"Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day
Rage, rage against the dying of the light"

-Dylan Thomas
 

     He lay still beneath the feculent sheet; his skin was cold and dry, his eyes closed tightly against the encroaching dawn. Dreary light trickled into the room and crawled across his grimy bedclothes. The light brought with it no warmth, but instead revealed defects which shadows had embraced : pockmarked walls and crumbling paint, bare wires dangling from ruptured fixtures, and cracked, darkly stained floorboards spotted with insect carcasses. Dust and hair and mites floated into visibility, caught by the beam of brackish morning that seemed somewhat burdened by its break through soiled and tattered curtains. The scent of damp wood and night sweat hung in the air, heavy as smoke, thick as dust in a sandstorm.
     The distant squawking of crows and scavenger birds echoed against the barren walls. He rolled his eyes open, but did not move. He stared absently at the ceiling directly above his head, waiting. Seconds elongated and became minutes; minutes extended into unfathomable hours, and the time went on and on. He waited. He knew what to expect from his room; for all its deterioration, and perhaps because of it, he knew what to expect.
     The shrieks beyond the cracked windowpane acquired a syncopated rhythm, nearly uniform in their randomness. Nothing moved but the dust and the mites swimming in desolate shafts of sickly sunlight. The very stillness of the room began to thrum and pulsate. He waited.
     As he lay motionless beneath his threadbare sheet, the air around him grew thick and still. No breeze kissed the curtains; no draft caused the grimy sunbeams to swirl or dance. He waited. Dead branches swayed outside his window but made no noise. Screeching birds in the distance were the only sound to break the monotony of his squalid room; everything was perfectly stagnant.
      "Good morning, Paul." Though he heard the whisper perfectly in the asphyxiating stillness, he did not respond. He did not so much as blink. "I trust you slept well."
      The magpie cackles seemed suddenly urgent and noticeably closer.
      "Did you dream, Paul?"
      Wind gusted and slammed the dead tree branches into the window, echoing against the far corners of the room like a gunshot. Dust swirled as the ratty curtains billowed from the force of impact. He remained motionless in his bed, staring intently at the ceiling.
      "What did you dream? Did you dream of living in the ghetto? Did you dream of running all night? Falling?" The light in the room faded just enough for him to notice, as if the sun itself had dimmed. "Or did you dream of Rachel?"
      He closed his eyes, squeezed them tightly together, and willed the whispering to cease. A coldness enveloped his toes, creeping up from the edge of the bed and over his flesh. He shivered involuntarily as the chill slithered across his legs, stole up over his body and embraced him. He could nearly feel the gravelly whisper in his ear :
     "Was she smiling, Paul?"
     His eyes clamped closed, leaked tears. He tried not to hear, tried to close his mind to these words of ice wind, dripping first in one ear, then the other.
      "Was she as beautiful as you remembered? Could you taste her lips?" The whispering voice slipped to his right ear. "Could you smell her hair? Did you brush her cheek with your fingertips?" He began to shudder. He remembered that her hair smelled like apple blossoms. He remembered the soft pressure of her lips against his, and the way their bodies fit together perfectly. He could see her eyes in the pitch of his vision, green as the ocean under golden sunshine. The slightest twinge of a smile came to his lips, though he sought not to twitch a single muscle. "Did you lie down beside her? Did you stroke the nape of her neck with your tongue?" He felt a chill pressure on his upper thigh. "Did you cup her breast?" The icy hand stroked his leg. "Did you fuck her?" He remembered, as the voice once again tasted his left ear, her warm supple flesh beneath his own. Her body, glistening in pure moonlight, writhing and rising to meet his touch; she needed his touch. He gave himself over completely to memories of Rachel: her dark hair caressing the pillow, her breath rushing in staccato pulses. "Are you dreaming of her now, Paul?" He moaned softly, his voice hollow in the heavy air. His body was numb from cold.
     Soon, he no longer felt the weight of stagnant air pressing his frigid body into a soiled mattress. The sweet scent of fresh clover flooded his senses and gentle spring winds kissed his face. Immaculate rays of pure sunlight shone into his closed eyes. He knew Rachel was beside him, lying on the riverbank, watching the sky. If he reached out, she would be next to him, and her hand would fold into his. He bent his head toward her, reluctant to open his eyes.

Resolution...If I Ever Become a Vampire:  1. I shall wear tweed, and cheerful bright clothing. Further, I shall only wear trenchcoats if it is raining or foggy.  2. I will not take my victims home. My neighbors are far too nosy.  3. I will be secure in my immortality. I do not have to share my story with any reporter or struggling writer.  4. I will not purchase an expensive foreign sports car or motorcycle. An economical, multi-terrain vehicle with 4 wheel drive will be just fine.  5. I will immediately become Agnostic, disarming any cross-wielding religious maniacs.

6. I shall not keep a coffin in the basement, that's the first place people look.  7. I shall immediately purchase a Hooked on Phonics tape, in order to lose any Romanian accent I may have.  8. My ghouls shall have good posture.  9. I will purchase a digital watch with an alarm. I will set this alarm for TWO hours before sunrise, giving ample time for traffic and other inconveniences.  10. If I feel truly alone, and need a companion to share all of eternity with, I shall purchase a dog. Preferably one that is not larger than I am.  11. If the neighborhood kids are snooping around my house, I will not change into a giant wolf and attempt to destroy them. Instead, I shall call the police and have them arrested for trespassing.  12. If I believe far too many people are becoming suspicious, I shall not attempt to kill them all. I will simply move, and leave no forwarding address.  13. There is no logical reason for someone to mistake another human being for a fifteen-foot bat, not even in hysteria. Therefore, I shall refrain from such transformations in public.  14. Artists are over-emotional and unstable. I shall not keep company with them whatsoever.  15. I will not attend gatherings of my own kind. If I'm a lethal killing machine, doomed for all eternity to destroy those around me, they probably are too.

• Interviews by Mark - Mark speaks to actual Vampires and uncovers their deepest little secrets.
• More from "Breath of Ache", a novel in the works
• More poetry, artwork, and fiction