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Reflections

by Geoffrey Hart

Previously published as: Hart, G. 2019. Reflections. Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine 74:6-13.

I was all set to just grab her and feed, as I’d done to countless others over the centuries, but something in her eyes stopped me. It wasn’t fear—or at least, not only fear—nor was it sadness at the possibility of her imminent demise. Neither was it resignation. In a way, it was recognition, as if we shared some understanding that went soul-deep.

Yeah, I know how sappy that sounds. I’m not trying to make you recoil in embarrassed horror. I suppose I’m mostly trying to work out what it was I felt, and telling you the story is helping me do that. Who’d have believed that after more than 500 years, I’d have to kidnap a therapist to get my head shrunk enough that my brain was no longer rattling around my skull? Anyway, thanks for listening. I’ll remove the ball gag later when I’m ready to hear your opinion. Promise. Really, Robert, you shouldn’t just leave such things lying around for anyone to find.

Whatever it was I saw in her eyes scared me. It’s not like I’ve never been scared before; there have been van Helsings or their spiritual kin in every generation, and I’ve killed or (when necessary) outrun and outlived them all. I know fear. I’ve once or twice placed myself in mortal jeopardy all on my own, without any help, through simple stupidity. Like the time I fell asleep in an abandoned building right before an arsonist arrived to “accelerate” an insurance claim.

Don’t look at me like that. We vampires invented scare quotes.

Where was I? Yeah. This was not an existential fear. It was a fear of connection on a deep emotional level that I’d never felt before. Oh sure, there’s a certain intimacy to sucking someone’s life blood and a little bit of their soul. But this was a whole other level, like falling down a rabbit hole into someone’s most intimate thoughts.

That’s why I fled.

Now I know what you’re thinking: it’s usually the male of the species that fears commitment. Blah, blah. You’re probably also thinking I’m insecure in my sexuality. Blah, blah, blah. I can see that one on your face—also, you’re clearly aroused by the idea, so stop it right now or I may have to hurt you.

Commitment’s definitely an issue; we immortals shouldn’t get emotionally involved with mortals, since they always die so soon, and it’s heartbreaking. Yes, I do have a heart, Mr. Empathy, even if it’s not exactly beating anymore. Sure, I could turn her, make her like me. And that might work—for a time. I’ve tried that a few times over the years, and it never ends well. They always want to supplant you, or just kill you for shits and giggles. It ends in tears for both of us, if we’re lucky; if it doesn’t, the stakes usually come out and afterwards, someone’s left to cry it out all alone. Of course, they’ve all been men. Maybe this time, with a woman, it would be different. Let me think on that.

Sexuality? Sorry… didn’t mean to hit you that hard. You okay? I did warn you.

No, it’s not the sexuality thing. I’m a Renaissance kind of woman—literally, as it happens. One thing you learn early on is that you need to fit in, adopt the local idiom, go with the flow, think like a native... all that crap. You don’t live through 500 years of social change without learning to adapt to changing mores. It’s a survival skill, and also, it keeps you sane. You learn not to do things that—you should pardon the phrasing—drive you batty. Once the cuckoos start chirping, it’s not long before you start leaving a trail of bodies, the mortals get pissed, and it ends with a mob of murderous peasants armed with torches and pitchforks—or nowadays, with AK-47s and incendiaries. Mutatis mutandis.

Look it up.

Anyway, I can see I’m going to need to sleep on this. I’m going to let you go now, okay? Promise. Cross my heart and hope to remain dead. Just don’t scream. Okay? You remember how I bitch-slapped you earlier? You scream, and you ain’t seen nothing yet.
Good. I’ll be in touch.

***

You’re looking good. And behaving yourself nicely. Keep this up and the ball gag comes off and never reappears. No, not this time. You’re still on probation. Also, I’ve got a weakness for the strong, silent type. In your case, just the silent type. Har, har. I kill myself sometimes. Also... am I wrong, or are you starting to enjoy this a bit? Gross!

So here’s the deal. I went away and slept on it, and the dreams? No, I’m keeping them to myself for now. I knew Freud, and he was a quack. As in, like a duck. Sometimes a dream is just a dream. And I looked you up before I kidnapped you. I’m more up with Bandler and Grinder. Which is why you’re here and not some antediluvian Freudian who needs ongoing smacking.

See what I did there? Good. I knew I’d chosen a smart one.

Anyway, the point is, I’ve been stalking her. Turns out her name is Leslie—cue the singing angels, right? She works in a church daycare, which makes the stalking a bit trickier, what with the me not being able to enter sanctified ground and all. Thank God for drones with GoPros! She’s great with kids. Not that I can have kids with her, but with modern techniques, I suppose we could arrange for a sperm donor, or just adopt, if she wants some of her own.

What? No, she doesn’t have a boyfriend. Well… not anymore, leastwise. Hey! I resent that implication. I may be a monster, but I’m not monstrous. I had a nice little chat with Bob—what kind of lame-ass name is that anyway? Oh. Sorry about that, Robert. Foot in mouth time. Sorry, sorry, sorry. We good? Great. Anyway, I introduced myself to Bob and showed him a little fang. Didn’t even need to concentrate on making him feel terrified, since he almost wet his pants when he saw what I was—no Johnathan Harker, this one. So I persuaded him that Australia was really nice at this time of year, slipped him a few bucks for airfare, and all’s well that ends well.

I’m sure she’ll be heartbroken. And in need of comforting. That’s where I come in. Yeah, I hear you. All’s fair in love and war, brother.
Will she recognize me as the same bloodsucking predator who almost killed her a couple nights ago? Nope. I already thought of that. Worked a little of the mind-control hoodoo to make her forget. No, not to charm her. Where’s the satisfaction in that? Yes, I know I said “all’s fair”, but this is different. I think I want her to honestly like me for me. No, I definitely want her to like...

Me.

Look, you’re starting to piss me off. I’ve had enough for one evening. Go home, have a stiff drink. I’ll talk to you again in a few days.

***

Sorry about the ball gag. I’ve decided I’m doing pretty good with the self-therapy thing. You’re a good listener, Robert. Thanks for that. Apart from the sore jaw, you comfortable? Great. Nice couch, by the way. Clearly you’re not an Ikea kind of guy. So anyway, let me see. Where were we?

Right. “Bob” is long gone, and she’s devastated. So I bump into her at the neighborhood café she goes to before work. Like really bump, and she spills her coffee all over me. And she’s all “Sorry, sorry, sorry”, and I’m all “Really it’s no problem can I buy you another my name’s Evangeline—I know, how antique, right?—so can I buy you another coffee and…”

Yes, Robert, I was babbling. I think she found it charming. I hope to Hell she found it charming. So I bought her another of those hideously overpriced coffees, a venti schmenti whatchamathingit with pumpkin spice. Generations of Italian coffee roasters are spinning in their grave—some, I confess, my fault. So I’m watching my coffee grow cold, nodding and saying the right things while she’s all outraged over Bob leaving her without so much as a farewell note.

Much sympathising, petting the back of her hand, agreeing that men are scum— and subtly hinting that maybe women aren’t so bad as an alternative. As if I’d know, but I can fake sincerity with the best of them, and the idea’s starting to have some real attraction. I get all tingly when I think about her. Yes, Robert, the dreams have definitely become more significant. Sometimes a dream isn’t just a dream, you hear what I’m saying?

Calm down.

Good boy.

She didn’t recoil in horror, which is good. Neither did she sweep me off my feet and kiss me like a dentist retrieving a swallowed crown with her tongue. She agreed to meet me for dinner the following day. Speaking of dinner, I’m famished. Mind waiting here a bit while I get something? Thanks. You’re a prince, Robert.

Still here?

Har, har; I know. I just slay myself sometimes.

Anyway, so dinner’s great. Yes, I eat normal food too. It can’t sustain me, but I still enjoy the taste. American—no garlic of course. She likes Italian, so that’s going to be an issue. I used to love Italian... one of the few things I regret about being what I am. Anyway, afterwards, I walk her home, there’s the usual awkwardness over whether she’ll ask me to come in. Yeah, you know how it is… can’t come in without an invite. But we’re apparently not there yet. I get the handshake. So I go for it, lean in and brush her lips with mine, and she doesn’t recoil. In fact, she kisses back, but it’s all lip, no tongue. Classy girl, know what I mean?

So I hold her eyes with mine as I walk away, and it’s all great until I walk into a light post. I’m seeing real stars this time, and she’s slapping her thighs, just about rolling about the street laughing. I figure I’m doing okay if I can make her laugh, and I say I’ll call her later in the week.

***

Yeah, a really bad week. Thanks for asking.

What? Turns out Bob—that rat bastard—has more balls than I gave him credit for. He’s called her from Sydney to explain what happened and warn her about me. If I weren’t so up to my ears in the seduction, I’d fly right down there and suck him dry. Teach him a lesson. No, Robert. QANTAS. You know how long it would take for a fricking bat to reach Australia, even with a tail wind? That’s right. Not gonna happen.

So anyway, there’s this “Ha, ha, stupid men” conversation, but the thought balloon subtext is all “You never smile so I can see all of your teeth”. I figure it’s time to come clean, so I smile and show her all my teeth.

Bad plan. She doesn’t scream and faint—this is, after all, the 21st century. But she does get very pale and does start brandishing the cross around her neck. I have to look away, and it could get ugly, only she puts it away, our eyes meet, and there’s that same sense of profound recognition that started this whole mess.

So I put all my cards on the table. I invent some mumbo-jumbo about “soul gazes”, and how I knew at once she was my soulmate. She raises an eyebrow, clearly skeptical—she’s a looker, Leslie is, and has undoubtedly seen this dance routine before from men: “No, I really love you for you.” Blah, blah. But I’m wise to that routine, having endured it myself a couple hundred times over the years. So I ask her how I can prove myself.

She takes my hand and tells me to look into her eyes, and stake me if it isn’t like that bullshit soul gaze thing after all. She could wrap me around her little finger, I’m so pliant. After a time, she snorts and gently puts aside my hand. She’s going to need some time to think about it. Oddly, it’s not the whole bloodsucking hellspawn thing that bothers her: it’s the lesbian thing. Her church isn’t so happy with that. So I give her my best puppy dog eyes and she softens and kisses me on the cheek before she leaves.

Which reminds me, I have to call her again tonight.

You’ve been great, Robert. See you next week, same time?

***

You’re welcome. The whole BDSM thing? Not my kink.

How’d it go? Well, let’s just say it went better than I’d expected. No, I’m not going to share the details. I know you’ve got a Pornhub subscription. One word, Robert: curtains.

So anyway: it was great, it was epic, the Earth moved repeatedly for both of us, yadda yadda. Good enough I was seriously thinking about renouncing my evil ways and moving in. Yes, Robert, I do know the joke about lesbian second dates. You’re better than that. Aim for more politically correct humor.

So why the sour milk look?

Actually, I think I do need your help with that one.

There are issues in any relationship. Trivial things, like the inverted sleep schedules: she’s a day person, I don’t really start functioning before the sun sets. We can work that out. We have several hours of overlap when she comes home from work and before I go to… work, and again in the morning, when I come home and she goes to work. A little mouthwash, and she’ll never know what I do for a living and where the money comes from. Pro tip: nobody looks for patterns in random urban muggings, particularly if you leave victims their wallet. Then there’s the miracle of compound interest...

No, it’s not the religious issues. Jews marry Muslims, vegans marry carnivores. A little thing like Christianity versus bloodsucking fiend from et cetera et cetera? Not a problem. Oh, did I tell you? She tried out the Unitarians, and found them too liberal. She’s moved to a United Church congregation now, and seems happy there. Seems. They’re pretty liberal, but I’m not sure her minister would approve of the whole bloodsucking fiend from et cetera et cetera thing, even though he’s cool with the whole lesbian thing. Maybe if I can figure out this whole community-supported agriculture thing, and translate it into blood donors? Might could work.

So, we’ve settled into mundane domesticity. Foot rubs in front of the TV, arguing about whose turn it is to change the cat litter, yadda yadda. (Did I tell you she has a cat?) It’s actually kind of nice. She’s got a pretty little Ikea-modern apartment near the park, which is great for my line of work. It’s like working on the floor above the food court at the local mall. She’s walking distance from the daycare, and if it’s overcast I can walk her there or pick her up at the end of her day. In winter, it’ll be easier. Shorter days and all. It’s not boring. No! Not at all. The vampire life isn’t all glitter and glamor, Hollywood notwithstanding. At the end of the day, most of us are very bourgeois.

What? Yeah, that could be it. I mean… she fully accepts me for who and what I am. She’s a genuinely accepting person. Maybe the first one I’ve known in 500 years, not that the kind of people I generally associate with would introduce me to many such. I think she genuinely accepts and appreciates who I am. She even looks up to me a bit… years of wisdom, immersion in many cultures, profound knowledge of the world’s cuisines and an awful lot of experience learning to cook them, yadda yadda. But she’s definitely trying to change me. Oh, it’s not overt. Just little frowns when I overshare and tell her about what I had for dinner, hints about how she’s not a fan of open relationships…

What? Yeah, feeding on someone is a remarkably intimate act in some ways. It’s not love—I think in her eyes, loving someone else would be the greatest sin imaginable. What? No! We’ve never discussed the possibility of me feeding on her. That’s actually a really disturbing thought, Robert. It would be almost… profane. Our relationship is based entirely on mutual trust and respect, and… well, I’m not sure I could respect anyone I’ve fed on. I’ve never really thought about it before now, but it must be kind of humiliating. I remember how shamed I felt when I was being turned. I knew what was happening to me, but couldn’t lift a finger to stop it, and couldn’t tell anyone.

How would this be different? Yeah, sure, her feeding me would be a gift of love. But I can’t reframe it that way... I’m all stuck on the top/bottom dynamic, which frankly creeps me out a bit. Yeah, yeah, I know… I shouldn’t use “can’t” when what I really mean is “not willing to try” or “it would be difficult”. Robert, you’re forgetting that I have 500 years worth of bad habits to unlearn. I’m not one of your usual clients with a decade or so of mental atherosclerosis and affluenza to overcome. Feeding has been and will always be an act of predation, dominance, aggression, violence, subjugation… Not an act of love.

I need some time to think about it. Same time next week?

***

What happens if I can’t make this work? I think the thing I’d miss most about her are the reflections. No, not literally. Well, you know how it is with us vampires… we can’t see ourselves in the mirror, and it’s not possible for us to photobomb anyone. No, I don’t know why. Anyway: reflections. The thing about a really profound relationship is the way you start to see yourself in your lover. The way their face changes when they’re mirroring your emotions. The give and take of repartee and banter, and those repeated bonding jokes or private references you share after enough time has passed and just have to hint at to get a smile. The little ways you yield your space to each other—or stand your ground and make the other person yield. You learn so much about yourself and your partner through those reflections.
I’m surprised you didn’t know that. I mean, being keenly aware of your prey is a predator thing, not a prey thing—no offence. But it’s essential to your survival too. You mortals have that sense too, if you choose to develop it. You see it in any long-term marriage, though let’s not overextend that metaphor.

So yeah, I’ll go back and try again. See if I can reframe and encourage her to reframe.

Same time next week? Okay... Monday instead. Have a great conference!

***

No, Robert, I insist you take this. Money’s never been a problem for me, and you’ve been great. No, we haven’t solved all our problems. What couple ever does? But we’ve agreed our relationship’s worth saving, and everything except the giant bloodsucking elephant in the room’s just a case of learning to accept each other and be patient with what we are. She snores a bit, I don’t breathe. Tomayto, tomahto.
Anyway, I’ve got a way to make the elephant disappear. It turns out you can buy anything on the Internet these days. Particularly if you claim you’re doing postgraduate medical research that requires fresh blood, and you’re willing to pay for what you take. A little exsanguination with a nice clean needle “to improve humanity’s health”, a few bills change hands, a little hoodoo so they forget any incriminating details like my face and university. Anyway, it’s working fine so far.

No, Robert. I’m not going to take any of your blood. That would just be weird.

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