4.10 - Divine Retribution


“Wow, what a fucking faggot,” Wes laughs.

“Don’t call me that. I’m not that word. That word does not define me. I am a creature who embraces God’s love and aims to spread it across the world.”

“You’re trying to spread some of that vampire boy’s sodomite semen all over your body,” Wes takes a seat on my dresser. “Do vampires even have semen or is all blood? I guess you’ll find out.”

“Stop saying stuff like that,” I scream at him.

“Why? Are you scared mommy and daddy might hear that you like penis? They’re not here. You can yell it. You like boys. Wait, are you afraid of Hell? Is that it.”

“I’m not going to Hell.”

“Because you’re living in Hell already. People already know you’re a homo and you sit around masturbating all day. All fucking day. You literally, beat the skin off your dick sometimes. You’ve watched more porn than most people have TV. It doesn’t even take porn; you see a cute guy in class and you’re ready to join the one-man firing squad. How many guys have you actually slept with? Two, then you just decided you’d pray away the gay because papa pastor said it was wrong?”

“I told you, I’m not gay,” I yell at Wes.

He hops off the dresser and crosses the room until we’re eye to eye. His eyes look just like mine, but filled with evil. I try to look away from him but he takes my chin in his hand and forces me to stare at him. I try to break free but he’s too strong.

“Oh I know, bisexual. That’s why you really hope it’s a nice woman you settle down with. You really hope your true love is a woman so you never have to show this side of you. You got a 50-50 shot. Really 30% with you but who’s counting. Still, it doesn’t really matter to the outside world. Because inside you know. When you’re alone and the world is silent it still echoes in your mind. Faggot, fag, homo, queer, you’re stuck on these words being hateful, these words cut you so deep,” he pauses and lets me go. “So, fucking deep. You’re an adult, and it still hurts you. Controls your every movement. But they aren’t what’s hurting you. It’s the fact that you’re hiding who you really are. You’d rather live in the shadows, afraid of going outside and living your life. You sit there, bitching and moaning about other gays living their best life, because you can’t. What really makes you mad, is you don’t even hide it good. The moment your mind drifts you start to switch when you walk, get too excited and that wrist gets a little limp. Maybe if you just told everyone you were gay, you’d stop being such a creepy little pervert.”

“I’m not gay!”

“Why do you keep yelling? They’re going to think you’re crazy. Crazier.”

I roll off the bed, trying to avoid Wes’ grasp. I start to dig through the side drawer. I just need my medication. He doesn’t think I’m fun when I take my medication; he’ll abandon me again, just like every other time. I used to think he was fun to be around, but he just got more controlling as I grew older. My medication made me feel and act like I was just watching from inside my own head. It made me boring to be around too, and that kept Wes away. But any time I stopped taking my medication, I felt like me again even with all the issues that brought. Sooner or later, Wes would pop up again. Moving all the way to Minnesota was part of getting away from him. I don’t know how he found me, but I’ll probably need to move again. Did I not bring any medication with me? Why would I leave it behind? I guess I thought he wouldn’t find me here.

“Stop running, just follow my lead. I’ll have your life set up exactly how you want it,” Wes taunts me as I run to my bathroom.

I rummage through the medicine cabinet. None of this stuff is mine, it probably belongs to Kareem’s last roommate. It’s all allergy medicine and cough syrup, none of this will help me. Did he kill his last roommate too? Fuck, I might have some pills in my luggage. I rush to the closet and search the duffel bags and suitcases I moved in here with, nothing.

“Choir boy,” Wes pauses to laugh. “It’s funny, you’re going to be the closeted choir director. Probably neglect a nice Christian girl. Put all that self-hate into pumping her full of baby batter so you can prove you aren’t gay.”

“Shut the fuck up,” I step into Wes’ face.

“Do you know what divine retribution is,” he whispers in my ear while rubbing my shoulders from behind, much more subdued now.

“Yeah, I know. I live in fear of it. The ultimate punishment.”

“No,” he licks my neck, sending chills through my body. “Divine retribution isn’t just the ultimate punishment. You can survive punishment,” he puts one hand around my waist and another on my throat before rubbing his head on the side of my neck. “Divine retribution is doom, there is nothing else afterward. Why do you fear it?”

“Because I’m weak,” my body feels like putty in his hand.

The hand on my waist moves lower, my body quivers as it grasps at my penis through my shorts “you think Kareem is your divine retribution. You think you’re being punished for hating yourself, one of God’s children. You don’t have to lie, I know how you think. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes,” I struggle to get the words out despite my mouth being wide open.

“Then let me lead the way, let me find out.”

“You can have whatever you want.”

“Good,” Wes lets me go and pushes me to the floor.

I gather my composure, stand up and straighten out my clothes as he leaves the room. I follow Wes down the stairs and into the kitchen. He opens the fridge and pulls out a pitcher of red liquid that Kareem said not to touch. He spits into the glass and laughs.

“What are you doing,” I ask.

“You said, I could do whatever I want,” Wes smiles.

He takes his finger and swirls the spit into the red liquid. As he pulls his finger out, I can see the liquid is thick, and we both look confused. Wes sniffs the finger, scowls as if he’s thinking before shoving the finger into his own mouth. He seems surprised as he pulls his finger out.

“What is it,” I ask eagerly, almost like watching him when we were kids again, even if I already know the answer.

“It’s blood. That nigga really drinks blood,” he puts the pitcher back in the fridge.

“Can you not use that word; I find it really holds us back as a people.”

“You’re more concerned about me using the word nigga than the fact that your roommate is drinking blood? You really must want to fuck him. Or, you like getting fucked right?”

“Stop, this has gone too far, you need to leave,” I shout at him.

“I’ll leave when we’re done,” Wes heads towards the door leading to the basement.

“Don’t go in there.”

“You wanted to learn if he’s a killer right?”

“Please stop.”

Wes opens the door, “he might not be a serial killer, he doesn’t even lock the door,” Wes laughs as he walks down the stairs.

I’ve never been in Kareem’s room before, I thought it’d be a dungeon with moldy cinderblock walls and chains. There’re cinderblock walls but they’re painted gray. Two of the walls feature a mural covering their entire surface. I recognize some of the faces and scenes depicted. It takes a second before I piece together, they’re all from different movies. His room is also pretty neat and well kept. I guess I’m surprised because he’s always lounging around in shorts or sweats, not really doing anything. He has a sloppy demeanor, but he isn’t a slob. That’s nice to know.

“Hey, look at this,” Wes calls me over to a wooden desk.

There’re some sketchbooks that I flip through, some interesting drawings. A few of them demonic looking, but others are kind of cute. Some of the pages feature poetry, or attempts to be poetic, but most seem like camera directions, or angles a camera would capture. I’m not sure, they just look more like diagrams than sketches. A few composition notebooks look to have handwritten scripts in them. I’m not sure if he wants to be a director, a writer or a tattoo artist. I could help him type up the scripts one day, maybe get a film deal.

Wes sighs, “you’re missing the big part,” he yanks open a drawer “boom baby,” he points out a gun with a few bullets rolling around in the drawer.

“What is that,” the words leave my mouth before I can think.

“A gun, you idiot. The better question is why a vampire needs a gun. He might be a serial killer, but he isn't a vampire.” Wes takes the gun from the drawer, and aims at me, closing one eye and staring down the sights.

I smack his hand away, “stop playing with that.”

He tosses the gun back in the drawer and heads to a basket of clothes in the corner before rummaging through it. I focus on the poetry; it isn’t well written and doesn’t seem to have an extensive vocabulary. It’s honestly less poetry, and more of a badly written narrative.

“Catch,” Wes calls out.

I swat at the air and manage to catch what he threw at me. It’s a pair of Kareem’s boxer briefs. I toss them onto the ground which causes Wes to laugh. He picks them up and takes a deep sniff of them before smiling at me. He looks into the underwear and nods with approval.

“No skid marks,” he laughs.

“Stop that.”

“Hey, this is what you wanted right,” he holds the underwear up to my face as I look away. “You wanted some hot, vampire, dick,” he laughs. “At least you can get a whiff of the sausage and eggs.”

“I don’t want to.”

I feel my legs leave the ground and my heart begins to race as I’m dropped to the floor. I don’t know how he did it, but he's looking down on me now. I struggle as he shoves the underwear in face, demanding I smell it. He laughs when I finally get away from him.

“You know what you should do,” Wes asks.

“Leave.”

“No, you should do what you always do,” he makes a masturbation motion with his hand.

“I’m not doing that.”

“Go ahead, I can tell that you’re turned on. Hell, I can see that you’re turned on.”

“Stop.”

“Why don’t you do something about it? Won’t have many chances to do that kind of thing here.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why? Because I’m watching? I’ll close my eyes,” he covers his eyes with his hand, then peeks through. “Just do it or that tiny terror is going to be throbbing with pain all day,” he places a hand on my knee.

“Stop,” he starts to move his hand up my shorts, “what if I get caught?”

“Then you’ll get your answer. Either he’ll fuck you or he’ll fucking kill you. If you don’t, he won’t do either. Let’s be real, I want it just as much as you, but you’re holding me back,” Wes uses a free hand to place the underwear over my face again.

My phone begins to vibrate, a notification on the screen with a small cross. I have church tonight, Bible class, I can’t be doing this. I try to push Wes off me and stand up but he’s strong. I manage to break free, tossing the underwear away and towards the pile.  

“Where are you going?”

“Church.”

“Can’t we finish here,” he asks.

“We’re done. You should have never come here.”

“I cam here because you wanted me here, you needed me here,” he stands up and adjust his shorts.  

“I don’t need you and I don’t want you here.”

“You do, even if you don’t know it yet,” he pauses and picks up Kareem’s underwear. “Hold on to these for me, we’ll finish later.”  

“We’re not doing anything later.”

“Hopefully, we’re going to be doing Kareem, together,” he laughs.

“Stop saying stuff like that.”

“I’ve seen him, he’s kind of hot.”

“Shut up,” I yell at him.

He takes the opportunity to kiss me, putting his tongue deep in my mouth, “go to church, but we’ve got to make up for lost time later.”

I watch as he puts Kareem’s underwear into his pocket and walks up the stairs. Crap, I’m letting him control me again, lead me to bad situations. I’m bigger than this. I’m old enough that I shouldn’t be falling victim to peer pressure. I need to figure out how to get rid of him after church. If not, Kareem might be willing to kill him for me. I’m sure he doesn’t want a second roommate anyway, even if the house is big enough.

4.09 - Eight Legged Freak


The itsy bitsy spider went up the waterspout. Down came the rain and washed the spider out. Up came the sun and dried the all the rain, and the itsy bitsy spider went up the spout again. The nursery rhyme comes to mind as I watch a spider slowly lower a web and hang from the ceiling corner of my room. I’ve been watching to for a while now, just wondering what it’ll do, but it’s just watching me. I wonder if bugs have thoughts, what would a spider think about? Does it have a favorite kind of bug to eat? I wonder if spiders have a little language we can’t understand. Even with my vampire hearing, I can never hear it make any sounds.  

There should be more movies about spiders, happy movies about spiders. I reach for the composition notebook by my bed to scribble some ideas. I turn to the last page and see that it’s been filled. I’ve got another notebook around here somewhere.

“Hey, don’t move,” I point to the spider.

I check the drawers in my desk, these are all full. Already got so many ideas. I need to start writing more scripts, or put together money to film them. I’m not sure how I’d get the money and crew, but it can’t be that hard. I might be able to find something on the internet. Under a Do the Right Thing shirt covered in dried blood, I find an empty notebook. I guess I didn’t do the right thing last time I wore this. I should try to wash the blood out of this later. I liked that shirt, but blood is a good reason not to wear them.

“I’m back, thanks for staying put,” I give the spider a thumbs up.

Alright, ideas for spider movies. We can do a spider as an invisible friend. Giant spider, but it gets bigger the more love it’s given. Spiders stop an alien invasion because the aliens are afraid of them. The story of Santa, but Santa is actually just a group of spiders. That’s why nobody can see him, he just turns into spiders running away. Spider-Man but he’s got a spider’s head and shoots webs from his butt. No, that’s silly. Maybe spiders are too boring to make good movies no matter how horrifying they seem. I can only think of three good ones. Arachnophobia, 8 Legged Freaks and The Mist, but technically they were aliens in that one.

“Is an alien based on a spider still a spider,” the spider doesn’t spell an answer in the web.

I watch as it scurries to another corner, not worried about whatever I’m doing. I wonder if spiders think. I wonder they would think about. I think they’d have thoughts about the way the world treats them. They’re seen as these big scary monsters who kill people with a single bite when most are completely harmless. The world isn’t really fair and even insects, arachnids, like them feel that. Do spiders stay in contact with their kids or siblings? Is it just every spider for themselves after they hatch from the eggs? I know turtles go to the beach and bury their eggs then run off before anything can eat them, but I don’t know much about spiders. Maybe I should film a nature documentary about spiders.  

“The gentle spider is often not understood. It has a reputation as a killer. It only kills to eat, and eats what it kills. Spiders have no need for me and you. They don’t even care about dogs and cats. They’re much more, focused, on other bugs to devour. It checks it’s small and raggedy web, nothing has landed on it but dust. The Spider scurries along to another of it’s trapping locations, only to be sad once again.”  

Maybe I should take the spider outside, it hasn’t caught any food and these webs seem kind of old. I grab and empty can of chewing tobacco that has been on my dresser for too long. I got bored and wanted to see why people loved the stuff. It was disgusting but I finished the can because I paid for it. I had been using it as a reminder of my stupid choice; now it’ll make a great spider transport can. It doesn’t take much to get the spider in, maybe it likes the smell of chewing tobacco. The smell was nice, but that was all, so I could understand. It just fell into my trap so easily.

Spiders remind me of myself sometimes. Just trying to survive in a world that isn’t really meant for them. They’re monsters, by no choice of their own. They simply try to survive, and the world sees them as monsters for every terrible horror movie ever. If the world could see me, they would treat me the same way. They would lock me up like some cannibal serial killer again. They wouldn’t understand that I was just trying to survive. The way people just murder for fun is no different than a kid with a magnifying glass burning ants. They’re killing to get some kind of thrill, but it’s just part of how I eat. I don’t really have a choice if I want to keep living. Sometimes I’m not sure why I’m living, or even if I want to. I tried not drinking blood for almost a year, and every time I found myself giving in when I could have just let myself die. The difference is life doesn’t torture a spider. I wonder what it would do if I pulled off one of it’s legs, maybe I heat up the can and see what it does. Then, it would be more like me. But it doesn’t need to be like me. I’ll just let it go outside, this is way too big to have been an inside spider and it has more than a pale and dull color.  

I spot Wesley in the kitchen as I come up from my room in the basement. “What’s up,” I ask him when he spots me.

He doesn’t answer me, he just freezes. I can hear his heart speed up, it seems like blood is rushing more towards his face. He hates me, or he’s afraid of me. I can’t tell. He doesn’t open his mouth to give me an answer, just rushes off up the stairs. I think it’s fear. He’s not carrying around garlic and holy water, but he’s avoiding me. He does everything he can to not look me in the eyes.  

“Alright, you’re free now,” I pop open the lid and sit it on the ground. I watch as the spider gains an understanding of it’s surrounding but doesn’t leave. “Hey, the world is scary out there, and there’s a lot of bad people, but don’t be scared. You have to keep hope, and eventually you’ll find some friends of your own. Just be yourself, but not too much. If people know the real you, they might be afraid. We’re just not understood. Nobody ever wished me luck, but I’m wishing you good luck.”

The spider dances around the tin for a moment as if it understood my words. It slowly makes its way out into the grass before scurrying into a bush.

4.08 - Live in Fear


For the last week I’ve been waiting for the moment when Kareem decides I know too much. He keeps walking around as if nothing is wrong. On the contrary, it’s almost as if he’s relieved. He acts as if we’re childhood friends. He talks more, even coming to the second floor of the house just to check on me. At least he claims he’s checking on me, in reality, I think he’s stalking me. He can kill me whenever he’s ready but he’s choosing the perfect time. I’m not without my own preparations. I’ve been gathering my own supplies in case we’re forced into a confrontation. I keep a vial of holy water in my left pocket and a stake in my right pocket. The scent from the braided garlic necklace I’ve taken to wearing no longer bothers me. He hasn’t shown any signs that it bothers him either, but he’s a killer, a serial killer. Aren’t serial killers sociopaths? He wouldn’t know how to display that my new charms are bothering him. He’d only attempt to get closer in an attempt to remove them from me.

I make my way down the stairs, on the toes of my feet, trying not to make a sound as he watches a movie in the living room. I don’t want him to hear me, but he throws a hand into the air to wave at me, letting me know that I’ve been noticed. I drop the stealth and quickly make it to the kitchen. I simply want to prepare a meal for myself, something fast and easy. I think there’s some sausage in the fridge. A few peppers, some onions and potatoes, that’ll work.

“Hey, what are you making,” Kareem enters the kitchen, having paused his movie.

I do the only sensible thing I can to escape, I pour a bag of rice onto the floor and wait for him to react, but he doesn’t do anything. He just laughs and looks at me strangely.

“Aren’t you going to count the grains of rice,” I ask.

“Why would I do that,” Kareem seems confused.

“Vampires, you’re obsessed with counting.”

“I think you have me mixed up with the guy from Sesame Street. My math skills are terrible, even counting money trips me up sometimes,”

“Well, stay back, I’ve got garlic, and Holy water.”

“I’m only a half vampire, that stuff isn’t going to work. The smell of garlic is just going to really annoy me but it’s not dangerous.”

“That’s what you’d say just to keep me away.”

Kareem tries to force a smile, and struggles. He still hasn’t figured out how to do it on command. I’ve only seen a real smile from him when he’s watching a movie he finds enjoyable. Nothing else has managed to remove the vacant look from his face. For now, he’s trying a large smile that shows all his teeth, struggling to keep his upper lip from snagging on his teeth. He wouldn’t have that problem if his lips weren’t so dry. I’m sure he thinks it’s flattering but the entire situation reads like an H.P. Lovecraft novel for me. His smile isn’t comforting, I can only think of some kind of small demonic creature crawling free from his mouth, shedding the skin known as Kareem.

I’m paralyzed with fear as he approaches me, still smiling. My body stiffens as he places a hand on my shoulder. His other hand reaches below my shirt, almost as if it were slow motion. His hands aren’t cold, but they aren’t warm either, the smooth skin of his palm climbs my chest before a feel a feint scratch while his hand grips the garlic I had hidden beneath my sweater.  

When I come to my senses he’s struggling to peel a piece of the garlic in front of me. I watch silently as he finally manages to remove the peel from a clove by rubbing it in his palms. He tosses the rest of the garlic onto the counter and places the clove on his tongue. I watch and as he winces and chews the garlic, occasionally opening his mouth wide for me to see. When he’s finished and sure I witnessed the whole thing he rushes to the fridge and downs half a gallon of orange juice.

“Told you, that stuff doesn’t work on me,” he gloats as his face still winces from the garlic.

“What about,” I fumble on the words, “I’ve got holy water. That’ll stop you.”

He closes his eyes and spreads his arms as if he were being crucified. He motions for me to splash him with the holy water. I hesitate as I pull it from my pocket and contemplate what might happen. If I splash this water on him, he might be disfigured or killed. But I’d rather do it now and prevent an issue from arising later when it doesn’t work. I strengthen my resolve to splash the water on him. He doesn’t melt, scream or anything like that. In fact, he does nothing, but stand there, only slightly wet. When he does open his eyes, he grabs my wrist and removes the bottle from my hand before drinking it in two big gulps.

“That was holy water,” my voice shakes as the words exit my mouth.

“If you’re going to use holy water, it needs to be some super blessed stuff. Someone that’s a true believer.”

“I got that from a preacher.”

“You probably paid $29.99 and called his hotline too? He hustled you. Anything else you want to try?”

“I’ve got a stake.”

“Yeah, I’m not taking any risks with that one. I haven’t tried to kill you, so how about you don’t try to kill me,” he waits for an answer but I can’t give him one. “Are we cool or not,” I sense the irritation in his voice.

I’d be irritated too if I had a mouth full of garlic, rice stuck to my feet and a face full of tap water, “so we’re cool.”

“Good, what are you making for dinner?”

“Sausage with some peppers and onion.”

“It would go nice with that rice you make, the kind with the tomatoes,” he changes the menu.

“Do you mind floor rice? It’ll be cleaned and cooked.”

“I don’t mind, we can watch a movie while we eat.”

“Okay,” is this his way of a peace offering? It would be best if I accepted. I’d rather have dinner with a murderer than be dinner for one.

He helps me scoop up the rice before scurrying off to the basement. I’m sure he’s looking for a movie. I’ll just cook, carefully. He rarely eats so I need this to be perfect, if I just keep him satisfied, he won’t eat me. By the time he’s returned from the basement I’ve gotten the food cooked, plated and sitting on the coffee table. Almost as if he heard me, he probably did, he appears with a thumb drive and loads up a movie.  

It's an old movie called Coffy, the kind of cocaine fueled films of the 70s that my father would have seen in his youth. Filled to the brim with the things that he still preaches against today. The film stars a young Pam Grier, working as a nurse. In her spare time, she tracks down the people leading the drug ring that turned her sister into a heroin addict. She infiltrates the organization by posing as a prostitute and from there the film is filled with murder, sex and general mayhem. I’m not sure if he purposely chose to show me a film filled with prostitution and murder to send a message to me, or he generally enjoys the movie. Since I found the body, he’s been more talkative, but never this much. He’s constantly pausing the movie to give me different trivia. Coffy wasn’t successful in the theatres, so they turned the planned sequel into Foxy Brown. I didn’t see him as a smart person, but he’s pointing out different film techniques that he finds interesting as if he were a genius.  

I can’t understand him. Everything he does seems as a way to deliberately threaten me; but the way he touched me earlier. Is he interested in me romantically? He’s kind of cute, I might consider it, despite the fact that he’s a serial killer. Then again, I could be imagining things because I haven’t been sleeping well. Almost eighty percent of the population would suffer hallucinations if they’ve become sleep deprived. Falling in lust with a serial killer is how Herb Baumeister got his victims. Right now, I’m suffering through incremental sleep deprivation, as well as a healthy dose of paranoia and immediate post-traumatic stress to only exacerbate the situation.

I’ve grown accustomed to hiding myself amongst others; shrinking who I am to avoid offending anyone. I thought I sensed the same thing in him, but I don’t even see cracks of anyone else below the surface. Is he really this ambiguous about everything except movies? I almost feel like he’d be scarier if he was the classic depiction of a vampire. Paper thin white skin, pointy fangs, hissing and maybe even a tuxedo with matching cape ensemble. Instead, he dresses similar to me, the language he uses is the same as mine, and he eats the same food as me. He’s just a normal person, but there’s a monster lurking beneath the flesh and I can’t see it. I’ve been told the monster is there, I’ve seen the monster’s work. Still, all I’ve seen is a person who seems to be somewhat awkward and doesn’t manage emotions well. But, I haven’t seen the monster, and that’s what scares me the most.