said.
"You're the only one who has," said Gordon. He looked back at the room and the others who had drifted off into their own pursuits. "Not a very friendly bunch, are they?"
"They are, in their own way," she said. "You've got to remember that none of us is particularly happy to be in the situation we're in."
"You think I am?" retorted Gordon. "I didn't ask for this." His eyes flashed angrily again. "This is the last place I want to be. This is the last life I want to be living."
"None of us did," said Carrie softly. "I lost my family."
He was instantly apologetic. "I'm sorry. I didn't think."
"It's okay," said Carrie. "You didn't know." After a moment, she asked, "Do you have anybody in the real world?"
He thought briefly and then shook his head. "No, not really. There was a girlfriend, but we'd broken up before…this."
"Sorry."
"No worries. It was over long ago. And now it doesn't matter, does it? I don't suppose we'll ever have that experience again, will we?"
Carrie thought about that. All those stories about vampires that had been written, telling of immortal love, the fantastic romances that the undead seemed to be able to have. Twilight. Interview With The Vampire. All those star-crossed lovers, fated to be either apart forever, or to enjoy eternal togetherness. How foolish they all seemed to Carrie now. She didn't think she could ever feel romantic about anything again.
"No, I suppose not," she said. "It seems so impossible now, doesn't it?"
He nodded. "Very."
They both fell silent then. They had exhausted anything they could think of to talk about. He smiled sadly, and took a seat near the never-off television set, and fixed it with a glassy, thousand-yard stare, lost in his own thoughts like all the rest.
Carrie took her usual seat by the window and looked out at the deserted downtown street, barren of light, barren of life, barren of hope.
Just like me, she thought. Just like me.
Gareth had just turned out the porch light as Carrie stood waiting in the grove by the house. Soon, it would be her chance.
All day long, she had stood in the dappled shade of a tall oak by her children's school, enduring the dull, constant pain of the filtered sunlight, her skin darkening from its normal pale white to a grotesque patchwork of shades of brown. But it was worth it; she'd seen both Gemma and Gavin at recess. Watching their carefree joy at running and playing, talking with friends, and reveling in the sun that had caused her so much grief acted as a buoyant counterpoint to her depression.
And now, as she waited in the darkening twilight, she could see the family that had once been hers seated around the dinner table. Gareth, an apron still hanging around his neck, bowed his head to say grace. Gemma, auburn hair radiant in the light, looking up at him from beneath her lowered eyes with a reverence that Carrie had once felt, admiring the selfless doctor who’d cooked dinner for them "all by himself." Something Carrie had done for years—without ever getting the same kind of look.
Gavin, bowed head bobbing as he played with the peas on his plate, ignoring the severity of the moment. Gavin, the embodiment of Carrie's former spirit, a happy-go-lucky soul in the body of a little boy.
It was all so beautiful. So out of reach. Lost to Carrie forever.
Later, when they had all gone to bed, Carrie carefully crept to the front door, retrieving the key in its usual place from under the doormat. She opened the door silently, and walked to Gemma's room.
Her daughter lay there in her bed, that marvelous hair spread around her head on the pillow, framing that beautiful face. She looked so peaceful, so full of life. Carrie bent down to kiss her gently on her forehead, and was surprised at the strange tingling she felt throughout her body. It was a feeling that was somehow familiar, but disturbing. She stood up quickly, afraid that she might wake the sleeping girl, but Gemma remained undisturbed, a faint smile on her lips.
Carrie stepped out of the bedroom quietly and went down the hall to what had been her own room with Gareth. He lay in their bed, linens wrapped crazily around his legs. He'd gone back to the thrashing sleep he'd experienced before Carrie's presence had "settled him down," as he put it. She looked down at him, a wry smile on her face. His face was troubled, and he mouthed silent words as he struggled with some sort of nightmare. Serves you right, you scumbag, she thought. I hope your dreams are as miserable as my waking life.
Then it was across the hall to Gavin’s room. He lay quietly snuggled in his Winnie-the-Pooh sheets, face angelic in the warm glow of the nightlight that he insisted remain on throughout his slumbers. He’d always been bothered by frightening dreams, until Carrie suggested the nightlight, and from then on, he’d been undisturbed in the evenings.
Her "baby" was growing into a little man now. His face was a combination of the best of Gareth and Carrie: a strong jaw softened by gently rounded cheeks and a smooth brow, an elfin nose that gave his face a playful look and spoke of the humor his flashing blue eyes conveyed. He was a beautiful child; her favorite, despite what she told the rest of the family. She said she loved them all equally, but it wasn't true—her heart belonged to Gavin. He was everything that Carrie had loved in the husband that had once been: spontaneous, joyful, affectionate. Gareth had had those qualities once, but had since disappeared into his career, forsaking happiness for success.
And so it had come to this. To a family torn apart by unfaithfulness and lust, and a mother turned into a revolting, undead creature of the night. Carrie felt tears rolling down her cheeks as she bent to kiss her sleeping son.
She experienced a strange sense of detachment, as if she were looking at herself from outside her body. She saw Gavin's jugular vein, pulsing with the boy's heartbeat, and felt a flush warm her from her chest to her head. She felt her fangs appear, saliva filling her mouth and overflowing her lips, to drip onto Gavin's neck. This couldn't happen! This was her son!
She realized what was happening, and though her mind was aware of it and rebelled, sick at what she was contemplating, her body was controlling her actions. In her head, she pulled away from her son's neck, and ran for the door—but in reality, her vampire's body bent ever closer to the rich, dark liquid that lay so tantalizingly close. As her mouth closed around the boy's slender neck, he awoke, and wide-eyed, took in the monster that had been his mother.
He screamed.
And that was enough. Enough of the human being that Carrie had been remained; she drew back, eyes brimming with tears, and looked for the last time on the face of her terrified son.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "Gavin, I'm so sorry. I love you."
The screams continued, until it seemed that Gavin would tear his vocal cords apart. Carrie covered her ears, but she couldn't shut the awful noise out.
And so she ran. She ran as fast as she could, as far away as she could, and wound up at the only place she knew where she could be safe and kept away from her family: The Belfry.
"I want to die the Real Death," she told them.
"Carrie, think about what you're saying," said Doc Peterson. "You've had a shock. You're not thinking straight."
Her eyes blazed in that strange, piebald face. Her looks had shocked even von Somogyi. "I know what I'm thinking," she hissed. "I nearly Drank from my nine-year-old son!"
"It happens," said Gus. "We all had families once. You need to learn to control yourself."
She looked around at all of them, tears streaming down her cheeks. "You, me—we're all monsters! You don't—we can't—control this! We kill people! We either turn them into monsters themselves, or we burn them up!! How do you control that?"
"I want to die!!"
Gordon reached out to Carrie and wrapped her in his arms. She shuddered against his shoulders, wracked with sobs. "When?" he asked her.
"Now. Today."
He chained her waist to a lamppost a block away. He started to tie her hands with a rope, but she said "No need for that, Gordon. I won't try to get away."
There was
an alley nearby, with access to an empty warehouse with painted windows; he could keep an eye on her from the alley and duck into the warehouse if the sun got too strong. Even now, the rosy glow of dawn in the east caused an uncomfortable prickling on his skin.
"Are you sure about this?" he asked her.
She turned to look at him, the streaks of her tears showing stark against the lurid patchwork of her mottled skin. "I'm sure. I have nothing left to live for," she said quietly. "This is the right thing to do."
"Carrie, I'm sorry," Gordon said. "This should never…you don't…"
She chuckled wryly. "This should never have happened to me? I don't deserve this? Who does? Who deserves to live anyway? Do any of us?" She scoffed. "Look around you at this city: who among all these sorry creatures deserves to live? We do nothing but consume, despoil, and pollute. None of us deserves to live!"
"I won't believe that," said Gordon. "There's some good in each of us."
She laughed scornfully. "You go on believing that, Gordon." She gasped in pain as the first rays of light streamed over the buildings onto the street. She looked from the advancing flow of sunlight to Gordon. "Time to go," she said.
"Carrie—" he began, but she stopped him with a hand on his lips.
"Time to go," she repeated.
The sun had reached the edge of the street; it was all Gordon could do to stand there for a moment longer. He kissed the top of her head. "Goodbye, Carrie."
She smiled, and