Outsider (15 page)

She was considering the purchase of an alibi
drink when her eyes caught the unmistakable mohican of the writer,
still green even if paler. Usual combat trousers and biker boots,
tattoos down both sleeveless arms. With the hint of a smile curling
her lips at the corners, Joy watched Sid studying carefully the
animated crowd. The hunger struck more fiercely. But this tasty
prey was forbidden, under the protection of Death herself, and
probably Life, too. Joy snarled silently, resentfully. Sid’s eyes
suddenly reached her, and stared, intensely. Joy stared back,
amused and frustrated. Though shortsighted, the writer had spotted
her on the other side of the crowd and was now making her way
towards the vampire. Joy felt intrigued. What could the woman want?
She turned away and walked to the bar. By the time she was
proffered a glass of satisfyingly red Bordeaux, a remarkable
colour, Sid was at her elbow, expectation in her deep, brown
eyes.

“Well?” inquired the vampire. “What did you
track me down for?”

Sid kept silent, suddenly fascinated by the
gypsy eyes, suddenly wanting more than just a word. She had a
lifetime to entertain before sinking into Death’s warm embrace. Why
not……. But why not what. The supernatural magnetism of the vampire
felt suddenly overwhelming.

“Cat got your tongue?” Joy’s voice sounded
icy. She moved away, thinking that maybe she would go for a taste
of the sexy and charismatic rock singer and forever dissipate her
disputable musical inclinations. She could sense Sid’s presence at
her back, tailing her. What the hell did she want?

On stage, the keyboards roared to life,
matched by the powerful voice of the red-haired woman. It was a
powerful and animal rhythm, calling for the feet to dance and
dance. Joy turned back to Sid.

“Come on, let’s have a dance.”

She abandoned her glass of wine on the last
table and grabbed Sid by the front of her T-shirt and gently, even
so firmly, pulled her to the empty dance floor. No one ever wanted
to be the first to swirl and whirl to the music. The floor was
theirs for the taking. The beat was theirs to course their veins
like an unending and undulating snake.

And their dance was like an essential and
intimate component of the song, for the onlookers to watch, as
powerfully attractive to the eyes as the performers.

They were moving very close, without
touching, teasing and tantalising, never smiling, ignoring the
audience. Just dancing, hips swerving. Sid going down on her knees
and coming back up to meet Joy’s eyes and snake around her.

At the end of the song, when they stepped
back to the edge of the crowd, the vampire disappeared before the
writer could utter a word.

* * * * * * *

Sid stayed until the end of the gig, dancing
on every number, regardless of the pace, disappointed by Joy’s
abrupt departure. When the last note of the last song eventually
died in the throat of the amazing singer and out of the speakers,
Sid didn’t have the heart to wait and catch a hug from the
performers. She slithered out of the pub, feeling down, feeling let
down.
Damn, where the hell had Joy gone to.
It was no longer
a need to stage a return of Death that inhabited her, it was a
longing for the vampire’s presence, proximity and magnetism. She
turned left out of the door, hands in her pockets, the strap of her
helmet locked around her left wrist, heading towards the faithful
bike waiting for her just round the next corner. Sweat cooling down
on her skin, she was hardly aware of the quietness of the night and
the slight breeze.

She looked up at the corner of the pub and
never had to acknowledge Joy. With non-human speed the vampire had
already grabbed her by the shoulders and swept her away to a dark
corner of the parking lot backing the venue. When she breathed in
next, she was pressed hard against the wall by Joy’s body, her
intake of oxygen short by obligation.

“So,” the vampire whispered with a silky
voice, a finger playfully tracing the writer’s nose. “I believe you
were looking for me.”

Sid let the finger go on and follow the lines
of her lips, feeling the attentiveness of her body, waiting,
waiting, with an almost choking knot of anticipation in her throat,
desperately wanting more than a finger tracing her features.

“Cat still got your tongue?” The vampire’s
eyes followed the playful finger along the edge of the jaw, slowly
down the side of the throat. Sid’s eyes were riveted to the pouting
mouth of the predator. The finger seemed to like her jugular
vein.

Joy suddenly looked Sid in the eyes. Her
voice struck icily:

“I’m still waiting for an answer. My patience
is wearing thin.”

It would have been so easy, to slightly move
her head forward, and Sid’s lips would have touched the vampire’s
lips, and kissed.

Motionless, Joy studied the brown eyes. She
smiled, slowly, amused, and moved a step back, pacing herself:

“You want me.” A rippling of silent laughter.
“What about Death, my darling, isn’t she the love of your life?”
More rippling laughter, but not as silent.

Sid took a deep breath. Felt Joy’s powerful
right hand around her throat, tight. Wondered if it was time to
feel fear, but she couldn’t feel any fear. The hand released its
hold.

“Aren’t you ever scared? Or at least a tiny
bit frightened?” An index finger and a thumb slightly apart from
each other in front of the brown eyes.

As swiftly, her tongue was on Sid’s throat,
licking with soft strokes. Sid breathed into the long, black and
white hair. She felt the sharp tip of a fang on her skin,
teasing.

Then, the vampire’s hands went down to her
hips, the arms circled her waist, pulling her to the almost cold
body while the fangs ripped open the shoulder of her T-shirt and
kisses burning like fire started to dance on the unveiled skin. Sid
gasped, her own hands moved up Joy’s back, her fingertips touched
the bare shoulder blades and passion swept them away, deeper into
the darkness.

* * * * * * *

Deeply amused, the blonde, short-haired,
muscled woman grinned, her eyes riveted to the computer screen.

“Death!” She eventually exclaimed. “I’ve got
something for you here!”

A copper-skinned woman with raven hair
falling down the waist of her jeans outfit looked up from another
screen where names were filed in neat order.

“What is it, Life?”

“Come and see! A good friend of ours is
learning how to have a good time!”

Death joined Life in front of the monitor and
smiled, too.

“About time,” she muttered.

“Do you really think they’re made for each
other?” Teased the blonde.

“At least temporarily.”

“Good. Now that we don’t have to worry about
this writer anymore-“

“Temporarily.”

“For a while, we can deal with more serious
business.”

* * * * * * *

Sid opened her eyes slowly. Her bedroom was
still dark, courtesy of the heavy, black curtains. At first, she
didn’t move. Trying to remember the dream, and remembering it so
well. Was it a dream? It felt so real. She breathed slowly. She
felt a wetness between her thighs, grimaced. With her left hand she
investigated, brought back the fingers to her nose and sniffed.
Yep, sure it was, her period was just a bit early. At the same time
she realised someone was sharing the space of her bed, still
entirely covered by the black velvet quilt. Her companion
insinuated a hand between Sid’s legs, and soon, Sid felt the
vampire’s tongue licking the menstrual blood. Blood is blood.

A sequel by W.
Freedreamer Tinkanesh

"I can't live without the lightening cause
only love is that exciting

I light the flame and hold the torch and
feel the burning passion scorch" (Girlschool)

“
Dreaming means we exist twice.”
(Veronique Sanson)

(Not dated)

(This was written just before Sid’s first
encounter with Joy, and thus also with Death)

I am an outsider, she wrote in her diary. No
matter how much I long to belong, the label still clings true and
rings like destiny. What about vampires, werewolves, slayers,
wizards. Do they have an inside where to recoup their losses. Or
are they forever loners with no societies or clusters, where to
share and boost on the latest kill, the latest trick, the latest
moon. I am in and I am out, she kept writing on the white pages of
her black book. I am no longer the simple audience, the innocent
punter, walking into the music venue. But I am not an insider of
the groupies’ circle. I walk in and I feel like running out, to
escape from all their heat, thoughts, energy, auras. I’m trying so
hard to keep them out that a single variation can make me jump out
of my skin. I’m trying so hard to keep what is my identity when
they talk to me and intrude into my being. It’s so hard to tune
them out. I wish I was a vampire, I wish I was a werewolf, to
express outside the difference inside. I won’t give in. I’m
struggling, they keep giving out. And the music comes out, spreads
out in the enclosed space, spilling out of the worn-out speakers,
it comes into me, infiltrates through my very pores, courses
through my veins. Once it’s in, I cannot get it out. No matter how
much I shake and swing. I’m possessed. I’m no longer myself. They
can manipulate me like a puppet dangling from a bunch of strings. I
am at the mercy of the voice roaring into the mic, I am at the
mercy of the fingers running across the keyboards. They’re inside
me, I’m outside. I can only watch on, helplessly.

Of course, I try to fight it off. But it is
useless. I would resist the mesmerizing gaze of a vampire. I would
prevent a werewolf to sink fangs into my flesh. But I am powerless
with music. I am inside and I am outside.

A wizard passes by on his broomstick,
oblivious. He is an insider of the world of magic. And I am an
outsider.

“
Vampire Rule #3: Fictional vampires wear
white shirts. / They drink from gushing veins / And sleep in
coffins full of dust. // In reality those who must wear white, /
Make friends with dry cleaners / Who work all hours of the night.”
(Tippi N. Blevins)

Her white shirt billowing in the wind, she
was taking a walk down Railton Road. Despite the early hour of the
evening there was no living soul crossing her path. She was always
up and out at dusk, desperately trying to catch up with a life
taken away from her, still refusing the unlife she had never asked
for. Despite the mildness of the weather, people preferred the
winter in central-heated indoors. She couldn’t care less for the
cold. A pair of tight, faded blue jeans revealed the shape of her
elegant legs while her shirt, which would have perfectly fitted
with a tuxedo, opened on a black and blue dragon hugging a red
sweatshirt. She was as thin and gangly as the last time she had
graced the streets of London, 22 and angry, a dozen years or so
ago. Flagellating her expressionless face with wild strands of her
blond hair, the wind was relentlessly trying to grab at the carrier
bag her iron fingers wouldn’t let go off. At last, her grey eyes
spotted the shop window surrounded by green concrete. She had found
the dry cleaner recommended by her landlady. She pushed the door
in, ringing an ancient bell.

A man looked up from a grey blouse spread out
over the plastic-coated counter. He smiled engagingly at his
prospective costumer. She didn’t return the smile. He persisted, as
his profession required –costumers are kings and queens:

“Good evening, Madam, what can I do for
you?”

His pale yellow-brown skin and his grey
receding hair gave him fifty-odd years for the telling. Dealing
with textiles, he generally wore an elegant three-piece suit of
bottle-green wool and a matching tie, often discarding the jacket
to feel more comfortable. He swept away the previous object of his
attention, making room for the three shirts she shook out of her
carrier bag. He noticed that the white shirt she had on was of the
same cut. A masculine cut.

Having worked as a dry cleaner his whole
life, he could identify any stain on any piece of garment. Having
grown up and lived in the same area his whole life, he knew not to
ask any questions.

The brown stains were blood, but not the
blood of the wearer: someone else’s, which had finely, spottily and
sloppily splattered the otherwise mostly immaculate, white
shirts.

“I can have them cleaned and ready for
collection in twenty-four hours.”

“Thank you.” Her voice carried confidence and
power. And coldness.

“Until then!”

She was already turning around and walking
out the door, her mind ahead of her, wandering in the past. A dozen
of years were nothing to a vampire, even to such a young one. She
remembered being full of life, she remembered enjoying the company
of her friends, she remembered loving the sound of her electric
guitar deep into the night. She remembered taking stages over with
the Fireheads, the female singer strutting her scantily-clad stuff,
the drummer androgynous and powerful, and the bass player –the one
who stayed the longest, the last one she played with when still a
living being– jumping all over the place. She still remembered the
electric fever, the sweat dripping through her uncombed hair, her
clothes sticking uncomfortably to her skin. She still remembered
the screaming crowd, the blasts of feedback through the monitors,
the flashes of cameras blinding her eyes. But she didn’t need her
eyes to play wild riffs, her nimble fingers always knew their way
between the frets. The music thrashing punk rhythms entwined with
blues pickings, soul tones woven with savage rocking, always magic.
She could still feel her eardrums vibrate; she could still hear the
singer’s voice whisper, scream, muse, moan, climb up and fall down
the scales. A shout, a fade in and out and in-between. The body
collapsing in front of the drum kit, crawling between the bass
player’s feet, dragging dust, sweeping ashes and beer splashes, a
hand rising to grab a leg, a microphone stand, a speaker, a cymbal
that would crash infernally and ring mercilessly in the guitar
player’s ears. The drummer would beat and bash her kit, bending
brushes, breaking rods, and hurling sticks. While the bass player,
her hands two blurs, would sometimes amazingly end up almost, but
only almost, falling off Everest-like speakers.