CALCULATE
DREADFUL - EVENT #4
By my count, I have been on seven dates. All of them occurred because of my persistence and taking charge in the organization/execution. All of them ended without the promise of another because of various circumstances the other party considered (no chemistry, ideological differences, ugly, sexual tastes not complimentary, etc.).
No matter.
When you grow up in the manner I did, you learn that disappointment and rejection are the only worthwhile companions you’ll find. I don’t mean that to be depressing, although I do struggle with digging myself out of the pity pit that constantly reshapes itself around me like a frenzied Rorschach test. I’m like the world’s most prolific gravedigger. I’ve buried countless versions of myself, only for them to reanimate and crawl up from the grime like worms surfacing during a storm. Eventually, you notice how the worms never make it back home after the storm ends.
There was one date that seemed promising. I remember his details as if I had plastered his photo as my phone’s background. He had shiny brown hair, with a handful of strands that brushed against his ears. In free moments, he realigned the rogues and tramped down the poofiness that slowly worsened throughout the meal. His manicured fingers gripped the wineglass by the stem and tapped against it as I kept talking. I couldn’t tell if he was bored or if the gesture was meant for me to continue on; the tap tap tap sound working as a metronome for me to keep pace with. I watched as the vein in his neck throbbed with each heartbeat. His skin was smooth and blemish-free, carrying an effeminate quality that I admired. He spoke of the weather and gas prices. At one point, his foot grazed against my leg and he apologized as if he was asking for leniency during a sentencing. He avoided my eyes and stared down at his plate, a half-eaten jungle of greens, quinoa, cherry tomatoes, and other ingredients I’d never select off a menu.
At the end of our fantastic meal together, the waiter handed over the split check. Thad—short for Thadford—took his portion and began to scribble in the margins.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
“Just figuring out the tip,” he said. Thadford, a front-end developer at a Fortune 500 company, looked up from his expanding opus and continued: “I never understood how people can do mental math. I’ve always needed some extra help.” Thad abandoned the pen and reached for his phone. He hammered away at the screen until it returned the desired numbers.
That’s when I discovered that poor arithmetic skills were an absolute deal breaker for me. I had no clue whether Thadford was open to another date, but at that point, I knew the path forward. As soon as we parted ways outside the restaurant, I deleted his number and unmatched him on Hinge. I didn’t need someone who lacked in such a fundamental area.
You see, I spent my life thirty to forty pounds overweight. I counted each calorie and ran through the numbers dozens of times every day. I envisioned every scenario that would lead me to my idyllic life. I jerked off to the idea of others jerking off to me—a freshly discovered purebred stud that outpaced the competition. When my weight finally balanced and my mass index finally became a satisfactory number, I’d fuck. I’d partake in the kind of fucking reserved for sadists and pornos found on the Dark Web.
And yet, I always slipped. Whatever I did wasn’t enough to tip the scales in my favor. I caved to cravings. I convinced myself that three slices of pizza were better than four. I avoided anything healthy at restaurants because it was much easier to stick with the greasy, heavy options. One dismal day cascaded into five, then two weeks, then a month. Once I resurfaced from my fugue state, I’d restart my cycle of punishment, digging another grave.
In my more successful endeavors, simple, childlike math became my way to ground the experience. I’d write out my goal each morning to manifest the future I deserved.
203 - 40 = 163.
Or sometimes it would vary slightly.
205 - 42 = 163.
211 - 48 = 163.
On days when I had lost a few ounces, I’d modify my goal to trim even more fat.
201.5 - 46.3 = ?
Do you know the answer? C’mon, this is an easy one. They are all easy when you consider we use the same set of numbers, just rearranged in varying order. For fuck’s sake, you can use your damn fingers if you need to, assuming you have all ten.
Finding petty red flags in individuals made me feel better about my own tired existence. It made the mornings more bearable where the stomach flab hung loose and obscured a visual path to my dick. It softened the blow when I put on a t-shirt that revealed the outline of my nipples and the surrounding fat. It stopped me from running back into bed on the days when I caught myself in the mirror, seeing a fat, engorged slug trudge across the room.
I hated myself then.
I hate myself now, even in my altered state.
The peak of my self-loathing came when I lived in New York City—that awful, wasteful patch of land that millions flock to. And for what? To look at tall buildings and clog up the sidewalks with their idle behavior? Maybe it’s their first time in America and they are hoping to see a celebrity and snag an autograph. Perhaps they dream of a new life, one where anonymity and fresh beginnings reign supreme. Or, better yet, they are just overwhelmed by the top-tier public transportation and spotless subway stations.
Regardless, I found myself crammed in with all the tourists and wannabes during my daily commute from Brooklyn into Times Square. My office sat in the heart of consumerism and free speech and ad space. Each day, I shouldered my way through the walking dazed and dead as they gaped at the sensory overload. Whether it be the illegal immigrants shipped up from Texas hiding under the Elsa or Spider-Man costumes propositioning you for a photo or the old woman with the sagging tits that didn’t fit in her American flag bra who strummed a guitar and howled like a monkey. Or the rappers shoving their mixtapes in your face, or the street vendors promising you that their watered-down hot dogs were better than the guy’s dogs on the next block. Don’t forget the billboards promoting another awful reboot or the billboard next to it shilling some irrelevant, overpriced brand that only the wealthy care to have. Or maybe all those people blocking the sidewalk are stunned that this is the place where people want to be. Of all the locations in the USA, Times Square is the dingy shithole that so many have pledged a pilgrimage to. Not a national park nor the nation’s capital nor a roadside diner that has survived natural disasters and recessions. For some unknown, unquantifiable reason, that area of Midtown has won the arms race.
When I wasn’t navigating through the dumbstruck tourists and waiting for the light to change or perched against the edge of a building eating a donut, I’d take time to stare at my revolving circus of strangers. That’s when I’d consider the only question I found relevant.
Was perfection possible?
It was during those moments that I saw the beauty in everyone. I’d see the voluminous lips and the perky tits. Over there were the natural athletes. I’d see the full heads of hair and the well-dressed. Further down, beautiful babies and gracefully aged grandparents congregated. I’d follow the manic paths of vapid youths pursuing their ignorant bliss. I’d pay attention and spot the skinny people, the ones whose metabolisms ran hot enough that fat was a foreign entity eradicated at first notice. I’d take notice of all the selfies and smiles and genuine pleasure the strangers had during their visit to Shithole Square.
I found a reason to envy all of them. It was the à la carte at my favorite buffet where I kept going back for more and more. Picking and choosing what I wanted to see because that vision was the one that best supported me during the worst deterioration I suffered through. I cobbled together Frankenstein creations that proved to me what I could achieve. I convinced myself that I was the only person in Shithole Square who was miserable, who partied in the pity pit.
Upon further reflection, I rationalized that if perfection were possible, it could not be achieved naturally. Yes, the people I blended together were what I aspired to be, but human intervention was required. Tweaks and modifications were mandatory.
And money, of course.
So I returned to my corner in Shithole Square and reexamined my surroundings through a different lens. That’s when I noticed just how much we do to ourselves to achieve perfection. And in doing so, we stray even further from the p-word. Hair implants, butt implants, Botox, fillers, facelifts, liposuction, LASIK eye surgery, veneers, waxing, plucking, massaging, tweezing, teeth whiteners, vitamins, prescriptions, pills, creams, ointments, hip replacements, knee replacements, breast implants, vaginal rejuvenations, penile implants, more pills, eyebrow lifts, nose jobs (rhinoplasty), cheek augmentations, breast reductions, ear pinning (otoplasty), tummy tucks, forehead lifts, lower body lifts, wart removals, laser hair removal, tattooing on eyeliner, cataract removals, even more pills, etc.
This pursuit extends beyond cosmetic changes, though. Talk to any professional and they’ll tell you it’s about mind, body, and spirit. That means you better practice breathing, get an hour of exercise each day, eat enough protein, watch the carbs, be mindful of stress, sleep at least eight hours, don’t hold a cellphone up to your ear, don’t place a laptop on your, eh, lap, don’t stand in front of a microwave when it’s on, take cold showers, socialize with friends, celebrate achievements, don’t fret over the uncontrollable, become a drone, suffocate your emotions, give your money to a therapist, always take the stairs, only buy from the perimeter of the grocery store, have children to pass along your faults, don’t vegetate in front of the television, avoid fake news, clean your dwelling once a week, wash your bedsheets, flip the mattress every six months, change your toothbrush every three months, donate money and time to nonprofits, vote in local elections, wash the cabinets once a year, clean the gutters, delete your social media profiles, get an oil change at the recommended time, use less water, eat less red meat, find kindness for strangers, don’t talk about Times Square with such disgust, read more, challenge your current beliefs, be your best friend, floss for fucking once, find a job you love, travel, stretch, take time for yourself, spend all your money, invest all your money, keep in touch with loved ones, etc.
Don’t you see? Perfection is that simple. All you need to do is everything. All you need to do is spend every fucking second of your pathetic life in pursuit of something you will never earn.
This is the pattern I fell into while living in the city. I zeroed in on individuals who appeared to be suave and cool and well put together, and I pictured how my life was dogshit compared to the fantasy I crafted for them. I’d run through the tedious list of things I needed to do to change and presto! I was cured. Within minutes the hate bubble would expand and I’d convince myself how 204 - 41 did not actually equal happiness.
Day after day.
Month after month.
This god-awful trend dragged on. The unending idea that I would never be satisfied or enough for this world. The fat that clung to my bones and stifled any muscle from showing would be how everyone remembered me. I dreamed of how I could take matters into my own hands. A slice here; a cut there. I looked up how doctors perform liposuction. I considered buying everything I needed and drugging myself up enough that the pain would be tolerable as I pulverized my fat and sucked it from my body.
That’s the level of delusion I settled into. Aren’t you jealous?
Mentally and physically, I was fucked. A fat fuck with a fucked-up brain.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Sometimes, though, all it takes is a slight deviation from the path to begin anew, to let your meaningless purpose propagate for eternity. Bringing on an age of immortality, you may say.
“Chap? You there, young chap,” the voice said above the chaos. It was a miraculous feat, actually, for one voice to stand out from the crowd in Shithole Square.
I spotted the man sitting in a wheelchair with a cardboard sign leaned up against it declaring why he was worthy of your money. Classic beggar. His clothes were tattered and draped over him like he was modern royalty. His arms were gaunt and lanky. He lacked urgency in his movements to sell his creation.
He was an acceptable actor. Better than most of the trash that populated Shithole Square.
Usually, I wasn’t influenced by catcalls and sob stories. But this was all part of the deviation.
“Come, come,” he beckoned. “I know you carry coin on you.” He waved a limp wrist and continued to stare past me, toward the chaos that raged on endlessly.
I gave him a dismissive wave. “No coin here. Only credit. I have a ten-thousand-dollar limit on each one. Impressive, huh?”
Yes, I said that. Sometimes you just want people to know what you have to offer. I also don’t talk to many people outside of those I see at work. And they are intolerable.
“How about some food instead?” I held out the paper bag with two jelly doughnuts inside.
Look, I know I can’t bitch to you about my magic equation and wanting to lose weight to just turn around with some doughnut declaration. But here was the rationale, here was the choreographed routine my brain performed every day to explain away my decisions:
A typical jelly doughnut consists of 270 calories. Disregarding the obscene amount of sugar, carbs, and various fats that populate the morning delicacy, the caloric content is within limits. You can multiply that 270 by two, which matched what I consumed for breakfast on a normal morning. The Dunkin’ Donuts on 40th was my mistress. We had a symbiotic relationship where I supplied them with meager money and, in return, they fed my addiction. The 540 calories I ate for breakfast never satisfied me until lunch (that’s because your body really, really does not like processed foods), so I’d tap my foot like I had a drug habit and hold out until 10:45. Then, I’d go to the furthest vending machine in my company’s building (I figured that the extra effort burned a few calories) and I’d select either a Nutri-Grain Soft Baked Breakfast Bar (130 calories) or a bag of SkinnyPop White Cheddar Popcorn (150 calories). So, for simplicity’s sake, my mid-morning snack brought me to 690 calories for the day. Not bad, right? If you multiply that number out by three, you will be at roughly 2,100 calories, which is somewhere in the ballpark for what an adult male should ingest. Of course, the numbers shift drastically based on your level of exercise, age, height, and ambitions. For me, I knew I needed to drop my caloric intake to around 1,600 per day in order to inspire change. The issue was that as my workday dragged along, I felt myself making worse choices. I’d stop counting calories and resign myself to the mentality that I could always try again tomorrow. Decision fatigue, they call it. It’s the idea that your brain becomes so bogged down by countless choices that you are more easily persuaded to make shitty ones. I’m the poster child for that idea. By lunchtime, I’d shuffle out to some fast-food joint nearby and stuff my face with saturated fats, added sugars, and quadruple-digit calories. Repeat that same song for dinner and you’ve got yourself a righteous ballad. One that played on a loop. My brain didn’t even recognize the names of the foods I shoveled into my mouth. It could be a burger. Maybe a pizza. Or pasta drenched in a thick sauce. Everything was processed and packed with sodium. Everything was consumed in front of a screen for maximum comfort. I’d binge-watch episodes of crappy TV shows while binge-eating. After dinner, I’d find a reason to be hungry again in an hour, even though the sensation was manufactured by faulty neurons and a deadened pleasure center. I’d lie in bed in agony as my stomach churned and roiled, trying to reconcile the choices I made. And in the back of my mind, the equation rested and waited. 2[][] – [][] = 163. Easy as pie. People do it every day, right? Sure, sure, sure. But those people aren’t me. Those people aren’t certified fat fucks who look for any excuse to cheat. Those people have willpower that doesn’t shatter after the mildest inconvenience. Those people have even an iota of love for themselves.
Needless to say, my donut offering to the beggar in Shithole Square was an act of something greater than God. Because, honestly, I don’t think God would offer a jelly doughnut as quickly as I did.
The man shook his head. No interest in my gift. Thank goodness for that. Instead, he reached out both arms and grabbed my left leg. With newfound strength, he pulled me in close, dragging my feet across the sidewalk until I felt his stinking breath heating up my thigh. “Are you worthy?” he asked.
“Get the fuck off me,” I said, as any sane individual would. Everyone around me continued on with their lives. In New York City, tunnel vision and minding your own fucking business is the only way to survive.
The man gripped tighter against my leg, his fingernails digging in through the jeans and into my skin. “You smell wonderful.”
“Fuck you,” I said. I tried to thrust my leg upward and knee him in the face, but all I could manage was to strain the underutilized muscles in my leg. Instead, I hit him on the head with my forearm. The man absorbed the blow and looked up at me. He was younger than expected. Distinguished would be a better word to use. A face that had lived through enough. Fill in the details as you wish.
The leech laughed to himself. “Worthy? Worthy? If anything, it’s the other way around. Oh yes, gifts don’t exist in this world. Burdens, though. Burdens are abundant. Why don’t I give you one? Misery is a long table that can seat many. Join us.” He opened his mouth and bit my leg. I felt the blood escape from his mouth and start descending. I continued to beat him over the head with my forearm to no avail. The pain was brief, a sharp spike that reminded me of the time I had an ingrown toenail. The doctor numbed my foot with three shots from the needle and then pushed a flat, steel instrument under the nailbed until it was lifted enough for them to cut and pull out the cause of my intense discomfort. Blood everywhere, if I recall correctly. The numbing agent helped, but I felt a distant sensation of the instrument rooting around my toe. That’s similar to how the pain radiated out from the source, like the man circulated something into my bloodstream.
The bloodsucking cocksucker loosened his grip against my leg and pushed me away as if I was tarnished, ruined meat. “We will be in touch.”
I went straight home. I had enough PTO to drown a minimum-wage worker in sustained grief, so I took advantage. As I sat on the subway, I watched as perfection boarded at each stop. Beautiful creatures. All of them. I wondered if a homeless man had ever bitten any of them. I wondered if they felt a change crawling through their bodies. I wondered if any were willing to lend me their lean bodies and high metabolisms so I could consume another donut without consequence or thoughts of inadequacy.
Inside my lousy apartment in the dregs of Williamsburg, I contorted into a ball and writhed in bed as a transformation took place. I didn’t know it at the time, though. Do we ever know when we are in the midst of a life-altering event? Actually, yes. We probably do. Right then, I figured it was just stomach cramps or the beginning of rabies, which made sense considering what had happened.
I woke up hours later from a dreamless sleep, absolutely famished as if I hadn’t eaten in months. Fuck that bloodsucker for ruining my day (and now, in hindsight, much more). I trudged out into the living room in search of my phone. It wasn’t on the couch or the coffee table or nestled within the scattered piles of trash. I continued into the kitchen and rummaged through cabinets, checked the sink, and peeked inside the dishwasher. Just in case. I’ve found that eliminating the ridiculous options helps your brain to focus on the reasonable solution.
With logic at the forefront, I patted down my pants and felt the electronic brick hiding inside. Of course. Like a dog on a short leash, my phone was never beyond arm’s reach. I pulled the phone out of my pocket and watched—what I assumed to be—a business card fall to the floor.
I picked it up and read the message:
Your new beginning starts now.
We are thankful to have you join the FANGTASTIC team!1
[YouTube link I no longer have]
Against my better judgment, I unlocked my phone (no notifications, no messages—obviously) and typed in the URL. The screen loaded to an unlisted video with a view count of around fifty thousand.
“Hello and welcome,” the video began. The voiceover was a man. Neutral and measured. Professional and perpetually boring. An animated human crept into frame and waved at me. “I’m Manny from VAMP, the company working to reinvent you and our world.” The animations were cheap and lifeless, like the kind you’d see in a corporate training video about sexual harassment. I’d seen shit like this a thousand times before. What the hell was going on? “You must have countless questions,” Manny continued. “You may be asking yourself such questions as ‘What is going on?’ or ‘Is this actually happening?’ or ‘Do I qualify for free healthcare?’ Don’t fret. All your questions will be answered in this introductory video. For a more detailed look at your new life, please refer to the links below for additional modules. They are optional but highly encouraged.”
Manny dropped the fake smile and glared into my soul. “You are a vampire. Contrary to what you may know, life as a vampire is not nearly as thrilling. Yes, you now have immortality. Congrats! Unfortunately, the positives end there. Your body has undergone a miraculous transformation that will render any physical changes obsolete. While we won’t ever get into the specifics with you, your body is in a constant state of healing and reversion. This means that how you are now is how you will forever be. Some of you may be ecstatic with that news; others may find themselves in despair. Don’t fret. VAMP provides ample services to ensure that your eternal life is meaningful. With that out of the way, let’s move on to our favorite subject: responsibilities and obligations . . .”
I paced around the room with my phone dangling by my side, letting Manny’s words slip away. I can’t tell you all the thoughts that blitzed through me in that moment. Just because I am living for an eternity doesn’t mean my mind can recall every second. I know I was terrified and in shock. Most of all, though, I was in disbelief. Wouldn’t you be? I mean, we all grew up watching movies about vampires. You were either scared of them or thought that lifestyle would be kick-ass. Naivete at its finest. Whichever side of the fence you fell on, no one in their right mind ever believed they were real. Vampires were that slice of fiction you feasted on for a few hundred pages or a two-hour movie and then returned to your life. That’s what I struggled with, if I know myself well enough to recall those beginning moments. To take something that defies our reality and suddenly learn that it does exist is a true gut punch.
Of course, I told myself it was bullshit. I went through the stages of grief with lightning speed. I equated the process to getting a call that your parents had just died. If unexpected, the news would be ridiculous, a farce buried within a snot bubble of buffoonery. But as you stayed on the phone and listened to the story, you’d understand that no one could spin such a convincing lie. More so than that, why would anyone lie about that?
Following that stream of thought, I knew none of this was a joke. It was too outrageous for it to be. So I did what any worthwhile new employee would do and listened to the information provided.
“. . . common misconceptions. VAMP has spent decades and hundreds of millions of dollars to perpetuate a series of lies across society. The intention has been to distort the public’s view of vampires. Some falsehoods were meant to elicit fear, while others had the intention of drumming up admiration. Think of your favorite vampire media . . . We are responsible for it. The Twilight Saga. Interview with a Vampire. True Blood. Salem’s Lot. Any and all. Good, bad, and downright appalling. Our network and influence are vast. Our power of persuasion is a defining characteristic that has allowed us to bend the truth.
“With that in mind, let’s discuss the tropes you’ve come to know about vampires and which of them are true.” A chalkboard appeared behind Manny, divided into two categories. Ten minutes later, the right side was filled with a dozen false facts about vampires. Here they are, in order, as these are impossible to forget: not allergic to garlic, can see themselves in mirrors, do not sleep in coffins, most certainly do not sparkle/shine/have pasty skin, do not burn in sunlight, do not wear capes, no ability to fly/float/hover/glide/soar, none have wings or the ability to grow them, a wooden stake to the heart would hurt but is not lethal, there are no qualms between vampires and werewolves, and no one by the name of Dracula has ever existed. An astute reader will notice that I only listed out eleven lies. The twelfth is worthy of its own sentence. Manny explained that vampires have minimal bloodlust. Oh yes, perhaps the most defining trait of a vampire is nothing but a sham.
In essence, vampirism is a miserable, inane existence with no upside.
Imagine that.
“Don’t fret,” Manny said. “With your new lease on life and a generous loan from VAMP, you can discover new hobbies or venture into a career you’ve never thought possible for yourself. Yes, you will see loved ones die and watch this planet crumble into oblivion, so we promise you that the pain of an eternal life will far outweigh the benefits.
“Make no mistake. This is a curse; one you will have the opportunity to pass along to others after a probationary period. Our goal at VAMP is to infect the entire world, and you will help us achieve that.”
Manny continued on, but I stopped listening. I rummaged through my fridge and pulled out a bag of shredded cheese. I grabbed the cheddar by the fistful and opened my mouth like a baby bird waiting for a worm. When only crumbs and cheese dust remained, I tilted the bag back and poured every last bit down my throat.
By the end of the second bag, the video ended, and an email notification chimed on my phone.
The email thanked me for taking the time to watch the video. It also included instructions on being added to a group chat with new subordinates and a member of Management to answer any questions we had. If anything, I was an obedient servant. I always offered my help at work and brownnosed my boss’s ass enough to know what kind of oatmeal he liked in the mornings. I did it because I thought upward mobility at my company would bring me satisfaction. And with more satisfaction, maybe I would morph into someone whom others found attractive. They could look past my subpar exterior and see me for what I was: a meal ticket. I was okay with the idea of someone loving me for my money. As long as it led to me not spending my life alone.
I downloaded the required app and logged in with the provided credentials. I was congratulated on making it this far. The app dropped me into my branch (East Coast #000207). The screen reloaded with all the new messages, each one ranging from incredulous to threatening. People demanded to know who would think something like this is funny. They checked every cliché box that existed. Every minute, the user labeled as “MGMT” would respond, saying to stay calm, drink water, and consider the generous loan that VAMP offered.
A new message popped onto my screen, separate from the imploding group chat. “Hey,” it said. The user went by the name Suba.
“Hi,” I responded.
“I don’t think they are joking around. Check out your bite. Mine is healed already.”
I unbuttoned my pants and felt around my thigh. No pain or visible marks. “Same here,” I wrote.
“This is the best thing to happen to me. Not trying to brag or anything.”
“Really?”
“Yup.”
“Why?”
“I’m only twenty-five. I’m hot (that’s what people tell me). And now I can take advantage of this forever.”
“Nice,” I wrote. I wish I could have related.
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Are you happy about this?”
“Sure . . . don’t know how to explain this to family, though.”
“You can’t!” Suba wrote. “Didn’t you listen to the video?”
“Oh yeah, I forgot.” I must have tuned out during that part. I had so many questions. I tried to compile a list in my head, but the pile just kept collapsing. Logic had to be buried within this mess. Or not. Who honestly knew? It felt as if the vampiric rules were made by a lazy author who didn’t remember what they wrote from one paragraph to the next. Or even worse, the rules were concocted by a writer who had no intention of finishing the series, so the reader was left with dangling threads and no resolution.
A vampire? A fucking vampire?! It is still absurd for me to write the word with no irony.
“I just stabbed myself,” Suba wrote. “That hurt. Ouch. Lots of blood. But I’m healing. This is great!!”
“I stabbed myself too.” I didn’t. “What a rush!” It wasn’t.
Suba continued to respond, filling me in on their discoveries. I tossed my phone onto the couch and walked into the bathroom. I gawked at myself in the mirror. The three-day stubble, the unkempt hair, the excess sitting against my cheeks, the zit that clung to my chin.
I was the boogeyman that parents warned their kids about. This happened when you didn’t eat your vegetables or finish your homework. This happened when you allowed your mental instability to boil over and commandeer every cell of your body.
This is what you’re stuck with forever.
And ever.
And ever.
I was nothing for a long time. The first ten years were acceptance and recognition that there was no escape. I isolated myself and refrained from social activities. I didn’t date. I quit my job and scraped by on a meager hourly wage working a remote data entry job. The only communication I had with my coworkers was via email. I know they thought I was a freak. Of course, the truth was slightly harsher.
I cut off communication with my parents. I couldn’t tell them what I was (while vague, VAMP insisted there were consequences for those who didn’t follow their lengthy list of rules), so I decided to leave them behind. Sometimes I wondered if they still thought of me. I wasn’t what they wanted. I didn’t live up to their lofty goals, so why would they?
I forced out the few tears I had when I found out they both died. A mall shooting or some senseless act of violence. My dad always thought he was the hero, so he no doubt put himself and my mom in harm’s way. I imagined their mangled bodies leaking fluids and gasping for air. Maybe I was their last thought as they stared cross-eyed at the floor. Two more lives extinguished with no fanfare. A part of me envied them.
I watched television shows meant for kids to remember how to emote and exaggerate my movements to resemble something human. I reminded myself to laugh at least once an episode.
I taped over the bathroom mirror, so I no longer had to look at myself each time I walked by. I did this at each apartment. Probably a dozen over that first decade. I bounced from city to city like a vagabond. A home didn’t exist for me—an unattainable idea.
You may struggle to understand how I can reduce a decade of my life down to a half dozen measly paragraphs, but ask yourself something: how much detail could you write about a single day? Are all your days enriched with experiences you’ll remember during your short existence?
No, I didn’t think so.
We aren’t equals. You are standing on my shoulders, digging your toes into my clavicles so you can reach beyond me. I am your stepladder. I am the embodiment of what many dream about but would never want.
I’m glad that it was me instead of you.
Although if you stick around long enough and your luck wears down, we may get to know one another.
The isolation became easier once I reconnected with Suba after that decade. For whatever reason, I woke up and decided to tweak the routine. They welcomed me as if no time had passed at all. For us, practically none had.
Suba became a staple of my days. I lived vicariously through their adventures and triumphs. I asked thousands of questions to get all the details I could. I envisioned myself traveling the world, fucking anyone I wanted, and living as if I had months left, not eons. They prodded me to seek something better for myself, but how could I? I was stuck being a fat fuck with a fucked-up brain.
The rules made little sense. I could cut down to the bone and heal, but the pimple on my chin regrew each night. The stubble came back no matter how many times I shaved. In the beginning, I tried staying up as long as I could to witness when the switch happened. Was it when I slept or triggered by a specific time? I obsessed over the questions because I knew there weren’t any answers. I read the FAQ section on VAMP’s website enough times to memorize all the bullshit corporate speak they vomited. They were the most successful multi-level marketing scheme in the world.
During year eleven, Suba recommended I try settling down somewhere. Growing my roots, as they put it. Suba was great in that regard. Just because they lived an extraordinary life, they didn’t force anyone else to. The words took years to gain footing. It was much easier to remain still and stoic. It was better to avoid the mirror.
During year twelve, a hodgepodge of things occurred, mostly out in the world. More wars, more political posturing, more protests, more destruction. As for me, I slowly removed myself from the cocoon I had crafted. I took down a portion of the tape plastered to my mirror, enough to stick out my arm and see it reflected back at me. It was a pleasant reminder that I still existed, that I could still be seen.
During year thirteen, I spent too much of it arguing with strangers on the internet. I discovered the rush of dopamine that careened into my brain whenever I took a stance on a controversial subject. I flip-flopped so much that I don’t remember anymore what my beliefs were. I existed to cause chaos and rile people up. For what it’s worth, I was quite successful at it. People are attracted to the bait when you discuss topics that most have a strong opinion about. When I was really bored and offended, I tried tracking down the trolls that had burrowed into my soul. I daydreamed about pushing them in front of a train or dropping them from the fiftieth floor of a skyscraper. I acted out how I’d stand over their soon-to-be corpse and whisper in their ear how I was God and salvation didn’t exist. As they’d expel their last breath, I’d breathe it in, continuing the cycle of life.
During year fourteen, I added two more layers to the tape in the bathroom and covered the previously uncovered section. My chemical imbalance nosedived into the gutter. It took me a long time to realize that I could have good days, but they were always a gamble. Imagine you are a contestant on Wheel of Fortune. Pat is goading you to spin the wheel one more time, even though you know the answer is CASAER SALAD WITH CRUSTED CHICKEN. You spin the wheel and hear the little dongle flick and flutter. You try to keep your mind from picturing that million-dollar pie sliver that is so tantalizing. You’d settle for two hundred bucks. Anything to get you to shout out the right consonant and answer. The wheel begins to slow. Your heart stops and restarts. Everything rides on this, especially since you can’t stand the thought of the bitch next to you winning. Their fake, overly cheery smile has eaten into you throughout the taping. You fake it because there’s an audience and cameras and Vanna White looking sweetly at you like the grandmother you never had. You refocus in time to hear the audience gasp and groan as the wheel stops on the BANKRUPT slice. Drat, Pat says. He takes the slice of pie you earned for half of a new car. You are now reduced to hearing the bitch say the right answer and win all the glory. You overplayed your hand and got too cocky. You woke up thinking today was your day. Instead, you remain nothing. You continue to be dog piss. You go home to your shit-filled life and stare at yourself in the mirror. A pre-diabetic fat fuck looks back at you. The face seems familiar, like one you’d see in a police sketch drawing. A name sits on your lips. G-Ga-Gr. It’s gone. The chemicals flood your brain and cloud your thoughts. You used to fight it, but now you let them take over. What’s one more day of inactivity? What’s another night of self-loathing? Tomorrow will be different. Tomorrow will house your winning spin.
During year fifteen, I asked Suba where they would move to if they were me. Their answer was surprising. They told me they heard from others in the group chat how a complex in Dallas had an allure no one quite understood. A magnetic force that drew a handful of them in. They spoke of it like a simmering soup—ready to boil over if left unsupervised for much longer. Sure, I believed none of it, but I trusted Suba implicitly and needed to act on the advice before I snubbed the idea for another period of time.
Now, I live at The Amorphophallus. Maybe you’ve heard of it? It’s been four months. It’s the eve of my sixteenth year as a vampire. My probation period is hours from ending. What that actually means, I can’t say, although the group chat has been abuzz about it lately. Supposedly, we can elect to get a mentor who will guide us through our first bite. Others think they will have a round of promotions for all the subordinates who have dedicated themselves to the advancement of vampiric prosperity.
For me, it’s another night wasted in the apartment.
The tools are laid out on the counter. I have walked past them a thousand times. I can’t bring myself to cut into my skin and remove the fat that clings to my stomach and causes my tits to sag. In a perfect world, I’d mutilate myself each morning and go about my day as the skinny heartthrob I was meant to be. Pain happens to be a critical roadblock in achieving my fantasy.
I know what my neighbor does. Maybe I should ask him to repeat his task to me. I hear the screams. I feel the limbs being severed and put on ice for future consumption by the highest bidder. The murmurs of their last conversations seep through the walls and invade me. Even those who choose to die seem to have somebody with them at the end. Here I am, forever by my lonesome. Poor me. I can’t even muster up the courage to ask a serial killer to gouge me and make me pretty.
Like Suba mentioned, there is something mystical happening in The Amorphophallus. It’s like a confluence of pleasure and desire and wanting. An entity (or many) is here, one far beyond the understanding of VAMP and the self-certified experts of fantastical creatures. I should dig into it further. I have the time.
Just none of the motivation.
I watch the clock continue its cycle. Will something happen at midnight to mark the occasion? Will I feel a weight lift from me? Perhaps an even heavier one will supplant itself.
I step into the bathroom and remind myself what the tape now says.
163.
That beautiful, grotesque number.
My reminder that even being immortal still renders some goals untouchable.
I press a hand to the tape, feel the inert energy waiting inside. Building and building with nowhere useful to go. There has to be a way out of this. There have to be answers waiting to be discovered. I can be the hero for vampires everywhere. I can be the one who finds out how to die.
I will look into that further.
Tonight, I need to escape the apartment and hide in the shadows. Stalk some innocents. Incite some fear. You know, that level of fun.
I leave the apartment dressed in all black to match my dismal mood. I wind through the hallways and take the elevator down. The stairs were closer, but there’s no upside to exerting more effort than required. (This is a good moment to mention that during my elongated solitude, I did have numerous dark days of overconsumption. Seeing as my body is nothing more than a rubber band intent on snapping back into place, I indulged those primal desires and feasted on every unholy food item known to humans and vampires alike. I stuffed myself so full of sodium and trans fats and carbs and, of course, calories that I assumed I’d die by atomic blast, with the origin being my overextended tummy. Those days were glorious, but unsustainable. While my chemical imbalance was corrected as I pigged out, my wallet lightened. Money was a constant issue I needed to be cognizant of. Without that, I’d be a homeless fat fuck with a fucked-up brain. That’s a combination no one would wish on another.)
I walk from the elevator to the nearest exit. It’ll dump me out on Wycliff, which is as good a street as any. Plenty of other apartment complexes to terrorize in the immediate area. More bang for your buck, you may say. Being a nuisance is part of the creed at VAMP.
At the exit, there is a woman frantically hacking away at the hinges. She smacks each one like a teenager hopped up on Adderall banging the drums during the halftime show of a high school football game. Her rhythm is off, but the intention is there.
“Is everything okay?” I ask.
She turns to me, wide-eyed. Hysteria is smudged across her face. “Trying to keep everyone safe.”
“From what?”
“This thing. Some thing. Something. I don’t know.” She points to the sign on the door. I read it. The bold, blown-up words warn of a threat stalking the building’s perimeter. It doesn’t have many details, but you’ll have to trust her.
“I know,” she says. “It is hard to believe. Impossible, even.”
“You’d be surprised.”
“Help me, will you? This door is proving to be tougher than the others.”
I step forward and open the door. “You seem to have a handle on it. Keep going.” This is progressing better than expected. I still have some semblance of communication skills, even after all this time.
The woman reaches out a hand and tries to stop me. I sidestep her and close the door. The mesh covering across the width of the door and hallway means she can still see me. She squeezes her fingers through the holes like a mosquito feening for blood. “I see you for what you are. And so will he.”
“He?”
“It. Them. Who the fuck knows?”
I turn to go outside.
“Please,” she begs, one last time. “Please don’t go out there. I’m trying to keep everyone safe in here.”
This is the first time I’ve felt powerful, the first time I’ve felt the adrenaline of being something most others aren’t. My chemical imbalance tips to even up the scales. I smile. It’s not forced. I rub a hand along the stubble and the puffy patch of a popped pimple. I know she sees me for what I am. I’m unbothered. For once. I’m 163 pounds of muscle, gristle, and blood. For just this one night.
“You should be worried about what’s in here,” I warn. “The pot is boiling over.”
I leave her behind, calculating the risk and deciding there’s none. She resumes her battering against the hinges and lets out a weak cry.
Outside, the sidewalk is dimly lit with ugly yellow orbs occasionally marking the way. I make it to the curb and sidestep any dog shit lying in wait.
A hand presses down on my shoulder. I freeze. Icy breath collides against my neck.
I spin around faster than a figure skater. There’s nothing. I unclench my asshole and wait for my heart rate to settle.
It’s okay.
I have time to kill.