Hey I know ur off doing stuff but guess what
MY LIFE SUCKS
My parents sent me 2 a summer camp
So its all gonna be canoes & hiking right
WRONG
Sry i stopped txting yesterday, didnt want kyle 2 see
He said we shouldnt txt cus it gets in the way of god or somthing
He was looking @ me when he said it 2
Like "I'm keeping my eye on u, homo"
Kyle is a douch
Any1 who works here NEEDS A LIFE
Srsly
R u there?
O yeah i forgot
U can read this when u come back
3 days in & guess what
NOTHING HAPPENED
We just listen 2 these preachers about how great jesus is & how he hates homo kids
& we got bibles 2 so we can read along
LIKE WOOHOO
Theres a guy over here that looks just like u
He keeps looking @ me & its kinda hot
<3 u, hope u read this soon
God kyles coming
Kyle took me 2 the woods and he told me 2 die
He looked crazy and he just kept telling me that i needed 2 kill myself because this was no place for me
He kept pointing at the woods and shouting
1 of the counselors came over and took him away and brought me back
I know ur dad doesnt know about us and doesnt let u drive but u have 2 get me out of here
Wait
Where did u go anyway
I forgot
Maybe u can tell me when u get back from... Wherever
If ur in this camp just 2 mess with me i am gonna be SO PISSED
I SWEAR THAT GUY LOOKS JUST LIKE YOU
HES EVEN WEARING THE SAME HOODIE
U better answer me if thats u
The preachers all about hell now
Fire this repent that
Werent we gonna do arts & crafts or somthing
But he was so happy
Like he was getting off on it or somthing
Also guess what
Kyle ran up 2 me yesterday
He told me 2 kill myself and pointed at the woods but he looked bad
He was scratched up and there was blood coming out of his ears
The preacher came up and dragged him away & he screamed
It hurt my ears
There SHOULD be a hell for people like him
Where r u?
I love u
I miss u
Im gonna find out tommorow if ur here
And if u r IM GONNA KICK UR ASS
See u tommorow
It isnt you
It has your face but it isnt you
Im running like kyle told me
Like i didn’t hear him say
Like i hear your voice everywhere
The preacher has your face
I dont know where this is
I dont know how long ive been here
It has your face and its coming for me
WHERE ARE YOU
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
Thursday, September 13, 2012
"Nobody"
Bob first saw him on the subway, on his way home from work. He was looking out the window, not at anything in particular, when his reflection turned its head and looked at him. Then he realized, quite relieved, that it wasn't his reflection but someone standing behind him and he turned.
And stopped. Bob's eyes widened in disbelief as he looked at this person - they looked like him. Almost exactly. They had a slightly different suit on, a different color tie, little lighter hair color, but other than that, they could have been twins.
Bob had heard of the concept of an "identical stranger" before, but he never believed it until now. He got up to talk to the stranger, but the man left the subway before he could.
Over the next few weeks, Bob kept seeing his double in various places, out of the corner of his eye. He was sitting in the corner of a bar that Bob frequented; at the restaurant Bob took his wife to; even at his office, Bob thought he caught a glimpse of the stranger.
"Great job on that report," his boss told him one morning.
"What report?" Bob asked. He had never done any report or received any request. His boss laughed it off, as if it was a joke.
People kept telling him things he had done, but he never remembered doing them. His wife thanked him for sending the flowers, saying that it was so unlike him to remember their anniversary.
One day, he didn't go to work. He just wandered around the city, wondering what was happening. His boss never called. After a while he called his wife, but something strange happened. His own voice came on the line. "Hello," Bob said. "Hello," his voice echoed.
He heard his wife's voice in the background saying, "Bob, who's on the phone?"
"Nobody, dear," the echo said. "Just a sales call." He hung up the phone.
Bob rushed home, but on the subway there, he caught his reflection in the glass. He looked gaunt and tired. In fact, he didn't look like himself at all. At his house, he looked inside and caught a glimpse of the stranger. The stranger looked more like him than he did.
Suddenly, a crushing realization hit him. Was he actually Bob? Perhaps he was the stranger. Perhaps he had got it all wrong and this house didn't belong to him at all.
As he looked into the window, the man inside looked out. They could have been mirror images a week before, twins. Now the stranger who was Bob looked out the window and smiled at the man who was nobody.
And stopped. Bob's eyes widened in disbelief as he looked at this person - they looked like him. Almost exactly. They had a slightly different suit on, a different color tie, little lighter hair color, but other than that, they could have been twins.
Bob had heard of the concept of an "identical stranger" before, but he never believed it until now. He got up to talk to the stranger, but the man left the subway before he could.
Over the next few weeks, Bob kept seeing his double in various places, out of the corner of his eye. He was sitting in the corner of a bar that Bob frequented; at the restaurant Bob took his wife to; even at his office, Bob thought he caught a glimpse of the stranger.
"Great job on that report," his boss told him one morning.
"What report?" Bob asked. He had never done any report or received any request. His boss laughed it off, as if it was a joke.
People kept telling him things he had done, but he never remembered doing them. His wife thanked him for sending the flowers, saying that it was so unlike him to remember their anniversary.
One day, he didn't go to work. He just wandered around the city, wondering what was happening. His boss never called. After a while he called his wife, but something strange happened. His own voice came on the line. "Hello," Bob said. "Hello," his voice echoed.
He heard his wife's voice in the background saying, "Bob, who's on the phone?"
"Nobody, dear," the echo said. "Just a sales call." He hung up the phone.
Bob rushed home, but on the subway there, he caught his reflection in the glass. He looked gaunt and tired. In fact, he didn't look like himself at all. At his house, he looked inside and caught a glimpse of the stranger. The stranger looked more like him than he did.
Suddenly, a crushing realization hit him. Was he actually Bob? Perhaps he was the stranger. Perhaps he had got it all wrong and this house didn't belong to him at all.
As he looked into the window, the man inside looked out. They could have been mirror images a week before, twins. Now the stranger who was Bob looked out the window and smiled at the man who was nobody.
Sunday, September 9, 2012
"Stone Cold Grip"
Where the hell am I? It looks like it's some kind of... field... except everything is made of stone. Even the grass is crunching into rubble beneath my feet. This is a very strange place. I'm holding my jacket tighter to my person and walk on. There seems to be a large circle of trees... all made of granite, of course. I head towards it, eager to find someone in this lifeless hole.
When I break off the stone branches in order to make it to the center, I spot a circle of people... I try walking up to one of them and prod him gingerly with my hand. He topples over and shatters into many pieces on the ground. It was a statue. Nothing but a stone statue. Fuck. I need to find a way out.
Then I spot him. He was seated in his throne, in the center of the ring of statues. Another statue, this one of an old, corpsey-looking type, with sunken sockets and a stone, grey crown perched upon his head. He stares at me. I try walking a few paces to the right. His eyes were not on me now. I heard a crunch underneath my foot. I look down and see I have accidentally crushed one of the statues' feet with my boot. I look up again.
He's staring at me again.
What the hell? Walk a few paces in the other direction. I can't see his pupils anymore. I hear a noise behind me and I turn around. Nothing. I turn back again.
He's staring at me again.
This time I run completely around. Now I can't see his eyes behind his stone slab of a throne. I hear a noise behind me again. I look towards it and back again.
His head peers at me from behind his throne, his fingers clutching the top like some derranged peeping tom.
I'm running now. I can't deny the fact that I saw him move. I just keep running. I look behind me. He's standing now, an arm weakly outstretched towards me. His mouth is open in a silent scream. I look at him while I run. But I have to blink. He didn't go far, but he was getting closer every time I blink.
I couldn't bear it anymore; I collapse on the stone ground, dazed and eyes closed.
I hear the dull thud of his feet, but I can't do anything. I feel him lift me up, but in a caring gesture. I look at him. His mouth is in a wide smile. He just wanted to befriend me. I try to free myself from his grip, but I can't break free... I can't even move my arm. I look at my left arm. It was slowly becoming stone, the fingers are locked in their position. I can't feel anything. I feel the stone reach to my chest. I try to scream but my jaw is already becoming stone. My eyes gaze upwards at him. His mouth is now contorted in a very open frown, his eyes seemingly welling up with tears. I notice a mark on his forehead that I didn't notice before.
And then my eyes were stone.
When I break off the stone branches in order to make it to the center, I spot a circle of people... I try walking up to one of them and prod him gingerly with my hand. He topples over and shatters into many pieces on the ground. It was a statue. Nothing but a stone statue. Fuck. I need to find a way out.
Then I spot him. He was seated in his throne, in the center of the ring of statues. Another statue, this one of an old, corpsey-looking type, with sunken sockets and a stone, grey crown perched upon his head. He stares at me. I try walking a few paces to the right. His eyes were not on me now. I heard a crunch underneath my foot. I look down and see I have accidentally crushed one of the statues' feet with my boot. I look up again.
He's staring at me again.
What the hell? Walk a few paces in the other direction. I can't see his pupils anymore. I hear a noise behind me and I turn around. Nothing. I turn back again.
He's staring at me again.
This time I run completely around. Now I can't see his eyes behind his stone slab of a throne. I hear a noise behind me again. I look towards it and back again.
His head peers at me from behind his throne, his fingers clutching the top like some derranged peeping tom.
I'm running now. I can't deny the fact that I saw him move. I just keep running. I look behind me. He's standing now, an arm weakly outstretched towards me. His mouth is open in a silent scream. I look at him while I run. But I have to blink. He didn't go far, but he was getting closer every time I blink.
I couldn't bear it anymore; I collapse on the stone ground, dazed and eyes closed.
I hear the dull thud of his feet, but I can't do anything. I feel him lift me up, but in a caring gesture. I look at him. His mouth is in a wide smile. He just wanted to befriend me. I try to free myself from his grip, but I can't break free... I can't even move my arm. I look at my left arm. It was slowly becoming stone, the fingers are locked in their position. I can't feel anything. I feel the stone reach to my chest. I try to scream but my jaw is already becoming stone. My eyes gaze upwards at him. His mouth is now contorted in a very open frown, his eyes seemingly welling up with tears. I notice a mark on his forehead that I didn't notice before.
And then my eyes were stone.
"A Feast For Crows"
They came in flocks.
It started with doves, lightning-white, swarming across the sky like stratus clouds. They skidded across the rooftops, raking long cuts through them, creating the most horrible shrieking sound as they did so. Below, people stared, gawked.
Their eyes were beady and black, calculating, nothing even remotely natural in them. They only had one goal: to nest.
More birds came. Parrots, repeating back the screams of the people below; crows, bringing warnings of death; vultures, there to pick the bones of those that did not survive.
Their cries sounded more like thunder, and, indeed, lightning cracked, volts shooting through their feathers and connecting bird to bird. The electricity struck the ground over and over, shearing off entire patches of earth, ravaging it. Roofs caved in and fires started, burning brightly.
They gathered in a cluster, almost as if guarding something - or, as it was in this case, someone. In the center of the flock, the eye of the storm, were a group of monstrous-looking hawks, their skin blistered, throbbing with red, bulbous pustules. They carried a woman, dressed in a cloak of black feathers. She grinned madly, her teeth looking more like fangs.
The vultures carried her downwards and the woman landed on the ground in front of a tall, stone tower. Her smile didn't even falter as she was approached by several heavily-armored guards. Of course the place was guarded - she'd been expecting that.
"Halt," one of them cried, approaching her with an air of authority. "We know who you are. You are not permitted to come any closer."
The woman reacted with mock surprise. "Oh, I'm not? Why is that?"
"We know about you," the guard repeated, his comrades shifting impatiently on their feat behind him. "You're her - the Witch."
The woman's voice suddenly dropped into a deadly whisper as she moved closer. "You do not understand. My... friends, my children, they need to feed. The crop has been... ah, poor this year. They need to grow, and they can't do that without anything to feed on."
"You may not move any closer to the Observatory," the guard said, unyielding. "Do not make me use lethal force."
"Before my babies eat?" the woman crooned. "Oh, but that would would be rather cruel, wouldn't it? No, I think they should have a meal first. A feast."
She drew an old-looking stone dagger from her cloak's pocket, and traced the blade along her skin, drawing blood, and the heads of several birds emerged from the wound.
"Open wide."
It started with doves, lightning-white, swarming across the sky like stratus clouds. They skidded across the rooftops, raking long cuts through them, creating the most horrible shrieking sound as they did so. Below, people stared, gawked.
Their eyes were beady and black, calculating, nothing even remotely natural in them. They only had one goal: to nest.
More birds came. Parrots, repeating back the screams of the people below; crows, bringing warnings of death; vultures, there to pick the bones of those that did not survive.
Their cries sounded more like thunder, and, indeed, lightning cracked, volts shooting through their feathers and connecting bird to bird. The electricity struck the ground over and over, shearing off entire patches of earth, ravaging it. Roofs caved in and fires started, burning brightly.
They gathered in a cluster, almost as if guarding something - or, as it was in this case, someone. In the center of the flock, the eye of the storm, were a group of monstrous-looking hawks, their skin blistered, throbbing with red, bulbous pustules. They carried a woman, dressed in a cloak of black feathers. She grinned madly, her teeth looking more like fangs.
The vultures carried her downwards and the woman landed on the ground in front of a tall, stone tower. Her smile didn't even falter as she was approached by several heavily-armored guards. Of course the place was guarded - she'd been expecting that.
"Halt," one of them cried, approaching her with an air of authority. "We know who you are. You are not permitted to come any closer."
The woman reacted with mock surprise. "Oh, I'm not? Why is that?"
"We know about you," the guard repeated, his comrades shifting impatiently on their feat behind him. "You're her - the Witch."
The woman's voice suddenly dropped into a deadly whisper as she moved closer. "You do not understand. My... friends, my children, they need to feed. The crop has been... ah, poor this year. They need to grow, and they can't do that without anything to feed on."
"You may not move any closer to the Observatory," the guard said, unyielding. "Do not make me use lethal force."
"Before my babies eat?" the woman crooned. "Oh, but that would would be rather cruel, wouldn't it? No, I think they should have a meal first. A feast."
She drew an old-looking stone dagger from her cloak's pocket, and traced the blade along her skin, drawing blood, and the heads of several birds emerged from the wound.
"Open wide."
"Dance"
Stepping in motion, keeping within the time. We move as one, a synchronised display. All around us, the people watch us, not daring to come closer. We want to cry out, ask for their help, but she will not let us. Our bodies are no longer our own, for all we are now is her property. When she grows bored with us, her little pets, she simply snares another and the chaos begins anew.
They say our blood is hot. They say that we must not stop, that the act of dancing will cure us. They say that God is merciful and that through this mercy, we shall be saved. But I know God has abandoned us. We know, for there is no self. We are not people, we are worthless, mere puppets on her strings. She giggles as we begin to sweat. Every time one of us falls to the ground, clutching their heart, she simply laughs and infects two more. The citizens and the councils cannot see her pulling our strings from the balcony, but we can feel them deep beneath our skin. They are all too busy building stages, buying musicians, herding us indoors like we are naught but cattle. As we continue our dance, caged like animals, manipulated by this marionette, Her strings slowly seep into their skin, the musicians, the council. The innocents.
Within a fraction of a second, the music dies. She makes a minuscule motion, a slight movement of her hand, and yet that is all she needs. Her strings are suddenly flailing wildly. People run, but where one foot takes off at a run, it comes back down dancing erratically. We dance ever more quickly, those who have been snared. Everyone runs as we cascade down the streets, but I can see our mistress finally losing her enthusiasm. One more wave, and I can feel my heart start to beat faster. And faster. The quick beat floods my ears like a steel drum. As I fall to the ground, I see the others are just the same. My ears are drowning in noise, the ground hard beneath me. As my vision slips away and darkness clouds my vision, I see the Wooden Girl wander the streets of Strasbourg.
They say our blood is hot. They say that we must not stop, that the act of dancing will cure us. They say that God is merciful and that through this mercy, we shall be saved. But I know God has abandoned us. We know, for there is no self. We are not people, we are worthless, mere puppets on her strings. She giggles as we begin to sweat. Every time one of us falls to the ground, clutching their heart, she simply laughs and infects two more. The citizens and the councils cannot see her pulling our strings from the balcony, but we can feel them deep beneath our skin. They are all too busy building stages, buying musicians, herding us indoors like we are naught but cattle. As we continue our dance, caged like animals, manipulated by this marionette, Her strings slowly seep into their skin, the musicians, the council. The innocents.
Within a fraction of a second, the music dies. She makes a minuscule motion, a slight movement of her hand, and yet that is all she needs. Her strings are suddenly flailing wildly. People run, but where one foot takes off at a run, it comes back down dancing erratically. We dance ever more quickly, those who have been snared. Everyone runs as we cascade down the streets, but I can see our mistress finally losing her enthusiasm. One more wave, and I can feel my heart start to beat faster. And faster. The quick beat floods my ears like a steel drum. As I fall to the ground, I see the others are just the same. My ears are drowning in noise, the ground hard beneath me. As my vision slips away and darkness clouds my vision, I see the Wooden Girl wander the streets of Strasbourg.
Friday, September 7, 2012
"The Suicide Note of an Anonymous Mother"
It is with a heavy heart and shaking hand that I pen this, now. Ten years ago, when my daughter was born, I could have sworn that I knew such joy that I would never again feel sorrow. Had I known what I do now, I might have taken a blade to the babe's neck. My own daughter. My flesh and blood.
My husband, her father, was so enamored with her. I do not believe any child was so well doted upon, growing up – she was his sun, moon, and stars. Her pains, my husband felt tenfold. For each tear, he would shed three more. She occupied his every thought, and there was scarcely a sentence out of his mouth that did not mention her name.
It was inevitable, perhaps, that I would grow envious. Sickened each time I heard her mentioned, until there was no love left in my heart for her. A child so beloved, not even loved by her own mother!
I see now, I was monstrous. There is no abuse harsher than indifference.
As she grew older, her pull grew stronger. I hadn’t thought it possible, but her father’s love deepened by the day. Somehow, my heart was untouched. I could see in her face how it pained her, and often heard her gently crying herself to sleep.
Perhaps spite kept me from adoring her, as was proper – it seemed all who laid eyes on her cared about her, as though she were their own daughter. How could I not be resentful? What was wrong with me?
The trend continued, and I thought things would never change. Oh, how I pray now that I could go back and call attention to my own foolishness. My husband still felt my daughter’s hurts, and it seemed that this needed proving.
Early this morning, we both saw her run and take a tumble. She scraped her knee.
Not an hour ago, I walked in to find my husband, mutilating his leg with a kitchen knife, slicing the skin apart. I could see the white of his bone, his kneecap hanging loosely and blood all over the floor – I screamed. Screamed myself hoarse. He was so intent that he scarcely lifted his eyes.
I simply cannot cope.
I write this letter now with a noose laying across my lap, with one simple request to all who may read this:
Love her.
Love her, as I could not. Love her so dearly that she forgets all the years I gave her no affection.
Love my daughter, as a mother should.
My husband, her father, was so enamored with her. I do not believe any child was so well doted upon, growing up – she was his sun, moon, and stars. Her pains, my husband felt tenfold. For each tear, he would shed three more. She occupied his every thought, and there was scarcely a sentence out of his mouth that did not mention her name.
It was inevitable, perhaps, that I would grow envious. Sickened each time I heard her mentioned, until there was no love left in my heart for her. A child so beloved, not even loved by her own mother!
I see now, I was monstrous. There is no abuse harsher than indifference.
As she grew older, her pull grew stronger. I hadn’t thought it possible, but her father’s love deepened by the day. Somehow, my heart was untouched. I could see in her face how it pained her, and often heard her gently crying herself to sleep.
Perhaps spite kept me from adoring her, as was proper – it seemed all who laid eyes on her cared about her, as though she were their own daughter. How could I not be resentful? What was wrong with me?
The trend continued, and I thought things would never change. Oh, how I pray now that I could go back and call attention to my own foolishness. My husband still felt my daughter’s hurts, and it seemed that this needed proving.
Early this morning, we both saw her run and take a tumble. She scraped her knee.
Not an hour ago, I walked in to find my husband, mutilating his leg with a kitchen knife, slicing the skin apart. I could see the white of his bone, his kneecap hanging loosely and blood all over the floor – I screamed. Screamed myself hoarse. He was so intent that he scarcely lifted his eyes.
I simply cannot cope.
I write this letter now with a noose laying across my lap, with one simple request to all who may read this:
Love her.
Love her, as I could not. Love her so dearly that she forgets all the years I gave her no affection.
Love my daughter, as a mother should.
Thursday, August 30, 2012
"Heart-Shaped Box"
There was a heart-shaped box on her desk that morning. Opening it, she found that it was filled with chocolates delicately wrapped in thin pieces of tissue paper, each piece of tissue paper a different color for a different type of chocolate. Some had a coconut, some had nougat, there was even that one in the center that had an oozy strawberry filling that most people would never eat and threw away with the wrapping, but she ate it. She loved it.
"What's the occasion, Marti?" one of the other nurses asked.
"Anniversary," Marti said, delicately placing the cover back on the box. "Bob always remembers and this one is special: forty years."
"No shit?" The other nurse glanced at the heart-shaped box with a twinge of jealousy. "Well, you're a lucky girl."
"I'm no girl," Marti said. "No spring chicken here. I'm nearly sixty-seven. And while it was a very nice gesture from Bob, I'm slightly worried about when I get home."
"Why? He want something kinky in bed?" The other nurse, whose name was Betancourt, was a notorious gossip.
"No, it's not that," Marti said in a whisper. Sex was still a somewhat taboo subject for her, though she knew Betancourt loved to talk about it. Nurse Betancourt had emigrated from Trinidad and still had her thick accent, which somewhat eased Marti when she talked about such a frank subject with her. "It's just my...drive hasn't been there lately."
"Ah," Nurse Betancourt said. "I understand. And Bob? What about him?"
"Oh, his...drive is fine," Marti said. "Anyway, I shouldn't be talking about this. We have work to do." She picked up a stack of paperwork and started filling it out. Betancourt sighed - her source of gossip having been cut off, she went back to checking on the various patients in their ward.
Two hours later, police admitted an unconscious woman to the hospital. An officer explained that she had been knocked unconscious during a rave and might possibly be on drugs. Marti scheduled her for a CT scan to see if there might be a concussion, then starting drawing blood in order to do a drug test. As Marti drew the blood, she noticed how the woman's hair was a vivid shade of red.
At that moment, the woman's eyes snapped opened. Marti pulled back, but she wasn't quick enough - the red-haired woman sat up with startling speed and jumped off the table. The suddenness of the movement made Marti jump herself and then trip, falling on the floor. She felt a sharp pain in her thigh and closed her eyes. When she opened then, the red-haired woman was gone and the officer was calling for backup.
When Marti finally got up and brushed herself off, she noticed with alarm that the needle she had using to draw blood from the woman was now embedded in her thigh, with the plunger all the way down.
The officer helped her sit down and she delicately pulled the needle out of her thigh. The officer appeared to be panicking more than she was - she was in a strange state of calm. She knew she should be worried about the red-haired woman's blood - there might be drugs in it or HIV or any number of other viruses, but she knew there was nothing she could do about it now except take antivirals and wait.
So she did. In fact, she went back to work, since she was still on the clock. She wondered how she would relate the news to Bob - this was their anniversary and it was not going well. Her daydream about breaking the news to Bob was interrupted by Bob's voice: "Marti, what are you doing?"
"Bob?" she looked up and saw his kind, wrinkled face. "Why are you here?"
"The hospital called me," he said. "They said there was some sort of accident? I came here as soon as I could."
"Oh, you shouldn't have," Marti said. "I'm fine. I've taken a load of antivirals and-"
"Marti," Bob said, "come on, this is me."
"I'm fine," she said. "Truly."
He was quiet for a while and then said, "Okay." Then he pulled her into a big bearhug and she breathed a sigh of relief. Everything was going to be fine. There anniversary wasn't going to be ruined by one little needle.
That evening, Bob took Marti to a fancy restaurant and they sipped red wine and laughed at old stories. Marti thought she would be tired after working eight hours at the hospital, but she felt better than before. There was an energy inside of her that she wanted to release.
In fact, the drive she had been talking about earlier with Nurse Betancourt seemed to have returned. After diner, Bob and Marti went back to their brownstone and made love.
The next day, Marti felt even better. At the nursing station, she couldn't stay still, moving her hips as she filled out the paperwork, never sitting down for more than a minute. "What's up with you, girl?" Nurse Betancourt asked.
"Oh, nothing," Marti said. "I just feel...good."
"Someone got lucky last night I bet," Nurse Betancourt said.
"Oh yes," Marti said. "And I aim to get lucky again tonight."
And she did. Night after night, she and Bob made love. When she had the night shift and went home at five a.m., she would even gently wake Bob from sleep and they would have soft, sleep-deprived lovemaking.
By the end of the week, however, Bob was worn out. Marti seemed to have limitless energy, especially in the sack, and after they would make love, she would sometimes request to go again. Bob would bemoan and say, "The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak!" Or sometimes, if he was feeling silly, he would affect a Russian accent and say, "The vodka is good, but the meat is rotten!"
Marti was getting more looks at the hospital, too. She had been nice looking when she was younger, but at sixty-six, she had too many wrinkles and not enough exercise to get rid of excess fat. But now she could see some doctors look at her with roaming eyes.
"Are you taking some sort of treatment?" Nurse Betancourt asked.
"No," Marti said, "why?"
"Because you're wrinkles are fadin' away," Betancourt said. "Whatever moisturizer you are on, I want some."
Marti checked the mirror in the bathroom and realized it was true. Her wrinkles were slowly vanishing, one by one. She no longer looked sixty-six. In fact, she looked like she was back in her forties. She thought this was strange, but decided not to question it. "You shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth," her mother had always told her.
By the next week, Marti looked almost thirty. Every morning she woke up more excited and energetic than the last morning. She was applying makeup now, just some rouge and a little lipstick, but it was more than she had done before.
Bob, however, was getting more and more tired. Sometimes, he didn't even have the energy for their daily lovemaking. One morning, when she returned from the night shift, she tried to wake him up, but he was sleeping too soundly. She shook him more and he mumbled out about how he was sorry, but that it "won't come up anymore."
She knew this was a problem many older couples faced, but she didn't feel old. She felt young again. She felt new!
She ended up talking with Bob's physician and seeing if she could get a PDE5 inhibitor, which would help with any...disfunction that Bob had. She managed to get some and as soon as she convinced Bob to take one a day, they went right back on their schedule.
One morning, as she was cutting vegetables for soup, the knife slipped and she cut her finger. It stung and she instinctively placed her finger in her mouth. This simple act changed everything for Marti. The taste of her own blood was almost orgasmic. She ended up sucking a bit too much on the finger, but when she finally pulled it out of her mouth, the cut was gone. It had healed in less than a minute.
At work, she was getting more and more looks. "Tell me your surgeon," Nurse Betancourt would say. "He does great work."
Marti would just smile mysteriously (and a little seductively) and say nothing. Her home life was going a little better. They were back on their daily lovemaking sessions, but now Marti had a taste of her own blood, she wanted more.
She started giving Bob small cuts on his arms and licked them up. Then more and more, until finally it was equal parts lovemaking and bloodplay.
Finally, one evening, Bob said to her, "My only wish, Marti, is to make you happy. That's all I wanted. That's why I've gone along with all of this. But I only have so much stamina and so much blood in me. I can't keep going like this."
"But I want more," Marti said. "I have this...need. This thirst."
"Then take what you want," Bob said. "Please. I hope it will be enough."
She cut him on his arm and licked the blood and then made another cut and another. Soon, she was lost in her own blood-filled world and when she finally looked down, Bob was still. She hadn't noticed as his heart stopped. Her mind was clouded with sex and blood and she took the knife and cut deep into his chest, cut further than she should have with an inhuman strength. She cut and pried open his ribcage and took out his heart.
She tried to make it beat again, but it wouldn't. So she licked the blood and then put the heart in a plastic ziplock bag and placed it in her purse. She would bring it to a doctor, that's all Bob needed, Marti thought as she cleaned up. A heart doctor.
As she walked down the street, she could feel others staring at her and she reveled in it. She walked into the hospital and up to her nursing station, where Nurse Betancourt was. "Can I help you?" Nurse Betancourt asked. "Admissions are over there."
Marti was confused until she saw a mirror. She no longer looked almost thirty. She looked younger, younger than thirty, younger than twenty. She was eighteen, if she was a day. And she wasn't Marti at eighteen, no, no mousy brown hair. Now, she had bright, vividly red hair and a gorgeously curvy body. No wonder Nurse Betancourt no longer recognized her.
Marti looked at her hair. When had it turned red? And why?
And then she finally remembered the red-haired woman and the blood. Marti licked her lips. It all came down to blood.
"Ma'am?" Nurse Betancourt said. "Admissions are down there."
Marti turned around and walked away, leaving her purse there. Nurse Betancourt would later find it, recognize it as Marti's, and look inside to see if there was any of that chocolate left from that heart-shaped box. When she found what was inside, however, she would let out a blood-curdling scream.
Marti walked out of the hospital, blood still on her mind, blood the only thing on her mind. She had to find more of it. As she walked down the street, the blood took control and threw away all of her old memories, all of her old life.
As she walked, a car pulled up and the man inside the car propositioned her. She smiled and got into the car. "What's your name, honey?" the man asked.
A song came on the radio and triggered one memory that the blood hadn't gotten rid of. It was their song. Always their song.
"Ruby," she said licking her lips. "My name is Ruby."
"What's the occasion, Marti?" one of the other nurses asked.
"Anniversary," Marti said, delicately placing the cover back on the box. "Bob always remembers and this one is special: forty years."
"No shit?" The other nurse glanced at the heart-shaped box with a twinge of jealousy. "Well, you're a lucky girl."
"I'm no girl," Marti said. "No spring chicken here. I'm nearly sixty-seven. And while it was a very nice gesture from Bob, I'm slightly worried about when I get home."
"Why? He want something kinky in bed?" The other nurse, whose name was Betancourt, was a notorious gossip.
"No, it's not that," Marti said in a whisper. Sex was still a somewhat taboo subject for her, though she knew Betancourt loved to talk about it. Nurse Betancourt had emigrated from Trinidad and still had her thick accent, which somewhat eased Marti when she talked about such a frank subject with her. "It's just my...drive hasn't been there lately."
"Ah," Nurse Betancourt said. "I understand. And Bob? What about him?"
"Oh, his...drive is fine," Marti said. "Anyway, I shouldn't be talking about this. We have work to do." She picked up a stack of paperwork and started filling it out. Betancourt sighed - her source of gossip having been cut off, she went back to checking on the various patients in their ward.
Two hours later, police admitted an unconscious woman to the hospital. An officer explained that she had been knocked unconscious during a rave and might possibly be on drugs. Marti scheduled her for a CT scan to see if there might be a concussion, then starting drawing blood in order to do a drug test. As Marti drew the blood, she noticed how the woman's hair was a vivid shade of red.
At that moment, the woman's eyes snapped opened. Marti pulled back, but she wasn't quick enough - the red-haired woman sat up with startling speed and jumped off the table. The suddenness of the movement made Marti jump herself and then trip, falling on the floor. She felt a sharp pain in her thigh and closed her eyes. When she opened then, the red-haired woman was gone and the officer was calling for backup.
When Marti finally got up and brushed herself off, she noticed with alarm that the needle she had using to draw blood from the woman was now embedded in her thigh, with the plunger all the way down.
The officer helped her sit down and she delicately pulled the needle out of her thigh. The officer appeared to be panicking more than she was - she was in a strange state of calm. She knew she should be worried about the red-haired woman's blood - there might be drugs in it or HIV or any number of other viruses, but she knew there was nothing she could do about it now except take antivirals and wait.
So she did. In fact, she went back to work, since she was still on the clock. She wondered how she would relate the news to Bob - this was their anniversary and it was not going well. Her daydream about breaking the news to Bob was interrupted by Bob's voice: "Marti, what are you doing?"
"Bob?" she looked up and saw his kind, wrinkled face. "Why are you here?"
"The hospital called me," he said. "They said there was some sort of accident? I came here as soon as I could."
"Oh, you shouldn't have," Marti said. "I'm fine. I've taken a load of antivirals and-"
"Marti," Bob said, "come on, this is me."
"I'm fine," she said. "Truly."
He was quiet for a while and then said, "Okay." Then he pulled her into a big bearhug and she breathed a sigh of relief. Everything was going to be fine. There anniversary wasn't going to be ruined by one little needle.
That evening, Bob took Marti to a fancy restaurant and they sipped red wine and laughed at old stories. Marti thought she would be tired after working eight hours at the hospital, but she felt better than before. There was an energy inside of her that she wanted to release.
In fact, the drive she had been talking about earlier with Nurse Betancourt seemed to have returned. After diner, Bob and Marti went back to their brownstone and made love.
The next day, Marti felt even better. At the nursing station, she couldn't stay still, moving her hips as she filled out the paperwork, never sitting down for more than a minute. "What's up with you, girl?" Nurse Betancourt asked.
"Oh, nothing," Marti said. "I just feel...good."
"Someone got lucky last night I bet," Nurse Betancourt said.
"Oh yes," Marti said. "And I aim to get lucky again tonight."
And she did. Night after night, she and Bob made love. When she had the night shift and went home at five a.m., she would even gently wake Bob from sleep and they would have soft, sleep-deprived lovemaking.
By the end of the week, however, Bob was worn out. Marti seemed to have limitless energy, especially in the sack, and after they would make love, she would sometimes request to go again. Bob would bemoan and say, "The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak!" Or sometimes, if he was feeling silly, he would affect a Russian accent and say, "The vodka is good, but the meat is rotten!"
Marti was getting more looks at the hospital, too. She had been nice looking when she was younger, but at sixty-six, she had too many wrinkles and not enough exercise to get rid of excess fat. But now she could see some doctors look at her with roaming eyes.
"Are you taking some sort of treatment?" Nurse Betancourt asked.
"No," Marti said, "why?"
"Because you're wrinkles are fadin' away," Betancourt said. "Whatever moisturizer you are on, I want some."
Marti checked the mirror in the bathroom and realized it was true. Her wrinkles were slowly vanishing, one by one. She no longer looked sixty-six. In fact, she looked like she was back in her forties. She thought this was strange, but decided not to question it. "You shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth," her mother had always told her.
By the next week, Marti looked almost thirty. Every morning she woke up more excited and energetic than the last morning. She was applying makeup now, just some rouge and a little lipstick, but it was more than she had done before.
Bob, however, was getting more and more tired. Sometimes, he didn't even have the energy for their daily lovemaking. One morning, when she returned from the night shift, she tried to wake him up, but he was sleeping too soundly. She shook him more and he mumbled out about how he was sorry, but that it "won't come up anymore."
She knew this was a problem many older couples faced, but she didn't feel old. She felt young again. She felt new!
She ended up talking with Bob's physician and seeing if she could get a PDE5 inhibitor, which would help with any...disfunction that Bob had. She managed to get some and as soon as she convinced Bob to take one a day, they went right back on their schedule.
One morning, as she was cutting vegetables for soup, the knife slipped and she cut her finger. It stung and she instinctively placed her finger in her mouth. This simple act changed everything for Marti. The taste of her own blood was almost orgasmic. She ended up sucking a bit too much on the finger, but when she finally pulled it out of her mouth, the cut was gone. It had healed in less than a minute.
At work, she was getting more and more looks. "Tell me your surgeon," Nurse Betancourt would say. "He does great work."
Marti would just smile mysteriously (and a little seductively) and say nothing. Her home life was going a little better. They were back on their daily lovemaking sessions, but now Marti had a taste of her own blood, she wanted more.
She started giving Bob small cuts on his arms and licked them up. Then more and more, until finally it was equal parts lovemaking and bloodplay.
Finally, one evening, Bob said to her, "My only wish, Marti, is to make you happy. That's all I wanted. That's why I've gone along with all of this. But I only have so much stamina and so much blood in me. I can't keep going like this."
"But I want more," Marti said. "I have this...need. This thirst."
"Then take what you want," Bob said. "Please. I hope it will be enough."
She cut him on his arm and licked the blood and then made another cut and another. Soon, she was lost in her own blood-filled world and when she finally looked down, Bob was still. She hadn't noticed as his heart stopped. Her mind was clouded with sex and blood and she took the knife and cut deep into his chest, cut further than she should have with an inhuman strength. She cut and pried open his ribcage and took out his heart.
She tried to make it beat again, but it wouldn't. So she licked the blood and then put the heart in a plastic ziplock bag and placed it in her purse. She would bring it to a doctor, that's all Bob needed, Marti thought as she cleaned up. A heart doctor.
As she walked down the street, she could feel others staring at her and she reveled in it. She walked into the hospital and up to her nursing station, where Nurse Betancourt was. "Can I help you?" Nurse Betancourt asked. "Admissions are over there."
Marti was confused until she saw a mirror. She no longer looked almost thirty. She looked younger, younger than thirty, younger than twenty. She was eighteen, if she was a day. And she wasn't Marti at eighteen, no, no mousy brown hair. Now, she had bright, vividly red hair and a gorgeously curvy body. No wonder Nurse Betancourt no longer recognized her.
Marti looked at her hair. When had it turned red? And why?
And then she finally remembered the red-haired woman and the blood. Marti licked her lips. It all came down to blood.
"Ma'am?" Nurse Betancourt said. "Admissions are down there."
Marti turned around and walked away, leaving her purse there. Nurse Betancourt would later find it, recognize it as Marti's, and look inside to see if there was any of that chocolate left from that heart-shaped box. When she found what was inside, however, she would let out a blood-curdling scream.
Marti walked out of the hospital, blood still on her mind, blood the only thing on her mind. She had to find more of it. As she walked down the street, the blood took control and threw away all of her old memories, all of her old life.
As she walked, a car pulled up and the man inside the car propositioned her. She smiled and got into the car. "What's your name, honey?" the man asked.
A song came on the radio and triggered one memory that the blood hadn't gotten rid of. It was their song. Always their song.
"Ruby," she said licking her lips. "My name is Ruby."
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