Fear the Nobodies: Part Nineteen

>It was a dark and stormy night

>At least, that’s how things looked to Mike

>It was a chilled October afternoon, the hour hand closing in on twelve

>Though the skies were the dull color of wet concrete, and the narrator full of shit, to Mike…

>…the storm was coming

>And you are Mike Sapone

>Be Mike Sapone: an angry vampirelet,

>Diminutive as a human, made tall by your anger

>Two feral ideas roam your mind, like starved coyotes

>A pining, desperate lust for more blood

>Then…

>The gravity of what you’re doing right now, swirling down the literal and metaphorical drain

>Like the sieve wounds in this dog’s neck

>Right, guess you must have blinked while taking a whizz at the Burgershack

>Some unfortunately, family-mammal looking golden retriever had the misfortune of washing his hands in the wrong place, at the wrong time

>The dogs beer, his slightly graying (otherwise wonderfully golden) fur, his too-big-for-him polo shirt and goofy cargo shorts

>As you plunge your fangs into his quivering neck you get a mouthful of fur,

>There%apos;s an explosion of hot, salty blood in your mouth soon after, washing away all disgust

>The dog struggles in semi-consciousness, but you’re imbued with a Twilight-vampire-tier strength, making you one mean motherfucker

>You could snap this dog into paralysis right now – that’s how light he feels

>So you bite extra hard, with some bitter part of you wishing that you could nick an artery or something

>Ya know, drink his veins like a juice box

>Your victim shudders, his eyes roll upwards, and then, the fight leaving him, he slackens, helpless in your grasp

>It takes you only a little bit of your newly found strength to keep him from collapsing onto the bathroom floor of the Burgershack

>Poor bastard was just washing his hands when you descended upon him

>You pull hard at his veins, feeling your belly swell and grow, hot with blood

>After a few more desperate moments, something inside of you slackens

>You can feel your muscles give way, and thoughts slow from a manic bullet to a contented wisp of smoke

>God, you%apos;re not proud of what you%apos;re doing – at all – but you were so hungry…

>…almost feral

>You drag the still bleeding golden into the stall, lock the door, and…

>…eww…

>You crawl out underneath the divider and approach the mirror

>There’s a smear of blood on your lip, which you swipe away with the back of your hand

>You stare into the mirror for a moment, steadying yourself like an alcoholic who had that first shot of the night to get him by

>You%apos;re pretty sure only you can see yourself in the reflection, because that dog didn%apos;t even seem to care that you were standing right behind, red eyes burning with psychotic hunger

>Your eyes, once green like shamrock and emerald, are bloodshot, imbued with a faint, reddish glow

>They’re green if you look deep enough, which is like trying to peer into a sheet of red ice

>God, how you%apos;ve changed already

>Your already pale skin is closer to a blueish, cold, white

>Your eyes sink into your skull, dragging bags beneath them, the color of bruised fruit

>You lips, were they not soaked in hot blood, are nearly blue with lack of oxygen

>And despite all the transformations, you%apos;re still pretty short and kind of stocky

>Somewhere some muscle grew – the muscles you used to clock Anon, of course

>Thinking back on it makes you feel like shit

“He’s responsible for…” you hold your pale hands to your face, whose nails are now claws, “…me becoming this… fucking monster…”

>It%apos;s not you

>What%apos;s it matter anymore anyway? It%apos;s you now

>It%apos;s not you

>No, it is you, and you%apos;re going to be like this forever

>It%apos;s not you

>You%apos;re going to be trapped here in this podunk fucking town for the rest of your life, just like Sam and Anon

>It%apos;s not you

>How is it that Alex – out of all of this – has the best shot at getting out of town?!

>It%apos;s not you

>Jenna…

>Your heart softens when you think of her, because she obviously is a given

>She’s going to make it

>YOU, are going to make it!

>It%apos;s not you!

>You throw your fist into the mirror, as if you could strike the %apos;you%apos; on the other side and obliterate him

>The mirror explodes in a hail of glass shards, like glinting rain

>You only catch fragments of yourself in the showering glass – a fractal image of the whole Mike Sapone

>Somehow, in the scant seconds that you see yourself reflected back in the falling shards, there%apos;s a young man there, bright green eyes, healthy, warm skin, and someone tall, red-haired, and smiling

>You and Anon, side by side

>As brothers

>Then the image is gone as the last of the mirror clatters into the sink, and time sets back upon itself with its incomprehensible weight

>When you look down at your trembling, pale fist, the richness of your own blood curling from the gaps in your knuckles, the contrast only makes you laugh

>Pomegranate red, against a canvas of milky white skin, veins like subterranean rivers running beneath

>You really have become an edge lord now

>And in all of your laughter, you don%apos;t even notice the tightness of your throat, the stuttering of you heart beat, or the tears cutting down the grime caked onto your face

>Head down, you exit the bathroom, holding the door for a pup — fur as gold as his father%apos;s — to skirt past you, probably looking for his dad

>Next, you stop at a convenience store for some pain killers

>Your head is killing you

>And so are your bloody knuckles

>So many noises fill your ears as you scan the racks at the convenience store

>It feels like someone cranked the volume on everything in life

>The dead drone of the music overhead is so finite and crisp, you can pick out every single instrument and every note individually

>The drink cooler across the other end of the store is a no-go

>Their hum – in-audible to even the most observant of mammals – is louder than the magnetic center of the universe, or, God’s revolver

>You hear the harsh blood of the female cheetah at the counter flowing in her succulent veins

>There’s a push and a pull in her body, syncopated between rapid heart flutters

>It takes a tremendous effort on your part not to launch yourself over the counter at her

>You shove the little packet of pills into your pocket, scanning the ceiling for any security cameras

>There%apos;s at least three, so you stuff an extra few into the waistband of your jeans and throw your shirt over them

>Who gives a shit if you get caught, man?

>Nothing matters anymore

>You convince yourself you don%apos;t feel nothin%apos;

>You%apos;re going to live out the true edge lord vampire shit

>Fuck college

>You can%apos;t go to college any more

>Fuck getting out of this town

>It%apos;s not going to happen

>Ever

>Fuck everyone and everything

>All they%apos;ve ever done is let you down-

>“Ahem,” someone clears their throat in your direction

>You turn around

>The cashier stands at the end of the aisle, impatiently tapping her feet, arms crossed over her dark blue vest with a pin that says “Have a great day!%quot;

>She does not look like she%apos;s having a great day

>And it’s about to get a lot worse

>She%apos;s old, with stress-lines pressed deeply into her skin, a sizable amount of pudge gathering around her hips, waist, arms, thighs, etc

>She couldn%apos;t be more than thirty-five, but she looks at least sixty

>Sixty and pissed

>“You need some assistance robbing my store, sir?”

>You don%apos;t know why you say what you say next, but you don%apos;t care

“Actually, that would be great. Could you get me a pack of smokes as well, snapjaw? I only smoke Newports.%quot;

>The cheetah%apos;s face twists up into a snarl, her fangs peeking

>“You little shit. Bet you think you’re smart with the waistband trick? This store is my livelihood. Put %apos;em back, skinnie%quot;

“Why?” You snort, a dopey grin on your face

>“What? What do you mean %apos;why%apos;? If I let one more shoplifter out the door, corporate is going to fire me. So. Put. Them. Back.%quot;

>You flinch

>Sure, feeding on that retriever was one thing — you had to, or you%apos;d probably die. And you didn%apos;t hurt him or really cost him anything

>But this was ruining someone else%apos;s life

>F-Fuck this town, right? G-Going to raise hell

>The emergency exit sign glows behind you like a beacon

>The cashier%apos;s body tenses up for a chase

>The seriousness of her threat is made all the more apparent by the way her jaw falls open, revealing a jagged set of teeth, yellowed with years of smoking and poor dental hygiene

>Fuck it

>Fuck everyone

>These pills may not be worth dying over

>It%apos;s the general principle of the thing that moves your legs out the door

>The emergency exit screeches in protest as you burst through the lighted door

>And it really does screech, as the fire alarm explodes in protest as you bolt out the door

>The cheetah clamps her hands over her ears, but manages to push on after you

>Oh hell

>You leg it out around behind the store, knocking a few trash cans down as you make your less than daring escape

>With your vampiric powers, your body absolutely FLIES across the asphalt, down to the smoothed sidewalk

>You pass Halloween decorations and seasonal costume stores which blur together in an orange and black smear

>You throw a glance over your shoulder

>The cheetah is still behind you, but losing steam quickly as years of habitual smoking and poor eating habits literally destroy her career

>Ignoring the sudden pangs of guilt now rising in your stomach like acidic floodwaters, you keep sprinting, the sidewalk curving up into a hill, pressing its slope into your lungs

>God damnit

>You stand atop the hill, panting, the chase long since concluded with you as the victor

>The cheetah collapsed in an exhausted heap onto someone%apos;s lawn, bawling and begging for you to come back

>You may have incredible, super-human strength, speed and agility, but even you get tired…

>…and guilty

>And to be honest?

>You feel like absolute shit right now, physically and emotionally

>You can never go back there, and that was where you and Anon would get slushees after school

>It feels like you just pulled the plug on an essential part of your former identity

>And this neighborhood that you%apos;ve found yourself in…

>…It%apos;s so perfectly…

>…disgusting…

>The houses are neat, prim, large, and well-kept

>The lawns may be yellow this time of year, but the house paint is unmarred by the seasons, and the windows are reflect only you

>There are new cars in the driveway, and carved pumpkins garnish every porch

>Not to mention all the fake cobwebs and skeletons strewn across the dead grass

>This is where suburban families live

>Families like that golden retriever you attacked might live here

>They wake up at orderly hours – some at dawn%apos;s first light – and they hoof it to work and then back

>They eat quiet and healthy dinners and are in bed by ten

>They are silent in their contentedness

>And where are all the people?

>Where is everyone milling around, visiting small shops, attending ragers, skipping class?

>Everywhere you look it%apos;s void of life

>Just clones of clones of houses, and not a soul using their pristine sidewalks

>It%apos;s just you in suburbia, the lone phantom, haunting the middle class part of town…

>…a soul trapped here forever, or until you work up the nerve to kill yourself

>You%apos;re burning every bridge now – with Ranchview, with Anon, with Jenna, Alex, Sam…

>So, what’s next?

>How many until you set fire to the one you%apos;re standing on, Mike?

>How many fires are enough to keep you warm forever?

>All you ever wanted to do is escape this shitty town and live a new life with new people and new friends and do…

>…Something that matters

“FFFFFFFUCCCCCCKKKKKKKKK!” You scream into the empty sky

>The sky answers back with the distant rumble of scattered thunder

Oliver Hart

Author of Foxing, Leaves of Fall, Liquid Courage, Beating the Heat, A Red Winter, Weber’s Gambit, and many other stories. He primarily writes hmofa, but dabbles in most genres. Interests include, writing, reading, technology, and music.

Stories: Foxing, The Leaves of Fall