By Quon and Tom
4.
“Don’t go, please don’t leave me, Paul. I’m scared.”
The last words he spoke. He looked like a little boy, staring up at Paul with
liquid, puppy-dog eyes. And how had Paul replied? In clichés, in banalities.
“You’ll be okay. Just go home and get some sleep.” A shoulder squeeze and
he had left the bar, Carlos’s eyes on his back the whole way out.
Now in bed, Paul was unsure. He had chased away those suspicions, those
flashes of blood lust and fear, but they came back to him in his dreams, renewed. In
his dream, he was in a darkened room. He saw Carlos, moving over a white bed like
a shadow. He saw a boy, that boy, stretch out his body like a sacrificial offering.
Carlos was seducing him, caressing him, giving the fuck of his young life. Paul
moaned with an unexpected empathy, for the sexual pleasure this person was
receiving from his friend. Something changed, suddenly. Carlos lunged. Paul saw
the flicker of teeth; he saw a splash of blood. Carlos was over the boy, the body,
sucking and chewing, his chin red with gore. He reared up, his hunger abated, and in
the features of the dying boy, Paul saw himself.
He woke with a cold sweat. Stretching out his hands, grasping the sheets
frantically, he felt vestigial warmth, as if another body had lain by his. Through the
darkness of the apartment and over the panting of his breath, he could swear he
heard his front door close quietly.
This didn’t bother him nearly as much as what he now knew about Carlos.
“Vampire,” he breathed shakily. “He’s a vampire.”
The running joke about Carlos was no longer a joke.
Paul’s phone rang an hour later, but he was already awake. He rolled over
and picked up the receiver.
“Paul, it’s me, Carlos,” The other voice sounded small, frightened.
“Hi,” Paul said wearily. He felt torn halfway between whatever feelings he
had for Carlos and a gripping fear of him; Carlos was not human. Paul rolled onto
his stomach, holding the receiver against his sweating temple.
“Paul, I know what happened to that kid.” Carlos’s voice became a
desperate sob. “I killed him. I killed Christian.”
“I know,” Paul mumbled. He didn’t want to face it, but there was a crushing
pressure in his chest in fear and terror for his friend. “I know.”
“I killed him. I killed him…” Carlos’s voice grew fainter and it sounded as
though he’d dropped the receiver.
“Murderer,” Paul whispered as he set the phone down on the table. He
didn’t want to be talking to a murderer. Not right now.
You never know who their next victim will be.