A Beast in Venice: (Literary Horror set in Venice) (34 page)

“Looking for me? Out there?”

He explained that Tiberio thought she might be on San Michele.

“That explains the boat,” she said. “Now tell me what has happened to you.”

He told her everything.

She sat quietly for a moment. “I don’t believe it. You’re telling me that you are some kind of vampire or ghoul and that you have to kill people?” 

He lowered his eyes, nodding.

“You have gone off the deep end. That can’t be true.”

He told her a few specifics with respect to his victims.

“Oh my God, I think I’m going to faint. I feel sick.”

He was silent.

“And you’ve got to kill someone
tonight
?” she asked with eyebrows raised, the color gone from her face.

He nodded.

“So, you prowl the streets, find a victim and… I can’t even say it. I’m horrified by the thought of it.”

“Whatever you were thinking is probably close to the truth.” Although the reality was more horrible than she could imagine.

“Then what? You come home as if from a day’s work, brush your teeth, put on your PJs, and go to bed?” 

He hesitated. He didn’t want to talk about it anymore, but he knew she wouldn’t let it rest unless he answered her questions.

“That’s pretty close—”

“Close? What else is there?”

“I usually take that opportunity to drink a shitload of gin. You’d be surprised how well gin goes with… well—”

“I get the picture,”

His hand throbbed, his side burned and ached simultaneously, and the cuts, abrasions, and contusions in his flesh from the barbed wire that had covered his body spread searing pain over his skin like a coat of nails whenever he moved. They sat in silence for a while. He leaned back and tried not to move. She sat staring at her hands..

“Anyway,” Brigham said, “I’m not finding this all that pleasant, and I’ve been considering reversing it.”

“
Reversing
it? It can be reversed?”

“So they tell me.”

“Then why haven’t you done it?”

Brigham got up. All his wounds issued forth pain at the same time. He went to the cabinet to get the gin. “Because I just figured it out. I haven’t had a chance to do it. Plus, I’m not sure I want to do it.”

“You’re not sure? What do you have to do?”

He told her.

“Then do it!”

“I haven’t decided—”

“But you said—” Tears welled up in her eyes.

“I know, but I have mixed feelings about it.”

“You’re confusing me. I want you back the way you were. And anyway, you told me it wasn’t that pleasant.”

“Yeah, but I kinda dig the eternal life part.”

“But it’s horrible. It is a hideous and despicable way to live. Don’t you want to be returned to normal, then?”

“I told you, I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? Don’t you think the only way we can live together is if you reverse it?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

“Then why don’t you want to change?”

“I didn’t say I don’t
want
to change, I said I don’t know
whether
I want to change.”

She studied him for a moment. “You’re not looking all that good, you know.”

“I am starting to feel rather poorly. The need for blood is rising. I’ll need to go out soon.”

“Isn’t there another way?”

“No.”

“Not even raw meat?”

“No, that doesn’t work.”

“What about your injuries?”

“They hurt like hell. I feel like I’ve been put through a meat grinder, then put back together with duct tape. But I gotta go out. There’s no choice.”

“Maybe it would be better if you stayed away until you decide to reverse your condition.”

He clenched his hands together as if praying. “I agree.”

RETURNING AFTER ROAMING THE NIGHT, refreshed yet drained physically and ripping with pain from being gashed, pierced, stabbed, and torn, Brigham unlocked the door of his studio. Without turning on the light he went to the cabinet, got the bottle of gin, ice, and a glass and retired to the sofa. As he sat down, a lamp came on. He jumped and let out a shout. There in the chair sat Rose.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. “You scared the hell out of me. I’m too old to take a shot to the heart like that.”

“I wanted to see what you looked like when you got back from your business.”

“You should’ve spared yourself the pain. But now that you’re here, what do you think? Should I come closer?” He got to his feet and stood before her, his hair caked with blood. Splatters of blood covered his face and clothing.

“Oh my God,” she whispered.

She stared in wide-eyed silence, gawking at the figure before her. Long gray hair, too-long fingernails, gaunt, pale, streaked and spotted with blood.

“So? What do you think? A dashing figure, am I not?” She sobbed into her hands. “Brigham, I had no idea.”

“Yes, you did.”

“No, I thought—”

Then it hit him like a bag of nickels. He realized why she was there.

“You thought what? Why don’t you just come out and say it?”

She didn’t respond but continued to sob.

“You thought I was with another woman.”

“Well—”

“Well, nothing,” he said. Then after a pause, “Why don’t you just get out of here. Go home.”

“I don’t want to go home, I want to stay and talk.”

“I don’t want to talk. Anyway, you’ve said enough.”

“You never want to talk to me. We need to discuss this.”

Brigham worked to control his anger. “I’m too pissed to talk. We’ll do it later.”

Sobbing, she said, “I think we should do it now.”

“No. Now get out.”

She ran out of the studio blubbering and sobbing.

Brigham fixed a pitcher of martinis and sat on the sofa listening to the silence. His wounds hurt and he could barely move. It was all he could do to kick back and put his feet up on the coffee table. He downed a martini, and poured another.

“What do you make of all that?” he said to Pink Jesus.

Pink Jesus didn’t respond.

Brigham sipped his martini, ran his claw-like fingers through his blood-caked gray hair, and stared at the ceiling. The pain in his side and hand raged, and little barbed wire wounds tore at the flesh over most of his body. His leg felt as though it might burst.

“Thinking I’m having an affair after all we’ve been through. I should accuse her,” he said. “Coming up with a bullshit story about being at the Brenta Canal. Maybe she ran off with some guy, the guy dumped her, and she decided to come back.”

“That’s silly,” Pink Jesus said.

“Yeah, but so is her thinking I was running around.”

“Maybe, but you have to admit your story is a little far-fetched.”

“Bullshit. She believed my story, at least at the time. She probably talked to her mother after. Her mother has always hated me. She must’ve convinced her I was lying.”

“That’s all fine,” Pink Jesus said, “but you are in a condition that requires you to go out at night and do things she can’t see. Since she’s not invited on these excursions, it becomes adultery in her mind.”

Brigham held his arms out from his side. “But look at me. Do I look like someone who goes out cruising for chicks?”

“No, but she hadn’t seen you like this before.”

“Fine, what can I do?”

“You already know.”

Y
ES, HE KNEW.
He knew
. Like the drunk who knows he has to get off booze but doesn’t want to. He couldn’t do it. More accurately, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He didn’t need an intervention. He wasn’t in denial. Fully aware of what he was and of the consequences, he wished to continue in his ways. Perhaps he was in denial as to the consequences. His wife didn’t want to live with him, but she might come around. Would it be so bad to live with him as he was? Surely not.

XXIX

Brigham meandered through the reveling crowd of students in Campo Santa Margherita unnoticed in spite of looking like something scraped off the bottom of a shoe in the fifteenth century. He was wearing a long coat, orange slippers, and a cloth cap, from beneath which sprayed long, scraggly gray hair.

The brightly colored lights under the black sky of midnight acted in concert with his craving as a cosmic and surreal combination of pain and pleasure. A rock band blasted forth strange music that appealed to him for some reason. Teenagers roamed the square, drinking beer and throwing firecrackers (oh, to be young), and the police strolled about, ignoring most of the activity.

Perhaps he could reduce his suffering through the intervention of a glass of wine. His craving shrieked to be satisfied, but he needed to use caution, so he sat down and ordered a glass of red. The wine, the noise, and the smell of gunpowder soothed him. Maybe it was the activity of life—the world doing what it should do, having fun. Living.

As his second glass of wine arrived, a drunken boy fell on his face at Brigham’s feet. The police picked him up, dusted him off, made sure he wasn’t injured, and sent him on his way.

A group of fun seekers came by his table, all dressed as various circus entertainers, a group-themed costume. Pretending to be running a circus, they stopped at a nearby table to have their picture taken, posing in odd and contorted positions.

Then he saw her.

Sitting a few tables away, arriving when his attention had been diverted by the circus, she had a slender form under a large chestnut mink with matching hair illuminated from behind, causing her to appear otherworldly and angelic. She would be his next victim, though he hated to use the word victim. He didn’t want her to be a victim but rather a participant. His mind imagined and assigned to her many characteristics that would make her want to enjoy the embrace of his charms. She would understand and want to be taken. Oh, the things that burning desire and wine could do to a man’s mind. All false. Victim. That was what she would be and all she would be.

The woman in mink ordered a glass of prosecco and sat alone, drinking, until a tall man in an expensive-looking camel hair coat sat at the table with her. He ordered a glass of wine and the two chatted quietly.

Brigham wished the man would go away. He didn’t want there to be two bodies in the canal that night. Indeed, when the man had finished his wine, he got up to go, leaving the woman at the table alone.

He watched her, planning how he would do it. He considered his new station in the world. Although doubt had crept into his mind regarding the nature of the beast he now was, and in spite of the difficulties it had caused with his wife, he had come to accept it and even enjoy it.

The woman got up and left. He looked around for the waitress but couldn’t find her. He tossed money on the table and followed the woman in mink.

He was concerned that she would immediately pop into a nearby apartment before he had a chance to introduce himself to her, as it were. Crossing the next bridge, she ran into someone she knew. Brigham stayed in the shadows at the bottom of the bridge while the two chatted. After a short time she continued on her way. He followed her as she wound her way through the dark streets. She stopped at her door, fiddled with the key, and unlocked it. His heart pounded as he considered grabbing her right there. He decided, however, to let her go this time. He knew where she lived. He went to the corner and leaned against the wall, considering what to do next. There must be easier prey.

Moments later, the door to the apartment opened again and the woman emerged. Brigham grabbed his cell phone and pretended to be checking his calls. The woman walked past, showing no hint of recognition. He followed, keeping a reasonable distance. They came to a particularly small and dark maze of streets. He started to close in. His heart was pounding. Why so excited? He’d done this before. He got closer. Maybe he would approach her and start a conversation, invite her for a glass of wine or something, and then, over a period of hours or so, work his way up to doing what he had to do. No, that was stupid. He needed this done fast, as his desires were too strong to be put off much longer.

He narrowed the distance between them. He could almost reach out and touch her. Something caught his eye off to the side of the street. As he glanced over to see what it was, he ran into her. She had stopped in the middle of the goddamn street to check her phone. The collision stunned Brigham, and he couldn’t say anything for a moment. She turned around, gesturing wildly with the cell phone and yelling at him in the high-pitched, nasal Italian-woman-voice that he found offensive as hell. Her voice cut his head like a fucking ax. He tried to apologize, but she wouldn’t shut her harshly screaming mouth. He got nervous. She would soon draw attention. Maybe he should run. No. He slapped the cell phone out of her hand, grabbed her by the throat, and was about to smash her head against the wall when he realized it was someone’s door. He turned to the side and saw a lovely brick wall. Taking a handful of the hair on the back of her head, he bashed her forehead against the bricks until she went limp.

A boat passed them in the adjacent canal. He took hold of her and turned his back to the water. The light of the boat shone on them but it kept going. He took out his blade, cut her throat, split her open in the usual manner, satisfied his hunger, and tossed her carcass into the canal. He felt a lot better all the way round, both from having had his meal and from finally being able to vent his spleen on one of these obnoxious people. He started back to his studio.

He turned the corner and nearly collided with a little girl of about six. She held the hand of an older woman, probably her grandmother. They seemed to be searching for the girl’s mother, who they apparently thought would be there. Of course. The woman had been texting them on her cell phone. They saw the blood trickling between the paving stones. They looked at Brigham. The girl screamed “Mamma!” as she saw the body of the woman floating in the canal. She began to shriek hysterically.