dying. It’s even worse when I’m back home, seeing it happen to Cassie and my parents, so it’s not like I can move back there again either.
That’s when I decide it’s time to track down the woman who turned me.
It’s harder than I think. I don’t really know where to start. Because she found me outside a concert at the Civic Centre, I spend most of December and January going to the clubs and concerts, thinking it’s my best chance. Zaphod Beeblebrox 2 closes down at the end of November, but Barrymore’s is still just up the street from where I live, so I drop in there almost every night, sliding past the doorman like I’m not even there. I can almost be invisible if I don’t want to be noticed—don’t ask me how that works. That’s probably why I can’t find the woman, but I don’t give up trying.
I frequent the Market area, checking out the Rainbow and the Mercury Lounge, the original Zaphod’s and places like that. Cool places where I think she might hang out. I go to the National Arts Centre for classical recitals and the Anti-Land Mines concert in early December. To Centrepoint Theatre in Nepean. Further west to the Corel Centre. I even catch a ride up to Wakefield, to the Black Sheep Inn, for a few concerts.
This calls for more serious cash than I can get from my salary at the coffee shop and the meager tips we share there, so I take to lifting the wallets of my victims, leaving them with less cash as well as less blood. My self esteem’s taking a nose dive, what with already being depressed, making no headway on finding the woman, and having become this petty criminal as well as the occasional murderer—I ended up having to kill another guy when I discovered he was raping his little sister and I got so mad, I just drained him.
It’s weird. I exude confidence—I know I do from other people’s reactions to me, and it’s not like I’m unaware of how well I can take care of myself. But my internal life’s such a mess that sometimes I can’t figure out how I make it through the day with my mind still in one piece. I feel like such a loser.
I have this to look forward to forever?
Cassie’s the only one who picks up on it.
“What’s the matter?” she asks when I stop by for a visit during her Christmas holidays.
“Nothing,” I tell her.
“Right. That’s why you’re so mopey whenever I see you.” She doesn’t look at me for a moment. When she does look back, she has this little wrinkle between her eyes. “It’s because of me, isn’t it? Because I didn’t want to become a . . . to be like . . . ”
“Me,” I say, filling in for her. “A monster.”
“You’re not a monster.”
“So what am I? Nothing anybody else’d ever choose to be.”
“You didn’t choose to be it either,” she says.
“No kidding. And I don’t blame you. Who’d ever want to be like this?”
She doesn’t have an answer and neither do I.
Then one frosty January evening I’m walking home from the coffee shop and I see her sitting at a window table of the Royal Oak. I stop and look at her through the glass, struck again by how gorgeous she is, how no one else seems to be aware of it, of her. I go inside when she beckons to me. Today she’s casual chic: jeans, a black cotton sweater, cowboy boots. Like me, she probably doesn’t feel the cold anymore, but she has a winter coat draped over the back of her chair. There’s a pint glass in front of her, half full of amber beer.
“Have a seat,” she says, indicating the empty chair across from her.
I do. I don’t know what to do with my hands. I don’t know where to look. I want to stare at her. I want to pretend I’m cool, that this is no big deal. But it is.
“I’ve been looking for you,” I finally say.
“Have you now.”
I nod. Ignoring the hint of amusement in her eyes, I start to ask, “I need to know—”
“No, don’t tell me,” she says, interrupting. “Let me guess. First you tried to turn . . . oh,
That’s when I decide it’s time to track down the woman who turned me.
It’s harder than I think. I don’t really know where to start. Because she found me outside a concert at the Civic Centre, I spend most of December and January going to the clubs and concerts, thinking it’s my best chance. Zaphod Beeblebrox 2 closes down at the end of November, but Barrymore’s is still just up the street from where I live, so I drop in there almost every night, sliding past the doorman like I’m not even there. I can almost be invisible if I don’t want to be noticed—don’t ask me how that works. That’s probably why I can’t find the woman, but I don’t give up trying.
I frequent the Market area, checking out the Rainbow and the Mercury Lounge, the original Zaphod’s and places like that. Cool places where I think she might hang out. I go to the National Arts Centre for classical recitals and the Anti-Land Mines concert in early December. To Centrepoint Theatre in Nepean. Further west to the Corel Centre. I even catch a ride up to Wakefield, to the Black Sheep Inn, for a few concerts.
This calls for more serious cash than I can get from my salary at the coffee shop and the meager tips we share there, so I take to lifting the wallets of my victims, leaving them with less cash as well as less blood. My self esteem’s taking a nose dive, what with already being depressed, making no headway on finding the woman, and having become this petty criminal as well as the occasional murderer—I ended up having to kill another guy when I discovered he was raping his little sister and I got so mad, I just drained him.
It’s weird. I exude confidence—I know I do from other people’s reactions to me, and it’s not like I’m unaware of how well I can take care of myself. But my internal life’s such a mess that sometimes I can’t figure out how I make it through the day with my mind still in one piece. I feel like such a loser.
I have this to look forward to forever?
Cassie’s the only one who picks up on it.
“What’s the matter?” she asks when I stop by for a visit during her Christmas holidays.
“Nothing,” I tell her.
“Right. That’s why you’re so mopey whenever I see you.” She doesn’t look at me for a moment. When she does look back, she has this little wrinkle between her eyes. “It’s because of me, isn’t it? Because I didn’t want to become a . . . to be like . . . ”
“Me,” I say, filling in for her. “A monster.”
“You’re not a monster.”
“So what am I? Nothing anybody else’d ever choose to be.”
“You didn’t choose to be it either,” she says.
“No kidding. And I don’t blame you. Who’d ever want to be like this?”
She doesn’t have an answer and neither do I.
Then one frosty January evening I’m walking home from the coffee shop and I see her sitting at a window table of the Royal Oak. I stop and look at her through the glass, struck again by how gorgeous she is, how no one else seems to be aware of it, of her. I go inside when she beckons to me. Today she’s casual chic: jeans, a black cotton sweater, cowboy boots. Like me, she probably doesn’t feel the cold anymore, but she has a winter coat draped over the back of her chair. There’s a pint glass in front of her, half full of amber beer.
“Have a seat,” she says, indicating the empty chair across from her.
I do. I don’t know what to do with my hands. I don’t know where to look. I want to stare at her. I want to pretend I’m cool, that this is no big deal. But it is.
“I’ve been looking for you,” I finally say.
“Have you now.”
I nod. Ignoring the hint of amusement in her eyes, I start to ask, “I need to know—”
“No, don’t tell me,” she says, interrupting. “Let me guess. First you tried to turn . . . oh,
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