Going Home

[dogboy]

Going Home


Mikie was in trouble again, not that it was unusual. He knew what he was supposed to do around the house. In fact, his mom had made a list of all his chores, matched them against the days of the weeks, using the spreadsheet program that came with the computer. She liked organization and wasn’t afraid to keep the family on schedule. Her husband, Mikie’s step-dad was a lot like Mikie, more than happy to just sit around, watch television and do nothing if Loraine would let him. But that didn’t happen often, because Loraine was a list maker and an organizer. Her menus for the week were neatly printed from the new Photosmart printer, and posted on the refrigerator, held in place by cheap plastic vegetable looking magnets. She carried the vegetable motif further, with vegetable shaped crockery flour and sugar canisters, a vegetable looking sugar bowl, and even veggie salt and pepper shakers. There was aging vegetable print wallpaper adorning the kitchen landscape, a laborious project that she inflicted on her second husband Todd even though he had never before hung wallpaper. It resulted in one of the many tiresome arguments from which Mikie tried to retreat, seeking refuge in the confines of his room.

Mike’s room reflected the careful attention to detail that all sixteen year old boys were known, going more for the dumpster look, rather than what his mother would have preferred. Even if it didn’t quite look like the ideal location for the next landfill site, its smell would have sealed the deal. Town Council would have been pleased, since it would already be a toxic waste site, but unfortunately for Mikie, the only council in town was Loraine, and she had a different vision, so Saturday was “clean your room” day on the weekly spreadsheet. Mikie hated his mother; he loathed his step dad, and in general, wished he hadn’t been born. He looked at his “to do” list and as usual, for Monday through Friday, there at the bottom of each day was “do homework”.

“Homework,” he thought. “What a joke!”

Mikie sleepwalked through his entire school career. He didn’t make friends easily, though he had a few. Mostly, they were casual friends, someone he could talk to during the day, but not anyone he saw after school or on weekends. There was one tolerated friend who lived two houses over, though they had little in common. Mikie was in all the average classes, though he was actually smart. Doug was in advanced, but that didn’t seem to help his social life any. He was more of an emaciated, pasty skinned nerd who would rather stay in his room studying or reading a book than go out. But occasionally he needed to talk, to be with someone, and that one was Mike.

“Mikie, come down. It’s that friend of yours, Doug.”

Loraine took some pleasure in shouting up the stairway, her voice traveling like a Mac truck towards Mikie’s room, where it could jack-knife, like some violent collision in Mikie’s solitude, the rare peace and quiet of his bedroom now interrupted by the explosion of Lorain’s pierce and annoying yelling.
Invariably, Mikie would have to quickly get out of his computer blog site, a site which he loved to visit and even post, but not the kind of site he would want anyone else to see. Doug would be another annoyance, an interruption to his one escape, to those who understood him. Now Doug would enter his bedroom, sit on his bed and ask the same questions.

“What ‘cha doin’? Were you on the computer? Where do you go? Let me show you this cool site I just found.”

It was always the same for Mikie, no matter when or where.

“What ‘cha doin’ for Halloween? Will your mom let you out? I’m going as Spock.”

Mikie couldn’t believe that someone his age would want to be Spock from the old Star Trek series. What was wrong with this guy? He asked him to leave. He thought, Halloween…..it would be Halloween and it had escaped him. Halloween was fun when he was a little kid. He had friends then, and they would go out dressed up and begging for candy. It was an adventure, walking the streets of his neighborhood when it was dark, something you could never do any other time of the year. But as he got older, it lost its appeal. He would probably do the same thing he did last October, nothing. Depression saw to that, and in addition were all the other problems, run-ins with the law, fighting, his parent’s divorce and his mother remarrying almost immediately.

“God she was needy,” he thought.

He looked at his bottle of pills, the kind that were supposed to make you feel better, a better happier life all packaged and marketed for your enjoyment. He sat down at his desk and opened the top right drawer. There among the junk was his lock blade knife. He liked the way the blade clicked open from the handle. He kept it sharpened, like a surgical instrument. He even cleaned the blade with an alcohol pad for occasions like this. Opening the white package, he slid the clean white cloth square out from its plastic prison, the pungent odor of alcohol irritating his sense of smell. Slowly and methodically he cleaned the blade, first wiping in one direction and then the next. Just as methodically he took the knife in his hand and held the blade against his arm, a little above his wrist. He moved the blade in one direction and then the next, causing a thin red line to appear, a line which quickly got brighter and denser. In a trance, he stared at it, watched it appear, grow thicker, and then start to run. Reluctantly he took the alcohol pad and held it against the cut. The stinging sensation was immediate along with the mixed smell of alcohol and blood. He loved the smell of blood, and even its taste. The pain was an intense burn. He breathed in, heavily.

“I’m alive,” he thought.

Dinner was uneventful, even though his mom tried to brighten its presentation with her now chipped and faded vegetable print dinner ware. After it was over, he had to help collect and rinse off the plates and other assorted utensils. He wondered why his step dad got a free pass. Didn’t he marry into this mess and inherit some of the responsibilities? Once completed, he retreated into his room and pretended to be studying.

His mother yelled up the stairway, “Have you finished your homework yet?”

He answered yes, assuming that would give him some computer time, but it was a miscalculation.

“Good, then you can get on that kitchen floor. You know where the bucket and mop are.” Yes, he hated his mother.

It was late by the time he finished. He was tired and ready for bed. He attended to those things which needed attention, brushing his teeth, tossing his clothes onto the floor, giving thought to one or two things which might give him pleasure. He passed by his bedroom window, wearing just his underwear. His lights were out and he knew no one could see in, so it was for that very reason he saw the small sports car parked across the street, in front of his house. He was keenly aware of it having noted it now for several nights. At first it didn’t make any real impression on him other than that he liked the car, but now he found it disturbing. He knew he had seen the car somewhere else, and he thought it was at school. He needed to look more carefully in the school parking lot.

II

Morning came early, his alarm drilling into his brain, beep beep beep, beep beep beep, like a small jackhammer for mice construction workers. His hand came down hard on the torturous device, jolting him into semi wakefulness.

“Shit,” he thought. “Another fucking day.”

He looked for clothes that wouldn’t make him look like a dork, and of course a shirt with long sleeves. His mother always went with him twice a year, the prescribed shopping days to get her son ready both for the first day of school, and again in the spring. He hated it, feeling like he was some three year old child in tow. He wished Hell itself would open up and swallow him. In fact, Hell was beginning to have some appeal to him, like a respite or a place of retreat. It would have to be better than home. Home wasn’t always like this, however. He spent a lot of his alone time remembering what it was like before the divorce, when he was little. His dad worked a lot, and was away, but his mom would stay home with him. Even though she devoted a lot of time to keeping the house clean, she always had time for him. He could clearly remember her playing tickle bug.

She would throw him on the bed and tickle him silly, saying, “Oh I love you so much Mikie, I could eat you up.”

He wished he was three again, but here he was, sixteen and not getting any younger. He desperately wished he would stop getting old. He knew what that meant, more responsibilities, more work, and little to show for it. He saw that in his mother. Once his dad left, she had to go find employment, and that changed everything. First he was in day care and nursery school, then staying at neighbor’s houses after school until his mom got home. Usually she was in a bad mood. He was expected to do a lot of the things she used to do. Today would be no different. When he got home from school, he would have to vacuum the living room and dining room. He went downstairs and to the kitchen. He knew his mom would have left for work, but his step dad was there, eating like a pig.

“Mikie, did you do your homework?” It was more of an accusation than a question. What right did his step dad have to interfere with his life.

“Yes. It’s done like always.” He had to laugh to himself. He wasn’t lying once he said, “Like always.”

What he wanted to say was, “Fuck you, you lazy slob. Why don’t you get a job so my mom could stay home and things could be like they once were.”

Todd had lost his job in the failing economy, and so far had not been successful in finding similar work. Actually, he had been lucky in getting his position in management, working over his head and skill level, and making more money than was justified. He had been one of the first to be let go. Now he worked part time in a garden center. Sometimes it was hard to tell which moved more, the plants or Todd. Today he didn’t have to go in and he was content to do nothing rather than use it as an opportunity to find something better. This always infuriated Loraine, giving her one more excuse to take it out on Mikie.

The school bus was like a big metal box, Pandora’s Box actually, and once it arrived and opened its doors, all sorts of mischief poured forth. Right now, Mikie was despair. His classes tended to be the more chaotic ones, populated by the slower students who didn’t want to be there, and typically making it known. Mikie had the uncanny ability to drop its frenzy quotient an entire degree by his contagious depression. The teachers didn’t mind. Today Mikie remembered to look for the car, the interloper who was parking in front of his house. He had to walk some distance, to the far end of the parking lot, where it sat alone, empty spaces on either side. Mikie guessed its owner didn’t want the doors dinged. He made note of the license plate, but he was sure that was the one. He thought he knew who it belonged to, the new young teacher who taught chemistry to the advanced kids. He was always amazed how a new teacher who looked like one of them had so much control over the class. He guessed it was because they were the nerds, the smart ones.

He was late for his first class, spending too much time in search of the mysterious sports car. Now he would have to pay for his misdeed by having to serve after school detention. The school had called his mother at work, and she had given permission. Mikie knew that he would get punished when he finally returned home. She had warned him about getting out of line. Trouble was something that seemed to follow him, like a puppy but without the appeal. He had a parole officer for doing something of which he was very ashamed, and something that he didn’t even understand at the time. He had been playing with his next door neighbor, a precocious and conniving boy. His neighbor was one year younger, but probably a lot smarter. He had suggested they play “you show me yours and I’ll show you mine”. Mikie was uncomfortable with this, but he wasn’t going to act shyer than an eleven year old, so he dropped his pants. As soon as he did, the boy yelled for his mom and said Mikie was doing “inappropriate things”, inappropriate a word he had just learned in English class. Apparently he decided to explore its fullest meaning. The boy’s mom screamed, “What have you done to my little Timmy,” jumped to several conclusions, and when the dust settled, Mikie was registered as a youthful sex offender. His mom sent him to a court ordered psychiatrist for a while until the money ran out, for which Mikie was ever so grateful.

The bell rang and the classes spilled out into the halls, creating a scene that could have rivaled any mental institution. Mikie hated walking through the halls, constantly getting bumped and pushed. Worse were the taunts by those who had a need to feel superior. The hardest one to hear was, “Pervert.” He wished he could find some justice, some way to retaliate. Was it surprising he was quiet, alone and brooding? Life was indeed simpler when he was three. He passed by Mr. Niteshade,s room, the new chemistry teacher. He briefly looked in, noticing that some students had already arrived and were deep into their books. Yes, he wondered how he did it. He looked at this new teacher, trying not to be noticed, and he was once again taken by his youth. It didn’t even look like he had to shave. The teacher looked back, and not just back, but through. It made Mikie feel odd, almost sick to his stomach. He quickly hurried on to his class. He wouldn’t want to be late two times in one day. No, Loraine would not tolerate that.

School mercifully came to an end, leaving only the detention to be served in the ISS room, a large area that used to be a tech lab, but now held the restless and the rebellious. He was surprised that he was the only one, and even more surprised to see that Mr. Niteshade was the teacher with the unpleasant duty.

“Welcome to detention Mr. Banton. I’ve been expecting you.”

Mikie wondered what he meant by that. It was only this morning that he got the detention, and he would have been added to the list somewhere in the early afternoon. No, he wondered if it had something to do with the stranger in the car parked outside his bedroom window. That person had been waiting, and for a long time.

“You know Mr. Banton, it seems a shame that we have to waste a perfectly beautiful day stuck here in ISS since you are the only one who has won the singularly meritorious honor. Wouldn’t it make more sense if we left, had a pleasant drive and dropped by my place where I could get to know you better. Perhaps I could be a help to you in getting your life together. Boys like you shouldn’t be getting into trouble.”

Everything in Mikie's mind said, “NO! I’ve got to get the hell out of here,” but that’s not what he heard himself say. “Okay,” is what came out in a dull soft voice. He tried to resist, but it was the eyes. He couldn’t resist whatever spell they had over him. He knew he was in trouble as he got into the car. He knew the situation was getting worse as the car drove to another part of town, the old section, where the houses were ancient, and dark. He knew he was even in greater danger as Mr. Niteshade opened the door for him, and he stepped out, walking with this stranger beyond the wrought iron fence, up the cracked walkway and through the open doorway. He entered into a darkened hall which led to a large room, a parlor perhaps. Mikie felt that he should have had a better grasp on his surroundings, should have remembered, but as he looked back on it, everything was a blur, a haze of detachment, dreamlike.

“Care for some soda, maybe a Coke? We can get to know each other better.”

Mikie wanted to say no, but he heard himself say yes.

“Mikie, I know your name. I think it only fair that you know me by mine. I’m Dorian, Dorian Niteshade. I’m not from around here, of course. My family came from Europe a long time ago. I’ve drifted around, picking up my teaching degree. I really enjoy teaching young minds, bending them to seeing the world differently, through science and chemistry, and other ways for those special few. I believe you’re one of them, Michael.”

His voice was hypnotic, soothing, and evenly paced. Though Mikie heard what he was saying, he was understanding something altogether different. He saw different places, traveling across the ocean, far out to sea, and then across Europe and eastward. He saw a crumbling castle, its walls steep and austere, built against the side of a mountain at an alarming elevation. He rushed toward it, the wind burning against his face. He could smell the smoke from fires, and then he saw them, countless heads on pikes, blowing two and fro in the wind.
Now he was getting up from the chair, walking with this strange being, and ascending a long stairway which led to the second floor. He passed through a hall door and continued on down a long hallway. Dorian held his hand and pulled him into a bedroom where he gently pushed him down onto a large bed. Mikie’s mind screamed for release, for some escape, but he had no will of his own. He felt Dorian go down on him, unbuttoning his shirt. His shirt, he remembered his shirt, the one he put on so long ago. Was it only this morning? He remembered why he had chosen the long sleeved shirt even though the day was in the upper seventies. He was ashamed for what he had done the night before. He thought as he had pulled the blade across his arm, what sweet release it would have been to cut a little deeper, to release the warm flow of life, to end it all. Now, here he was, trying to fight for his life, life which was so precious. What had happened to him? He didn’t hurt anyone. There were only others who hurt him. Then something curious happened.

Dorian whispered, “I have known you an eternity my beautiful one. I have loved you forever.” He removed Mikie’s shirt, and now he looked upon his chest and stomach. He was keenly aware how perfect it was. Mikie was special, that rare breed who even while living, walks between life and death. He was meant to be one of them. With that, Dorian ever so gently, sunk his teeth into Mikie’s jugular vein, slowly pulling out the flow of life, something, that only the night before, Mikie was so quick to waste. He was careful not to take too much, though once he started, his passion rose. It took all the control he had to break off. He didn’t know which he wanted more; consume the boy with his desire, or lust for his blood. He decided on neither. He would have to give him some recovery time if he wanted to get him home before dinner. Mikie became conscious in the parlor, with his Coke in his hand. What just happened, he thought.

“Well, I think that’s enough for one day, but I would like to tutor you tomorrow if that’s alright with your mother.” It was a technique Dorian had used many times. The idea would stay in Mikie’s head for awhile, though it never was perfect. He would have to play this out with perfect consistency.

Dorian drove Mikie home and walked him to his door. He rang the bell, waiting for his mother. She opened it, and it was obvious she was in one of her bad moods.

“What’s he done now,” she asked, agitated and ill tempered.
“Just a little tardy to class. May we come in?” It was a ploy he had used for centuries.
“Yeah, I guess so. Don’t worry; he’s going to be punished.”

“May I suggest an alternative. I know Michael is working below his potential, and I wonder if I could tutor him. I would like to do it without charge. It’s just part of my calling as a teacher.”

Loraine was delighted. This would kill two birds with one stone, punishment and studying his subjects. He could do his chores on Saturday.
“That would be great. We never eat before six o’clock, so you can have him ‘till then.
Dorian smiled as he left. Have him in deed. Yes, he actually did have him. Soon, fortune would be tilting, both for himself, and for Mikie.

III

Dinner was different. Normally he liked what his mother cooked. Tonight it was fish, which Mikie tolerated, but not now. The first bite made him sick. He was able to drink his water, but that was about it. The green beans seemed stupid, like a rabbit should be eating them. The potatoes weren’t quite as bad. He could taste the earth in them, the dirt in which they were birthed and nourished. He liked that taste, the rotting plants and debris that made up loam, its very earthiness. Doing the dishes didn’t seem so much like a chore as it did sleep walking. Everything was other worldly. He went up to his room and looked at his assignments. They actually seemed easy. He poured through his French book, turning over the pages. When he was done, he answered the questions and said, “Quelle Merde.” Math was similar, reading the text and completing the assignment. To his amazement, he imagined the Tigress-
Euphrates, cuneiforms, and the Algebra used by ancient people transacting business. In the dark recesses of a tent was a young man with hungry eyes, watching, ever watching the shop keepers and merchants, waiting for the night. He snapped out of it. He was exhausted. Mikie drifted to the window and looked out, but there was no sports car. He didn’t really expect to find one, no, not now. He took off all of his clothes dropping them without thinking onto the floor. He fell into bed and dreamed. This time he was on an old sailing ship, coming to this country. There had been some sort of fight, something horrible. All the sailors were dead, all save one, and he was nowhere to be seen.

IV

Dorian had lived a long time, and its passage was taking a toll on him. He was the product of an ancient religion, of dark powers and magic. He had been called forth from the depths, a weapon for a race of people now long gone. He had seen to that. There wasn’t anything he hadn’t done, hadn’t tried at least once. Yes, there were loves, but they were always short lived. He had saved a few of the special ones for what he thought would be forever. But of these he had grown weary, their neediness, and their hunger. In the end he released them from his will, and they all left him, wanting to seek their own pleasures. Most had been women, young and sensuous, with lips that enticed, bodies he would lovingly embrace, and minds like field mice. The young men he collected were no better. He once brought a twelve year old boy over, and that was a big mistake. No, in the end, he had let them all go, released to live out their existence reining terror on the unsuspecting, the unbelieving.

In the Fertile Crescent there had been one who was special, different from all the rest. He was a merchant’s apprentice, barley sixteen. He fell in love with him the minute he saw him, his face, a perfect creation. He had been too hasty, too much in love. He ravaged him, drinking down his life like he was lost in some never ending desert. The boy died in his arms, long before it was time. The transformation couldn’t be rushed if it was to work. He went mad, taking his anger out on every living soul. What evil had these people brought upon themselves? Now he believed he had found him. There were things he knew about the other world that no mortal has been given, no angel messenger to enlighten its people. Sometimes they come back, especially if their death was unnatural and before its time. And so, here was Michael, special, and alone. Dorian had reason to embrace his immortality after so many centuries of misery.

The vampire had to laugh, recalling what he told Mikie’s mother. He had a calling to teach alright. He also enjoyed bending young minds to his will, and to eventually taste their blood. He never had discipline problems, and if he did, if he had that one very bright student smart enough to resist, he would simply drink him to death, problem solved. As for actually teaching, he hated it. No, going to school was nothing more than a trip to the grocery store, a chore no one enjoyed, but something that had to be done. Today would be different. Michael would be there, and he had trouble being patient. He would try to see him in the halls, enjoy his stance, how he walked, his very demeanor. He could make him pass by his room if he wanted, but he would prefer it if the boy came on his own volition. He doubted that life would be that kind to him. It didn’t usually reward evil.

Michael’s alarm went off, blaring through his brain with its annoying beep, beep, beep. He wanted to sleep, sleep for ever, but he got up, more to escape his dreams than to start the day. He felt awful, his mouth dry and breath smelling like something had died in there over night. He realized he had gone to bed wearing nothing, so he searched for some underwear. He made his way to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. What he saw shocked him. There on his neck was what appeared to be a bright red hickie.

“How the hell did I get that?” he wondered. If he had looked a little more carefully, he might have seen the two small puncture wounds hidden within the red bruise. It looked like this would be another long sleeve shirt day, and one with a decent collar.

“What the hell else could go wrong,” he thought as he finished getting dressed. He soon found out when he walked into the kitchen.

“You didn’t do your fucking chores last night, ass wipe.” Todd took some sort of simple minded pleasure in taunting Mikie. It was the only time he could feel superior. His parents had named him Todd, an appealing country club sort of name popular in the seventies, and for a while it fit him. But now he was a far cry from the sophisticated erudite nomenclature reserved for the jet set. Now he was more of a Bubba than a Todd. For some reason, this didn’t go unnoticed by Mikie. Though he felt like shit, he was noticing more around him, his senses stronger. He looked at the box of cereal, and opened the refrigerator door. The milk looked disgusting, as did almost everything else. Opening the freezer door, he slid out a Saran wrapped frozen square of hamburger meat, almost thoughtlessly. Instinct would guide him. Ignoring Todd, he left for school, boarding the bus and sitting in the back. Everything seemed different. The noise felt separated from his senses, somewhere off in the distant. What was acutely apparent was the smell, each student leaving a trail of their own identity, and beyond the noise of yelling, was a fainter sound, yet one more telling, the sound of hearts, so many fleshy organs beating to the rhythm of their body’s daily maintenance. He had to break his mind from it. It was driving him mad.

He hated walking through the halls, finding his locker, books put away, and the taunts that he knew would come. Brad played offensive line on the school’s football team, and he was a large, offensive loud mouthed bully who enjoyed pushing his weight around. His targets were always the smaller, the weaker. They also were the more intelligent, the sensitive and those who had something to offer. Brad sought them out like a lion pursuing game. Mikie was different. He had a history, first with the molestation charge, probation, trouble in school, and he was a loner, making him Brad’s favorite target. Bradley was pushing his way through the hall, moving the slower students out of his way and trying to talk to one of the cheer leaders. Though he was attempting to be cool, pretending to be smart, even worldly, she was ignoring him. Her mind was on other things, and mostly other people. Her desires didn’t include him. Once his slow brain realized he was being given the brush off, something that happened often, he became angry. It was at this moment that he saw his favorite target leaning into his locker. The football program had taught him well, his blocking skills recognized at the state level. He found it easy to shove Mikie’s head into the far side of the metal sarcophagus, entombing him for the moment. Mikie felt like he had just been pile driven into something immovable, and for a brief instant, he had no idea what happened. The only thing he could grasp, was the sound of a loud metallic bang, but it didn’t take him long to realize that that sound was his head hitting the backside of his locker. In an instant he was on his feet, fire in his eyes. He grabbed Bradley by his shirt and one handedly lifted him off the ground, looking deeply into his eyes. Predatory instinct took over, some new mind over matter, will and determination and something else, as if he was master over a world just discovered. Without thought, he threw Brad the terrible down the hall, knocking students over like bowling pins. He turned back to his locker, finished putting the books he needed in his backpack and continued on to class, in absolute silence. It wasn’t long before he was called to the principal’s office, trouble following once again.

Dorian Nightshade knew what happened, almost as it was occurring. He could feel it, somewhere deep in the recesses of darkness, his soul. Even his head ached. He smiled at his students as his will reached out, far down the hall. This was the part he liked about teaching, helping a young student learn how to handle life’s difficult lessons. Soon they would be master and pupil, and the school one big homework project. He would have to bail out his young protégée, intercede for him with the principal. He didn’t expect any trouble, not once he made eye contact. He waited impatiently for the day to end, and private tutoring to begin.

Mikie knew he would be waiting for him. As soon as he saw him, he began to lose himself, lost in the mist, no longer in control. He searched his mind trying to find some remnant of a memory, something that resembled normalcy, a picnic with his mother and father, a girl he once thought was cute, anything to divert the power that was over him. He heard him talking as if from some distant shore, none of it making sense. He saw himself get into the car, the little sports car he once admired. He knew he should be terrified, his life hanging in the balance between light and dark, good and evil. He should be repulsed, both by its evil, and the pallor of death that went with it, as well as an attraction to something that felt sexual.

Sexual attraction, that was new to Mikie. He had noticed girls before, occasionally the mere thought of them kept him amused at night before he fell asleep. But more disturbing were other images, one of his accuser, Timmy, who had grown into an attractive fifteen year old. He hated him for what he did, yet why did he fantasize over what he might look like under his clothes? But most of the time he was too depressed to consider anything sexual. Depression was an old friend, but it was being replaced by fear. The car drove on into the old part of town, pulling up to the house with the wrought iron fence. Inside a new life waited, dark, sinister, pulling at him, a life of flesh, of touching, exploring, and forgetfulness. That was it, forgetfulness. He must try to remember this time. He knew something was happening, and he didn’t think he liked it one bit. Again he was being led upstairs into the big bedroom. He tried to stay focused, resisting the weight of sleep. It wanted him to submit, to give into it, to accept. He struggled, fighting with some inner strength. He was horrified at what he saw. He could feel his shirt being removed, and Dorian getting closer, ever closer to his face. He thought he was going to kiss him.

“What the hell”, he thought.

Then came the pain, rippling up his neck and into his brain. He was on fire. He tried to push against Dorian, trying to throw him off. He wanted to run, but he couldn’t move. He wished he had given in and let sleep consume him. He felt sure it was death this time, its peaceful enveloping blanket of serenity covering him, dulling his senses and giving him a false sense of contentment. He would slip into the waiting arms of nothingness. It would be better than this. He welcomed blackness.

Dorian knew what he was doing. He had done it so many times before. He knew it would hurt, be agonizing in fact. Usually Dorian would drink his victims dry, killing them almost immediately. The few he crossed over eventually hated him for what he did, robbing them of their life, their families and loved ones, and most importantly, the natural order of dying and moving on into the light, where they were expected. No wonder they all left him. The vampire looked at Michael and hoped this would be different. He would try to be a good master, and release his control. It would have to be little by little, because he would have to learn how to survive, and quite honestly, he didn’t think he would ever want to be without him. Dorian was old, ancient. He knew you couldn’t steal love, and it was worthless without consent.

He forced himself to stop drinking, and watched as the blood still bubbled out of the wounds. He gently put his lips down on Mikie’s neck, ever so slowly kissing the blood, enjoying each drop. Dorian knew he had moved Michael very close to the edge. Things would be different tomorrow. He didn’t think he could wait. He did have options.

It took much longer for Mikie to recover. Once again he found himself sitting in the parlor, a can of Coke beside him on the table. He searched his mind, struggling to remember, even a crumb, the smallest electrical flash across the cells in his brain. He was thirsty in desperate need of replenishing fluids. He drank from the can, gulping it down; the contents’ taste a bitter metallic iron like substance. He wanted more. It gave him strength, and something else, his memory. He knew what had happened and why he was here. He put the empty can down and looked up at Dorian, a sly smile on his face.

“Thanks,” is all he said. Then he added, “I think we better go home. Mommy will be worried. We wouldn’t want to make Mommy mad.”

Dorian wasn’t expecting this reaction. In fact, he was quite worried. He was afraid he had taken too much blood, taken Mikie too far, too soon. He also was afraid of losing him. He helped Mikie stand up knowing that he would still be weak, even with the blood. He thought, if Mikie only knew who it came from, math, third seat on his left. As they walked out to the car, Mikie leaned against Dorian; feeling loved and accepted something which he hadn’t experienced in years. The same could be said for Dorian.

V

Dorian helped Mikie walk to his front door as he was still a little light headed. He could now enter whenever he wanted, but he would have to ring the door bell again and go through the same ploy, not for him, but for Mikie. Michael would soon be going through the metamorphosis, and he didn’t want another problem.

“We’re back, all in one piece, your son a little wiser I hope. May we come in?”

“Why the hell not. I’m sure life is just dandy for him, the easy life of school and no problems. Just wait “till he’s an adult. I just can’t wait.”

Loraine was in a particularly bad mood today, work having been the start of her downfall. Returning to Todd who had done nothing was the jolt of acid her toxic personality needed.

It pained Dorian to leave him, but Mikie seemed to take it in stride. He had seen his mother like this before, and he slowly got used to it, if taking anti-depressants, and cutting himself was the norm. Once inside she jumped on him.

“Why the hell didn’t you vacuum the living room and dining room last night? Doing all this studying is just the beginning of your chores. Have you checked your schedule?”
She was yelling with the intensity of an emergency warning siren. Normally this would have set off a shouting match, with Mikie always on the losing end, but not this time. He looked deeply into her eyes and said, “Why doesn’t Todd do them.” Then he calmly walked up to his room. He enjoyed his little retreat. He could easily hear his mother screaming at Todd, calling him a lazy ass hole, and bulldozing him into doing all of the chores Mikie normally would have been assigned. Michael thought his room looked messy, and he began to pick it up. He remembered the Coke and wished he could have another one, but what machine sold that flavor?

Dinner was now disgusting. It was chicken cooked in Campbell’s mushroom soup, his mother’s idea of gourmet cooking. The peas were gross, and so he concentrated only on the potatoes. He wished they hadn’t been washed off. When he had finished he left, his plate and silverware on the table.

“Todd would like to do dishes tonight, wouldn’t you Todd.” He gave super slob a cold stare. Loraine seemed happy to have her second husband actually do something around the house.

Up in his room, Mikie looked at his homework. Easy, he thought, and he quickly finished, now leaving himself to his thoughts. He wanted to return to Dorian. There was something unfinished that was nagging at him. He just couldn’t remember what it was. It hung out there, just beyond reach. He grabbed at his stomach, his belly aching. He was drifting again, his mind not in control. Again he was traveling to far places and distant lands. They seemed to be in a state of war. Men in armor clashed with swords. Horses rode in a frenzied pace, carried their riders into battle and death. There was another, the dark prince who sat in a lonely tower watching over his empire. After the conflict, he would go out into the night and feast on the dying.

Mikie walked out the front door and into the same night that encompassed an eternity. It didn’t know the difference between then and now, only darkness. He walked next door and waited. It was trash night. Timmy was a good boy, or at least his mom thought so. She hated what that terrible Mikie had done. Imagine, exposing himself to her dear darling. Timmy would take out the trash for her just like he always did on Thursday night, but this night would be different. Timmy wouldn’t be returning, not anytime soon, not ever. Mikie enjoyed his neck, the taste of his flesh. He made it last a long time. He wanted Timmy to know just what was happening to him. Mikie controlled him just as Dorian had taught him. The best part was when he undid Timmy’s belt buckle, and saw the fear in Timmy’s eyes. He enjoyed slipping his pants and underwear down to his ankles. That’s how his mother would find him, exposed to the world and quite dead.

He slipped back into his house, unseen and alone. Things had calmed down, the living room and dining room having been vacuumed. Loraine was appeased for the moment, but Todd was complaining, insisting that Mikie should have done it. He smiled as he ascended the stairs to his room, wondering what tomorrow would hold. He was tired. He removed his clothes and went to bed. Dreams tortured his sleep, this time of dark mysterious places, populated by creatures that didn’t exist, not in this world anyway.

Across town Dorian brooded. The time was approaching and he was worried. Things for him had not worked out. He had accepted not having friends, not getting close to people. He had outlived them all. His only companion was the night, and the living he would feast on. For a while he had enjoyed the bistros, the bars and the brothels. They gave him some comfort, some companionship. He pretended to be human, to mingle among them, playing their game. But he wasn’t like them, and eventually he would have to leave and start over, because people became suspicious of someone who never aged. It was more dangerous to be among the living centuries ago, because they believed in vampires, and witches and werewolves. They also believed in the remedies used to kill them. It was much easier now, and he was more powerful. He had learned things, things he would teach his new ward. He had slipped these discoveries into his subconscious while Mikie was under his spell, his control. It was an even exchange, blood for knowledge, knowledge for survival. He had to see him. He would use his car again, though he didn’t have to. He simply enjoyed driving it, feeling the speed, the tires moving him forward.

Again the sports car was parked in front of Mikie’s residence, across the street. Dorian walked up to the house, unseen and unperceived, like a shadow, barely noticeable. He gazed upward toward Michael’s bedroom window. If he’d had a heart, it would be beating faster, but other forces coursed inside him, making him feel tense and excited. He became a mist, floating upward, mixing with oxygen and nitrogen becoming part of the elements and the night. He slipped through the glass window, molecules and being passing undisturbed through the silicone. He now stood in front of Michael’s bed, his passion ever rising, blood pushing through his veins, pounding in his head. He could sense Mikie’s dreams, the visions from Hell playing tag with his soul. It was all part of the journey, one that had to be taken, but one that would soon pass. Ever so gently, Dorian rolled him over exposing his neck. He wanted his blood, to drink more and more until his body pounded in orgasmic ecstasy, but he couldn’t. He had already taken as much as he dare in the afternoon. If he drank now, he would kill the boy before he was ready, though that time was rapidly approaching. No, he would have to satisfy himself with one kiss. He hoped he could control himself. Mikie’s neck was so inviting. Dorian stood there for the longest while and then broke away. He couldn’t trust himself. One kiss would end what he hoped would be so much more. In the end, he left him a gift, something he knew he would need in the morning. Dorian departed as he had come, and no one living was ever aware.

VI

Mikie awoke before his alarm went off, which was unusual, but it was the sun now creeping in past the window curtains. It hurt his eyes and made his skin feel hot, even to the touch.

“What the hell now,” he thought.

He got up and closed the blinds, shielding his eyes with his hands. The darkness made him feel a little better. He tried to remember what had happened last night, and the day before. He had the taste of rusted iron in his mouth, a taste he was beginning to like. He struggled to remember where he had first experienced the sensation and then it came to him, ….when he cut. Of course, he would lick the blood, an odd thing to do, but something that somehow felt right. He touched his neck and it hurt. He thought he better have a look, hoping that the mysterious hickie had been a dream, an illusion. He walked into the bathroom unaware that he had nothing on. He stared into the mirror, but it was hard to see, either the curious red sore, or the rest of him, for that matter. His confusion lasted only a moment and then his world fell apart. He realized he was looking through himself, a transparent opaque image in the mirror. He screamed out in terror.

“What the hell’s wrong with you? Are you trying to wake the dead?”

Loraine was starting her day as usual, and her mood would only get worse. Be sure you clean those damn bathrooms buster. Remember, it’s Friday. Check your schedule, damn it.”

Mikie could hear her slam the door as she left, feel her presence drive up the street and beyond. He was glad she was gone. He looked back into the mirror, seeing his image shimmer in and out of being. He thought his mind was playing tricks, mimicking him, a reflection signifying his non-being, certainly something he often felt. He wanted to quietly slip into the soft membrane of nothingness, and now he was.

“Shit,” he thought. “This isn’t what I had in mind.”

Again he got dressed, mostly in the dark. He decided he would have to turn on a light, and he was relieved to find that it didn’t bother him. He reached for his books and there sitting by them was a brown paper bag. He looked inside and found a pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses and a bottle of suntan lotion, 45 SPF. Instinctively he knew what to do. Breakfast didn’t appeal to him, and in fact, he wasn’t hungry. Somewhere in the recesses of his memory, he felt like he had eaten a few hours earlier. He just couldn’t remember, but associated with that shadow of perception was a feeling of satisfaction. He walked into the kitchen feeling good, until he saw Todd.

“What the hell did you say to that bitch of a mother? You should’ve been doing the vacuuming, not me. Enjoy doing the toilets. I’ll be sure to leave you something to remember me by.” Todd thought he was very clever.

Again Mikie ignored him and left for school. The bus ride was quiet, quiet in the way people attend funerals. No one was talking, but occasionally someone would turn their head and look at Mikie, then quickly turn away. Mikie looked back, not so much at them as through them. They seemed to fear something. It was then that he noticed Timmy was missing, yes that was it, Timmy. Now the memories came flooding back; he was touching the shadows, and they were dark as the night. He saw it all, the panorama of existence, history and events, torture and screaming, and in its center stood Dorian, the dark prince, ageless, beautiful, master of all.

“Lover,” was all Mikie said. Fear rippled through the bus like a pulse of magnetic energy, creating a wave of nausea and repulsion in its passengers. The bus driver sped on, driving like a mad man, desperate to park and flee. He skidded into the school, jamming on the brakes and swung the doors open pushing the silver lever violently. Everyone ran out, gasping for clean fresh air, feeling the life which it carried. Michael slowly descended the two steps, enjoying this new found power. Yes, he thought, it won’t be long. He didn’t know why, he just knew. He waited in anticipation for school to be over. Tutoring would begin, and this time he would go gladly with his new mentor, his teacher. He longed for it, actually.

School ended, mercifully terminating with the same number in attendance as it had begun. Dorian and Michael walked toward his car, Ray-Ban covered eyes, and in complete control. This time there would be no coercion, no dark power to move him towards the bedroom. The two walked up the wood paneled stairway, down the hall and into the room which harbored secrets. The bed was waiting and Michael acquiesced. He knew what to do, taking his shirt off. He welcomed the bite, the agony, the sweet pain that brought release and pleasure. He felt Dorian’s breath upon him, his mind floated, drifted out onto the sea of forgetfulness. He was back home in his bedroom, his knife in his hand. He was making the cut, the holy sacrifice, experiencing the pain and suffering, his salvation and resurrection. He was re-born, a new creation. Eternal night was encompassing him, its demons and its delights. Life drained out of him, all of it, and he fell into the blackness.

Dorian held him ever so gently, his teeth sinking for the last time into his jugular vein. At last his pleasure would be realized, pulsating, pounding, the feeling of bliss. He drew the boy’s blood slowly, enjoying all of it. Even more pleasurable was holding him, feeling the back of his neck, and further down. He would love him forever. Finally it was done. He heard his heart pulse slower and slower, until its final last beat. He waited, as time stopped, lasting for what seemed an eternity. It should happen any moment. It had to happen. He put his head on the boys chest, listening. And then it came, the soft sound of rushing blood coursing through the same veins, running through his now useless heart. What great mystery gave it life?

Michael looked up, seeing Dorian with eyes that looked back upon him. They would be the first eyes he would see in this new body, and perhaps the last, eyes which touched his soul, that first commanded him, and now cared for him. He was content with that.

“Dorian, you’ve got to take me home. There’s one more thing I have to do.”

Dorian understood and did as he was asked. He walked the boy up to his front door one final time.
Loraine was furious. “Where the hell have you been? It’s past seven o’clock and we haven’t been able to have dinner. Get the hell in here, and you Mr. Niteshade, or whatever you name is. I’d just like to know what you’ve been doing with my son. Maybe your principal would like to know.” With that she slammed the door. “Go wash your hands and get ready for dinner.”

Dinner was a cold affair, with the three of them sitting, eating and not talking. Finally Todd spoke up. “Don’t forget it’s toilets night.” He laughed his stupid laugh, which always made Mikie mad.

“Mother, I think Todd would like to clean the toilets tonight.” Mikie looked deep into Loraine’s eyes, bending her will to his. This was so much better than making Todd do it.

“What the hell, he’s doing the damn toilets.” Todd was amazed at his insolence.

“The hell he will. You can do it, you lazy fuck.” Loraine was in emergency siren mode.

Michael left the table and went to his room. His mother and Todd were never aware that he had left. They continued to argue oblivious to his departure, swearing, eating, shouting, and eventually cleaning the plates. It would be sometime before Todd would finish scrubbing the toilets, and longer still before they went to bed. Mikie could wait. He hoped Todd enjoyed whatever present he had left. Indian giver!

Loraine tossed and turned in her sleep. Never before had she slept so poorly. She hated going to bed mad, but in the last several years, it seemed to be the rule rather than the exception. She realized marrying Todd had been a mistake. He would never amount to anything, and that meant she would continue working her miserable job until she was old and worn out. There was something to look forward to, but life had a way of changing one’s fortune. Something woke her, some small soft, tender voice, bidding her to waken. She had been dreaming about better times, when she was married to Mikie’s father. She could stay home then. She remembered playing with her baby boy. What was it? Yes, it was tickle bug. Oh I love you so much Mikie….That was what she was hearing, but it wasn’t her. She opened her eyes and there was her son, leaning over her, whispering into her ear.

“Oh, I love you so much Mommy, I could eat you up.”

This didn’t make sense. Why would her sixteen year old son be doing this? She tried to clear her mind, understand what was going on. She could feel his hot breath on her, on her neck. He was close, his lips almost touching her. She felt panic. She turned to Todd. Where was that idiot? Why wasn’t he awake? What she saw brought terror screaming into her senses. Todd was staring wide eyed looking toward the ceiling, looking but not seeing. His head was slanted at a curious angle, the upper part hanging off the bed. There on the bedroom floor was the bucket, the same bucket Mikie would use to clean the kitchen and bathroom floors, again and again, week after week, and in the bucket was Todd’s warm sticky blood, flowing generously from the big gash in his neck, the kitchen carving knife sticking out of his belly. There are some people too repulsive for even a vampire to touch.

Loraine screamed, loud and long. She tried to push her son away, tried to flee, run anywhere, but she couldn’t move. His will was too much for her. She was like child’s play.

Again he said, “Oh I love you so much Mommy I could eat you up.”

With that he plunged his fangs deep into her neck. He would not be gentle, sucking her down in an instant. Loraine would not be getting older, not worn out and useless. She would just be dead.

Michael embraced the chill of the night, feeling the damp air against his cold skin. Night was where he belonged. He walked towards the old side of town, past the restored Victorian houses, now adorned with jack-o-’lanterns, and to the one that welcomed him. He continued past the wrought iron gates, up the cracked walkway and opened the door.

He climbed up the stairway and said, “Dorian, I’m home,” and indeed, he was. Home at last.

[Tygon]

Originally Posted by dogboy

Going Home
“Oh, I love you so much Mommy, I could eat you up.”

Guh, that's creepy. The bulk of the story was more-or-less standard vampire fare, but the ending... *shudder* I might actually feel a little ill.

In other words: loved it!

[dogboy]

Thanks. This story was in response to the thread that asked for Halloween stories, so this is mine. I think it covers a lot more bases than just vampirism, such as dysfunctional homes, abuse and self-abuse. There is also the seduction, one to what ever it is to be a vampire, its darkness or evil, and the other to love, a human emotion, and something that we believe comes out of good. I tried to start the story at one level, and then slowly increase its intensity, especially with Timmy. I also enjoyed getting some vengeance and justice for Mikie, who was set up and falsely accused. Lastly, of course, Mikie never was Loraine's. He was part of something left over from the past, trying to find his owner, lover, and destiny.

I hope you caught the transformation paralleling the crucifixion and resurrection of Christ, yet towards something dwelling on the other side.

[Tygon]

Originally Posted by dogboy

I think it covers a lot more bases than just vampirism, such as dysfunctional homes, abuse and self-abuse. There is also the seduction, one to what ever it is to be a vampire, its darkness or evil, and the other to love, a human emotion, and something that we believe comes out of good.

I hope you caught the transformation paralleling the crucifixion and resurrection of Christ, yet towards something dwelling on the other side.

Blargh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to completely gloss over other important aspects of the story when I said 'standard vampire fare.' In fact, please disregard that comment entirely. I'm a bit worn out from the past week and not picking up on things as well as I usually do.

[Laram]

That Was... Wow... You Should Write More...

[TheFoxxehAssassin]

Damn. For some reason, I found that really hot.

*Rolls eyes*

Anyways, that was exceptional. It's nice to see your writing on the site, finally.

Good job.

--The Foxxeh Assassin--

[hbcrayons]

Great story.
Two things:
1. The Halloween contest asked that people participating include HSE in the thread title.
2. The cutting scene is a bit too descriptive, so it needs a warning, before the story starts or in the thread title. I've come to terms with it but others may still be recovering, with that description, they may revert. Seriously, that's all it takes sometimes. Something to remind them how good it feels (not that I'm saying do it, in fact, I strongly suggest no one SIs (self-injures)).

[dogboy]

Thank hbcrayons, and everyone else. In the Unfinished stories thread where this all started, I posted that I realized I forgot to put the HSE in the title and I gave a statement about cutting. I'm hoping a mod will put the HSE in the title and a warning as well. I was really nervous about posting it and became an idiot instantly.

You're right of course, and like I said in that thread, cutting was something I did when I was in Junior High and High School. I have no idea why I did, and I certainly don't want anyone else to do it either. For me it started when my parents went bankrupt and we had to move once again.

They idea of it worked well in my story, which is why I used it. Mikie was always meant to be a vampire, he simply had missed his opportunity 5000 years ago. I thought the idea of blood for blood, pain for pain was an interesting connection to make. But like I said, this is just a story. I wouldn't want anyone to identify with Mikie's character.

I must admit, I had a blast writing this, and when I was writing the last 4 pages, I really became excited about it, even starting to hyperventilate. I always knew in my mind what the ending was going to be, so actually developing the story and reaching it was quite exciting.

Lastly, I wrote it for all of you. I suspect there is a little bit of Mikie in all of us as we blunder through life, and watch life hurt us. In the end, Mikie gets a chance to take control over it and have a little revenge.

[SleepingPup567]

I love the chills going up my spine. A++

[Dawes]

Originally Posted by hbcrayons

Great story.
Two things:
1. The Halloween contest asked that people participating include HSE in the thread title.
2. The cutting scene is a bit too descriptive, so it needs a warning, before the story starts or in the thread title. I've come to terms with it but others may still be recovering, with that description, they may revert. Seriously, that's all it takes sometimes. Something to remind them how good it feels (not that I'm saying do it, in fact, I strongly suggest no one SIs (self-injures)).

I'm just going to offer out a friendly, "Fuck that." The writer isn't and never will be responsible for the reactions of his readers lest he has malicious intent, which Dogboy clearly didn't. Let's stop being afraid of words, shall we? I find it insulting that you think you have the room to make the writer modify his work for the sake of your comfort.

(That rant in no way reflects Dogboy's thoughts, but purely my own.)

God forbid a Halloween story should be excessively graphic or cerebral!

Dogboy, I'm honored to be able to have gotten a chance to read your writing. I know you and I have discussed our interests as wannabe-writers for a long time, and I'm glad I finally got the chance to check out a piece of your writing. I'm immensely impressed, especially given the short amount of time it's been since you started!

Your writing style reminds me of Hemingway. There's this clever detachment from the actual contents of the story that really speaks of the character's own difficulties -- there's a simplicity in the way the viewer sees the world through Mikie's eyes (the cutting part being a primary example), and I love it when a writer is able to work with a third-person viewpoint that isn't omniscient, but instead focuses on one particular character.

Some of my favorite parts come through the extraneous narrative thoughts that you put in (for example, the thoughts about how the food was gross, or why he really liked his knife, so on and so forth). While I know that the narrator is outside of Mikie, it gives me a close familiarity with the character that I feel gives the story a strength beyond what it would have been if you wrote it with a purely objective tone.

I enjoyed reading it immensely, and I look forward to being able to check out some more of your writing, Dogboy! Maybe one day, I'll pick up a book that has your name on it!