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Wanting The End

This was the first story I ever had published, in a chap book called JAVA JUNKIES, there were about 3K printed and handed out to coffee shops that had their own coupons in it. I was paid $50.

You can barely tell I was in my Doors/Anne Rice period.

this is circa 1995.

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WANTING THE END
by Jodi Davis


Music. I love it; love the pain of it, the mystery, and the longing of it. The way it can wrap you up in it and let you down someplace entirely new.

That night cruising Venice, Venice Beach, Los Angeles, I heard a music that overwhelmed me. Overwhelmed because my ears, as sensitive as they are, did not hear it, it was sensed only. Even then, at that early age, the music within him, the music of language was fully realized and genius.

He stood under a palm tree. In dirty denim pants and a ragged tee shirt looking out at the ocean over the bonfires where other mortals cavorted.

I let him know I was there. I saw him take in the sleek black leather clothing I had chosen for the evening, glance back up to the hair that was a mess as always. He stopped at my eyes for a long minute and then glanced away. He was always painfully shy, it was only later he learned to hide it.

I took him by the hand as I walked by; he smiled that crooked smile at me and acquiesced to my will. Not surrendered, helplessly, he made a decision to do it, because as always he needed to know where a thing would lead. That moment is when I fell in love.

Fell in love, such a silly mortal statement, but that was what it was, as much as I denied and struggled against it, I was bound. Mesmerized by him and his talent the same as any mortal victim is mesmerized by me and my hunger.

At night we were together constantly. As dawn approached I would leave my mortal boy to sleep. He could keep up with me in the night time hours as well as any I have ever known. I would burrow deep in the Los Angeles hills, near the homes of the wealthy, and sometimes under the Hollywood sign itself, under the H seemed appropriate.

At dusk, I would rush to feed, feasting upon the delicate lovelies who should have left the beaches before the sun. The reeking human vermin asleep in out of the way places would also suffice. It didn't matter as long as I could get it over quickly, fast food as it was, and return to my boy. I don't think the hunt ever meant less to me then during those years, a means to an end and that was all.

He would be with his "band" then, rehearsing for the "big gig." I just laughed and kissed him when he talked like that. Sometimes I would wait above, on the roof or in the air, listening. Sometimes in the hot studio with its peeling padded walls. I was as content as I have ever been.

Then was the night of the "gig" and I began to understand something I had not even sought to comprehend. He stood there with his back to the audience, singing to me, his stare piercing me where I stood. I felt, through him, the wave of feeling, of emotion, from the crowd. He feed on it. It gave him life. He was one of us - not in the blood, but in true essence.

And he was so beautiful, so... full and vibrant. Then he turned back to them, and left me with - the thought, the terrible thought, of what a grand vampire he would make.

For many years after that, I struggled with it. I would leave in a rage. Full of anger for letting the thought invade my mind, for wanting it so much, for fearing it so much. Vowing never to set eyes on him again, and then months later I would be back, finding him. We would be together again for blissful nights until the thought came to me again.

He used the drugs while I was away, as a substitute for me, telling me, he must always be addicted to something. One night, after my longest absence from him yet, I came to find him in one of those states, when he was high yet lucid. He hugged me, pulling me down to him and describing to me, in perfect detail, exactly what I was.

I was angry. He knew what I was, yes, but in the words it took to speak it, not the gruesome reality. I grabbed him up and took him to watch me hunt.

A young woman, almost still a girl, we found her walking in the sand. Thoughts full of the melodramatic agony of young lost love. Quietly I came from behind. As my arms slid around her and drew her into my embrace my mind stroked hers and soothed its ache until she was blissful and oblivious. Then with him watching, I took her, sinking into the small hollow of the neck that calls to me and brutalizing it, drinking the deep draught that he may know it all, the agony and the ecstasy. I let myself become fully sated before I let her drop from my arms.

Only then did I look up at him. He was so close and in his eyes the true awareness of the thing that I was, completely what I was. With blood still on my lips, he pulled me close to his heart and kissed me. Such a gesture, how could any of you not love a mortal like that? It was after that when the question started, and it tore at me because I had a question of my own.

For the next five years it went on. We would lie together and he would run his hands through my hair and ask, "I want death, but only if I can give it to you. Will you take it?"

"You are the darkest child, James." I would whisper, my voice choking on immortal tears, "I want your life, but eternally, not just as a parting gift, I would make you one with me." He would smile that crooked smile and kiss the blood tears from my face, but never did he falter in his decision. His will was as strong as mine, and in the end, stronger.

After several more years, when it no longer amused him to give his talent to the greedy mortals who hungered for it, we went to Paris. I didn't want to go, the place had so many bad memories for me, even then, but he wanted Paris. In the end I could not deny him, anything it seems.

Finally not a night would go by that he didn't ask, never pleading, never crying, just one simple question that ripped my heart out every time I heard it.

Then three days and nights that are a blur to me. Nights of hunting, hunting the bars where the poets pulled him into their smoky embrace, releasing him only more sure of his need to know The End.
Days of sleeping. I took him to my lair under the Basilique, he took little red pills and slept with me, curled together as two mortal lovers might. During those sleeping hours that I had never shared with another, during those waking hours that were a bliss of haze and longing, I realized the truth.
How could a creature that wanted death so much, ever be brought into eternal life? To take away forever the thing he wanted? To see the love in his eyes turn to immortal hatred? To call it love instead of my selfish need for him. Then rightly or wrongly I decided what I had to do, what could be my only choice if I truly loved him.

On the third night, when he asked his question, I brushed the lion's mane of his hair out of his eyes, and then away from his neck. He smiled that crooked smile at me and then all I saw was the skin of his neck, the pulse beating, and lovingly, tenderly I engulfed him and drew the blood from his body until his heart beat no more.

I carried him back to the apartment we had rented and removed his clothing. Gently I bathed him. I bit my finger and let a drop of the blood fall upon the bite on his neck and watched as it slowly closed. I have never left evidence of a kill, and even in my grief, some instinct kept me from leaving it now.

I left him there in the bathtub, his head back and the locks of his hair falling away from his face in the loveliest way. It was too much, I fled then.

I did not stop till I reached Venice, Venice, Italy this time. Till I reached St. Marks, till I was deep in the earth beneath the altar, till I realized that in death, my dearest love had the same crooked smile on his face that in life had meant delight.

That was thirty years ago, long have I slept beneath the cathedral. In my deep sleeping dreams, I have come to realize that if I had to do it all over; I would have given him a hundred years to get over it and then taught him the joy of life.

As I walk among the streets of Venice, moldier than I remember, and smellier than I remember, I probe at the pain like fingers on an open wound. It still hurts, this place in my heart where he was. I think I will live, yes, I'm sure I will, as if I had a choice. Sometimes, when you live forever, you make a few mistakes.

THE END


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Comments

( 4 comments — Leave a comment )
(Anonymous)
Dec. 30th, 2005 12:38 am (UTC)
Wow
That was beautiful. Thank you for sharing it! I look forward to reading more of your stories.

Gigi
jodi_davis
Dec. 30th, 2005 01:14 am (UTC)
Re: Wow
Thanks GiGi!
(Anonymous)
Dec. 31st, 2005 04:53 pm (UTC)
Powerful
Checking out your blog and your writing, I'm seeing new sides of you, Jodi. I knew you were talented as a screenwriter, and I knew you were a technically-sklled, take charge person who is also a lot of fun, but I didn't know how beautifully you write prose. I'm impressed yet again.

Happy new year,

Joan
jodi_davis
Dec. 31st, 2005 07:08 pm (UTC)
Re: Powerful
Thanks Joan - You've always been a great fan of my work and the feeling is mutual - more important a really good friend - thank you for coming by, it means a lot to me!
( 4 comments — Leave a comment )

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