Vampire

ever wake up and the birds are too loud and everything is covered in fog and you are no longer human

ever feign indifference when you actually feel like a child harboring impure thoughts at the corner of the garden party

ever notice that fear doesn't compound itself, but it does accumulate and become living, a voice indiscernible from your own

ever abandon your human family and find new kin, only to realize hundreds of years later you've recreated the familial dynamics of your youth

ever amass wealth, but not as much wealth as your peers, whose vast estates exceed yours

ever become lost in jealousy even though you resent this form of existence

ever spend centuries coming close to truly changing the world only to lose momentum because your comrades die of old age and you get depressed

ever kill someone because they remind you of what you once were

ever kill someone because you didn't understand them

ever kill someone because you missed them so much

and it just kind of happened.

ever ask a friend to entomb you in concrete, at first as a joke, and then it got serious?

ever think back to a conversation, turn it over in your mind, and conclude that maybe you expressed too much enthusiasm about this concrete idea

ever laugh because your powers could easily extract you from this situation

ever laugh because you don't really want to free yourself

ever cry because you do want to escape, but you're afraid of what's out there, and down here there is no sun, there is no turning of the stars, no disapproving gaze

there's no mistaken admission, nor is there the haunting sound of voices you once knew.

ever,

ever.

ever.

We abandoned the warmth of the Pour House, a cozy and packed coffee shop twenty minutes down Main Street from McDaniel College, where I went to school in the early 2000's. Heather and I decided to leave the show we had just checked out to explore the wintry town. At 23, Heather was a few years older than me and she'd lived in Westminster most of her life. She was a cute bisexual white girl who liked faeries and magical objects. 

I was one of the few people in my friend group to be close friends with Heather. Some of my friends considered her a "townie" because she went to the community college and they looked down on her past. She had life experiences that I didn't have yet and we watched art films together. At a party, Heather bit my neck and asked if she could give me a hickey. I said no but it was only because her boyfriend was watching us and I wanted it to be alone. 

I felt safer at night with Heather because she knew every side-street and alleyway in town. We walked the graveyard circuit behind Main street, admiring the variety of stones with our hands in our pockets and warm breath against the cold air. When we encountered a small church lit by old-fashioned electric lamplight, she showed me a sarcophagus-shaped hunk of stone that had a fissure down the middle and was cracked in several places. 

According to legend, she told me, the stone marked the grave of a slave owner. As hard as locals tried to keep the stone intact, every year it would break apart again. She had her doubts about the ghost theory and believed more firmly in the changes of the earth and underground currents. It felt right that the earth itself would destroy his grave against the will of his white descendants.

Up until that point I had very little idea of the age of the town. I knew nothing of its history aside from what I could grasp through its antiquated architecture. Despite the linear East-West layout of the main drag, I discovered that there were quite a few back streets running cross-wise along the town. The grid-like arrangement was reminiscent of the District of Columbia, where I was born and where I still managed to get lost. 

On the drives North to college from home I watched the trend of housing development, a shifting and growing wave of gentrification that, at the time, was on the cusp of enveloping Westminster and all of Carroll County. I recognized the early signs of economic growth and ravenous construction of homes and office buildings that was so familiar at home. I asked how Heather felt about the change. "I can't wait," she said, "I may not go to the city but the city will come to me. It's changing already."

As we emerged from the back streets into the open space of Main Street, our conversation slowed and became quiet. The storefronts were dark and the streets were completely empty; the only activity was a flashing street light. In moments like these, we didn't feel the need to talk. A hush slowly blanketed everything as we became aware of the silence, like a vague phantom at the corner of our vision. 

Heather spoke first: "It's so quiet. It's almost never like this."

From time to time, especially when I am out in the sunlight, a pale watermark will nictate across my vision. It's always looked the same: like a curved string of pearls held together by a thin membrane. It dances across the periphery and I can never look directly at it. Its fairy-like visits are frequent enough that I take notice but they're brief enough that I forget soon after they disappear.

Moments like the one I shared with Heather that night have little pretense or context. They pass like tiny fairies that only show themselves as limpid impressions in a discarded photograph. It's hard to put them into neat boxes with the rest of everyday experience, which is how I felt about knowing Heather.

These memories are fantastical and yet completely natural and inherently real. I feel a momentary connection that is transformed later on by a demon who thinks and remembers. A demon who obscures faded forms from view because they still love and want to protect.

The demon lives on and fairies die so they can be eaten.

The demon speaks and another memory takes form.

Don and I kept each other company during the summer of 2004 when I worked briefly at Johnson's plant store in Kensington, Maryland, my home town. The store primarily employed middle-aged women, and I enjoyed his weirdo outsider irreverence. Don was in his 40s and had a stout and boyish look to him. Before he got sober, he was a bartender, where he had honed his ability to tend to customers efficiently and quickly retrieve information from memory. 

He also claimed to have stalkers and admirers among the customer base.

Each morning he rolled up on his skateboard wearing dark shades and a teal Johnson's shirt. A day working with Don was guaranteed to be filled with whatever odd jobs he could muster during the quiet days of late August. His constant activity and the stories he told me as we worked passed the time a little faster.

He had lost his driver's license so he took the opportunity to drive the forklift any chance he could get. Whenever something in the front parking lot needed moving, he made sure somebody had the counter covered and went out back to "mount his stallion". When he emerged from the back upon his trusty forklift, a cigarette hung from one side of his mouth as he maneuvered around the parking lot. 

He was serious about staying busy most of the time, but taking a breather usually resulted in him telling a story from his past or recent present, like when he broke the speed limit going down a steep hill on his skateboard. 

"I was really afraid I was going to die that time." he said as he mimicked putting out his arms to encourage wind resistance. 

Don's eyes caught me off-guard every time I saw him without his shades on. They were clear sky blue.

One still Sunday I looked between the two wooden A-frames from behind the counter. I watched past the drooping late-season plants and saw Don looking up at the sky with a water wand in his hand.

"Listen," he said. It was silent.

"It's like a ghost town."

We stood for a moment, waiting. There were no cars. There were no people. The wind blew gently.