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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 cat�s 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.
�You are 38 now, forever,� she tells me.
�And you are 10,� I reply.
�And now we are 6,� she says.
�What?� I ask.
�A book I have, in my bedroom.�
�Oh my God!� I shout. I turn and look at her. She does not show in my
mirror, except for her eyes. �We have been...� I cannot say it. We�ve been
fucking for days, weeks perhaps? Fucking by night and drinking the blood
of the woman next door when we are hungry. �What about your mother?
Your parents?� I ask her.
�My parents are divorced,� she says. A note of sadness in her voice.
�Yes... but--�
�I�m missing,� she replies.
I lie down in the dining room, under the dining room table. Vicky lies
down beside me. �I want a bed,� she tells me. She is naked, but her
clothes, which she took off upstairs, are beginning to magically reappear
on her body.
�We have a bed,� 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.
�Not that sort of bed,� Vicky replies. She pats my chest. �That�s a
fucking bed.�
�Well, we can�t sleep up there, honey. Not in the daytime. The
sunlight streams in and I can�t keep it out.�
�Tonight, let�s go shopping,� she tells me.
�Alright,� 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.
�There,� 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.
�That�s a mortuary,� I tell her.
�I know,� Vicky answers. �We can get our beds there.�
�Huh?� I ask. �There�s nothing but dead people there, and coffins.�
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?
�We�re like the dead, but we can move,� she smiles. �It�s fun being
dead.�
�No its not!� 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.
�We�ve got to break in,� Vicky tells me. She looks at me
expectantly.
�Alright,� I answer.
I am prying at a window when I hear a sound behind me. Then a light
flicks on, suddenly. I am illuminated.
�Hey! You there! What the fuck do you think you�re doing?� 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!
�I�ve seen people break into homes at night, and the bank, but a
mortuary?� a gruff voice says. �You must be some kind of a weirdo.�
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.
�Ow!� I cry.
�I�ve got the weirdo,� the man yanking my arm announces to his
partner. �Some kind of fairy hippie dude with long hair and fingernails.�
I find I have strength. I manage to pull my arm back towards my
side, out from behind my back.
�Hey! Hold still!� 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 don�t know how my voice
has changed so. I look at the policeman holding his pistol and the second
one holding his shotgun.
�You wouldn�t, by any chance, have that loaded with silver bullets,
would you?� I ask.
�Huh?� the policeman answers.
The coffins are under the dining room table. Vicky looks at me. I
look at her.
�I�m full,� she says.
�Me too,� I answer.
�If we eat policemen every night I�m going to get fat,� she says.
We climb into our coffins and we sleep.
There is the sound of a door being flung open. I awake. It�s dark in
my coffin.
�Good God! Look at this place!� 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, didn�t I? A sort-of, so-
called life. I was 38, unmarried, an accountant.
�What happened here?� a woman asks.
�Guy must�ve left. Shit. Some kids must�ve been using this place as
a party house.�
�Look! There�s a dead cat rotting in the corner.�
�Omigod!�
I open the lid to my coffin. I peer out. The lid of Vicky�s coffin is
up, slightly, and I see her eyes staring at me. They look frightened.
�Let�s get some light in here!� 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.
�What�s in this room?� 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.
�Huh. It�s a dining room.�
�Not a place I�d want to eat.�
�Is there a dead dog in there too?�
�No. Just two coffins.�
�Shit!�
�What in God�s name?�
�What are two coffins doing in here?�
�Under the dining table?!�
�Weird fucking kids.�
�Go look in the coffins, Harold.�
�Yeah, right.�
�I guess we�ll be foreclosing this property, huh?�
�Oh, yeah. Put it in the MLS as �former teen party house, once owned
by an accountant who left without a trace.�
�Dead dog in the living room included at no charge. Unwanted dinner
guests may be disposed of in coffins under the dining room table.�
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 Vicky�s coffin rises. She looks again at me and I no longer
see the fright I had seen before.
�We can�t stay here anymore,� I tell her.
�I know,� she whispers.
I look at the door to the dining room. There is still a sliver of light
underneath it.
�We must wait until it�s dark,� I tell Vicky.
�Yes,� 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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