaceful, and lovely, and right. It was almost like being in love, except Ed would more describe his fondness for her as avuncular—maybe paternal. And maybe he was a little in love as well, but she would never hear it. She had a boyfriend.
Ed and Irene talked a lot. They talked about everything. One time they talked and it was very late, almost morning, she got very sad, and she took his face in his hands—his skin almost like liver spotted papyrus next to her smooth hands—and told him how sorry she was. He always laughed and drank a double shot of bourbon. It unnerved him, the way she looked at him, as if she pitied him. It made him feel as though he were something to be pitied, and wondered if there was something wrong with him that he didn’t feel pitiable. It made him so paranoid that he organized and re-organized all of Irene’s manuscripts and books, what little furniture she had, her pantry—everything. At one point, he even organized her cleaning solvents.
Ed was standing at the sink, rinsing out his tumbler of whiskey when Irene, keys jangling, burst into the apartment. Ed looked up. Irene’s eyes were translucent and wet, tears still clinging to her matted eyelashes. She looked absolutely distressed, and when Ed asked her what the matter was, she only crumpled on the couch and wept.
“What’s wrong?” Ed asked again. “Irene, what’s the matter?”
“Everything!” Irene exclaimed, and sounded like a child. "And he--! He loves her!"
It was so melodramatic, and he was so confused, and she looked so distraught when she said it—that statue face of hers, porcelain even when she was crying (it would have been puffed up if she were still human. She would have looked absolutely red)—that Ed almost laughed. But he didn’t laugh; he put his arms around her. “There,” he said. “Tell old Eddy what’s wrong. What have they done to you now?”
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Irene (DELETED 3180)
- Posts: 25
- Joined: 25 Aug 2012, 21:04
Re: Lacrimosa
So there it was, the inevitable silence that followed every end of everything. That's what everything boils down to in the end: Silence. The depth of it is always directly proportional to the value of what came before, and even if you try to drown it out with music--however loud, blaring into the evening and the open window--the Silence always find you.
Irene first became acquainted with the Silence the night her mother died. The party had been so raucous and everyone had been laughing. And then, suddenly, it was still and quiet.
It came back to visit her many times since then. It visited her the moments after she lost her virginity. After each relationship ended. After each death. After Elias left her. And now, after Elliot.
Irene supposed she was thankful for it, The Silence. It let her keep her dignity. There wouldn't be any keening, and no melodramatic threats of suicide. She wouldn't deal with her grief by going out and desperately searching for company--for any kind of company. She wouldn't flash the luridness of her youth, her limbs smoothed by sorrow.
Or would she? It was tempting. It was very tempting to find some warm, hollow neck. Some pulse. Some straight, strong, uncomplicated back. Anything. Anyone.
No, no, no, she told herself. She'd stay inside and read her god damned novels and work on her god damned manuscript. She'd drink some god damned wine and eat some god damned chocolates and smoke some god damned cigarettes and when it was later she would go out and be a god damned God damned vampire. There were other, higher pursuits after all.
Klae--at least he said his name was Klae--reminded her of that when, days ago, she found him between Cherrydale and Honeymead. Irene could only describe him as a very solid shadow, and she couldn't see much of him except for the outline of braids against his back and the silhouette of his body, large and imposing. She was almost afraid of him, and she already had a pistol in her hand when he spoke.
"I suppose you want to learn the ways of the Shifter, too."
His voice was richly accented, as if he were an Arab or a Persian. It was dripping with contempt, too.
"I think so," Irene said. She remembered that Elliot told her about them, The Wraiths. It had all been very vague, and he'd taken something--passed his hand through her and plucked it right out of her core somehow, whatever it was. A sacrifice.
Irene looked at her hands, white and slender. She thought of what they were capable of, now. She thought of control. Of Ed. Of the boy who died--whose name she couldn't really remember anymore, God forgive her. There were other things to fill her time with, and nobody said anything had to last forever. It was no different, and it made no difference to her. Not that dull, cold ache behind her ears. Not the constant lump in her throat. It was nothing.
Irene first became acquainted with the Silence the night her mother died. The party had been so raucous and everyone had been laughing. And then, suddenly, it was still and quiet.
It came back to visit her many times since then. It visited her the moments after she lost her virginity. After each relationship ended. After each death. After Elias left her. And now, after Elliot.
Irene supposed she was thankful for it, The Silence. It let her keep her dignity. There wouldn't be any keening, and no melodramatic threats of suicide. She wouldn't deal with her grief by going out and desperately searching for company--for any kind of company. She wouldn't flash the luridness of her youth, her limbs smoothed by sorrow.
Or would she? It was tempting. It was very tempting to find some warm, hollow neck. Some pulse. Some straight, strong, uncomplicated back. Anything. Anyone.
No, no, no, she told herself. She'd stay inside and read her god damned novels and work on her god damned manuscript. She'd drink some god damned wine and eat some god damned chocolates and smoke some god damned cigarettes and when it was later she would go out and be a god damned God damned vampire. There were other, higher pursuits after all.
Klae--at least he said his name was Klae--reminded her of that when, days ago, she found him between Cherrydale and Honeymead. Irene could only describe him as a very solid shadow, and she couldn't see much of him except for the outline of braids against his back and the silhouette of his body, large and imposing. She was almost afraid of him, and she already had a pistol in her hand when he spoke.
"I suppose you want to learn the ways of the Shifter, too."
His voice was richly accented, as if he were an Arab or a Persian. It was dripping with contempt, too.
"I think so," Irene said. She remembered that Elliot told her about them, The Wraiths. It had all been very vague, and he'd taken something--passed his hand through her and plucked it right out of her core somehow, whatever it was. A sacrifice.
Irene looked at her hands, white and slender. She thought of what they were capable of, now. She thought of control. Of Ed. Of the boy who died--whose name she couldn't really remember anymore, God forgive her. There were other things to fill her time with, and nobody said anything had to last forever. It was no different, and it made no difference to her. Not that dull, cold ache behind her ears. Not the constant lump in her throat. It was nothing.
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Irene (DELETED 3180)
- Posts: 25
- Joined: 25 Aug 2012, 21:04
Re: Lacrimosa
“First of all, it’s weird.”
Jim was on Skype, and his voice through the speakers was as clear as if he were in the room with Irene. Clearer, even. He was in Dolby Surround Sound, and he was very crisp. On the screen, he was in a white t-shirt and smoking. In his right hand he was holding a copy of Irene’s manuscript.
”I mean, it’s weird in a good way,” he said. “Not weird-weird. Good-weird. I’ve never seen you write like this. But isn’t the vampire novel a little cliche?”
”Jim Jarmusch is making a vampire movie,” Irene said, as if that excused everything. She was smoking, too, in her pyjamas. The webcam was on. She had a cup of coffee in her hand.
”But it’s good writing,” Jim went on, as if he didn’t hear her, “I mean it’s damned good writing, too--of course it is, it’s you--but vampires, Irene, really. You’ve expended all this energy on vampire fiction. It’s a little...”
“Didn’t I do a good job of it?” Irene asked, sounding a little hurt.
“Darling, you did!” Jim said. He put the manuscript down and moved closer to the screen. “You really did. It makes me like vampires almost. But then all the strange, silly little plot twists. Like that rift in the veil in the fourth chapter. I mean, sure, it explains why all the vampires stay in one place rather than travel the world--”
“I thought it was a good metaphor for being trapped.”
“--but do the zombies really have to be in there?”
Irene laughed.
“Honestly, sweetheart!” Jim said. “If I were your editor I’d strike all that out.”
“Well, Jim, you’re not my editor,” Irene said. She put out her cigarette and took a sip of her coffee. “You’re my agent. Can we send it to Janine, soon? And remember the pseudonym.”
“Fine. Anyway, what do I know about writing books? I only sell them,” Jim said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I’ll send her a copy in the morning.”
Irene lit another cigarette. It was midnight in New York. She could hear music in the background. “You having a party?”
“No. There’s a boy here,” Jim said. He made a moue; rolled his eyes to the ceiling and pursed his lips together.
“Slut,” Irene laughed. “Go on, then. Have a good time. Use protection.”
“Goodnight, darling. Come visit New York soon.”
They blew kisses. The screen went black. Skype sighed as it closed down, echoing the way Irene felt. She stood up and moved to where the mirror was, with the black cloth over it. She pulled the cloth aside and looked at the corpse in the mirror--the filmy eyes, the pale skin, the ugly tears in the flesh from the old, remembered mooncalf attack. The reflection hadn’t forgiven yet.
Irene blew smoke into the mirror. It dispersed at the surface. She thought about saying something--something to mark what felt like a strangely momentous occasion, but she couldn’t think of anything. So, she dragged the cloth back down over the mirror. She sat back down at her computer.
And because she was too afraid to do anything else, and was too afraid to stop, she wrote.
Jim was on Skype, and his voice through the speakers was as clear as if he were in the room with Irene. Clearer, even. He was in Dolby Surround Sound, and he was very crisp. On the screen, he was in a white t-shirt and smoking. In his right hand he was holding a copy of Irene’s manuscript.
”I mean, it’s weird in a good way,” he said. “Not weird-weird. Good-weird. I’ve never seen you write like this. But isn’t the vampire novel a little cliche?”
”Jim Jarmusch is making a vampire movie,” Irene said, as if that excused everything. She was smoking, too, in her pyjamas. The webcam was on. She had a cup of coffee in her hand.
”But it’s good writing,” Jim went on, as if he didn’t hear her, “I mean it’s damned good writing, too--of course it is, it’s you--but vampires, Irene, really. You’ve expended all this energy on vampire fiction. It’s a little...”
“Didn’t I do a good job of it?” Irene asked, sounding a little hurt.
“Darling, you did!” Jim said. He put the manuscript down and moved closer to the screen. “You really did. It makes me like vampires almost. But then all the strange, silly little plot twists. Like that rift in the veil in the fourth chapter. I mean, sure, it explains why all the vampires stay in one place rather than travel the world--”
“I thought it was a good metaphor for being trapped.”
“--but do the zombies really have to be in there?”
Irene laughed.
“Honestly, sweetheart!” Jim said. “If I were your editor I’d strike all that out.”
“Well, Jim, you’re not my editor,” Irene said. She put out her cigarette and took a sip of her coffee. “You’re my agent. Can we send it to Janine, soon? And remember the pseudonym.”
“Fine. Anyway, what do I know about writing books? I only sell them,” Jim said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I’ll send her a copy in the morning.”
Irene lit another cigarette. It was midnight in New York. She could hear music in the background. “You having a party?”
“No. There’s a boy here,” Jim said. He made a moue; rolled his eyes to the ceiling and pursed his lips together.
“Slut,” Irene laughed. “Go on, then. Have a good time. Use protection.”
“Goodnight, darling. Come visit New York soon.”
They blew kisses. The screen went black. Skype sighed as it closed down, echoing the way Irene felt. She stood up and moved to where the mirror was, with the black cloth over it. She pulled the cloth aside and looked at the corpse in the mirror--the filmy eyes, the pale skin, the ugly tears in the flesh from the old, remembered mooncalf attack. The reflection hadn’t forgiven yet.
Irene blew smoke into the mirror. It dispersed at the surface. She thought about saying something--something to mark what felt like a strangely momentous occasion, but she couldn’t think of anything. So, she dragged the cloth back down over the mirror. She sat back down at her computer.
And because she was too afraid to do anything else, and was too afraid to stop, she wrote.