Three Pace Distance to the Window
'When the Deep Purple falls,
Over sleepy garden walls,
And the stars begin to flicker in the sky,
Thru the mist of a memory
You wander back to me,
Breathing my name with a sigh.'
"It's all about the choices we make. "
The delicate flare of a cigarette lighter illuminates only half of his face as they sit in the dark, dinky motel room. Red, fluorescent words advertising a good time glow across the street. The nicotine steadies his hands and clears his mind and after a while he can turn his yellow gaze back to the trembling man on the rumpled bedspread.
"They shape us, create us, lead us to the defining moments of our lives. They enable us to live for the better or the worse, and -- sometimes -- they lead us to our untimely and bloody demise. But I expect that an educated fellow like yourself would already know that, wouldn't you? Yea, Art, I think you knew that. What I don't think you knew, what you didn't factor out as a possible solution to your grand scheme, is that in the end, nothing would go back to the way it was, that you'd lose out and that we'd be here now."
He stands, takes the three pace distance to the window slowly and stares outside at the blinking advertisement. The rain pounds against the thin window and he can feel the icy chill when he places his hands on the cheap glass. After a long moment he turns around and marches over to the bed. With his free hand he lifts the man's gagged head by the hair and stares into the glassy eyes.
"Do you understand what I'm getting at? None of us would be here now if it wasn't for our decisions and the decisions of others. It was you who brought you here today, and nobody else -- well, nobody else who hasn't already been taken care of, and they no longer matter -- all that matters now Art, is me and you. Now, I'll tell you what I'm gonna do now, Art, just to be fair. I'm gonna tell you a little story, the story of how you, and I, and her -- how we all came to be where and what we are today."
'In the still of the night,
Once again I hold you tight,
Tho' you're gone, your love lives on
When moonlight beams.'
With undue ceremony he plops the man's head back down on the mattress and stubs his cigarette out in the overflowing ash tray. He kneels by the bed, his lithe form silhouetted against the dark of the room. One pale hand reaches into the pocket of his black jeans and pulls out a worn photograph that has faded to a pale yellow sepia over the years. Despite it's condition, the girl in the picture is clearly visible, her slightly bent nose, smiling mouth, wide hazel eyes as familiar to the pale being who gazes at it as his own name. A lock of dirty blonde hair is twisted around her finger and she laughs, the other arm lies across her stomach.
It's a peaceful picture, taken on a peaceful day that forces his throat to close as he is assaulted by the memory of her laughter, her scent, her touch. Her surprise when the camera clicked and the picture was taken are imprinted forever on the delicate piece of glossy paper in his hand.
It wasn't the only picture he'd taken of her, not by far. There were times when the whole floor of their room was covered in Polaroid's after their love-making. She would hold him in her arms afterwards, sweat mingling on their skin, hands touching the most intimate parts of each other's bodies, and she would whisper in his ear, "They say that when you take a photograph of someone, you steal a piece of their soul. What have you done with all the pieces of mine, lover? It's not all you've taken from me."
He would kiss her then and she would melt against him, liquid in his hands, against his skin, as they made love again and again in the sea of photographs. The sea of her soul.
But all that was gone now and he was plunged painfully back into the present by the man on the bed's struggles. He growled and shook the man carelessly to quiet him down. When the man ceased his flopping and lay back on the bed, his mouth open in a parody of a fish gasping for breath, the vampire leaned back on his arms, the thin carpet hard against his elbows.
He lit another cigarette, took one last look at the photograph and began, "The spell changed how she was inside."
'And as long as my heart will beat
Lover, we'll always meet
Here in my Deep Purple dreams.'
'When the Deep Purple falls,
Over sleepy garden walls,
And the stars begin to flicker in the sky,
Thru the mist of a memory
You wander back to me,
Breathing my name with a sigh.'
"It's all about the choices we make. "
The delicate flare of a cigarette lighter illuminates only half of his face as they sit in the dark, dinky motel room. Red, fluorescent words advertising a good time glow across the street. The nicotine steadies his hands and clears his mind and after a while he can turn his yellow gaze back to the trembling man on the rumpled bedspread.
"They shape us, create us, lead us to the defining moments of our lives. They enable us to live for the better or the worse, and -- sometimes -- they lead us to our untimely and bloody demise. But I expect that an educated fellow like yourself would already know that, wouldn't you? Yea, Art, I think you knew that. What I don't think you knew, what you didn't factor out as a possible solution to your grand scheme, is that in the end, nothing would go back to the way it was, that you'd lose out and that we'd be here now."
He stands, takes the three pace distance to the window slowly and stares outside at the blinking advertisement. The rain pounds against the thin window and he can feel the icy chill when he places his hands on the cheap glass. After a long moment he turns around and marches over to the bed. With his free hand he lifts the man's gagged head by the hair and stares into the glassy eyes.
"Do you understand what I'm getting at? None of us would be here now if it wasn't for our decisions and the decisions of others. It was you who brought you here today, and nobody else -- well, nobody else who hasn't already been taken care of, and they no longer matter -- all that matters now Art, is me and you. Now, I'll tell you what I'm gonna do now, Art, just to be fair. I'm gonna tell you a little story, the story of how you, and I, and her -- how we all came to be where and what we are today."
'In the still of the night,
Once again I hold you tight,
Tho' you're gone, your love lives on
When moonlight beams.'
With undue ceremony he plops the man's head back down on the mattress and stubs his cigarette out in the overflowing ash tray. He kneels by the bed, his lithe form silhouetted against the dark of the room. One pale hand reaches into the pocket of his black jeans and pulls out a worn photograph that has faded to a pale yellow sepia over the years. Despite it's condition, the girl in the picture is clearly visible, her slightly bent nose, smiling mouth, wide hazel eyes as familiar to the pale being who gazes at it as his own name. A lock of dirty blonde hair is twisted around her finger and she laughs, the other arm lies across her stomach.
It's a peaceful picture, taken on a peaceful day that forces his throat to close as he is assaulted by the memory of her laughter, her scent, her touch. Her surprise when the camera clicked and the picture was taken are imprinted forever on the delicate piece of glossy paper in his hand.
It wasn't the only picture he'd taken of her, not by far. There were times when the whole floor of their room was covered in Polaroid's after their love-making. She would hold him in her arms afterwards, sweat mingling on their skin, hands touching the most intimate parts of each other's bodies, and she would whisper in his ear, "They say that when you take a photograph of someone, you steal a piece of their soul. What have you done with all the pieces of mine, lover? It's not all you've taken from me."
He would kiss her then and she would melt against him, liquid in his hands, against his skin, as they made love again and again in the sea of photographs. The sea of her soul.
But all that was gone now and he was plunged painfully back into the present by the man on the bed's struggles. He growled and shook the man carelessly to quiet him down. When the man ceased his flopping and lay back on the bed, his mouth open in a parody of a fish gasping for breath, the vampire leaned back on his arms, the thin carpet hard against his elbows.
He lit another cigarette, took one last look at the photograph and began, "The spell changed how she was inside."
'And as long as my heart will beat
Lover, we'll always meet
Here in my Deep Purple dreams.'