When I started getting migraines the year I turned seventeen, I honestly thought nothing of it. The stress of being a teenage girl in the twenty-first century was enough to give anyone headaches. Between school, my over-protective mother, the drama of my friends and trying to look "hot" for the boys who never seemed to give me the attention I wanted, I was stressed more than any young girl should be, but that was life. I got into the habit of taking an extra strength Tylenol and going on with my day. It was only a few months later, when even three of those heavy-duty painkillers weren't doing anything, that I thought I should go to the doctor.
After the CAT scan my whole world fell apart. A brain tumor, the size of a lemon. Inoperable. Malignant. Images flooded my mind of a mutant lemon growing and taking over my brain. I imagined that I was losing hold on my senses, that I was having a hard time seeing or that my balance wasn't what it should be. When I expressed these concerns with my neurologist he scheduled me for tests, and more tests, confirming every one of my imaginary symptoms. I was losing my sight, and my sense of smell too. The fact that I fell down the stairs twice in a day wasn't a mere coincidence. My body was executing a well-planned mutiny. My brain was heading a coupe and there was nothing that anyone could do. The mutant lemon, the inoperable and malignant bastard he was, was killing me.
From that point on, my life consisted of pointless treatments that made me sick to my stomach. When I wasn't in the hospital, I was at home, puking, confined to the ground floor of my mother's house, no longer trusted to be able to use the stairs without injury. It seems that the doctors' plan was to make my already dying body so violently ill that, perhaps, it would learn it's lesson, straighten up and go back to normal. I didn't need them to tell me that it wasn't working.
I cannot relate to you the hopelessness that overcomes you when you know that, at seventeen, you are not too far from death's door. After a lot of soul searching I told both the doctors and my mother that I wanted to stop treatment and just die in my own time. Why make myself so sick on top of everything else? Reluctantly both parties agreed, and then I told my mother I was taking the money I had saved for college, well over ten thousand dollars, and I was going to travel to England... alone.
My mother cried and begged me not to go, or to at least let her come with me; I could not comfort her. I let her know that my plane tickets were already purchased, hotel reservations made, and that I was leaving in two days. I promised to be back before I died. I did not know at the time that I was lying to her.
Until the moment that I walked through the gate to board the plane, my mother would not leave my side. She wept constantly, her eyes red and swollen, her face splotchy and her breathing ragged. I felt guilty, for a few brief moments, that I was putting her through this, but then I realized that it was something I had to do, and so I hugged her tightly, kissed her cheek, and shuffled onto the plane.
After accepting a pillow and blanket and letting the flight attendant know I wanted the chicken, not the fish, I closed my eyes and tried to sleep. It didn't work as well as I had hoped, so instead I tried to focus on my plan once I got to England. So many places I wanted to see, my life's dream about to be realized.
It was raining when we landed. I did not have a coat, or an umbrella, and by the time I finally got a cab I was soaked. The hotel I was staying at was only a short drive away from where the plane had landed. After checking in, taking a hot shower and changing into something warm and dry, I decided to go out and try and find somewhere to have an early dinner. I dug out my rain slicker, bright yellow with a matching hat and put on my blue gumboots, reminding myself of Paddington Bear. I made a mental note to take the train to Paddington Station before I went home.
The rain had not let up since I landed over an hour previous. If anything, the downpour had become more violent, the fat raindrops literally bouncing off the pavement. With a giant smile on my face, for the first time in months, I strolled down the street until I happened upon a small pub. I ordered fish and chips and a pint. The slight bitter taste of the foreign beer was a perfect contrast to the saltiness of the food. Eyes full of wonder and ears ever-listening, I caught a snippit of conversation at the table just behind mine. An old-timer, more full of alcohol than the beer in my left hand, was rambling about a "miracle man" who lived in the graveyard a couple blocks from my hotel; I had seen it on the cab ride from the airport. I was curious, given my situation, and decided that I might as well take a walk after finishing my supper.
I felt completely satisfied after my meal and left a very generous tip. I was heartily invited back for tea the next day and I gladly accepted. The waitress was a girl about my age and I was hoping to find a friend in this strange country. How could I have known that none of my plans for enjoying this new place would ever work out?
Heading back outside into the torrential rain, a mere "drizzle" to the locals, I strolled purposefully through the streets, heading past my hotel and its welcoming lights to the cemetery. I noticed that the sky was much darker than it had been when I went into the pub for supper, and a slight chill came over me as I thought about what I was planning on doing. What if this man was a murderer or a rapist? Or worse, what if there was no man at all and there truly was no hope for me? The thought made tears well up in my eyes and their salty-wetness mixed with the rain on my face.
Head down, dragging my feet, I kicked puddles up and soaked the bottom of my jeans. Completely depressed by my own thoughts, I considered going back home to die.
The cemetery was spooky in the half-light of dusk, long shadows growing ever-longer in the fast-fading light. I sat down on a small bench on top of a little knoll that granted me a view almost the entire graveyard.
I sat there and contemplated the centuries, thought of every life that was finalized by a few words spoken and a body buried in this very ground. I shuddered, my involuntary tremor cut short by a hand on my shoulder. It was now very dark, the sun hidden behind the curve of the earth. I spun, but I saw no-one. Turning back around I was face to face with a man, somewhere in his twenties, crouching in front of me. I screamed, but it came out as a gurgle. He placed a hand on my knee and put a finger to his lips, telling me to keep quiet.
I managed to utter a few strangled syllables, inquiring as to if he was the man I had heard could grant me life in the face of all this death. A quick nod confirmed my every hope and fear and all the tension left my body. My shoulders sagged, my head fell forward and my hat slipped off my head. It was then that I noticed the rain had stopped and a sliver of the moon was peaking from behind the dissipating clouds.
The young man, with a delicate hand, brushed my long hair away from my face and murmured reassuringly to me words that weren't quite words, but said everything I had ever heard and everything I could ever want to know. He gently unbuttoned my slicker, a pink sweater beneath it, the colour of cotton candy. Smiling, he stood, his hand extended to me. I took it and my jacket was left in a yellow puddle on the bench as he led me through the maze of the dead. I knew then that I was soon to be among them as strongly as I knew I was never going to die. His words that weren't quite words floated all around me and it was difficult to tell if they were coming from him or from everywhere else.
He stopped at a mausoleum, pushing the heavy door open with his free hand, and gesturing for me to go in ahead of him. I did as he asked, knowing I would do anything he requested of me. He was right behind me, and all around me, filling this place. I felt I could not breathe, but I didn't need to.
His wordless words became upsetting, rather than comforting, and my hands flew to cover my neck and throat. I looked into his dark eyes questioningly and he soothed me with a kiss more gentle and more passionate than any kiss in the history of the world. I felt a prick, tasted blood. My lip was bleeding, ever so slighly, and I saw a flash in his eyes that suggested a primal desire I could never comprehend. His pink tongue flicked out and washed away the tiny river of blood travelling from my lip before he treated me to another kiss.
Pulling away, he spoke to me again without speaking, and I understood who he was and what miracle he could perform for me. He knew about the mutiny I suffered, he knew about the growth in my head that was both unwelcome and untreatable, and I knew his was the only way.
At first the pain was almost too much. I would have screamed if I could have. I felt my head swimming, my eyes going in and out of focus. I felt him withdraw and then it was my turn. The metallic taste of blood was familiar, but it was so cold, and there was so much of it. I gagged, but he held my head in place. I drank, and drank, and drank. I felt myself dying, but I was not dead. I felt my heart stop, I felt my blood stop pumping. I knew that I was no longer alive and yet I still stood, still sensed, still was. Minutes passed before I realized that I had not taken a breath, and then realized I did not have to. Both of our mouths painted red, I fell into him and I made love for the first time. He was so cold, but I knew that I would be too, soon enough. His body was so fragile and so pale. We spoke without opening our mouths about everything that we had ever seen, everything we had ever dreamt. I learned of his transformation, of how he was seduced by a woman with flaming red locks and fierce blue eyes. I learned of his vast and countless years and he smiled at how few I had seen. I knew I could never leave, but he knew I had to go back. I had to say goodbye.
When I stepped off the plane and saw my mum, my heart broke for her. My mother knew, instantly, there was something wrong. Her face scrunched up as she looked at my pale skin, the wound on my neck... even my eyes, once innocent and trusting, were filled with a worldly knowledge that frightened her. Embracing her, I felt her shiver as my cold body chilled her to the core. I pulled back to look her in the eyes and tried to reassure her with words that were not words, but she shook her head and yanked herself free of me, her eyes wide and full of terror. A tear slid down my cheek as I blew her a kiss, knowing there was nothing more to say. I went to wait for the plane to take me back to him.
When I got back to the cold mausoleum we spent our days in, I heard, even before opening the door, the murmurs that meant nothing and everything and knew he was not alone. I also knew that this one was not to receive a miracle, she was only to become a meal. I slipped inside without her hearing, but his eyes met mine and we smiled. She was dead soon enough and with full bellies and a warmth spreading over us we went out into the night to prowl all that is after the sun has abandonned the sky.
At the first silver light that precedes dawn we went into hiding. The life we had, if it could be called that, was all there was, and all there ever had to be. We passed decades, perhaps even centuries, of nights of hunting and exploring and days of love-making and sleeping. Everything was exactly how I wanted it, and then he disappeared.
When I left our dwelling, panicked and afraid, after the shadows swallowed the earth, I was not prepared for what I saw... a statue of my lover on the bench where he first spoke to me the language that encompassed everything. I reached out to touch his cheek, once so soft and welcomingly cold, and it gave way beneath my fingers, his body collapsing into dust and blowing away in the soft breeze.
I wept with the pain of a love that had endured the ages. How long had it been since I had forfeited life in a dying body for death in a hollow shell? Years no longer meant a thing and the passage of time we had shared could not be measured. And now... he was gone and I was alone.
In my final hours, I wrote a brief obituary, the account of a girl who died, not of the inoperable malignancy that took hold of her brain, but of a bite to the neck. I could not face the dawn without sharing how a miracle ended my life and showed me a world lit by the silver light of the moon and shrouded in the pitch of night. I could not let us disappear into the wind without telling of his gentle touch, his soft skin, his voice that said everything in a whisper. Who will remember the darkness of his tragic eyes, the way his curly black hair brushed against his cheeks or how he smiled in his sleep? Who else knows how delicately he fed or how much he suffered with each life ended? Only I understand the torture of living without life and taking what you can never again have as your own. I tried to hide from the fate that awaited me, but I am finally ready to fall into the embrace of eternity. Perhaps I will find a miracle man there who can save me from myself. Maybe I will taste perfection on my lips again and know what it is to be loved. Maybe, this time, I will also learn what it is to be alive.
I have never seen the sun rise...
[Swoop,
I have done some work on the story, but I know there is more that could be improved. Will you be my story helper and pick this thing to pieces until it's actually good? ^_^]
