By Christopher M. Nelson

“Free?” The word is sucked out of him. “How can you be free? How can I believe what you so dearly want me to believe?” Michael’s understanding crumbles beneath him, his legs shift beneath his weight.

“Your belief and understanding will come soon enough, and once the answers are in your grasp, you will be denied nothing. This world will be yours.” As the words tear at Iehovah, pulling him taut, a beautifully innocent, fading song echoes in his ears.

Michael turns to him, fists clenched in rage, but as he turns, his eyes capture that beauty; the fire in Iehovah’s gaze, his golden waves of hair and from the darkness the same child’s song, foreign and unknown, but some how familiar, filters into his ears. Michael turns away.

Michael’s voice drowns out the haunting tune, once sung by a young boy, a boy now lost to Iehovah, and almost forgotten, yet still ever-present. “I won’t listen to you. I love you. You, not some demon from hell! Yet that’s exactly what you want me to believe.”
“Not a demon, and definitely not from hell. Your love has cost you dearly. Soon you too will feel the weight of life lifted from your shoulders. You will experience freedom.” The words cut through Iehovah as he eyes the two primitive marks on Michael’s neck. He can’t help but grant Michael the same untruths that eat away at him like enigmatic earthworms.

“I love you. Why would you torment me like this?” The pleading in Michael’s voice surrounds him.
“Your torment hasn’t even begun.” With these words, he turns away from Michael, fighting invisible tears. Iehovah curses himself for being unable to weep for Michael. He knows all to well what Michael will become.
“I have lived this life, that you are now born into, for two thousand years. I never asked for it, but it was my father’s will. I know the cries of the soulless.” Iehovah howls with icy breath. The words ring boldly out, reverberating through Michael’s entire body.
“Soulless.”

Bolting up in bed, Michael feels the dampness of his dream soaked sheets. The chill in the air lingers in his heart as the echo of shouting fades. Casting the sheets away, he knocks a book to the floor. It hits with a dull thud and slams shut next to a small, silver crucifix, encircled by a scattered broken chain. As Michael reaches for the light, he covers his eyes with an unsteady hand. The light from the hollow white bulb cascades over the bed, the floor, and the book with aged yellow lettering, Vampyre, Reality of the Night.
Michael stands with unsure footing and moves toward the bureau. Grasping the edge, he lifts his head and looks into the mirror, only to see reflected back the black shadow outlining his former self. He stares deeply into the empty darkness that mirrors his reality.

“Not a dream.” He whispers to himself. The familiar words from his false dream echo in his head. Reaching up, Michael traces the shadowed frame of his fading image. “Not a dream!” The anger wells up within him, but is swallowed by the longing in his heart, deep inside him.

Walking to the window, Michael stares out at the garden of lights burning with the night’s desire. The moon shimmers in the sky, seemingly barely out of reach.
“Iehovah?” He calls out once. A mist rises out of the darkness, condensing and swirling outside of the window.
“Iehovah?” He calls out again, leaping from the ledge into the shifting, white mass, out into the night.

Playful steam rises up from the depths of the sewers, enveloping on-coming cars, playing hide and seek. The rumble of a streetcar is caressed by a honking horn, and the rebellious distant chatter of couples roaming the streets, to create the music of the city. Flamboyant neon signs call out, beckoning to passer-bys, while hookers with high-class smiles litter the street corner.

Each night has been the same. Michael searches the streets of a thousand faces for that one smile, that one pair of flaming, cold grey eyes, yet morning always comes with Michael’s arms empty, his soul empty.

The last wings of hope disperse into the darkness, but something is different tonight. Deep within himself, Michael senses the heat of a spark newly born; yet he is unaware of its origin. Desperately, he prays it is a sign that Iehovah is near. His feet furiously pound the endless sidewalks.

Slowly a fire grows, undaunted by each new stranger’s face. The icy feeling of despair doesn’t dampen the flame, but entices it. The fire grows stronger.

Turning toward the window of a dark, closed bookstore, Michael catches a glimpse of the reflection of a hooker working the opposite side of the street. He turns quickly, uncaring of the blaring horns that shout at his reckless cross to the other side of the street.
The flame burns brighter.

“Hi. What’s your name?” The voice, a boy no older than seventeen who smiles wildly through hallowed lips.
“Michael.” His eyes flicker and dance, as he watches the slow motion of the boys slender, lithe body trying to escape from the jeans that embrace him.
“What are you looking for?” The boy laughs mischievously, yet reeking of innocence.
“For the time of your life.” Michael flashes a burning smile at him.
“Let’s go.” The boy walks away, slowly enough for Michael to follow.
The fire engulfs him.

The foreboding sound of a siren stirs Michael from his sleep. The throbbing in his head echoes through him, wiping the dream from his eyes. Michael smells a sickeningly sweet odor in the air. It fills him. He notices the wet clamminess of his hands and the dampness of the sheets that cling to him. Looking down he is stricken by the horror of frigid, wet sheets drenched in red. Deftly, he jumps to his feet, feeling the crisp air on his bare skin. Streaks of blood mark his body like stripes of a tiger. He stares at the bed, unable to take his gaze away from the blood. Wrapped among the sheets, the limp white form seems to float motionlessly in the scarlet sea. Michael recoils from the familiar young face of the night before. Taking his hand, the icy coldness of death grips Michael. He drops the lifeless hand, which falls heavy to the bed. Stagnant eyes stare back at Michael with a tremor of fear trapped forever in the gaze.

Michael searches the room for a window and madly dashes to open it before he vomits. The fresh night air fills his lungs and forces his stomach back down from his throat. As he looks out into the well of darkness, Michael calls and the mist rises and shifts, as he is absorbed into the night.

The curtains of his apartment window flutter, as Michael is carried in upon the wind. His naked body has swallowed the chill of the night and dried blood cracks tightly as his skin flexes, well-worked muscles moving underneath.

Michael turns on the hot water in the shower and climbs in. Rivers of blood wash over him, spinning endlessly down the drain. The burning heat of the water is unable to penetrate his icy core, as the frightened stare of the innocent boy, bores into his mind. The water assaults his body, cleansing his skin, but that is all. Tremors of anger and confusion wrack his soul as he feverishly pounds against the shower wall with his tightened fists. The shower tiles surrender and crack.

“It wasn’t me.” Michael tries to convince himself that it was just a nightmare, but visions of a blood soaked bed, and a limp body, hammer into him.
“How could I?” The words drop into the silence, unanswered.

Michael steps from the shower and stands in front of the mirror. The shadow that stares back is darker. It’s an unmoving void that ingests the light. Michael can’t help the feeling that it is the color of his soul reflected back. He turns away.

“I can’t accept this. I don’t believe. This can’t exist.” Frustration swells and breaks with each word.
At the window the mist is already rising in the darkness.
“Iehovah?” Michael calls. The night calls back.

The rhythmic beat of a drum, blending with the brassy twinkling of piano keys and a wild strum of an electric guitar drown out the clatter of dishes and a cacophony of a hundred voices. The music penetrates the walls of the nightclub and lightening fills the air.
Standing by the bar, Michael takes in every unfamiliar face, eyeing the dark corners. Once again, Iehovah is nowhere to be found.

“What can I get you?” The bartender asks.
“Nothing.” Michael says without turning around.

Michael absorbs every note as the music pulses though him. He grips the brass rail of the bar and its’ cold bite gnaws at him. Michael tightens his grip and intently searches the dance floor. Trembling with the dull ache of frustration, he digs his nails deep into the metal.

Through the haze, Michael catches a flash of light in a pair of smoldering grey eyes. He focuses in upon the light as a wing of hope rises.

The flame jumps to life.
Michael finds himself in the middle of the dance floor, searching for those eyes. With a flash of light, his gaze falls upon the beautiful face. As he dances, his black hair shimmers silver under the lights. He notices Michael’s stare and returns a smile.

The fire grows.
Michael moves to him, effortlessly. And the man, as if he were dancing alone, can’t take his eyes off of Michael.

“Would you like to dance?” The flash of Michael’s smile captures him. Nothing but the faint beat of Michael’s heart rings in his ears. He watches Michael dance. Reaching up, his hand trembles with electricity as he touches Michael’s skin. His fingers explore Michael’s face and his blood begins to race.

Michael can smell the sweat, and the blood in the air. He runs his hand across the beautiful face, tracing the beads of sweat with his fingers and licks his fingers.

“My name’s Tommy.” A dull lifelessness mingles with his words.
“I’m Michael.” He says as he pushes stray hairs from his eyes, enmeshing his prey. “This is my first time here. I’m not much of a night person.” His words ring with lucid politeness. Michael pulls him closer.

Cinders crackle.
Michael’s hands glide over Tommy’s shirt, singeing the bare skin beneath. In each other’s arms, they rock and sway as the music courses through them.

The flames ascend.
“Would you like to go back to my place? It isn’t very far from here.” The excitement in his voice speaks more of desire than question.
“Whatever you want.” The flames flicker in Michael’s eyes.

Tommy turns the knob and opens the door, the light of the hallway pours into the darkness. He reaches for the light switch.
“It’s kind of a mess, but ….”

Before he can finish, Michael closes the door and takes him into his arms. Without another word, Tommy wraps himself around Michael. Looking up into the black coldness of his eyes, Tommy’s will evaporates. Their lips seek out one another, satisfying the hunger. Tommy’s hands tremble as he unbuttons Michael’s shirt, baring his chest. He moves his lips down Michael’s chin, his tongue sampling the icy flesh.

The flames roar.
Michael raises Tommy’s head to his and caresses his gleaming lips with his tongue. Sensuously, Michael’s lips glide across Tommy’s cheek, his tongue wetting the smooth flesh, as it moves down his neck. Its’ pulsing warmth beckons for Michael’s chilling kiss.
Wildly, Michael tilts his head back, brandishing his teeth. A deep moan rises from Tommy’s throat, as Michael penetrates his flesh. Tommy’s moan escapes, as glistening, red streams run down his bareback. He is motionless.

Unable to stop the horrifying feast, Michael revels in the heat of life flowing into him. Steam rises from the open wound and Michael’s core of ice melts.

Too late, Michael freezes in disgust as the life drains out of Tommy’s limp body. It collapses into his arms. Michael drops the body and falls to his knees. Blood drips onto his chest, cutting a train across his stomach.

The fire engulfs him.
The last rays of amber sunlight fade to darkness as the clouds disperse, revealing the crystalline image of a perfect moon. Michael rises from the floor of the apartment. Dried blood cracks; he tries to wipe the violence from his lips. The limp body slumped near the couch is all too familiar.

The flames crackle deep within his soul.
A driving hunger eats away at Michael’s thoughts. He walks to the mirror, where the hideous dark shadow waits for him.

“I must feed.” The voice is cavernous.
All other thoughts flee to the dark corners of Michael’s mind. The playful mist, a now familiar friend, frolics outside the window and the hunger pulls him out into the night, as a sense of oneness washes over him. Michael embraces his lover.

The moon casts its veil of white over the city streets, full of the clutter of people. Without his shirt, Michael feels the night swim around him, through him. Passing by people who are unaware, uncaring, Michael searches. The somber beating of his heart washes over him, waves caressing the shore. The pale whiteness of Michael’s skin absorbs the bleak light form the street lamps. The reflection of last night’s feeding is mirrored in his eyes, yet the desire to fill his empty soul clouds his thoughts.

He explores the city streets, acutely aware of every spark of light, every lost soul. Michael welcomes them and drinks in the night. The hunger is afire.

Above the mélange of street noises, a single voice calls out from the darkness. The voice, a melancholy rhythm, cascades and weaves into the night, echoing a childish dream, a forgotten song, not Michaels’. The haunting call pulls him deeper into the night.
Standing at the edge of the bar, Michael fills himself with the music, breathing in the vibrations. He gazes at the lips forming the words resounding in his head. The movements are subtle and magical. His beauty alone transforms the music. Curls of blond hair glisten beneath the spotlight as the placid, green eyes pierce the air.
Michael, captivated by the music, strains to concentrate. So beautiful, so peaceful, the song embraces him. He lifts his eyes to the singer and they swallow him.

The fire blazes.
The piano slowly dies out as his last note lingers in the living air. The spotlight dims and applause fills the bar, thundering in Michael’s ears.

The singer walks out into the audience, straight toward Michael. Their eyes are motionless, but not silent.
“Didn’t you like the song?” The words wake Michael from the dream.
“Excuse me?” Michael says, not recovered from the song.
“You didn’t clap. I thought maybe you didn’t like the song.” He smiles coyly.
“It was beautiful. You have a magical voice.” Michael stumbles on the words.
His eyes dance as he says, “Thank you. I don’t think anyone has ever called it that before. Can I buy you a drink?” The singer asks Michael, eyeing the smooth curves of his chest and definition of his abs muscles, unphased by his nakedness.
“Can I take you home?” Cunningly, Michael smiles; running his tongue across the sharpness of is teeth.

A strong surge downward overtakes the singer, as if he were being submerged in ice. He follows Michael out onto the streets, not saying anything, yet sweetly humming, lost.

Michael returns to the sanctity of his apartment; the singer’s humming reverberates throughout the silent rooms. Without movement, the singer is out of his clothes, his body calling to Michael, who pulls him, trembling, closer. The sensation of flesh upon flesh sends thousands of electric shocks through Michael’s core.

The fire roars.
Michael absorbs the heat, knowing it will not satisfy him. The soft moaning, fuels his desire. Michael bares his teeth to feed.

The singer’s head lulls back gently, his eyes open wide, pulling Michael into a green ocean. Michael stops. The soft echoes of a young boy singing rise out of the waves and a face rushes through his thoughts. The flash of cold grey eyes enhances the melody that flows through Michael. He stumbles, lost, dropping the man from his arms.

The song floats out of the singer as he mindlessly falls to the floor. Michael stares down at his shifting face, hypnotized. The eyes change from green to grey, then blue. Michael turns away. Blood rises up from the floor, flowing like the changing tide, covering the body on the floor and seeking out the shadows. Michael shields his eyes, fighting the disgust swelling within.

The lilting voice draws Michael back. Opening his eyes, being drowned in a sea of blood, there is only the singer from the bar at his feet, still humming. Michael jets through the open window out into the darkness, his naked form only a shadow among an endless forest of shadows. The singing fills his blood with red thoughts.
Michael passes unseen houses and store fronts. The singing grows louder, resounding in his head. Unable to block it out, his hunger drives him onward, weakening him with every step.

The moon hangs low, silhouetting a wooden cross atop a church that lies before him. Confused, crazed with hunger, he climbs the steps. He pauses in front of the old, oaken doors. Michael stares, bewildered by the crosses embedded in the doors. He reaches out, grasping one last shred of strength. As he touches the door, his hand is caught in a web of searing pain that screams in his head. He looks up at the steeple haloed by the silver moonlight. The doors yield to his strength and Michael enters the church, unashamed in his nakedness, yet swimming in his guilt and lust. He slowly walks down the aisle staring at the crucifix hanging over the alter, taking in the nail wounds and the crown of thorns.

“This is my body given up for you.” Michael’s words sing against the empty walls.
“This is my blood, shed so that you might have everlasting life.” He laughs as he stands beneath the cross.
“Drink of me. Damn you!” He reaches up and embraces the feet on the cross. His skin screams.
“Why have you forsaken me?”

Michael starts running, out of desperation, fear, out into the night, into the darkness. The resounding surf calls out from the mist that is tossed by resilient waves. Streaks of silver thread cut through the dark surface, reflections of moonlight on the ocean.
On the edge, Michael drops to his knees, exhausted.

“Why?” He calls out.
Echoing waves, answer his plea.
“Why didn’t you kill me?”
Only the roar of the ocean returns.
“You were wrong! There is no freedom!” A lone tear rolls down Michael’s cheek, half salt, and half blood. He stares endlessly at the silver dancing on the black surface.
“Quit sniveling, you coward. I should have known you weren’t worthy!” The icy, cold ring of the words is familiar to Michael. He turns quickly to see Iehovah standing behind him.
“Why? Why did you do this to me? Worthy of what, your love, this curse?” Michael pleads.
“I gave you life.” Iehovah’s eyes flash.
“You didn’t give me life. You gave me the curse of death. You gave me blood and hunger.” Michael stands to face Iehovah for the first time, willing himself from his knees.
“You have everything you ever desired.” Iehovah’s words ring with laughter. “You should be grateful to me.”

A golden hue begins to paint the sky, tinting puffy white clouds pink. The moon has gone away. Michael knows the sun is only moments away; he can feel the fear rising inside. Iehovah’s muscles tense; he also knows. He has felt it for thousands of years.
“So grateful, I shall die in your arms.” Michael sees fear in Iehovah’s eyes as he lunges toward him, but before Michael can get a hold of him, barely brushing his skin with his fingers, Iehovah disappears into the shadows as they shrink from the growing light.
“Such a fool.” The words echo. “In a thousand years, you will understand.”
“Never!” Michael stands still, fighting every muscle in his body and watches as the top of the golden sun rolls over the horizon. His body surrenders to the grip that holds him still.
“There is no freedom!”

The golden light fills Michael, reflected back at the world from his eyes. It envelops him. Slowly the sun rises and absorbs the drying, shriveling skin that falls deafly to the ground. The chains crack, break, and lift from Michael’s soul.

The seagulls cry above the surf. A gentle breeze casts dust up from the pinnacle of the cliffs out upon the sea. Morning has been born.
The ashes lie cold.

C’est Fini

Christopher M Nelson is a now a San Francisco local writer, actor and singer and has been a big fan of the vampire/horror genre since he was a kid. He loves to express himself through the written word, whether writing for the stage, writing poetry, short stories or acting and singing. Connecting with other people through words is an amazing gift. He lives in the city with his husband and always tries to remember, “Words, whether from the heart or from the head, can caress with the lightest touch or smack like an closed fist.”

Art credit: Vox-Abattoir at Deviant Art