Death of a Nightingale

CHAPTER 19: THE BOOKS WERE WRONG

I went through a dark period. Killing for sport. Decades passed and I barely felt anything. Here and there I met a handsome soldier and caught the flutters of my former heartbeat. But it always ended badly. For the ones I met.

Then a century ago, the romantics came along, and with them the dark tales of vampires. I devoured those books. Each and every one of them. I loved Bram Stoker. Part of me hoped he knew someone like me. That his tales were based on truth. I tried biting and giving blood, creating an equal. A companion. I had been the only one of my kind. I was so hopeful. But all of my efforts resulted in more disappointment and resentment toward the world. Stoker was wrong. I can eat garlic. The sun doesn't kill me. It makes me disappear, but I reappear when the night creeps back. A stake through the heart, a silver bullet, removing the head and burning...

I have tried it all. The gruesome lord with his fetish for virgins was clearly not a family relation. I'm still the only one like me that I've ever met. Except. I think my father was like me. But I don't know. I wish he had told me. He was so wise and kind. It would have been a kindness to either let me die that night with the rest of them or to teach me what I am. He did something. And as much as I try to remember, all I see is smoke and darkness. His voice. Fire.

Those images stand in stark contrast to the winter chill of the city. It's cold enough that I can see Ness' breath forming a little cloud in front of her face. Luring her required no effort at all. I simply asked. She willingly followed. My nightingale. My beautiful, innocent, lost nightingale. I lead us through the city. My shortcuts surprise her. We walk through the old train yards. Atlanta was built on top of already abandoned tracks and roads. So for someone like me, it's the perfect playground.

We've walked in silence. Her delicate hand has reached out to my own with that careful question a few times. I dare not to answer. She wanted to see what I am and how I live. If I should truly die. So I took her here. The moment she sees, her hand won't be reaching out. Neither will her heart.

For her sake, I hope that she doesn't panic. Fear in humans triggers the hunter in me. It's instinctual and it's sudden and something I cannot control. I have half a mind of telling her. Don't be afraid. Whatever you do, don't be afraid. Don't run. If you run, you're dead. But it's like telling someone not to think of a pink elephant in the room. All they will be able to think about is...a large, pink elephant.

So silent walking it is.

The darkness shrouds us bit by bit. The old tracks lead deep into the underground halls. Long forgotten. No train has left this place in decades. They rumble above. Ness looks up at the noise and I can see her heartbeat pump blood through her pretty neck. Don't be afraid.

I move further. The old train cars stand dilapidated and forlorn. Graffiti and piss adorn them all with equal artistry. Here we go.

The rust-brown one is my current home. Long ago, when I started killing, I lived in the places of my...food. Picked the rich and powerful. But I kept having to run and being chased and burned. This way, people leave me alone and I can hide in the shadows as I wish.

I step into the doorway. Ness hesitates. Smart. She should turn around now and go home. She should pretend I'm not real and made up entirely.

"What is this?" She asks?

Oh I can hear the hesitation in her voice. It's not fear. But it's not confidence either.

I hand her the flashlight I stashed in the corner.

"So you can see better." I tell her.

"It smells funny."

I nod. Pausing.

"You don't have to go in if you don't want to. You can turn around and go home."

She looks at me straight. Open. It breaks my heart. My nightingale trusts me implicitly. If I told her to jump, she would jump. The one thing she wouldn't do, however, is turn around to safety and whatever life she knew.

She clicks on the flashlight. Dim and solemn the little light fights against the darkness of Pullman yard and its abandonment. I can see the dust particles dancing.

She steps inside.

I smell her inherent shock first. That rush of adrenaline through her heart and into every part of her body. The scent is electrifying. Not in a good way. For her.

Ness stumbles backward. Into me.

I knew she couldn't handle this.

My latest catch, so to say, is hung up by his feet. Arms slack to his sides. The old, sick man is shirtless and I put a bucket under his head before I split his neck wide open to let him bleed out. He's been here for a few days after I collected him on the subway and made sure he'd die soon regardless of my sudden...introduction into his life.

His name was John. He was 75 years old and had been a factory worker once. A long time ago. We talked for a long time while I bought him his favorite poison, whisky and he told me how he ended up on the streets. His family hadn't spoken to him for many years and alcohol had long been his closest companion.

I could smell death on him even before he ever told me that he was addicted to the bottle. A fatty liver shows and smells. So I asked him if he wanted to stick around. I remember him smiling broadly and shaking his head. I made it quick for him of course. Took him here. Laughed with him. Reminisced a bit about the wonderful years when he felt good. And then I killed him without him suspecting any danger. He never felt any pain.

But Ness sees his body swaying. Dirty, dark, and very dead. His milky eyes stare at her and she is hit with the full scent of decomposition. If you don't know that tell-tale mix, it smells sickly sweet. Like a Southern candy story by the river turned bad in the sun. Vile.

She stumbles back into me and I let her out of the train car. But her adrenaline is rising quickly. Dangerous. I hold myself back but I can feel it coming over me. The hunt. It's automatic. My eyes zone in and out of it. They shine silver when I kill.

I turn to watch my nightingale hyperventilate. Fear. That is fear on her. My eyes zone in on her and the world blurs.