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The Only Way to Fly
Author: Morapheum
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The Only Way to Fly
It was insane, to say the very least. At most, it was a brilliant way to
minimize difficulty, that demon whom I had always gone to great lengths to
avoid. Or maybe it was the cruelty of it, the fright it would give her.
More than anything, it was the fact that this would be a true experience,
an unforgettable moment when I would brush up with eternity. Few would even
dare to contemplate such madness. That such as I would do so was not such a
surprise but was definitely uniquely disturbing.
My morbid nature has long been a point of aggravation from my family
and lesser acquaintances. Even my beloved, who lived so far away that we
would not see one another for months at a time, had detected the brooding
undercurrent beneath my placid demeanor. A word here, a phrase there, a bit
of cold laughter at some fool’s misfortune. It was not long before my dark
nature began to draw snide comments from her; I became “Dracula” to her, a
hideously inaccurate appellation.
I confess, blood is to my taste. I have always held it as a
sacrament, a sweet ambrosia that must be drawn consensually from a willing
and responsive donor. To be identified with that fictitious, nihilistic,
grotesque stereotype was the worst kind of insult. Her ignorance belittled
my very spirituality. The fact that I’ve had to tolerate such from my
family and limited social circle was irritating; that I should have to
accept such treatment from she whom I had given my heart to was horrific.
The idea of shocking her so cruelly, as inhuman as it may seem, was
tantalizing. But at base, as I mentioned, the idea was to minimize
difficulty. Specifically, the difficulty that would be incurred by spending
nearly a month’s salary on travel expenses for the simple pleasure of seeing
my lover and being nourished as I needed to be.
It was my cousin’s fault, really. He’s always thrilled in sharing with me
twisted little tidbits of trivia gathered from randomly scouring the
Internet. I can see his sarcastic little face in my mind’s eye now, leering
obnoxiously at my plight.
“You’re full of shit, dude,” I remarked, swaying slightly from the
grinding beat that reverberated throughout the club. “Serious, man, " my
cousin insisted,"It, like, has something to do with international law or
something. It’s like five cents per pound of the corpse.”
Distracted, I inclined my head to watch a latex clad sex kitten maraud
across the dance floor. She wore her gear like a second skin, the zipper
in the back partially unzipped revealing a tantalizing bit of snow-colored
flesh. The droplets of perspiration on her forehead gleamed, short black
hair plastered to her forehead, huge, dark sensuous eyes searching as she
moved in rapid, backbreaking swaying movements in time to a song that
screamed “You hate me” in another language. Her aura pulsed with vigor and
seemed to naturally pull in life from all around her. She exhuded life and
sex, and it was only a matter of catching those heartbreaking doe-eyes in my
own glacial gaze and she was mine.
I felt my auric tentacles extend, gently brushing first, then coiling
about her, gently siphoning her life force into my body. Delicious. But it
just wasn’t the same anymore.
“Listen, man,” rasped the ineffable Lloyd, my dear cousin, “Imagine
how cheap that would be. You could just have yourself shipped to your little
girlie friend!”
I rolled my eyes and forced my attention way from my feeding.
He was toying with me, sneering beneath the musky smoke of his clove
cigarette. Still, it was an amusing little game and I was content to see it
through to it predictable end.
“Ok, so what about the casket? Those things are damned expensive.”
“Not always. You can get super cheap shipping caskets, the kind they
use for cremations and pauper’s burials. They’re not mahogany with brass
fixtures but, hell, beggars can’t be choosers.”
“Christ, Lloyd, you really covered your bases on this one. Ok, so
what about time? It’s gotta take days if not weeks.”
Lloyd grimaced as he went into a coughing fit. Upon recovery, he
wheezed, “Heh, right man. Thirty bucks’ll get you next day air.”
“That’s fucking sick, Lloyd. I love it.”
“I knew you would, Danny boy. You’re a sick bastard.” I grinned.
He had been playing with me, of course. He loved to regale me with
such useless morbidity. His tales were rife with cannibalism, funerary
practices, bloodletting, torture techniques, and numerous assorted
grotesqueries. He knew of my unique proclivities and seemed to think I would
enjoy such things. While it was true I had more than a passing interest in
the forbidden and the funereal, it was more for his benefit than mine that I
listened to his stories. Most of them were quickly forgotten once I was out
of his presence. This time, however, this singular bit of trivia stayed with
me. That night at the Merc, a seed was planted, a seed that began to quickly
germinate as I examined my finances and endured my lover’s abrasive remarks.
Why not? Buy a shipping casket, pad it, bring some water and some
dried fruit, cut holes in the right spots, I could even bring enough codiene
to keep me unconscious for days.It was a perfect plan. Of course, I could
tell no one, not my cousin, and certainly not my dear Angela. It was for
her benefit, after all, an ironic shock that was bound to make her
reconsider her harsh attitude towards my vampirism, and teach her of the
true depth of the darkness that lay upon my soul.
Moreover, I could not help but feel a bit of pride in anticipation how
impressed my fellow vampyres would be by such a feat. No lifestyler or
role-player would have the nerve, no fetishist or wannabe would even have
the inclination; indeed, only a Real Vampyre would have the nerve to have
himself shipped across country in a coffin!
And so, before my natural fickleness manifested itself and I changed my
mind, I did it. Posing as the poor bereaved son of a drunken father who had
left no legacy, I purchased a very inexpensive casket. Once it was
delivered to my home, I padded it heavily and furnished it with a bag of
water equipped with a tube for drinking as well as a small ration of dried
fruit. Then, easily procuring a large amount of codeine from an acquaintance
of mine and arranging for the shipping, I took as many pills as I dared and
settled into my temporary internment.
That is the last I can remember. I’ve long since run out of pills. My
coffin is soiled, cramped, and my food supply is gone. Soon, my water will
be as well. I don’t know what could have happened. I paid for next day
delivery. What was that sound, that reverberating oddly repetitive thud
that grew steadily more muffled, then eventually disappeared? I’ve
listened carefully but heard nothing, only a silence deeper and more
profound than any I’ve ever known. And an occasional sickening slithering
that sends cold chills up my spine.
I must be in a warehouse somewhere; it’s the only possible
explanation. Someone’ll come along soon and realize the mistake they’ve
made, and then I’ll be in her arms apologizing for my cruel joke, laughing
at my own cleverness. I’m so thirsty. My mouth is dry and my lips are going
to crack soon. I’m so hungry that I’ve passsed the point of hunger into a
weak delirium. I can barely move. The lid won’t move, even though I’ve
undone the interior latch I so wisely installed.
There must be other caskets stacked on top of mine. What a horrific
thought, all those corpses in such close proximity. I keep drifting in and
out of consciousness, my visions are full of dancing Goths who rot and fall
apart as they writhe. The air is so stale, I can hardly breath.
There’s an airhole, where is it? My flashlight has long since died.
Maybe I can find it with my fingers. Ah, there it is, above my head . .
.what’s that?? Dirt? I must be hallucinating, it can’t be, they’ll be here
any time to let me out. But if that’s the case, why can’t I stop screaming?
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