NOT ANYMORE
I only feel it when I look in the mirror.
That’s why I smashed all the mirrors in the house when I still had both hands. I still have my writing hand. I have to remember what happened to me. My name is Vincent. Yes. My name is Vincent and I am 24 years old.
My friends wanted to go to a parade. We met in the French Quarter at a hooker bar called The Terrible Two’s. My favorite dancer was working that night. Tall blonde. What was her name? Anorexic and covered from her neck to her ass with spider-web tattoos. What was her name? Amanda? We talked about music. She loves T-Rex. Yes, yes, yes. She loved T-Rex. And Joan Crawford. She wanted to fuck Joan Crawford. I emptied my wallet on the bar and told her I loved her in a carnivorous way. She asked me to stay. She would talk to me for free all night. I should’ve stayed.
What was her name?
We left the bar and walked down the street toward the river. The air smelled like bleach and cigarettes and vomit. One of my friends passed out in a puddle of piss. We propped him up against a light post and plunged into the crowd. Both sides of the street were 6 people deep. I could hear the marching band drums. It was a deep thunder that made me feel sick. The first float looked like a pond sailing through the sky. Someone behind me screamed fuckin Hellya alright! Then gold and silver doubloons rained down and I was tackled by a mob. A little girl stomped on my hand for no reason. One of the silver doubloons had the face of the devil.
Beads hit the concrete like snow.
The marching band drums were closer. I tried to crawl into the street until some fat drunk tourist thought I was a horse and sat on me. Giddyap Ponderosa! She slurred. Then the mob swept by again and knocked me into the street. I crashed into a flag girl. Poor girl looked so scared. I wonder if she’s still alive.
A cop grabbed my arm and pulled me back into the people. He was dressed like a cop. Could’ve been a costume. He forced me to sit on the curb with my hands on my head.
“You hurt your right hand,” he said.
“Someone stepped on me.”
“Not anymore…”
I felt something wet hit my injured hand. I looked up and the cop’s head was vibrating. His mouth had dozens of blood vessels floating out of it and they were spraying blood everywhere. People around us started screaming.
I ran up the street and cut right at Royal. I sprinted five blocks to my apartment. I tried washing the blood off my skin, but it wouldn’t go away.
After I locked all the doors and windows, I loaded my .38 and waited. The attack would come from the outside. This was New Orleans. It always did before.
But not this time.
A few hours later I felt a ripping pain on the left side of my head. It felt like someone was slamming a burning ice pick into my skull. I managed to get to the bathroom and turned on the light. The mirror told me who the real enemy was and where he would come. My left ear had grown black stick legs. It crawled down my neck and I slapped it into the tub.
I remember saying the word Jesus dozens of times.
The same thing happened to my right ear a few hours later. That was when I smashed my mirrors. My left hand broke away from me the next morning. I have to write what happens to me while I still can. My name is Vincent. I worked at a furniture warehouse.
What was my dancer’s name? Allison?
It’s been four days since I shut down and turned out the lights. And only one thing is true now. Vampires are real. But they’re not us. They’re not the living dead. They’re the blood.
The vampires are the blood.
