A short story about Sexual Vampirism.

written by Paul Hart-Wilden

Traffic, both pedestrian and vehicular, was thin on the street. Barber turned up the collar on his overcoat and moved casually onto the next shop front, admiring the elegant line of the garment but making sure not to look up so far as to catch the reflection of his high forehead with its rapidly retreating thatch of straight blonde hair. He was in no hurry, he’d already locked onto a hopeful target. Up ahead a young man stood in a shop doorway. Fitz dug his hands into the pockets of his jacket, he looked like he was waiting for someone. Barber was hoping that someone would be him.
Slowly Barber approached, savouring each step nearer to the young man. He paused, less than ten feet, hesitating mid-step. Fitz turned his head, almost moving in slow motion, a well practised manoeuvre allowing the light to play across his exquisitely chiselled cheekbones. Barber quickly turned away, looking in the shop window, feeling his cheeks burning red. Fitz smiled to himself… bashful that was good.
Barber could feel his heart beating in his chest, the blood surging round his body - most f it collecting in his cheeks. Even in the black and white reflection from the shop window he could see the redness engulfing his face. It was to late to withdraw now, contact had already been established. Slowly Barber, continuing to look in the window, moved towards the doorway. Again he stopped, little more than a couple of feet from Fitz, no longer a part of a subtle build up but precious seconds to regain his composure. Fitz stared at Barber, a subtle smile playing on his lips.
‘Hi.’
Barber jumped as if woken from a dream.
‘Looking for anything special?’
There was no going back now, no matter how stupid his rosy cheeks made him feel.
‘N-no. Just looking.’ Fitz turned away, looking out across the street where a couple of noisy teenagers had exploded from the chip shop. Barber continued to hang by the window, glancing nervously towards Fitz who was now looking elsewhere. Hearing laughter from across the street, Barber looked into the glass and saw the two youths who had attracted Fitz’s attention. He couldn’t lose this one, the spreading stiffness between his thighs told him that.
‘Are you waiting for someone?’ There, he’d said it. It was up to this fine young Adonis to respond.
‘Maybe.’ The indifference in his voice cut Barber to the quick. He couldn’t lose him, there was something too special… an aura.
‘It's just that I was going for a coffee. W-would you like to join me?’
The smile that accompanied the reply made Barber go weak at the knees.
‘Sure.’

The small café was devoid of customers until Barber lead Fitz in through the door. With his brand new overcoat laying across an empty chair beside them, Barber could hardly take his eyes off Fitz as he sipped from his cappuccino. Fitz left a thin moustache of froth on his top lip. He deftly removed it with the tip of a finger which then disappeared between his partly open lips, where his tongue swiftly removed the offending detritus.
‘I haven't seen you around before. I usually get to see people a few times before they make an approach.’
Barber felt an unexpected twinge of jealousy at the thought of being only one in a long line.
‘I… I thought you approached me.’
Fitz raised a well practised eyebrow.
‘Did I?’
Barber took a mouthful from his coffee, wishing it was a large scotch.
‘My name's...’
Fitz raised up a hand, the sudden movement silencing Barber.
‘What's in a name?’
‘I just thought...’ Barber tried his hardest not to sound hurt.
Fitz shook his head ‘There's no need.’
Fitz gently rested his hand on top of Barber’s as it lay on the table. Fitz stared straight into Barber’s eyes. Barber felt as if the life was being sucked from him. His eyelids began to droop. His free hand, holding the coffee cup just in front of his mouth, began to tremble. Feeling like he was going to faint, Barber took a swift mouthful from the cup then placed it back in its saucer. Self consciously he pulled his hand out from underneath Fitz.
‘C… can we go? I… I don’t feel so…’ Barber was already getting unsteadily to his feet as Fitz drained the last of his cappuccino.
Suddenly Barber grabs the edge of the table for support.
‘Are you all right?’ There was genuine warmth in Fitz’s voice.
Barber put a hand to his forehead, still holding the edge of the table.
‘I... I'm not sure. I think so.’ Barber swallowed hard, tasting bile in the back of his throat. He moved to pick up his coat from the back of the chair when Fitz’s hand closed over his again.
‘Here. Let me give you a hand.’
Barber still appeared a little disoriented as Fitz helped him on with his overcoat.

Barber’s hand was still trembling slightly as he withdrew the key from the door and held it open for Fitz to step inside.
‘Welcome to my home.’
Barber closed the door, still unable to take his eyes completely off Fitz. Slowly the energy was returning to his body, his fingertips tingled with pins and needles. He was beginning to feel more confident, the butterflies slowly melting away.
‘Come through.’
Barber lead Fitz into the kitchen, spotlessly tidy, the perfect reflection of his fastidious nature.
‘Can I get you something to...’
Barber looked round, realising that Fitz is not behind him. Barber came back into the hallway but Fitz was not there. Suddenly Barber was swept by a wave of emotion, fear, loss, anger. Where was he? The lounge was empty, exactly as he had left it several hours before, the Sunday supplements still neatly stacked on the coffee table. A noise from upstairs suddenly attracted his attention.

Barber stepped nervously towards the bedroom door. The butterflies had returned to his stomach in force. His fingers hovered only inches from the door handle. What was he afraid of? That Fitz was in there… waiting for him, or that he wouldn’t be?
‘Found you.’
Fitz stood by the window, his jacket laying across the bed. He seemed a million miles away even though he was only a few feet, just a couple of steps. He turned and looked at Barber.
‘I wasn't hiding.’
‘No… I... Can I get you something to drink?’
Fitz shook his head. Barber was suddenly nervous, uncomfortable. It was never easy for him and Fitz was a prize too good to risk losing by saying the wrong thing, by the wrong expression. God why did these things have to be so difficult?
‘Well, I...’ Barber was stumbling over his words, his mind going completely blank.
Fitz was suddenly by his side. Barber couldn’t move, forced to remain immobile as Fitz takes hold of his hand and raises it to his lips, kissing it softly.
‘There's no need to be so nervous.’ Fitz’s voice was so gentle, soothing, reassuring.
‘I'm sorry, I'm...’
Fitz put a finger to Barber’s lips, then gently lowered his hand and guided Barber’s hands to start unbuttoning his shirt. Barber moved slowly, awkwardly as if reluctant to be a part of this.
‘Change of heart?’
Barber felt himself flush red again.
‘No. Not at all...’
Barber’s eyes were glued to Fitz as he pulled off his shirt, revealing a body that could only have been sculpted by a master craftsman. As Fitz turned and neatly laid his shirt on the bed beside his jacket Barber could see for the first time dozens of small raised marks running the length of his back, forming twisting shapes and patterns over his skin.
At first no sound escaped Barber’s mouth as he stared, transfixed, at the compelling design. ‘My god!’
Fitz turned back to Barber who suddenly realised that there were similar raised marks forming patterns across his hairless chest.
‘Don't worry, it's not contagious.’ Fitz was smiling.
‘What is it?’
‘Just a little protective Jus-jus.’ The remark slipped carefully from Fitz’s lips. He’d been asked the question a million times before. Barber opened his mouth to speak but Fitz placed his hands on Barber’s cheeks and slowly drew towards him, kissing him full on the mouth.

Barber suddenly awoke, a thousand images screaming through his head. His face was pressed into the sheets. As he tried to breathe he sucked in a mouthful of pillow, choking him. His eyes were criss-crossed with broken blood vessels, a trail of saliva ran from the corner of his mouth to the pillow. Light blinded him as the images still refused to be banished by the onset of consciousness. They were more than just images…visions of pure emotion, connecting with every fibre of his body. Barber closed his mouth, wiping the saliva on the back of his trembling hand. He blinked several times and the room slowly came into focus, the haze of images gently coalescing into familiar surroundings. The curtains were open, flooding the room with daylight. Still Barber felt there was something missing… it was as if the world had never existed until he awoke and found himself whole, a part of a fully formed world. Rubbing a sweat covered hand across his face, Barber struggled to remember what had happened. The bedclothes were in a mess, half wrapped around Barber’s legs then spilling onto the floor. His clothes were strewn across the floor. Trying to get out of the bed is a slow, laborious movement. Barber presses his arm against the bed and tried to raise his upper body. He got a couple of inches off the bed before his arm began shaking and he collapsed back among the sheets.
Barber’s red rimmed eye looks up, desperately trying to focus on the doorway. He tried to speak but his throat was so dry that no sound escaped.
In the doorway a pale shape began to emerge from the darkness until it slowly morphed into a familiar form. Fitz stood in the doorway, naked except for a pair of boxer shorts. He crouched beside the bed, his face level with Barber.
Barber’s nose suddenly became alive, filled with a glorious aroma. Fitz seemed to be fading in and out of clarity through the steam rising from the bowl of soup.
‘I can't move.’ It was painful for Barber to speak, sheets of sandpaper grating over the flesh of his throat.
‘I forgot myself. I'm sorry. I got a little carried away. Here, drink this, it'll make you feel better.’ Barber was confused, Fitz sounded so apologetic - like a child that had broken it’s mother’s favourite ornament.
Fitz placed the bowl on the floor beside the bed and stood. Barber was intoxicated, the scent of Fitz mingling with the aroma rising from the bowl on the floor. Again he tried to raise himself but he was too weak to move. Fitz reached beneath Barber’s arms and helped him onto his back and into a sitting position.
Barber sat there, immobile as a quadriplegic as Fitz picked up the bowl and rested it on the sheets covering Barber’s lap. The first spoonful of warm broth dribbled down Barber’s chin and onto his chest. Fitz scraped up the broth and delicately licked it from the spoon.
‘It’s not that bad!’ Barber couldn’t return the smile as it played on Fitz’s lips.
‘What's wrong with me. I can hardly move.’
Suddenly a numbing thought entered barber’s head.
‘Have I had a stroke?’ Fitz seemed to find the notion amusing as his lips gently parted and he laughed. The sound caressed Barber’s ears, entering his head and filling his head with a dazzling swirls of colour.
‘Let’s try again.’
Fitz raised a second spoonful of broth to Barber’s lips. Barber tried to swallow and started to gag but he fought to keep the thick, creamy liquid down.
‘It'll do you good.’
Another three mouthfuls managed to find their way down Barber’s throat before he could take no more. He managed to raise a hand to fend off another approaching spoonful. Fitz took the liquid himself then puts the bowl on the floor.
‘It's a start.’
‘What is it? It's disgusting.’ This time Barber managed a faint smile.
‘An old family recipe. I was always taught that if it tastes that bad at least you know it must be doing some good.’
Fitz rose to his feet, his body moving with the graceful ease of a cat. Barber was unable to take his eyes off him as Fitz walked slowly round the bed towards the window and looked out.
‘Why am I sick?’
‘There's no need to be afraid, it'll pass in a few hours.’
‘What time is it?’
‘A little after eleven.’
A frown creased Barber’s forehead as he struggled to make sense of the passage of time. ‘In the morning! But it was six o'clock when we…’
Fitz turned round, now a dark silhouette against the bright window.
‘You've been out for almost sixteen hours.’
Barber looked confused.
‘What happened to me?’
He stepped away from the window, the dark shape growing into the fully formed aspect of Fitz. ‘It was me. I got a little carried away.’
The explanation made no sense to Barber.
‘What are you, some kind of bionic sex machine?’
Fitz smiled, almost laughing again.
‘What then?’ Barber’s head was filled with questions. He closed his eyes, trying to recollect an image from sometime during the previous sixteen hours but nothing came to him. The electric tingling was creeping from his extremities back towards the centre of his body.
Fitz started to dress.
‘It's a little hard to explain.’
‘I feel like you drained the life out of me.’
‘Finish the rest of the soup. Then I'll tell you a little story.’

Barber pushed open the door to the lounge. Barefoot and dressed in a long oriental-style robe, he felt refreshed after a shower, the strength slowly starting to return to his leaden limbs. Fitz was slumped in an armchair, flicking disinterestedly through the pages of a book on Feng Shui, picked at random from the large collection that filled an entire wall of the room.
Barber crossed the room and sat in the armchair opposite Fitz who continued reading.
‘I want to know what you did to me.’
Fitz closed the book and looked up. His movements were slow, deliberate; whether this was for dramatic effect or to give himself a few moments to chose his words, Barber was unsure.
‘I'd heard about it a long time ago but never really got close enough to learn anything. It wasn't until I began to delve a little deeper than most that I was able to discover a few of the basic rules.’
It was clear from Barber’s expression that he wasn’t following but Fitz was on something of a roll. ‘Once you know the rules you can construct a technique for using them.’
Barber needed to interrupt, to allow himself a moment to slow the flow of words.
‘To do what exactly?’
‘Have you ever been in someone's company and felt physically drained by the time they've left? Some people just seem to sap your energy just by being near you. Most of them are unaware they're even doing it.’
‘Is that what you did to me?’
‘It's a rather over simplified explanation... but yes.’
Barber felt a chill creep slowly down his spine until it grabbed hold of his balls and began to suck them back into his pelvis.
‘I don't believe you.’
That familiar sly smiles played across Fitz’s lips.
‘Then what do you believe? You've suddenly become hypoglycaemic and your blood sugar level unexpectedly dropped? Or that I really am some kind of maniac sex machine that fucked you to near death? I'll admit I'm good, but I'm not that good.’
Barber was struggling to comprehend what he was being told.
‘But… How can you do it? I want to know.’
‘That kind of thing's a trade secret. It's not just something you can pick up from Reader's Digest.’
As difficult as it was for him to accept, Barber knew that Fitz was telling the truth. Somehow this beautiful young specimen had found a way, a technique through which he could suck the very life out of him if he wanted.
‘Teach me.’
Fitz had been expecting the request, it was something they all asked, although not usually quite so quickly as Barber.
Fitz rose from his chair.
‘I've got to go.’
‘No!’ Barber was a little embarrassed by the force of his voice as he jumped up after Fitz but he couldn’t let him get away, not now
‘I've got a living to earn. Unless you're going to pay me to sit around here.’
Barber was working on autopilot, still too weak to be able to concentrate his full mental ability on the situation at hand. He just knew that there was a talent that Fitz possessed that he must learn. He had to find out what it was that Fitz had done to him.
‘Stay… I could give you food, lodgings.’ It was a desperately pathetic plea. Fitz was rather touched by the simplicity of Barber’s request.
‘I already have somewhere to live.’
‘Then I'll pay.’
The smile suddenly dropped from Fitz’s face. This was starting to become serious, an area of life he chose to remain as detached from as possible.
‘Are you sure you can pay what it costs?’

Fitz had decided to stay. Not because he felt any philanthropic desire to share the secret of his talents, not even because Barber’s imploring offer of eager studentship had played to his ego. The reason was far more simple and selfish. He’d lied. He had nowhere to live, nowhere even to stay. The long line of itinerant lovers had provided him with many things but a long term base was not one of them.
Barber had proven himself to be a very willing and capable host. Fitz could never remember being so well looked after. The vague memories of a family home during his childhood didn’t provide any memories of comfort and security as good as that the he now enjoyed.
The remains of yet another superb feast lay before them on the table. Fitz toyed with his wine glass, careful not to imbibe so much that he was ever in less than complete control of himself and his faculties.
‘All bodily fluids have their uses. Sweat, piss, blood, semen.’
Barber was struggling to keep up with the lesson, as much from the volume of food and wine he had consumed as the complexity of what Fitz was trying to teach him.
‘Why concentrate on blood so much?’
‘I personally don't. To be honest I don't find it nearly as effective as the use of semen for energy transfer. But this is only early days. You have plenty of time to learn the other tricks of the trade.’
It was the word Barber had been expecting to hear from the beginning of the lessons.
‘But isn't that all it is... just tricks?’
‘Who can say? When you almost collapsed was that a trick?’
‘It could have been some kind of hypnosis.’ Barber, out of his depth, was clutching at straws.
‘Perhaps. Perhaps not.’
Barber finished the contents of his glass and hastily poured another. Fitz covered his glass with his hand, refusing the offer of more alcohol. He could sense Barber’s nervousness and although it was not to be advised, he allowed the older man the necessary to steady his nerves.
‘So why not start with something a little less gruesome... like sweat?’
Fitz smiled. It was the point in the teaching where they all suddenly became nervous, no matter how eager they had assured him they were to learn.
‘Firstly, sweat is about the least effective of all the fluids. Although it is possible. That's how I got you when we first met. The sweat from your hand.’
Barber looked down at the hand holding his glass of wine, the same hand that Fitz had touched in the café a week before. The first time he had felt the beginnings of the energy drain.
‘Blood is a much easier tool for teaching. The whole of human history is written in blood, it carries with it so many preconceptions and beliefs. Blood is so emotionally charged.’
‘Blood brothers?’
‘Everything. How many primitive societies practised blood sacrifice? Vikings, Aborigines, the Masai, all of them drink blood. Either from animals, their ancestors or their victims. How patronising of us to think it all just simple superstition. Blood is life. No one is likely to argue with that. So why should blood not contain some kind of residual power that can be transferred from one person to another?’
A look of trepidation crossed Barber’s face.
‘Do you drink blood?’
Fitz twisted the wine glass in his fingers, watching the candlelight play through the red liquid then looked directly at Barber.
‘Don't we all?’
The accusation momentarily stung Barber’s middle class sensibilities. ‘I think you'll find that most of us have evolved slightly more sophisticated tastes than our ancestors.’
‘Sophisticated? I'd have to question that. All we've done is become scared. Scared to explore, scared to succeed. Bullied into submission by our chieftains so that we daren't make use of the powers available to us.’
Barber, more than a little drunk, laughed. It seemed so much easier than dealing with what Fitz was saying.
‘You sound like some kind of anarchist.’
‘Perhaps I am. That wine you're drinking. Communion wine?’
‘I'm no Catholic.’
‘No, but you know what communion wine is?’
Barber nodded.
‘And it symbolises what?’
‘The blood of Christ.’
Fitz put down his glass, still having drunk no more than a mouthful.
‘And people drink it. They drink the blood of their Lord. Symbolically of course. But why do something symbolically unless deep down you feel some real justification for what you’re doing.’
‘I think that's stretching a point a little far.’
‘Because you really don't believe, or because you find it difficult to accept that you do?’
Barber, slowed by continuing fatigue and weight of alcohol, was finding the theological vein of the conversation a little boring. ‘I... I don't know. I've never really... considered it that deeply.’
Fitz locked Barber with a fierce stare, his eyes boring into Barber’s head until the older man felt himself beginning to swoon.
‘Well now's your chance. The chance to consider it as deeply as you dare.’

The bedroom was lit by candlelight, flickering shadows cast across the walls. Fitz and Barber
kissed, caressed, their bodies entwined, only the scarification on Fitz's body enabling them to be told apart. In the throes of his passion, Barber looked up to see Fitz sitting astride him. Fitz slowly spread his arms and drew a fingernail across the pale skin of the underside of his forearm. Barber watched as a red weal formed across the skin. It deepened in colour and drops of blood began to form. Fitz looked down at Barber and offered his arm. A single word escaped his lips ‘Drink.’
Barber stared at the self-inflicted wound on Fitz’s forearm. A droplet of crimson splashed down onto his bare chest.
‘Come on. Be brave! Don't think of it as blood. Think of it as energy.’ Barber reached up and touched the spot of red on his chest. He stared at the drop in the rosy glow of the candles and smeared it between finger and thumb. Something tickled the tip of his finger as if a mild electric current passed through the skin of his finger and thumb. A warm, comforting glow began to spread throughout his body.
Pushing himself up into a sitting position, Barber was unable to tear his eyes away from the blood welling from the cut on Fitz’s arm. Again the soft, soothing voice, willed him to obey. As the glow continued to spread through his body, Barber felt himself compelled to obey.
Fitz pushed his forearm towards Barber's face. The blood smeared across Barber’s mouth. Barber wiped at the blood with his hand then slowly pushed his reddened fingers into his mouth.
‘Good. Think of the energy entering your body. Feel it circulating inside you.’ Suddenly feeling imbued with a greater sense of confidence and belief, Barber took hold of Fitz’s arm and pressed the wound to his open, waiting mouth.

The bathroom door flew open, almost torn from its hinges as Barber charged in, slamming against the wall and collapsing against the bowl of the toilet. He pushed his red smeared face over the open bowl and vomited loudly. His whole body shook as he hugged the toilet, screwing his eyes tight shut to avoid watching the contents of his stomach leaving his mouth. A stream of reddened vomit splashed into the toilet. Hand shaking, Barber reached up to the handle and pulled the flush. Red liquid dripped from Barber's chin as he sat back on the floor, leaning against the wall, his chest heaving.
‘I'm afraid my blood's a little more potent than most. But you'll get used to that in time.’
Just the thought of swallowing the sticky red fluid again brought bile rising into Barber’s throat. He hung his head over the bowl and dry heaved.
‘I can't do it! I can't.’
This was old ground for Fitz, nothing he hadn’t seen a hundred times before. The initial shock took a while for his pupils to come to terms with.
‘I'll admit it's not for everyone. But if you want to learn.’
Barber felt Fitz take him under the arms and haul him to his feet. Cold water was splashed on his face, stinging, reviving him.
Barber raised his head and stared into the mirror above the sink. The face staring back at him looked no more like his own than Fitz. His eyes were drawn back into their sockets, the skin hung form his skull looking as if it were about to slide off.
‘I c-can't do it.’
Fitz laid a comforting hand on Barber’s shoulder.
‘I appreciate it's not everyone's idea of safe sex.’
Barber spat a mouthful of bile and phlegm into the basin.
‘It felt alive. Like it was taking me over.’
‘You must remember, I'm good at this. I have a lot of energy stored in my body. It can be a little overpowering if you're not used to it.’

Barber lay in bed, alone in the dark, watching the curtains blowing in the gentle breeze from the open window. Fitz had left earlier in the evening, making an easily swallowed excuse about having to check on his own fictitious apartment. As Barber drifted in and out of a light sleep, images crawled in and out of his head. Visions of blood, flesh, sex, death.
Barber’s eyes suddenly snapped open. Something had pulled him from the comforting grip of sleep. Silence. Then came the knocking at the door, frantic, hurried. Barber pulled himself out of bed and grabbed his robe from the back of the door.

The stark light in the hallway made Barber's skin look even more pallid than it had in the bathroom. With trembling hands, Barber unlocked the door and pulled it open.
‘Get out of the way!’ Fitz pushed his way into the hallway. Barber shrank back against the wall as Fitz manoeuvred past him.
‘Don't just stand there. Help me, he weighs a ton!’
Barber, pressed back against the wall was suddenly aware of the form draped across Fitz’s shoulders. Still in shock, Barber pulled the front door closed and turned quickly towards the lounge.
The youth Fitz had brought home with him, no more than eighteen years old, lay on the floor stripped of his clothes. Fitz lay on top of him, his face buried in the nape of the youth’s neck. As Barber entered the room Fitz raised his head, blood smeared around his mouth and dribbling from the bitten wound in the neck.
‘Want some? Come on. It's fresh...’
Barber recoiled in horror.
‘Get away from him!’
Fitz was suddenly rising towards Barber, pressing him back against the wall. His bloodstained face only inches away, the fetid smell of blood on his breath. Barber closed his eyes and turned his face away, the scream tearing form his throat.

Barber suddenly snapped awake. His face, pressed into the pillow, was covered in a glistening sheen of sweat. Shivering, he rolled over onto his back, chest heaving as he breathed heavily. Laying beside him, sleeping like a baby Fitz didn’t stir as Barber slipped out of bed

A hand touched Barber’s shoulder and woke him with a start. Fitz, naked, stood over him.
‘Hey... take it easy. I'm not going to eat you.’
Barber looks around, unsure of… everything.
‘How come you're sleeping out here?’
Barber was sitting in the armchair in the lounge. Daylight was clearly visible through the curtains. Suddenly Barber remembered. He looked round nervously for the youth’s body or traces of blood on the carpet. Fitz was close enough that he could smell his breath, it didn’t smell of blood.
‘I... I… came out for a drink of water. I guess I m-must have just dozed off.’ Barber pulled himself up out of the armchair, moving away from Fitz, pulling the robe tighter around him.
‘We're a little tense this morning aren't we?’
Barber tried to sound calm, relaxed but knew how agitated he sounded
‘Just had a bad dream, that's all.’
Fitz was already beside him, a probing hand feeling for a way beneath the silky material of the robe.
‘It's okay. I know a good trick for getting rid of bad dreams.’
Fitz’s lips brushed across Barber’s ear. Barber pulled away.
‘No! No, I'm all right. It's nothing.’
‘It doesn't sound like nothing.’
Without waiting for Barber to supply him with an obvious excuse, Fitz turned away and disappeared back into the bedroom.

As Barber peered around the bedroom door, Fitz was already pulling on his jeans. Barber stood in the doorway, watching him dress.
‘I... I've been thinking.’
Fitz glanced up at him as he sat on the end of the bed, securing the laces on his sneakers.
‘I guessed it would be something like that. What about?’
Barber was staring at Fitz’s bare chest, visible beneath his open shirt.
‘Those marks. You said jus-jus.’
Fitz stood from the bed and began buttoning his shirt, covering the magical pattern.
‘They're based on an old charm. A protection against unwanted nocturnal visitors.’
‘Does it work?’
‘Who can say. I'm still here, so I guess it must. That's not what you've been thinking about is it? Tell me. I'm a big boy. I can take it.’
Barber’s stomach was twisting itself into a hundred knots.
‘I... I don't think it's a good idea... this…’
‘It's your choice.’
Barber was struggling to find the words that would accurately convey his confused, scared feelings for the beautiful young man that had turned his life upside down.
‘I… like you... It's just... It's just that I'm scared. I think you should go.’
Barber couldn’t bare to look into Fitz’s eyes. He knew that the second he did he would be trapped again. He stared down at his feet, like a guilty schoolboy.
‘I'm sorry...’
Fitz’s voice was all understanding and compassion.
‘It's okay. I understand.’ As Fitz took a step towards Barber the older man instinctively took a step back.
‘There's no need to be scared of me. I won't do anything you don't want me to.’
Fitz reached out to take Barber's hand. At first, Barber tried to pull his hand away but Fitz moved more quickly, holding it tight.
‘Don't be afraid. You can trust me.’ He raised Barber’s hand to his lips and kissed it.
‘If you change your mind then just come and see me. I'm never far away.’
Barber stood motionless as Fitz left the room.
Somewhere far in the distance Barber heard the sound of the front door closing on a part of his life.

The second the sound of the closing door had died away, Barber was released from his torpor.
He yanked the sheets from the bed, dumping the quilt and pillows on the floor.
In the kitchen, Barber grabbed a rubbish sack from the drawer and began stuffing the bedding inside. He tore off the robe as if it were scorching his skin and thrust it into the plastic sack.
Hot water streamed from the shower head as Barber stood beneath, his skin reddening from the scalding water. Covered in soap and shower gel, Barber ferociously scrubbed his body clean.

For weeks Barber refused to move from the confines of his apartment. Life outside would have to proceed without him. He sat in his armchair in the darkened lounge throughout the day, eating barely enough to sustain himself. By the middle of the third week he had already dropping considerable weight but the hunger pangs remained a minor distraction that he was soon able to ignore. It was eighteen days before he felt strength enough to venture into the bedroom again. With his bedding long since removed by the garbage collectors, Barber covered himself in an old, threadbare sheet before daring to close his eyes and drift into fitful sleep, plagued by a succession of frightening images. Fitz came to visit him that night; each time in a more frightening disguise. Sleep became an endless procession of terror as Barber’s subconscious took every opportunity to torture him. As time wore on, Barber became weaker and weaker. His only blessing was that the images and visitations remained in his subconscious. As he woke, each time more drained of energy than before, he struggled to remember the content of his nightmares all he knew was that Fitz was with him as much as he had been when he had shared his bed.
Eventually Barber was forced to venture out for food; an experiment to see if he could break the chain of nightmare.
He was surprised to see that the world outside of his confinement had been continuing unabated, his own problems and distress of no obvious consequence to anyone but himself. A long detour was necessary to avoid the street where he had first met Fitz but it had been necessary to give Barber the strength to be able to venture out at all.

Barber lay in the bed, only the one thin sheet covering his body as he fought to sleep, fearing the nightmares that would surely come but needing the time to let his weakened body try to repair itself. When sleep finally took him in its arms it was neither gentle nor restful.
His body writhed gently beneath the sheet. The shape of his hand could be seen running down the side of his body, coming to nestle between his legs. Barber let out a soft groan.
He opened his eyes, smiling as he was saw Fitz sitting astride him.
They kiss. Fitz moves further down the bed. He kisses Barber across his chest, moving down towards his bare stomach.
Barber reached down as Fitz began kissing his stomach, his fingers running through Fitz’s hair, gently pulling up his head to look him in the eyes. Barber guided Fitz back up the bed. Fitz gently pushed Barber’s hands away and began nuzzling his face into Barber's neck.
Barber's face was a picture of rapture. Mouth open, eyes closed, suddenly he screamed. His eyes open wide, panic spread across his face.
As Fitz took his mouth away from Barber's neck a huge stream of blood sprayed up the wall above Barber’s head. Fitz pulled away, blood is pouring from his mouth. Blood pumped from the wound to Barber’s neck, saturating the sheets around him.
Above his head, red was sprayed across the wall, running in hundreds of rivulets down towards him.
Barber sat up in bed… alone. Immediately his hand went to his neck. He pulled his hand away and looked at it. The fingers were clean. Barber looked down at the pillows where he had been laying. There are tiny spots of blood on the material.
Running, Barber hurried to the bathroom, his eyes stinging in the glaring light. He stared into the mirror, trying to find the source of the blood. He turned round full circle, twisting his head to see the front and back of his neck and shoulders. Faint red marks were visible on one side of his neck but no sign of any blood.
Barber turned on the tap, splashing the cold water onto his face. He cupped his hands, filling them with water then held them to his face. Pulling a towel from the rail beside him, Barber smothered his face, his nostrils filling with the cloying smell of the unwashed fabric.
Taking the towel from his face, Barber’s heart skipped a beat. The bright red stain across the centre of the material caused hi to drop the towel as if it were red hot. Barber gripped the basin edge, his knuckles screaming white. He stared into the mirror, looking at the blood trickling from both of his nostrils.
Barber ran into the hallway, almost collapsing against the front door. He checked both locks and fixed the security chain in place.
The bedroom door slammed shut as Barber threw his weight against it. He pulled the curtains closed, leaving the room lit only by the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. Barber collapsed onto the bed, pulling his knees up to his chest, dragging the sheet tightly around him, covering every part of his body like a shroud. He lay there, unmoving, his eyes wide, scanning the room for any signs of movement.

Barber walked the street, his body shrouded beneath the long length of his overcoat. His face was sickly pale but he strode with a purposeful gait, one hand gripping the coat tight around his neck.
They were territorial creatures. It would only be a matter of time before he found him again.

Fitz was standing in a doorway, engaged in conversation with a middle aged man. All the old, familiar bullshit. He suddenly looked up into a pair of eyes that had never been far from his thoughts. They were much weaker than he remembered them, their lustre long since diminished through fatigue and fear. So this was to be the one. This was how it was to go.
‘I… I have to see you.’ Barber’s voice had lost any semblance of authority or confidence that it may once have had. His thin, reedy voice sounded perpetually on the verge of tears.
The stranger in the menage a trois was in no mood to lose out on a chance at the exquisite creature he had seen hovering on this particular street corner for the past week.
‘Wait your turn. In case you didn't notice, I was here first.’
Barber hardly noticed the other man at all. Fitz already had him locked in the grip of his own dazzling eyes.
‘You said you'd be there for me if I needed you.’
Fitz could feel a heartbreak coming on. ‘Can you excuse me a moment. I'll only take a minute.’
The man this was the end. The opportunity would never present itself again. As he had with so many beautiful creatures that had crossed his path before, he resigned himself to the knowledge that they would never be his.
‘Forget it!’ The man turned angrily and walked away.
Fitz took Barber by the arm and lead him into the doorway, away from the prying eyes of the street.
‘What's wrong?’ Fitz knew exactly what was wrong.
‘I just need to see you again.’
‘So, you can see me. Now what?’
Barber could feel his remaining strength already flowing out of his body as if with each breath Fitz took he was drawing the life force out of him.
‘Come back. Now. Come back home.’

Fitz entered the apartment. Barber followed close behind and closed the door, securing both locks. In the lounge, Fitz saw the depths to with Barber had sunk. He could smell the other man’s decay.
‘You haven't told me what's brought on this change of heart.’
Barber didn’t speak. His hands, trembling, moved to the buttons of the denim shirt and started to unbutton.
Fitz smiled… perhaps he had misread the situation.
‘This is a nice welcome home.’
Slowly, as if performing an enticing striptease, Barber took off his shirt. He dropped in on one of the armchairs. Underneath he is wearing a T-shirt. He pulls the T-shirt out from his jeans and begins to pull it over his head.
‘Shit! Am I meant to be flattered?’
Across Barber’s chest are scarification marks similar in design to those of Fitz but not as accurately placed - the product of a faulty memory. The marks are fresh, still red and sore. Some still wept, some still bled.
Barber looks down at his handiwork. ‘I couldn't remember exactly how they went.’
‘You seem to have done a pretty good job.’
Barber turned slowly in a circle. ‘I couldn't reach all the way across my back. Does it matter?’
The marks across Barber’s back were even more unorganised, the pattern completely lost. Fitz, for the first time in a long time was mildly surprised.
‘That depends on why you did it.’
Barber looked at him, trying to match the penetrating, energy sapping stare of the younger man.
‘Jus-jus. You said it kept away unwelcome nocturnal visitors. But it doesn't work. Why? Is the pattern wrong?’

Fitz followed Barber into the bedroom. The curtains were drawn, as they had been for the previous two months. The bed was stained with blood, piss, faeces. The pattern of the scarification on Barber’s body was clearly defined among the other stains on the bedsheet. The room smelt of sweat and excrement.
‘What do you need protection from?’
Barber turned and faced Fitz. His head was beginning to fill with clouds. Out on the street he had been so sure of himself, as if the fresh air had cleansed him of any doubts. Now back in the fetid confines of his apartment, face to face with this angel confusion reigned again. He felt as if he were being drawn, like a moth to a flame... his actions no longer under his own control.
‘I don't know. From you!’
‘You can't just do these things. That's what I was trying to teach you. There are rituals, techniques. That... it's not just a pattern. You can't just copy it and expect it to work.’
Barber felt his legs beginning to buckle beneath him. ‘I had to try... something.’ His voice was almost pleading. ‘You can't pretend you don't know. You've been here. While I've been sleeping. I asked you to leave but you've never gone away.’ He was aware for the first time just how stupid his own words were sounding. Inside his head they made so much sense, out in the open they came back to him like the ravings of a maniac.
Fitz stared confidently back at him. The subtle, enticing smile that had become his trademark playing across his lips.
I don't know what you're talking about. Barber saw Fitz’s lips move but was too confused by his own thoughts to hear what he was saying. Barber turned to the bed and reached beneath the pillow.
He smile on Fitz’s lips remained confidently in place as Barber turned towards him, knife in hand. Fitz ignored the knife, staring Barber straight in the eye. ‘Just tell me. What is it you do want?
Barber struggled to speak, the words lodging in his throat, refusing to come.
‘Come on… Take control… It’s what you want isn’t it. Barber hesitated. Fitz was right. It was what he wanted, control of his own life again.
‘I want... to be free... of you. I need to feel safe again.’
This time Fitz didn’t back away as Barber advanced toward him. Barber swung out with the knife, the blade catching Fitz high up on the face and slicing deeply across his forehead. Fitz dropped to his knees as blood began to pour from the wound, running in thick red streams down his face. Barber stood over Fitz as he raised his hands as if trying catch the blood. He raised his head to look up at Barber, his face covered with blood. Again Barber swung the knife - bloodlust gripping him. The blade sliced across Fitz's throat and the wound started to pump blood. Fitz pitched forward. His mouth gaped but no sound issued as he slumped to the floor.

Barber stood, unmoving, the knife hanging by his side. Blood pooled from the wound, running across the floor towards his feet. He crouched, dropping the knife. Fitz squirmed on the floor, his crimson fingers reaching out towards Barber.
‘I can’t help you… not now. I’m sorry.’ Fitz was moving slowly toward him as the life force ebbed from his body
‘I have to have my dreams back…’ Tears formed in Barber’s eyes and gently they rolled down his cheeks. He reached out, taking Fitz’s bloodstained hand in his own. Contact with Fitz’s blood immediately sent pulses of electricity coursing through Barber’s body. His nerves twitched involuntarily as he sought to take hold of his lover.
‘Please forgive me.’ Barber’s heart began to beat faster, the blood pulsing harder through his veins. Slowly he pulled Fitz to him, cradling the dying youth in his arms. Fitz’s blood washed over Barber, consuming him in a crimson aura. Sounds filled his ears. His nose overflowed as if coping with a million different pungent scents. His skin crawled as if alive. Each nerve in his body screamed as if on fire. Cells by cell, Fitz’s life force entered Barber, seeping through the pores of his skin, penetrating to the heart of his being. Barber felt himself being squeezed, as if his entire body was being forced through a hole in space. His vision began to blur, the sounds in his head began to flow into each other until they became an indistinguishable cacophony. Barber felt himself slipping away.

His eyes opened. Numbness slowly receded from the extremities of his new limbs. The weight of the new musculature felt awkward and ungainly, like ill-fitting clothes. He looked down to where he cradled his previous body in his new arms. He pushed the body away. It rolled limply onto its back, the sightless eyes staring somewhere off into the distance, perhaps straining to see where Barber’s soul had been forced away to. His new lips slowly responded to the new commands sent to them. They curled into the first semblance of a smile.
Fitz was dead… long live the new Fitz.

(c) 1998 Paul Hart-Wilden (all rights reserved)