Catastrophe Jones

He invented her without thought, a mother in a cage. She was part of our game, silently birthing wet eggs, while the unwanted spawn surrounding her would reach up and slap her haunches to set her limbless body swinging, like some wretched, twisted game of tetherball.

To me, she always had a piglike face, tusked, with thatches of straw like hair, and wet, milky, unseeing eyes. She made little noise, aside from when an egg sac fell from her, and even then, it’s impossible to know if that meaty-hiccup-like mewl was of relief, agony, revulsion, or something else I could never quantify.

He created her of nothing, to shock and repulse us, and it worked, lighting up sparks of astonished wonder, disgust, and no small amount of the joy that all rubbernecking trainwreck-gawkers seem to have.

She lived in that cage, because he said so. She may well have been born there, knowing nothing of what it had been like to run, to breathe the air outside of her prison. We never thought to ask if she was scarred — if there was evidence that they had taken her limbs, or if she had never had any, to begin with.

She was only a part to play, and I’m not even certain if we remembered to save her, or if she was not to be saved, or if she willfully hung in chains, knowing some of her children would stay always, to love her as they knew how, or if she knew anything of her existence at all.  I only remember the thought of her, hanging there, dropping eggs, swinging to cries of “Mama!” while we kept on, searching for our own ends.

After leaving her, I may well have seen my own self in a fountain of blood, swimming to forget, brown skin stained red, but that might have been another demon’s world, stolen from the Originators, they who thought up the three moons, the magic, the marjoram, the bunnies, and everything that made us laugh and cry in those days, when the most pressing question was who would be sent to forage for dinner, and who had enough to pay for it.

Everything you’ve been doing lately makes me feel like you’re pushing me to leave. From the lack of any warmth in your expression, ever, to the way you keep closing your eyes when I talk to you, turning away like you’re slamming twin doors in my face when I’m only trying to kiss you hello.  Each glare and each cold shoulder is starting to add up, and I’m starting to believe you’re taking the coward’s way out, treating me badly so I’ll be the one to break it off.  The thing is, I’m sure it’ll cycle toward your fear of abandonment, and you’ll regret your impulsive reactions, any day now.

I mean, you can’t just expect me to decide it’s all over, myself, right?  Besides, I believe that if I walk out that door on you, I’ll do it faster than you can call my name. I believe that if I leave you, I’ll be gone so fast, you won’t have the chance to ask me to stop, and come back. I know that if I’m the one to stop talking first, you’ll be left hanging, miserable and alone, and honestly, I’m just trying to keep you happy.

You don’t actually want me to break up with you — where would you go? What would you do? Who would love you like I do? Who would bring you buttered toast in the morning? Who would feed it to you?

So let’s just quit this silly back and forth; I’m going to bring you your breakfast, but you have to promise to stop spitting at me and screaming for me to undo the ropes, okay?

It doesn’t mean what you think it does; it never does — the brief glances, the dilated pupils, the rapid breathing, and the quickening heartbeat. What you’re looking for is the flush, while what you’re receiving is the pale. He is not lying in wait, watchful, hard, desperate, clinging to the thought of cleaving you and cleaving unto you. He is trembling and wilted, manhood desecrated and unresponsive, a dangling rosary to a dead god.

Nothing about him is precious, and nothing about his touch can quench the heart of the sun, nor can his kisses spark anything. Instead, they were always sloppy, wet, some probing tongue almost demanding to be bitten, making you work harder than you’ve ever done to stifle a gag reflex blossoming more quickly than any hot house flower, turning to spoil, rotting on the vine.

He does not want you, and you don’t want him.  Why, then, the wondering how you might make it work? How you might make it beautiful? Discard it, discard him, lift your head, wash the blood off your hands, and walk away.

Never look back.

He was short, relatively unremarkable in all ways, save for the color of his eyes. They were a vibrant green so bright it seemed unnatural; I had thought him forgettable until he took off his sunglasses. I’d thought it was just a little strange that he was wearing sunglasses at eleven oclock at night, but some people have their habits, and I know I have enough of my own, so I wasn’t really up to debating with myself whether or not his queerities were worth much thought.

He said he lived down the hall, in 4F, that he’d moved in three nights ago, which I could believe if I had to, because three nights ago, I wasn’t here, so I had no idea what was going on and what the other inhabitants of 67 Potting Lane got up to.

I kept staring, most likely far beyond what was considered polite, and then I had to blush when he repeated himself. “Normally I know people ask for a cup of sugar, when it comes to being a new neighbor,” he was saying, “but I noticed your feeders on the balcony, so I thought you might have a little to spare.”

“Sure, sure,” I said, nodding, and I left the door open and headed toward the balcony, moving to get him the birdseed he was asking for. When I turned around to ask him how he was liking the neighborhood, he was still standing in the doorway, looking a little hesitant, peering around with polite curiosity. “You can come in, you know. Since we’re being neighborly and all,” I said, and I fancied that such a polite person might be wonderful to get to know, considering the decline in the quality of good neighbors in the past few years.

“Thank you,” he said, those bright green eyes lighting up, “for inviting me in.”

And that’s how I met the vampire next door.