4.12 - Judas and The Righteous


Wesley’s room is a mess. Broken furniture, clothes and items tossed across the room. If I didn’t know better I would have thought the cops came and raided the place. I tossed him on the bed, but he wouldn’t let me leave. I’ve never taking care of people, and I don’t know if I’m good at it. Nobody has ever trusted me to take care of them. I wasn’t exactly well taken care of so I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I brought him a glass of water, that’s always they first thing they do in movies. I place a cold towel on his forehead because I’ve seen that before. Wait, isn’t that something for fevers? I don’t know, I toss the towel away, he’ll be fine.

“Bible,” Wesley mumbles pointing towards a corner of the room.

“You want a Bible? I think you should sleep.”

“Bible,” he keeps pointing.

I dig through the luggage in the corner before I find a large red bible, gold pages and heavier than any book I’ve ever read before. I toss the Bible on his chest, causing him to flinch. He hugs the book, clutching it as if it was a treasure, closing his eyes and smiling. It’s somewhat unsettling just how much he seems to care for that book.  

“Have you ever tried to kill yourself,” Wesley asks me, his voice sounds rough but he doesn’t seem to be in any pain.

“Vampires can’t commit suicide.”

“How would you know, unless you tried?”

“I never tried to commit suicide. Didn’t make sense.”

“Why not,” he keeps pushing for more answers.

“Because I didn’t fuck up my life, other people did. Why would I kill myself? I’d just be dead, but killing them would solve the problem.”

“Do you know why Judas committed suicide after he betrayed Jesus?”

“Because he was a shitty friend,” I take a seat on his dresser.

“No, a lot of people think it was because he betrayed Jesus and all of his friends, but that wasn’t it. Judas killed himself because he was seeking redemption for his sin. Some sins are so great, you can only recover by killing yourself,” Wesley smiles as he talks about suicide, it creeps me out. This must be how he felt when he found the body.

“Did your book tell you to kill yourself? Because if it did, that’s a stupid book.”

“This book,” he opens it and flips through pages, “has so much guidance, it couldn’t possibly stupid. The knowledge held within this book has been passed down for centuries, a shining beacon of what humanity should be.”

“Yeah, call me when they make it a movie.”

“I’m serious,” he quickly flips through pages before stopping. “For I am convinced that neither dead nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, no powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord. Romans 8:38-39,” he finishes and starts flipping pages again.

“I don’t get it.”

“It means that nothing, can separate us from God unless God wants it to.”

“Okay,” this is getting awkward.

He flips to another section, “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit. The righteous person may have many troubles but The Lord delivers him from them all. Psalms 34:18-19.”

“What does righteous mean?”

“A morally just, virtuous or good person.”

“And what does that have to do with you playing rodeo with your neck?”

“It means you delivered me from my darkest hour. God sent you, to deliver me from my troubles.”

“I didn’t deliver you from anything.”

“But you did. God put you here on earth to rescue me. Jesus Christ is my savior, but he worked through you tonight.”

“No, I just kept you from dying. There was no message from God telling me to go get you. I don’t even have Jesus’ phone number and I don’t think he’d pick up if serial killing vampire called.”

“Just because you don’t recognize him working through you, doesn’t mean that he didn’t. Something brought you to me tonight.”

“I think you need to get some rest.”

“I do, but I think you should also read this Bible,” he extends it to me. “Read it, learn what God wants from you, as he works through you.”   

The whole conversation is getting odd. He’s getting out of the bed and trying to keep pushing this book at me. I’ve got no plans for reading it but he keeps going on and on about how I saved him. He really needs to be resting and I can’t take much more of this. I don’t know how to take care of people, but I know how to hurt people. I’m good at hurting people. I could kill Wesley right now and he’d get his wish. He’d be dead, and I’d prove I’m not some helping hand sent from God. But, I don’t want to kill him. I’m not sure why. Everything about him makes him killable. He asks too many questions, tries to push religion on me, and he’s afraid of my shadow on most days. Something in the back of my head is telling me if I killed him, I’d feel bad about it.

As Wesley stands in front of me, placing the Bible in my lap, and a hand on my knee my mind is made up. I don’t like being touched, and I know how to treat people who touch me. It doesn’t take much, a flick of my finger to his forehead and his eyes roll into the back of his head before he folds onto the floor like an omelet. He’s not dead, but he’s knocked out and that gives me some time to think. I toss his limp body on the bed again. I’m the killer here, but as he’s spread across the bed, passed out he looks like the monster. He doesn’t have fangs or a stomach full of blood like I do, but something about him makes me feel weird. It isn’t fear, because I know I can kill him with no trouble, but something just isn’t right about him.

4.11 - The Noose



Wesley hasn’t avoided me for the last week or so. He’s been more aggressive, but conflicted about something. He’ll join me for a movie, but get up half way through or only watch for the ending. He’s not going to church or class every day. On occasion, I can hear him arguing with himself. Just going back and forth with himself over some guy. I’ve started to wonder if it was my fault, if I broke him. The whole vampire thing, and the dead body. I haven’t exactly eased him into my life. Sometimes father will say that I’m strong and can’t force others to be raised the same way I was. I can’t expect others to make the same choices and react the same way I do. He’s not taking what I’ve done well, or maybe he was always like this. I didn’t pay much attention to him before he saw the body and started trying to kill me. No, he wasn’t like this. I broke him, ruined him like everything else. Nothing I can do now but wait. He’ll either kill himself, someone else or I’ll kill him in self-defense. It might be easier to just, do it myself right now. No, he talks to his family all the time, they’ll be worried if he suddenly vanishes. I have to remember to ask the next roommate about family ties.  

I’m thinking about this too much, a movie should take my mind off it all. Casino is an underrated classic. People go so far as calling it a copy of Goodfellas or saying it can’t compare to Mean Streets but it has a charm that belongs to nothing else. It doesn’t just tell a story, but focuses on the history of the characters as the city. It has similarities to Goodfellas but it’s more evolved, and refined. It’s a beautiful film.  

But I can’t seem to enjoy it right now since Wesley is arguing with himself again. Odd, because it’s 3am and he should be asleep by now, even crazy people have to tire themselves out sometime. But it sounds like it’s coming from outside, the neighbors won’t like that. I better go get him inside. Do I need to bring a blanket? I always see firefighters and medics give out blankets. He should be fine without one, it’s summer.

He’s easy to spot, right outside the kitchen window in nothing but his underwear. I always laugh when there’s a grown man wearing tighty whities in a film. I don’t know why; they just seem like something you stop wearing when you stop being a kid. Wesley keeps yelling at himself, name calling mostly as he struggles with a rope. I’m not sure what he’s doing until he holds the end up. Tying a noose, or trying. He pulls at it with his hands, testing it, until it easily comes apart. Soon he’s trying again. Wes this, Wesley that, the argument continues. He’s trying to kill himself, and he’s going to be sloppy about it too. I can just let him do it. That’ll solve my problem. He just looks so pathetic, trying to tie a noose the same way over and over again, just to get the same results. He’s got all the enthusiasm of someone who never really tried to kill themselves. A black man trying to hang himself, he’s not even thinking about this. There’re easier ways to do it than a janky noose. Gunshot to the heart, slitting your wrist, jumping off a tall building. He doesn’t seem to care for pain so a cocktail of random pills, intentional drug overdose. I’ve tried it all, but he’s not a vampire, so his survival rate is going to be much lower.  

After thirty minutes of watching, he finally gives up on the noose and ties the rope around his neck before making a knot that satisfies him. He spends the next fifteen minutes clawing at the tree, slipping down over and over again as he tries to make it to the top. He should have tied the rope once he got in the tree and made sure he knew how to climb a tree. Another fifteen minutes passes with him sitting in the dirt, arguing with himself about why the tree was a bad idea. Wesley hops to his feet and rushes over to the shed, tossing objects around, still dragging the rope behind him. I’m hoping he chooses something messy, like a nail gun, or chainsaw. In the end, he settles on a ladder. He tests the length and easily ties it to a tree branch.  

I’m forced to watch as he struggles, kicking his legs in the air. The goal of hanging is to snap the neck, not a slow and painful death, he’ll pop his head off like this. I’m reminded of a puppy I had named Micro. It was right after the whole vampirism thing kicked in. I had bitten a stray cat, because I was thirsty and didn’t know why, but my body told me if I bit the cat, I’d be satisfied and I was. When mom found it, she beat me. I was so used to the beatings at that point that I didn’t care. One day, while I was on my way to school, she took Micro and tied his leash to a radiator, then tossed him out the window. I watched as he tried to bark and break free. By the time I broke down the front door and made it upstairs, he was already dead. I didn’t go to school that day or anymore after that.

I can see blood starting to cover his neck as Wesley claws at the rope. He really did choose a terrible way to die. He hasn’t looked in this direction the entire time I’ve been watching, but now it feels like he’s staring right at me. Asking for help, but can’t get the words out. I wonder if Micro knew I was trying to save him. I hope he didn’t spend his last moments thinking I had abandoned him. Maybe it’s a good thing Micro died. His life wasn’t ruined by knowing me anymore. I haven’t thought about Micro in years. Maybe Wesley isn’t the only person going insane.  I can’t do it, I can’t let him die even if it would solve my own problems. Why can’t I let him die? I never cared about anyone dying before, I killed people, a lot of people. Fuck.

I don’t rush out the back door, and I’m not in a hurry to get to him either. I’m still conflicted over the whole thing. As I get closer, I’m watching him jerk and kick towards me. I don’t know if he wants my help because he’s afraid to die or if he’s trying to keep me away from him. He’s running out of energy; he won’t die soon but he’ll pass out. I step back when he kicks me in the head, watching, waiting. I don’t know why. I’m reminded of the scene in The Green Mile when everyone just watched as they knew an innocent man was being executed. The Green Mile, that’s so basic, is that all I can think of? Every white person’s favorite movie that taught them racism was wrong, and that’s all I can think about as a man dies. Wesley’s fighting less, more swinging and trying to keep the rope from closing on his neck than anything else. Occasionally he kicks out. I can’t help but laugh when I realize he’s trying to get back on the ladder. I suppose he does want to live. I climb the ladder, and place my hand between the noose and his scratched bloody neck. One quick yank and the rope is broken, there’s a thud as Wesley hits the ground. He’s knocked out, but still breathing. I nudge him a few times with my foot but he doesn’t wake up.

I lift him up into my arms and carry him inside, for a moment I think about dropping him on the couch but he’s dirty, sweaty and smells bad. I watch movies on that couch. Instead, I carry him up the stairs to his bedroom. He keeps whispering about angels saving him. Delusions of a mad man, there are no angels in this house, only devils. As I place him on the bed, he strokes my cheek repeatedly despite me pulling away.

“Stop touching me, I don’t like to be touched,” I smack his barely awake hand away from my face as if he can hear me.

Looking at him now, he’s pitiful looking. I should have left him there to die and saved both of us some time and trouble. If he hadn’t kept fighting, and just gave in this could all be done by now. Maybe my mother did Micro a favor when she made sure he wouldn’t need to keep living in this world. I could have done that same favor for Wesley.

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.