Song For A Suicide

"Perfect night to die", kept running through my head. I knew how I was going to do it, too. One of the abandoned railway bridges over the river. There was a wall, crumbling decaying cement, wide enough to sit comfortably up there, high above the water below; I'd sit there and have a drink, listen to some tunes on my disc-man, and when the moment was right, take a razor-blade and slice through the veins in my left forearm, vertical and diagonal, elbow to wrist, the way you do it when your not fucking around. Old school Roman style. Thinking about it got me excited, almost sexually, but not quite. And then I'd watch my blood run out into the channel below until I grew dizzy and fell forward. My corpse would wash up on one of the little islets in the river, all bloodless in ruined black velvet, my hair like a torn black veil, but by then I wouldn't care. I'd be miles away. Long gone.

I walked there, just after sunset, a mile or so from where I lived, in my black leather trousers and Docs, black velvet Gothic poet's shirt, long leather trench-coat, backpack over my shoulder, and when I got there, oh you can't understand the feeling. It was incredible. I felt so damn alive and everything was bright and vibrant, I loved it all again, but I knew it was only because I was about to leave it. That's why, in case you're wondering. Because nothing mattered anymore. Not since he left. It was all one bleak barren landscape of grey, and I was checking out.

I should have remembered the line from that ancient song- 'You can check out anytime you like but you can never leave.'

I climbed out onto the part of the wall overlooking the dead center of the river, and then scrambled down onto the ledge, so the wall would hide me from any chance passerby's view, and I sat, leaned back, and opened the bottle I'd poured my homemade absinthe into, a dark black bottle for a dark green drink that smelled of licorice and tasted as bitter as my soul. I drank it anyhow, forcing down the terrible tasting swallows, wanting the feeling. Or maybe just wanting to torture myself with the taste of it; I managed half a dozen big gulps of the stuff, then dropped the bottle, watching it splash into the water below and bob to the surface, and wondering if I would do the same when I fell.

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I laughed for the sheer exotic thrill of facing my death, and hell I didn't want to wait. I shrugged my left arm out of the sleeve of the trench, and pushed up the sleeve of the shirt, got out the still wrapped razorblade and tore off the paper cover, and pressed the sharp edge against the pulse in the inside of my elbow. Counted to three, and ripped into my flesh with the blade. It hurt like fire, worse, and I was biting my bottom lip so hard to not scream I felt my teeth pop through the layer of skin on my lip and blood run down my chin, but I didn't stop, because this may sound insane because the pain was so intense it felt good, too, or not good, but too vital to miss out on. Besides I'd hate myself worse if I'd stopped because it hurt, so I dragged down on the razorblade as hard and fast as I could, all the way to my wrist. I was bleeding so fast, I slid my arm back into the sleeve of the trenchcoat and watched the blood run out of it, falling unseen now in the growing darkness into the blackness of the deep water below.

I licked my bloodied lip and savored the pain and the smell of the river and the night and the sight of the lights of the city beyond and waited for Death to come and take me up in his arms and hold me close, the last lover I would ever have.

And He did.

I blinked, and looked around, flickering light, soft, a candle? Shadows, darkness, this was death? Shit, I was still wet. I hated being wet. Death didn't have to be wet, did it? I couldn't seem to think, or focus. Laying on something hard.. A tomb? Stone, yes. And the voice. Was that Death's voice? Water ran into my eyes and I couldn't keep them open anymore, too heavy. And then the pain in my arm flared bright white hot, worse even then when I'd sliced and then the blackness came down.

When I woke the second time, I was dry, and for that I was unreasonably grateful all out of proportion to the fact. Also naked, under a soft thick blanket, and on what felt like a bed. There was no light, and as my thoughts swam into focus, and my fingers found the line of the wound I'd given myself, I was forced to the unwelcome conclusion that I was not dead after all. I doubt Death would have neatly sutured that cut, with dozens of little knots running up from my skin like some frankenstein's wet dream.

I turned, trying to sit up, though the quilt felt unreasonably heavy, and then I heard the footsteps, velvet soft, across the floor toward me. My heart began to pound in fear of this unseen presence, and then I took a deep breath, saying in my mind, 'Nothing can hurt you. You chose to be dead so there's nothing to fear.' Except I must have murmured it aloud, because the voice, soft and silk and deep as night, spoke from right next to me, "Nothing to fear, nothing at all.." And then strong hands and arms were around me, helping me to sit, and a glass pressed to my lips; I was thirsty, definitely, I gulped at what was offered, something sweet over a metallic taste, like honey, something flavored to over-sweetness, and almost that thick, until it was gone, and then I felt his lips, hard and chill, as cold, almost, as the river had been, brushing against my cheek, and a stirring under the covers as he slid in next to me, this unseen one who had, apparently, saved me from my chosen death; anger flared, at that, then he pulled me close to him, and despite the coldness of his body against mine, all there was then was desire.

I moaned, tracing fingers over his hard, defined chest, over smooth satin skin, and tried to get my weak pathetic body to move so I could have more of him, my cock somehow managing to rise even though I couldn't have had much blood left. I felt his lips again, against mine, just for a moment, and lock of his hair, so soft, smelling of myrrh, fell across my face, and then he whispered, "Sleep.. Sleep, until the night, beautiful.."

Sleep? He was insane. I couldn't possibly, sleep was the last thing I wanted, I'd never manage sleep; that thought faded into one of simple wonder: he called me beautiful? And then there were no more thoughts, as, apparently he knew me better than I knew myself, and the veil of unconsciousness came down and I drifted away in the arms of mystery.

I woke, and had to piss. Badly. I blinked my eyes open, and looked around. A single candle lit the room, dimly, leaving everything in shadow. Whoever my mysterious rescuer was, he was not here, now. There were no windows, and only the bed, an antique four poster, heavy dark wood with crimson bedclothes, and a wardrobe, nightstand, and dressing table with mirror for furnishings. The hardwood floor was cold against my bare feet. I passed the mirror on my way to the door, moving slowly, still weak, though I knew, somehow, not as much as I should have been; my reflection was startling, my hair tangled and so black against my flesh, gone starkly white with blood-loss, dark circles of bruised shadow around my eyes in the dim light; the first door I tried, was, fortunately, the bathroom, with a huge claw=footed ancient bathtub and something equally as old, something I had never seen, an old fashioned toilet with its tank at the ceiling and a pull chain to flush. I relieved myself, feeling considerably better afterwards, and then pulled the chain; nothing happened at all except a gurgling noise and a banging deep within the old pipes. It must be a guest room, I figured, and no ones used this bathroom in fifty years or more.

As I was walking back into the bedroom, he was walking in from the hall.

He was so very remarkable. So beautiful. How could he possibly have called me that, knowing what he himself looked like. He was tall, a head taller than me, at least, and well muscled under a black turtleneck and plain black dress trousers, his hair was long, and auburn mixed with fire and gold, and it framed a face so perfect I caught my breath just staring at him, delicate aristocratic features, sensual mouth a barest pink in contrast to the ivory skin, and his eyes, I fell into his eyes and never cared if I saw anything else again, ever- emerald green, no, a color that emeralds would envy vainly until they burst in shame. Fierce, piercing, dissecting eyes, a gaze that would flay me to my soul, and then in the next moment amused as he stepped toward me, burning with the warmth of green alien suns...

I couldn't help it, how I wanted him, but realizing that I was naked and my dick was standing at attention and making it perfectly clear for him to see, I felt my skin grow hot, and then hotter still, as he stood just in front of me, smiling in apparent delight, and then he was draping an arm around my shoulders and steering me to the bed, and I was absurdly, ridiculously, glad that I was not dead after all.

A wave of dizziness rushed over me, and I all but collapsed in his arms, but he held me up, firmly, strong arms around me.

He was gone, then, as soon as I was back safely lying beneath the covers, and that loss seemed as sharp as the blade had. I wanted, oh how I wanted. Before too very long, or perhaps I simply was not reckoning time's passage accurately, I heard his footsteps on the un-carpeted hall, and then he was back, so beautiful, his elegance incongruous with the tray of soup, crackers, and a glass of water. He set the tray down, and sat on the bed with me, helping me to sit, holding me upright cradled back against him, as I ate what he had brought me.

He spoke then, after I'd taken a dozen bites, "I am Alexander Valdez, and you, I took the liberty of checking your wallet, I do hope you don't mind, are Stefan. This is my home, as you may have guessed, "he laughed softly, such a wondrously lovely sound, then asked, "Why? A beautiful young man, with all his life ahead of him?"

I really did not know how to reply, so said the first thing that came to mind, "It all seemed really pointless, and I've always been what.. someone once called `half in love with death."

"And perhaps Death is half in love with you, Stefan," he murmured, softly, though I did not understand, then, what he meant; I finished my meal in silence, as he said not another word, and I was content simply to rest there in his arms.

I must have fallen asleep again shortly after the soup was gone, for when I awoke I felt that some time had passed, though again, with no clock to tell by, I could not be certain; Alexander lay beside me, naked as I, now, but simply watching me, by the light of the single candle. His cold lips on mine were a surprise, but what a delicious one; I felt suddenly strong, and well again, and very, very aroused as the kiss deepened in intensity. There was no question at all, as his hands moved over my body, cold as ice but hotter than any flame, who was in charge; I did not mind in the least, I surrendered to him, gladly, to bites on my throat and sharp nails dragging over my sides, fingers twisting my nipples until they burned.

He entered me with no gentleness at all, knowing, somehow, what I wanted as he thrust his cock into me in one stroke. Pain, sharp, intense, tearing my ass apart, ripping me to shreds, such beautiful pain, pleasure, right on its heels, him inside of me, moving slowly at first and then faster, fucking me down to my soul, kissing me as if he meant to devour me, such overwhelming ecstasy, moans, my sounds of bliss, and my shouts of fulfillment when I came. Never had I felt so utterly taken, so overwhelmed, undone, or so completely filled with joy as if I would die from the mere perfection of it. And then Alexander looked into my eyes, and I saw, with horror, that his eyes were covered with a hazy film, as of tears, but red, deep crimson, blood. Still I did not struggle, as the shock was replaced by a sense of fearful wonder. He whispered, "Stefan, I am so sorry.. But I cannot bear to lose you now."

His cock was still inside of me, still hard, and he thrust into me, as he bent over me, and sang sharp dagger-like fangs into my throat, and the pleasure of that was nothing I will ever have the words to describe, except that I was dying, as he made love to me and swallowed my life's blood by the mouthful, and it was the most beautiful experience of my life. The blackness swept the pleasure away, or transformed it to another sort of bliss, with the caress of gentle tides, and I gave myself up to it, feeling my spirit and flesh detaching from one another as my death approached only moments away. I embraced it, gladly, or it did me.

Then fire filled my mouth, and I gulped at it, feeling it burn into my throat, another mouthful, and another. When I opened my eyes, Alexander was watching me with a look of sorrow and gladness intermingled, both infinite in depth, no longer within me, though his lips were still traced with my blood; he held me as the pains of mortal death shook me like a puppy with a rag, and wiped away my tears with gentle fingers. "Welcome to forever, Stefan, welcome to the death that never ends," he said, and he smiled.

Now, I am Death, also, as is Alexander, whom I love, and who loves me; we are inseparable, and this existence, which he tells me was meant as a curse and a punishment to the first of our kind, long long ago, is to me only joy. We hunt together, and the blood of our victims is the sweetest wine, we fight together when any other vampires threaten us, he teaches me new wonders with each passing night, and makes love to me so sweetly it heats the coldness of my undead flesh as if warmed by a hundred of the suns that I may never again see. For the blood is the life, and the love I have had for Death has brought me to a fulfillment of all that I longed for but never tasted as a mortal man, and if this be eternity, I embrace it, and gladly, with gratitude, and joy.

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