table, and pressed the power button. The hard drive hummed to life. Christian then wandered over to the ancient fridge and grabbed a packet of his nightly meal. Blood, pre-measured into small pouches. Eight ounces, just the right amount to keep him from going absolutely mad, but not enough to feed his preternatural abilities.
He dug around in one of the kitchen drawers until he found a straw. Puncturing the plastic, he swallowed a groan—the image of his fangs puncturing the fragile barrier of human flesh flashed through his mind. Damn, he missed that.
Why was he so antsy tonight? So uncomfortable with his developed routine? He made himself go over to the typed out and bulleted list on the fridge, held with a Red Cross Blood Drive magnet. His twelve-step program. Based on the A.A. program, the steps changed to fit his own particular problem.
He read them again, and chanted the steps over and over to himself as he headed to his computer. He clicked onto the Internet and his site came up: Being Human.
Tonight, he didn’t check the comments on yesterday’s blog entry, although he did notice thirty-three people had posted. It was truly amazing what people would waste their time reading. Of course, he was the one who was wasting his time writing it.
“Therapy,” he reminded himself as he pulled up the entry form to record tonight’s thoughts.
And tonight he needed therapy. He could barely remain in his rickety, vinyl-covered chair. Why the hell did he feel like he was going to crawl out of his skin? Nothing was different than it had been for nearly a year.
Especially the lawn ornaments. He gritted his teeth and began to type.
It’s official. Shady Fork Mobile Estates is hell.
That being said, and I think I may have said it before, this place is no less than I deserve. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.
So why Shady Fork, you ask? The world is filled with many, equally suitable hells. Well, I’d like to have a deep, very existential reason for you. Something about trying to better understand the plight of human suffering (and believe me, there is plenty of that in this delightful little neighborhood). Or maybe my…
He glanced around at the darkly paneled walls, brown and gold carpeting, and tweed furniture.
…sumptuous abode was chosen to show myself the depths to which I have fallen. Which it does quite admirably. But the fact is, this was where I ran out of gas. Well, near here. And I figured that was a sign, right? So maybe my reason was a little existential. There you go. Who knew?
So back to my progress living as a human. So far on that count, I think I’m doing…okay. No slips into my natural behavior. No real feedings in 252 days. (Not that I’m counting.) I’ve stopped using any of my abilities that would be deemed “unnatural.” I have to say getting around is a real annoyance—and far too time-consuming. An ironic statement for someone who has all the time in the world, I know. I think I may have complained about this in previous posts, too. I guess I was spoiled.
Outside the trailer, angry voices rose above the drone of the lawn ornaments. Christian didn’t even bother to listen. It was practically a nightly occurrence. Shady Fork was like living in an episode of Cops—a form of reality entertainment he hadn’t even known existed until he moved to this lovely place.
He shifted again in the uncomfortable chair, trying to find a measure of comfort. Comfort. He’d once lived in luxury. Lavish mansions, five-star hotels, waitstaff and limos, theater, parties with the rich and famous. Fast cars, champagne, the finest of everything. But that was another life. He wasn’t that Christian Young anymore.
He frowned at the computer screen, unsure what to write next. The voices outside rose again, then quieted. He stared for a moment longer at the blog, then shoved out of the chair and paced the small living room. His fingers twitched as he considered taking a drive. The sleek, silver Porsche Carrera GT was the one extravagance he’d allowed himself to keep. But guilt strangled him. Why should he enjoy anything? He didn’t deserve to, not after what he’d done.
“No,” he muttered to himself. He wasn’t that same vampire. He couldn’t rectify his past deeds, but he could control the now. He could control his vampire nature. He’d done it for almost a year and he’d continue to do so. But instead of picking up the car keys from the scratched end table near the door, he returned to his computer.
Back to the reasoning behind living in a trailer park in the Blue Ridge Mountains. The reason I stay here is because it’s a totally different place than what I knew. And I am a totally different being. As the blog title says, I’m working on being human.
Just then a loud scream pierced the air. A terrified sound, very different from the usual drunken shouting. He rose out of his seat and strode to the window. Pulling back one of the thick shades that covered his window, he didn’t see anything. Then, across the rutted dirt road that served as the main entrance for the trailer park, he saw movement in the tall weeds. The head of a woman appeared behind a small bush.
He recognized the woman crouched in the high grass. She was the neighbor who lived in the trailer directly across from his. He’d never spoken to her, or any of the residents of Shady Fork for that matter, but he’d seen her a time or two, walking late at night. He’d wondered what she was doing wandering the desolate mountain roads in the late hours of the night. Of course, he’d never wondered enough to actually ask her.
Now, he wondered what she was doing crouching in the grass at—he glanced at his watch—three in the morning. Had she been the one who screamed?
She started, peeking toward her trailer, then she ducked back into hiding. Christian followed her quick look. A man exited her front door. The rangy silhouette clutched the railing of the steps with one hand, staggering, and waving something in the other hand.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” the man shouted, his voice thick with a twangy southern accent.
The grass swayed, just a bit, but his neighbor didn’t reveal her hiding spot. The man half-walked, half-fell down the steps, using the railing to steady himself. Once on the ground, he managed to keep his balance and started searching.
“Come on, Cherry,” he called, his voice almost wheedling. “Come out.”
When she didn’t, he swiped a hand through his hair and roared, “Now! Goddamn it!”
He stepped farther into the thigh-high grass, raising whatever he held in his hand out in front of him. Light from the bare bulb on outside the trailer glinted on the object. A blade. The man headed in the exact direction of Cherry.
Christian didn’t even register what he planned to do until he threw open his front door and hurried out into the road.
“Hey there,” he called.
The man stopped, dropping the knife down to his side. Now Christian could see the tangle of greasy hair, the shine of sweat on his pasty skin, and the crazed glitter in his dark eyes. But the tall figure was just barely a man. He appeared no older than twenty or so.
“Can I help you?” Christian asked. The deranged kid obviously needed more help than Christian had to offer, but he thought it best not to provoke him.
“Fuck off, buddy,” the kid growled. “This ain’t any of your concern.”
Christian noticed the grass move again, but Cherry didn’t show herself. Wise lady. With his greatly depleted
