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The time on my cell phone reads 5:49 p.m. It’s dark out, time for my kind to go out and play—or more accurately put, prey.
Veronica’s bathroom is right behind the closet. I can hear the shower running on the other side of the wall. Thankfully she respected my wishes and left me undisturbed. Hopefully, if the kids are home, they are occupied enough so that I can sneak out quietly. Enough time has passed for my capabilities to be restored, which would allow me to walk past the boys unseen.
The squeaking of the closet door hinges should be drowned out by the running water in the bathroom. Actually the shower is the only sound I hear, no TV, no video games, nothing. The boys must be out. I don’t know any kids that age that can be that quiet.
The sound of Veronica in the shower clearing her throat gives me that familiar little tickle below the belt. Dead or not, I’m still a horny bastard. Knowing that she’s in there soaping that luscious body of hers is too good of an opportunity for me to not go in and sneak a peek.
My lack of reflection on the mirror above her dresser tells me my ability to project is intact, which means I can be a perv and take a look without being seen. But what if my lust takes over? What if I lose control and end up going to bed with her? After all, she’s more than ready, willing and able.
Nah, can’t risk it. Excitement like that could put me on a plane I can’t control and result in some unsightly gashes on my pretty friend’s neck.
The things I have to deal with.
Interestingly, Veronica’s got a laptop on her bed that she’s left open with a gyrating screensaver. It’s calling my attention. Let’s give her little mouse pad a tap and see what comes up.
No surprise.
It looks like the little lady’s been Googling—a browser history with a string of misspelled variations of porphyria— close enough, though, to enable her to find a couple of articles about my disease. I probably wasn’t thinking too straight earlier today with the prospect of going up in flames and such. My saying that I had porphyria was probably a good indication of that. It might have been the best way to get her to shut up but it also raised the potential of leading her to articles that identify it as the disorder that led to legends about vampires, centuries before.
Exhibit A.
One article she browsed through was about Phillip Peele, the dumbass biochemist that claimed porphyria patients avoided sunlight, craved blood, and that their gums recessed to cause the illusion of growing fangs. He also claimed that garlic had a chemical that was harmful to those that carried the disease.
What an idiot.
What we have is not a disease. We are dead! We are the living dead. We walk the night, we drink the blood of our prey, and sometimes we even like to eat them. And by the way, I love garlic. I like it with my rice, I like it with my potatoes, and I especially love garlic salt on my pizza.
Phillip Peele was a fraud. Hell, Bram Stoker was more accurate when he wrote Dracula (which I always wondered about). There was something up with that guy. Sure, some of it was crap. We don’t turn into bats, for example. I wish we could, that would be fucking awesome! On the other hand, a lot of what he wrote was pretty close to fact. Yeah, Mr. Stoker, we sure do wonder about you.
“Oh, Georgie, are you okay?”
Busted!
I got so caught up in Veronica’s browser trail that I didn’t notice the water had stopped running. Surprisingly she seems more concerned about my condition than the fact that I’m snooping around on her computer.
“Uh... yeah... yeah, I’m good. Thank you. Thanks for everything.”
“Are you sure, honey?” She approaches with no self-consciousness, drying her hair with a pink towel that matches her terrycloth robe. Underneath which she’s wearing nothing. It’s barely tied together, too. One slight turn and I get full frontal. Damn, this woman is sexy. “Let me see, baby.” Her hand on my face activates my little undead friend. Hopefully she won’t spot it. Knowing her, she might shut the bedroom door for a quickie before work.
Veronica’s baffled, feeling around my face for signs of damage from the burns I suffered earlier today. They are there, but she won’t feel it past my projection which is tangible to the human sense of touch.
Her robe opens ever-so-slightly, drawing my eyes to her cleavage. She knows it, too. She wants me to look. Man, this woman knows how to turn a guy on. Look at those beautiful-
DAMMIT! NO!
“Oh my God, baby, you’re still sick!”
What else can she conclude, seeing me back away in a panic, stumbling to the floor?
“No, get away!”
“Georgie, what’s wrong?”
“You’re right. I’m still sick. Back away, I don’t want you to get sick.”
“It’s okay, honey. You’re not contagious.” What, so now you’re an expert?
I can’t face her. I have to look away. As long as that crucifix hangs on the thin, gold chain resting against her bosom, I’ll be cowering away like a frightened little girl. “I’ll be alright. I’m just a little woozy. But I have to leave. I have to leave now.”
“Georgie listen to me,” she says, taking me in her arms like a reassuring mother. “Honey, look at me.” Fuck, no! She remains intent, turning me towards her. Thankfully her back is facing the mirror above her dresser. Otherwise she’d see herself having a firm grip on... nothing.
The Holy Cross is only inches away from me. Veronica, meaning well, is stroking my hair to calm me. “Georgie, there’s no reason to be embarrassed. We can get you help at the hospital.”
“No, no. I’m okay.”
“But, Georgie—”
“No! I’m okay!”
I abruptly break away, out of her room past the burn marks on her living room carpet. I can sense her hurt. I’m such an asshole.
Being genetically resistant and raised in a Christian home, I and others like me, recognize ourselves as the unholy abominations that we are, causing us to fear the cross as much as we fear the daylight. It can even burn us if we come in contact with it. But if you pull out a crucifix on one us who wasn’t Christian or even one of us that is not genetically resistant, then you could wind up with a cross being shoved up your ass while being drained of your blood.