The Cemetery Diaries
Paper Moths
Paper moths gather in a lantern sky, wafting along with in the greasy light spilling down the avenue. Batting wings like lashes, they wink the wink of a fresh night, fanning the flames of the district’s desire. This is a café strip from last century, hidden on the concrete underside of the city, sprouting umbrellas like mushrooms in between the throbbing entrances to clubs. It’s also the scene of a disaster much redder than any of the neon lights and candles lurking behind frosted windows.
I’m up to my ankles in blood, and I can’t remember how I got here. All I can hear playing through my head is Viggo’s story, the pattern of hunter becoming hunted, predator becoming prey. Nothing but a very old and powerful supernatural being could have demolished such a force in flesh as the vampire who had stolen my diary. I feel the hot, dry breath of the dying day rattle my bones, as easily as if I were a skeleton strung up like a macabre decoration, tethered to one of the slick lamp posts that bear Christmas cheer in tinsel. Nausea builds inside me like wave, curling sickly at its crest, spewing rabid froth. I stumble forward, and brace myself against the sidewalk as it springs up to meet me. The red puddles have gone sticky in the afternoon sun. They spatter my leather jacket, sinking into the white cotton of my t-shirt and the coarse denim of my jeans. My hands come away bright, as if it’s my fault I’m standing here, tipping off the edge of the world as the ground lurches sideways.
I call your name, but I only hear the echoes inside my head, ringing hollow. Tiger Lily, where has the world hidden you? Have you been swallowed by one of the city’s voracious mouths, the back alleys that yawn where the sun and the moonlight doesn’t reach? Then, I find you, twisted and broken, thrown aside like a doll. You are sheltered by an overhanging eave, crowded by a dumpster. Your eyes stare lifeless, forever paralysed by the fear that stopped your heart. I feel my hands crawling over your body like pale spiders, and my mouth tastes of salt and venom. I close your eyes as gently as I can, shutting out the blues and greens that no longer sparkle, the precious, jewelled pond that has gone stagnant and still. I cast around for your killer, but meet with only grubby brick, friezes long buried under archaeological layers of graffiti, dustbin lids, and a chain fence topped with barbed wire.
The screams go up before the sirens drown them out. People stop, and, steadily as the clotting of a weeping wound, a crowd forms. Police muscle forward, badges shining and uniforms patched with sweat. Their grim glasses reflect all the oranges of sundown, a Hell in each lens. By the time they make it to the front of the pack, you have gone to ashes, still steaming like the heaped detritus in a fire. Whispers erupt, travelling quickly. The words ‘spontaneous’ and ‘combustion’ are mentioned, and then the screams start all over again. At first, I can’t say why, but then I realise that I am the deer in the headlights. The screaming is in reaction to me, my torn clothing drinking in the red that covers me as though I am death’s canvas. I hear harsh barks, feel cold metal grasping my wrists, and tense. My flexed muscles easily shatter the handcuffs, knocking on officer off his feet. The woman with him has a gun pointed at me, and a look on her face that says she doesn’t know what I am. She thinks I’m a killer, when in reality I am far, far worse.
I bare my fangs, hoping that the crowd will misremember this part of my escape. The line of spectators falls back, gasping, and I make a run for it. I reach the fence and scale it noisily, ignoring the barbed wire, which is crushed like tin foil inside my fists, just another Christmas trimming. Out on the high street, I bolt. Heads turn, but none are fast enough to catch me. A tram rattles by, and I dart into the shadows with the cats, becoming nothing more than a blur pressed up against a wall. I strip off my jacket and bundle it under one arm, and from there I find my way back to my bike. It lies in wait in the hot sun, black and sleek, my wheels and my wings. As it takes off, I am cast into the sprawling night, a matrix of stars above me and a matrix below. I am alone– or so I hope. I am a life in words now, becoming more story than man, and paper is so fragile.
I’m up to my ankles in blood, and I can’t remember how I got here. All I can hear playing through my head is Viggo’s story, the pattern of hunter becoming hunted, predator becoming prey. Nothing but a very old and powerful supernatural being could have demolished such a force in flesh as the vampire who had stolen my diary. I feel the hot, dry breath of the dying day rattle my bones, as easily as if I were a skeleton strung up like a macabre decoration, tethered to one of the slick lamp posts that bear Christmas cheer in tinsel. Nausea builds inside me like wave, curling sickly at its crest, spewing rabid froth. I stumble forward, and brace myself against the sidewalk as it springs up to meet me. The red puddles have gone sticky in the afternoon sun. They spatter my leather jacket, sinking into the white cotton of my t-shirt and the coarse denim of my jeans. My hands come away bright, as if it’s my fault I’m standing here, tipping off the edge of the world as the ground lurches sideways.
I call your name, but I only hear the echoes inside my head, ringing hollow. Tiger Lily, where has the world hidden you? Have you been swallowed by one of the city’s voracious mouths, the back alleys that yawn where the sun and the moonlight doesn’t reach? Then, I find you, twisted and broken, thrown aside like a doll. You are sheltered by an overhanging eave, crowded by a dumpster. Your eyes stare lifeless, forever paralysed by the fear that stopped your heart. I feel my hands crawling over your body like pale spiders, and my mouth tastes of salt and venom. I close your eyes as gently as I can, shutting out the blues and greens that no longer sparkle, the precious, jewelled pond that has gone stagnant and still. I cast around for your killer, but meet with only grubby brick, friezes long buried under archaeological layers of graffiti, dustbin lids, and a chain fence topped with barbed wire.
The screams go up before the sirens drown them out. People stop, and, steadily as the clotting of a weeping wound, a crowd forms. Police muscle forward, badges shining and uniforms patched with sweat. Their grim glasses reflect all the oranges of sundown, a Hell in each lens. By the time they make it to the front of the pack, you have gone to ashes, still steaming like the heaped detritus in a fire. Whispers erupt, travelling quickly. The words ‘spontaneous’ and ‘combustion’ are mentioned, and then the screams start all over again. At first, I can’t say why, but then I realise that I am the deer in the headlights. The screaming is in reaction to me, my torn clothing drinking in the red that covers me as though I am death’s canvas. I hear harsh barks, feel cold metal grasping my wrists, and tense. My flexed muscles easily shatter the handcuffs, knocking on officer off his feet. The woman with him has a gun pointed at me, and a look on her face that says she doesn’t know what I am. She thinks I’m a killer, when in reality I am far, far worse.
I bare my fangs, hoping that the crowd will misremember this part of my escape. The line of spectators falls back, gasping, and I make a run for it. I reach the fence and scale it noisily, ignoring the barbed wire, which is crushed like tin foil inside my fists, just another Christmas trimming. Out on the high street, I bolt. Heads turn, but none are fast enough to catch me. A tram rattles by, and I dart into the shadows with the cats, becoming nothing more than a blur pressed up against a wall. I strip off my jacket and bundle it under one arm, and from there I find my way back to my bike. It lies in wait in the hot sun, black and sleek, my wheels and my wings. As it takes off, I am cast into the sprawling night, a matrix of stars above me and a matrix below. I am alone– or so I hope. I am a life in words now, becoming more story than man, and paper is so fragile.