Blood Vivicanti (9780989878586) (5 page)

His wife’s name was Mary, a
simple woman, thin and freckly with cinnamon hair.

She and Joe faced one
another, sleeping open mouthed.

Before then I’d wanted
Joe’s blood and memories. But at that moment his wife seemed more
appealing.

I knelt beside
her.

My Probiscus extended from
the tip of my tongue, sending waves of pleasure down my throat and
into my stomach.

Mary never felt my stinger
on her neck. I didn’t have to go too deep with her.

My delicious venom was in
her faster than I’d realized. I must have been very
hungry.

Her blood rushed into my
mouth. It was so good. I grew lightheaded.

We both began panting,
although that didn’t last long. I only took a pint of her blood –
like Wyn wanted.

Joe never woke.

Mary would thank me in the
morning. So would Joe.

I stumbled from their
house, drunk on Blood Memories.

Mary astounded
me.

Of course she remembered
important events – her wedding – her children’s first words – their
first steps – birthdays. And her strongest memories were of the
small things that surprised her – the dirty faces of her children
after a day outside – their scrapes and scabs – their hilariously
astute observations about life and love and
caterpillars.

Mary’s memories of Joe were
not of their wedding day, or of him by her side as she gave birth.
Her strongest memories were of the little things he did – taking
out the trash on Tuesdays – painting the bedroom – changing for her
the way he squeezed their tube of toothpaste – gathering roadside
flowers for no reason, just to give as a gift.

To many people, Mary seemed
so ordinary. She had graduated from high school, but she never went
to college. She married her high school sweetheart. They tried for
years to have children. They were tempted to believe God was
punishing them. But they remained steadfast in the faith that they
would one day have a brood of their own. Their first daughter came
a year before the second.

“
God gives in
superabundance,” Mary said.

Mary enjoyed cleaning her
house and preparing meals for her family. But she did not enjoy
that work half as much as she enjoyed teaching her children the
goodness of cooperation under one roof.

Joe helped her.

Together they did not trick
their children into doing chores. They did not bribe their children
into doing schoolwork. They knew no tricks. They had no money to
offer.

They afforded their
children the treasure trove of routine.

The minds of their children
formed from the inside out into little fortified castles, guarded
on all sides, with a moat of selflessness, a bridge of
fearlessness, and strong ramparts of sincerely mutual
devotion.

Now within me were two sets
of Blood Memories – Mary’s and Theo’s. My mind was trying to make
sense of it all. Balancing the thoughts of other people was
difficult. Their personalities were overwhelming.

I stumbled back to the
mansion like a drunkard.

My arms were swinging like
dinner bells.

For the rest of the week,
Theo wrote in his journal. Wyn spent more time in his laboratory
beneath the mansion. We all did our own thing.

I confronted Ms. Crystobal
about the other night, why I’d seen her, why she’d been following
me, and if she knew the Dark Man and the Pale Girl.

Ms. Crystobal simply said
to me: “I’ll answer your questions if you can answer
mine.”

I agreed.

“
You enjoy reading those
two-dimensional images in the paper.”

She meant comic strips.
Yes, I love
Calvin and Hobbes
and
The Far
Side
, and
Bloom
County
, too.

“
If those two-dimensional
characters became two-dimensional beings, and if they asked you to
explain how you could be there, yet not with them in their
two-dimensional comic strips, what would be your
response?”

Honestly, I was still
puzzling over those Doors of Freewill she’d talked about. I had no
idea what to tell her now.

So Ms. Crystobal walked
away, leaving my question unanswered.

Yet she also left me with
an urge to reread Abbott’s
Flatland
. My photographic memory did
so in under a minute. Two-dimensional love is a good match for a
tissue paper heart.

During that week I walked
around Idyllville. No, I didn’t merely walk. I strolled. The inner
peace of Mary’s Blood Memories kept me from moving too fast through
life.

Often I found myself
stopping outside Joe’s bookstore. I would watch him meet tourists.
He gave outrageous discounts. Paperbacks for $1. Five books for $3.
He didn’t care about money. He only cared about people.

Mary knew this. I would
dive into her Blood Memories. Deep into her thoughts and hopes and
dreams. What she truly wanted in life was safety for her loved
ones.

I’d never wanted that for
anyone. The feeling was an otherworldly injection of
selflessness.

Five days came and
went.

Theo’s Blood Memories faded
away. So did Wyn’s. They brooded and mourned. It was time to feed
again. It was the hour for drinking blood.

Theo found a gymnast, a
pretty girl visiting from Los Angeles. And my heart hurt to think
of Theo biting her. I didn’t go with him, I couldn’t watch. The
gymnast’s Blood Memories gave Theo new degrees of gracefulness. He
tumbled all over the mansion. He taught me fresh meanings for words
like spindles and moores and flairs.

Wyn bought him a pommel
horse. “For scientific research.” Theo swung his legs around it for
hours. It was impressive to watch. He was so beautiful.

Wyn left for Ontario
Airport. His private jet was there. He was going to search for the
Blood Memories of a theoretical physicist.

He was working on a big
project. He told us it was a secret. I had no idea he was
continuing his science experiment on the Red Man. Even by then I
was still under the distinct impression that I’d dreamed up the
violet-colored blood.

Theo asked Wyn which
theoretical physicist he’d drink from.

Wyn grinned back
mischievously as he walked out the front door.

“
Stephen Hawking,” he
said.

I returned to Joe and
Mary.

I did it once a week for
the next three weeks.

I drank from each family
member, Joe and their two daughters, Leah and Eve. Leah had perfect
grades. Eve was a natural at sports. Both loved reading. Both loved
their mom and dad. Mary and Joe loved them too. The whole family
loved each other.

Living in Joe’s Blood
Memories redefined fearlessness. Joe wrestled with fears of failing
to be a good father and husband, and with fears of failing to pay
bills. But he didn’t let his fears control him. He mastered his
fears by living one day at a time, trusting that a higher power
loved all people and had a great plan for the whole
world.

His self-confidence
staggered me.

Living in Leah’s Blood
Memories was like becoming a person of organization and duty. She
did not have a photographic memory like me. She’d had to condition
her memory. She had to systematize the way she learned.

That kind of thinking was
entirely new to me. Her keen sense of personal responsibility
inspired me.

Living in the Blood
Memories of the youngest, Eve, was becoming the person I never
thought I’d be. Eve felt safe. She had nothing to worry about. Her
dad loved her. Her mom nurtured her. Her sister taught her
important lessons about growing up. Eve was walled in by the love
of her family.

I’d never had that. I’d
never even guessed that was possible.

I went back for
more.

I only needed a pint a
week. It’s true. But I started having two pints a week – Joe and
Leah, one week – Mary and Eve, the next.

This lasted a month. I kept
telling myself: “Two pints, you don’t need any more. Just
two.”

But once I’d had the blood
from each member of the family, I wanted more. I thought I needed
more.

Wants and needs get so
confusing when I feel desperate and lonely.

With every new pint, their
blood gave me new Blood Memories.

Twice a week became a few
times a week.

And a few times became once
a day.

I was telling myself: “It’s
only a pint. Don’t worry, you’re not overdoing it.”

I was making a perfect pig
of myself for blood. I was becoming a drunk for Blood
Memories.

I wasn’t thinking about the
family. I was rationalizing drinking more of their blood than I
needed. I was rationing them like the food I wanted. I told
myself:
Their bodies can replace a pint of
blood in a few days.

I never drank less than a
pint. Although sometimes I did drink a little more than
that…

Okay, maybe a lot
more.

Villagers noticed that the
family was looking tired and pale. Joe was out of breath a lot.
Mary and their daughters were losing patience with one another more
often. The family was fighting.

My selfishness was undoing
the beauty I adored in them.

The power of my venom
healed their flesh so that the mark of my pierce never remained.
And I should have marveled that I had within myself the power to
heal others.

But I was too busy hurting
the ones I loved. I was treating them like dolls with dead
eyes.

I never stopped to think
whether the wounds I left were more than skin-deep. No one ever
taught me to value other people’s minds. I had not yet learned the
cost of living with a mind not only malformed, but also
malfunctioning.

Some mornings I’d wake up
feeling groggy. Too many blood Memories would be churning in my
head.

But I always awoke feeling
down-right guilty.

Every morning I’d promise
myself:
No more blood
tonight
.

Every night I’d break my
promise. I would drink blood to escape the guilt I felt.

The cycle was
terrible.

I’d sneak out from the
mansion in the middle of the night. I’d drink the family’s blood.
I’d escape into their memories. I’d feel gorged and utterly
gluttonous.

I couldn’t stop. I tried.
Not drinking their blood wasn’t physically painful. It was
emotionally horrific – and that made it physically
painful.

I had blinded myself to the
truth: I yearned to stop drinking blood, yet at the same time I was
too afraid to do so.

My life had become
unmanageable.

In no time I fell back into
my old reclusive ways, like the way I was in high school. I started
going off alone.

Theo noticed. Wyn did too.
“It’s a phase,” they assured one another.

It was the first time Wyn
didn’t treat me like a science project.

Everyone left me to myself.
I thought I was glad about this.

Truthfully, it made me feel
worse.

Sometimes it’s good when
bad things happen to us – bad from our point of view, good from the
perspective of others, namely those whom our bad habits are
hurting.

Falling from the cliff was
hitting a rocky bottom that broke my body. But hitting the rock
bottom of my bad behavior was the breaking of my spirit.

My bad behavior led me from
the cliff of common decency. And hitting rock bottom was a blessing
for Joe and his family, and a blessing for me too.

It would take a while for
me to accept that.

Here’s how my fall
happened:

One night I snuck from the
mansion to pounce upon my beloved family. Joe, Mary, Leah, Eve. I
lived with the selfish attitude that they were my possessions, my
dolls, their blood, their memories, all mine.