Chapter 9: Something Is Wrong
My conversation with Ben gave me a lot to think about over the next few weeks; too much to think about if you ask me. I was not ready to accept that Lestat might…you know…have a thing for me. I still couldn't get over the sinking feeling at the pit of my stomach that this was still just a twisted cat and mouse game. He had me caught between his clawed paws and now he was just batting me from one to another before he decided it was a good time to swallow me whole; whatever that might mean. And then of course there was the new monster that obviously was not to be taken lightly…
Lestat showed up a couple more times, according to his previous schedule – keeping whatever self-imposed wait period between meetings he'd held since we met with only small variations. Nothing especially startling or exciting occurred, just the same old random arrivals leading to my irritation, which then fed his self-importance, resulting in the usual pseudo-sarcastic banter with very obvious sexual undertones (which in a way I suppose I was beginning to enjoy…but only a little), and finishing with me sitting on my couch wondering what the hell was going to happen next. Alright, so I had smiled genuinely on more than one occasion (and no, Ben was never going to hear about it). Still, something in me couldn't let go. It was really starting to stress me out – this clash within between the part of myself that was beginning to believe there was something human in that cold body and the part that kept jumping up and down screaming, "Are you insane?". I could never completely relax when he was around; I was always on the edge of my seat – and not in a way that I would have liked.
It had been a week since he'd last "surprised" me, so I wasn't feeling particularly paranoid. It was a sunny afternoon; I'd finished my most recent article well before deadline; I was excited about interviewing another band tonight; I was almost serene when I grabbed my mail out of the box across from my door and returned to my apartment to flop back down on the couch and bask in the warm sunlight that filled the room.
Thus I was caught completely unawares by the letter at the bottom of the stack.
The return address said it came from Dawkins' Literary Magazine. I tore it open in utter confusion. I hadn't sent anything to Dawkins'; it was a national magazine, way out of my league; I hadn't even tried publishing anything locally yet. The letter was signed by one of the editors, in actual blue ink. It said that they loved my story, "Turn Off That Damned Idiot Box", and wanted to publish it in their upcoming issue. It even asked that I send some more of my work for review. I dropped the letter and came the closest I ever have to fainting; I felt all the blood rush to my head and my eyes start to roll… I put my head in my hands and leaned over, staring at the floor. This made no sense whatsoever, that story had been sitting on the corner of my coffee table for almost a year now, I was sure of it! I grabbed that stack of papers and started ripping through them madly, needless to say, when I got to the bottom I hadn't found it.
Then it hit me.
He couldn't have.
I was going to kill him.