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10:31 pm
Daniel’s hands shook. Not always, sometimes. Odd how the more his hand shook, the more was the effort he put into doing the job at hand, even though it never helped. More often than not, it seemed to only make things worse. He’d given thought to actually listening to his doctor for once, and waiting, just letting the shake pass him by. Too bad he couldn’t help himself. Even now, as the toothpaste trembled, and didn’t get him any closer to being done with this fucking day, he continued to keep it pressed against the toothbrush.
Standing in front of his mirror in the bathroom, with his uncut ruly hair, in his pair of overworn gray slacks and a loose graphic tee, unable to brush his teeth, he’s not sure he's ever felt this old. Fuck Parkinson’s, by the way. Still, by way of aforementioned reason, he continues to look down at his hands, pointedly not looking at his reflection.
After a minute or two of the humiliation ritual that has become brushing his teeth, as he bends downwards to gargle, he feels a sharp chill run down his spine. He shivers. Weird, it isn’t that cold of a night. As he moves himself to be upright when he’s done, he catches a glimpse of something in the mirror. There! and gone. In the blink of an eye, as if he’d imagined it. A pair of something actually, small and bright, far into the darkness of his room behind him.
This, dear reader, is the moment that Daniel has been waiting for. For months. Well, ‘waiting for’ might be imprecise, more like dreading. Would anyone like to venture a guess? Ding ding ding!
He’d wondered where the psychopath had fucked off to for so long. It had been longer than he expected. That too, in peace. Of course, he half expected Armand to lunge for him as soon as Louis turned his back, but guess one does what one’s maitre tells one to do. Maybe kill one or two of his two ex-wives or daughters. Maybe his publisher or editor. At the very least, a threat. What he wasn’t expecting was this light haunting-stalking. Though, he should have learned by now to not have any expectations with Armand.
“Got tired of whimpering in a hole somewhere?” he tried sort of loudly.
No answer. Hm, okay, sure.
Daniel has a hard time going to sleep that night. What with his breath stuck in his throat and his heart going a mile a minute.
09:29 am
Daniel hated waking up. His joints croaked from being in one position all night. His back hurt when he got up off the bed. There was little to enjoy about the experience overall. And as soon as he does wake up, he begins to do what he does best. He thinks. Out of habit, mostly.
It’s strange how the human ‘soul’ perseveres. Or, better said, stays the same shape throughout our lives, the same cut. Largely unscathed, lest something truly agonising befalls you. Maybe your family dies escaping a fiery building. Maybe you get cancer. Maybe you get addicted to ruining your life with drugs. Maybe you fall in love. Even then, one gets used to it after a while. Point is, it’s all pretty boring.
Take Daniel here, for example. Currently writing the best story he ever got, slipped from his hands when he was twenty but it’s fine, he has it now; and all he’s thinking about is time travelling to the end of the day and going to sleep. Maybe there’s a name for that, who knows. For now, all he can really do is go through the motions like a well-oiled machine and try not to break.
Brush. Shower. Coffee. E-mail. Mail.
As he’s walking up the stairs with his mail in hand, he’s thinking of his daughters. Of calling them. As he is more often than not, these days. Maybe tell them about the vampires, but then what if they try to put him in a home? He knows this isn’t really a concern, just a flimsy excuse. He could call them again, not that he deserves the time of the day from them, mind you. Not that they’re returning any of his calls. Not even a pity call for their sick old dad (he’d thought that that’d work, at least with Nora).
After all of that, he wonders where the hesitancy comes from. Why not just do it? Why does his finger hover over the call icon? As if it will change anything? If he was in their position, would he not do the same thing? If a person who had so thoroughly failed him, at every turn, was dying of guilt, he'd have said “Good”. A person who cries after killing someone is, what, somehow better than a person who doesn’t?
It’s as he’s walking into his apartment, with his head down to his phone, that he realizes something is wrong. He walks in, and it’s as his left hand reaches out, extending beside and behind him to put his mailbox keys in the bowl, that he hears a clatter of keys to the ground. He looks down at the floor, at the empty space which was previously occupied by his now vanished? cabinet and then up. He swears his heart stops for a full minute.
His entire apartment is rearranged. No, thrashed. There is wood and wool everywhere. Wood from the broken furniture, he notices, wool from the clawed out sofa. The sofa that was now laying upside down at an angle. There were the same claw marks on each cushion of the sofa, and the back. Overkill, no? Like, he gets the point. The sofa that was now laying upside down at an angle. Every curtain, every rug in the house is ripped to shreds. A spider’s web of glass on his TV screen. The whole nine yards. He crosses his fingers and looks at the dining table and fuck. The laptop is in pieces, sharp fucking pieces. That’s the second time.
He thinks back to fake Rashid, (or as he likes to think at this point ‘Fashid’) with his stupid little ipad and, “Seriously?! I know you know what the cloud is!” he half-yells.
Daniel is pretty sure that he probably just destroyed his laptop to piss him off. Sad part is that it still worked. He tries to not get even more worked up, and focuses on the sheer amount of things that need to get done now. Even though the ten million sitting in his bank will make all this easier, he’s still gonna have to spend weeks replacing and refinishing his apartment. More if you count cleaning out all the mess that’s in front of him. Well. Fuck, as Claudia so aptly put, these vampires.
01:42 pm
“The plan? I was going to die and I was going to take as many of them with me as I could.” Louis’ voice reverberated throughout the broken apartment as he listened to the recording for the millionth time. Daniel thinks that maybe when the sun shines on his face, making his whole body sing from delicious warmth or when he gets a particularly crunchy, juicy, full bite of a good sandwich, one would expect him to go, ‘Hm, maybe this is enough. Maybe this is good and maybe I don’t need more’. And yet.
After an entire morning of this, of also playing footsie with the Talamasca editors, well, more like them trying to tell Daniel what to do with his own book, he remembers to eat something. For the first time that day. It’s not even that he got up from the chair to drink some water or to stretch his aching joints or something, he got up out of pure spite. And there, he felt his stomach grumbling (well, intestines but who says that). A bad habit of his, an inability to take care of himself specifically, he often doesn’t notice hunger overtaking him until his fingers stop typing or his ears stop listening. He remembers someone reprimanding him about that when he was young. There’s a hazy millisecond of a flash in his brain about the memory every time he does this everyday, before it fades away into nothingness, much like his dreams.
One would assume that Daniel knows how to cook, as one ultimately would, living alone for quite so much time, without really going out. He does, and quite well actually, it is not something he’s fond of. Preferring to eat trail mix, or cereal out of the box, or just an uncooked broken sandwich (salad and plain bread) for too many times in a row. Right now, he’s not quite in the mood to cook or for dog food. He decides to go out.
The best thing about living in New York is the food. Aside from the people, though. Even if Daniel weren’t going out for food, looking forward to the shawarma place down the street from his building, he thinks that just the air of the city would be just as nourishing. Just the chatter (the yelling), the smells (sometimes of urine), gave him energy. He should go out more, maybe.
The tiny bell rang, echoing, as he opened the glass door to the place, and he found himself enveloped in a homey, mouth-watering, and somehow, even louder shop. Familiarity hit him like a train.
He’s looking around when he hears a familiar voice pointed towards him, “You forget what a shaver is? Barbers, too?”
It’s said in a tone where he can hear the ear-splitting grin that’s surely on her face. He turns around. Aliya. Her skin is shining a little with sweat like it always did, her long hair in a curly bun at the top of head like it always is. She’s putting both her hands on her counter and is looking up from a woman who’s standing in front of her at the counter, who’s also turned around to see who she just yelled at. The sky blue shirt that she's wearing and over it these dark blue denim dungarees look loose and comfortable on her, her gold earrings catching the light perfectly. He’d missed her.
He mirrors her smile, joy creeping in his voice, “I think I did, yeah. I forgot they’re a thing.”
“You forget your way to this place too? Wait, let me guess. It’s dementia, isn’t it.” Her response is drier than the desert and ever closer to his own heart.
“Haha, very funny. But yeah, it’s been a while, I’ve been busy. How are ya?” The woman in front of Aliya goes from periodically looking at Daniel and then back at her. She does this easily, smiling and fond, with elbow on the counter and the closed fist slotted comfortably against her chin. He strolls forward to stand beside her.
“Always good.” Mm, he doesn’t believe that, he doesn’t know why. “What’ll you have? The usual?” Oh. She remembers his order. He feels touched and maybe immediately guilty for willingly, intentionally cutting people off in his life. You don’t have family, you don’t have anybody?
“Yes, thank you. To go, please.” He smiles again, and adds with a huff, “Honestly, I can't wait.” He continues to smile as she walks away to her right.
“How have you been? Done with take out?” This came from the woman beside him.
…What? “Um.”
“Oh my god, you don’t know me. Sorry, that was creepy. Diya? We’re neighbours?” When he doesn’t say anything, follows another awkward moment of silence. Then she says with her eyes slightly bulging, and like she quite literally can’t believe it, “I.. we’ve talked, Daniel. A few times too.” In disbelief, she slowly turns towards Aliya who strolls back in with his order.
“Oh, sorry, yeah. Totally. Hi.” He thinks maybe he has seen her before. Okay, he really needs to start paying attention to his surroundings. And, what? She’s been keeping tabs on how often he gets take-out? What is she, the take-out police?
As if Aliya heard that, she goes, “Typical. Get out of your head, old man.” As she says this, she has a smile plastered on her face and she’s smiling teasingly at Diya and gets the similar glinty-smiley eyes back. His eyes shift between them. They look at each other a moment longer as if sharing a funny inside joke. Oh. Oh. Good for them.
“Seriously? You gave her a cassette player.” Aliya says to him matter-of-factly, with her eyebrows raised.
“What? No. A cassette player?” His voice is a bit high, and he knows he sounds worried and confused, not liking the picture that’s being painted here. Should he talk to his doctor? Who even needs cassette players in this day and age? Maybe she has her own vampire attack recordings to deal with.
Diya, thankfully, interrupts his existential worry. “Oh um, no. Well.. kinda. I did get your cassette player, but from someone else. Don't really remember his name, but he opened the door when I knocked.. so I figured you know each other.”
“Who? When was this?” Daniel asks and the same time,
“Family?” Aliya says, to which Diya sort of makes a face towards her. A face that said, ‘oh be real’. Which, ouch.
Diya continues, “Last week. Tall, dark, and handsome type with a british accent? Y’know, he did tell me that he would tell you. He said he’s a ‘good friend of yours.’” She emphasises the last part with air quotes.
Fuck. Fuuuck. Fuck his fucking life.
“You have a friend? Who’s your friend?” And we have Aliya to thank for that wonderful addition.
“Were you robbed or something? How do you not notice?” Diya seems justifiably concerned. For the wrong reasons.
“Nope. Wasn’t robbed.” Fuck that fucking lunatic. What was even the point of this? He’s gonna stalk Daniel to death?
“Why would you go break into someone’s apartment and then pretend to know them? Not even take anything.” What could he possibly say that would not cause them to-
He starts, “Listen, it’s fine-”
“It’s fine?” Diya. “This is deeply concerning, you realize?” Aliya. Again, he’s touched.
And deeply concerning it is. “Yep, it’s fine.” He says sort of tightly, lips glued together. A finality to the effect of, ‘Bye, see ya.’
Aliya says in a singy-songy voice, “See you in a few mooonths.”
He makes quick work of grabbing his parcel that was getting cold on the counter. He turns and heads for the door, fairly sure that this was going to be a topic of conversation as soon as he’s out the door. He’s about to step out when Diya calls out to him. “I can get you your cassette player wherever you want!”
There’s a soft jingle as he’s out the door.
10:56 pm
A week ago. A week ago. What else has Armand done and when? Daniel didn’t notice. Is that why the apartment tantrum? How long has this been going on? Presumably, since he came back from Dubai. Armand was told to pack his shit up and leave, why not hitch a ride behind the guy who made it happen? That makes sense, Daniel thinks. To what end, though? Is it planned or...? Daniel needs his notepad. A lined, yellow page and a pen to help him think. Not that Armand won't read it obviously, but still.
Wobbling on his feet a bit, he’s heading back to the apartment from the Armenian place downtown, one he also used to visit often. Met a few more people that he sort of used to know, and stayed this time. Had his fill of one of the best meals in the world he’s sure, and got made fun of for his outgrown and ungroomed hair. It was a good time. Out twice in a day. Nothing will get you out of the house more than a trashed one and the thought of calling people about it. Plus it takes a few days for a laptop to come. Despite the recent unpleasantness and anger, he feels light. Maybe there’s something there, he thinks, not wanting to investigate further.
It’s a pleasantly windy night for a walk. Not that Daniel could really appreciate it, his head swimming with whys and what-could-bes. Even though just the thought of Armand now makes him more anxious and scared than he’d like to admit, it’s also just exciting in a way. Thrilling. Like he’s stuck in the moment when Louis went, ‘Daniel Molloy, I’d like you to meet-’ to know that Armand is right there. In his apartment, more often than not. When he’s sleeping. Maybe he’s following him right now. It feels familiar, somehow, the feeling of being in the lamplight of such intense attention. Like he’s being studied like a bug.
He reaches his apartment like that. Dazed, not listening to what people of New York were thinking tonight. Just lots of reflection, that isn’t really reflection. A predictable clucking of his brain. Thinks of his daughters for a second. Thinks of his ex-wives the next. Before coming back to Armand.
He enters his building, and it’s strangely quiet. It’s quiet usually, sure, a residential building late at night on a weekday, but it’s unusually so. It’s eerie and demanding in it’s silence when he puts it out of his mind. But ignore it, he does. For forever he’s made a point of using the stairs. A point not well made by the fact that he only lives on the second floor, but still, he had been trying. Right now, a little tipsy and not wanting to run into Diya (so he doesn’t wanna do pleasantries, sue him), he decides to take the elevator.
Bad idea. Bad fucking idea. There’s something between a sharp intake of breath and a closed-mouth gasp, his breath caught in his throat once more as he’s staring at the elevator that dinged open in front of him. Like something out of a cheap horror movie, the grey walls inside are splashed in blood. Not covered, the elevator isn’t bleeding, but splashed. The trails of blood are in several different circular arcs across the walls, dripping down and onto the floor- pooling. Like someone was slashed with a knife. He wouldn’t necessarily assume blood, if it weren’t for the overwhelming metallic smell, so much so that he can taste it and his eyes are beginning to sting. The doors close after a minute too long and his body moves of it’s own accord. He has to see. Daniel presses the button once more and hears the ding.
He steps into the pool. Slowly. One foot in front of the other, careful not to slip. He stands very very still for the ride, careful to not breathe too loud. He steps into the hallway and it’s strangely clean. Okay, fine, maybe he was expecting a hallway ocean of blood like in The Shining, and maybe his brain should calm the fuck down. He stands there for a moment, both his hands flat on his apartment door and his ear against it, suspended in time. Time before this and time after this. The apartment’s quiet too, not that he expected any rasping or screaming or help mes. He turns the knob carefully, knowing that there’s really no need for a key anymore. They were past all that now.
The apartment is bathed in moonlight through the large windows, and though there’s probably no point, he clicks the light switch. Nothing.
It’s a body. A dead body. A corpse. In front of him. A mangled corpse, to be specific. Mangled sort of.. everywhere. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before, but only in pictures. The corpse is of a guy, a young one too, in a light brown leather jacket and loose beige pants. The blood is too thick to really see anything. Though, it's pooling near his waist the most. It’s horrific. It’s objectively horrific, and yet it seems Daniel hasn’t reached his limit. He feels nothing, or close to nothing. Shouldn’t there be more? Just more?
He tears his eyes away from the body far too easily to look around, and yuup. His belongings are on the floor. And on the dining table. Everything from each and every kitchen drawer, everything that made up the chairs and cupboards. There is glass everywhere, from the mirror, the clocks, the counters, and tv, which isn’t even attached to the wall anymore. It’s a bloodbath too, there are splutters and drops of blood on every surface. He’s beginning to think this is too much blood for only one person. Pages from his books are sticking everywhere with blood acting as glue, bookshelves toppled. It looks as though there was a fight. Why would there have been a fight? He looks up, the fan is attached to the ceiling via a single wire. And oh, save for the sky-painted ceiling on the other half of the hall, the ceiling on this side is smashed, like some tried to run a bulldozer ball through it.
The apartment is bathed in moonlight through the large windows, and though there’s probably no point, he clicks the light switch. Nothing. It hits Daniel fully now. He’s going to die. This is it. Armand’s going to kill him, finally.
He opts for walking a bit inside, walking around and half-yelling. Old man yells at cloud and is content to do so. “Armand, what the fuck? I know you’re here! You don’t give a single flying fuck about permission!! What’s the point of this? Come out and be fucking done with it for once in your life!”
There’s a slight rumble behind him, he turns around and there he is.
Armand’s sitting on top of the dining table, like a statue. His head is bent a bit forward with his knees to his chin. His hands are linked in front of his legs. He reminds Daniel of a kid watching a cartoon. He’s wearing a dark turtleneck sweater that’s sticking to him, with a sort of sandy brown bell bottomed pants. Daniel thinks he’s seen those pants before. The outfit is complete, with believe it or not, the entirety of it covered in blood (his own?) and a denim cap.
The cap with a curve in the front covers most of his forehead. Though his eyes are a blazing fiery orange and he’s staring right into Daniel’s very being. He wishes he knew what whose eyes meant. It doesn’t escape Daniel's notice, and in fact contains a large part of it- he looks dead. Well, he was always dead but now he looks it. He’s thin, again, always lean and thin, but really really thin now. His skin is near to an ashen grey, his cheeks hollow and there are bags under his eyes. He looks tired. Miserable. There’s a sudden spike of frustration and guilt at that. No, fuck that.
Armand’s lips tugs upwards into a slight smile. Fuck, he heard that. In Daniel’s usual fashion, he decides to complain.
“I liked that cassette player, you know.” He hadn’t even known that he had one.
Armand’s smile widens and he chuckles a bit. It feels like an accomplishment. In a careful neutral tone he says, “Diya is nice. Do not worry.”
He can feel the second part of that statement not having anything to do with their neighbour. “I liked my apartment too, for that matter.”
“I liked my companionship.”
Okay, so they’re doing this? “Well, what can I say, you’re welcome. Though I’m done doing you favors.. so you know, get out.”
Armand is angry, he can tell. Good. He’s making an effort to keep his voice light when he says, “Favor? Is that what you call your ‘journalistic impulse’ to ruin lives?”
“Yeah actually. He deserves better, and now you can go lick the boot of someone less whiny. You’re welcome.” Daniel knows better than to say his name right now. Or even think it.
Armand is seething, and when he moves, it’s one of those movements where you’re so full of something, so completely enveloped by a thousand different feelings that you have no choice but to be reserved. No choice but to be still. He titles his head completely backwards and looks up at the blue ceiling.
Never in a million years, he could've guessed what Armand was going to say. “It was a shame, Daniel. With Alice.”
Okay, enough. He’s done. He was never really a fan of mind games. If you have something to say, just fucking say it, you know? “What the fuck do you want? Tell me what you want.”
He’s looking at me. He’s trying to provoke me. “Your ex-wives. Your Lenora, Katie."
He tries again with a bit more authority. Authority, who is he kidding? “Tell me what you want, Armand."
“Do you truly believe you know everything, Daniel? Understand everything? Produced a class, barely being a teacher. Wrote a memoir, warts and all. Now I know the meaning of life. You’re an ant.”
He's not falling for this. A repeat of Dubai, the ol’ fishing rod in the head. “Why don’t you come up with something yourself? It's called an original idea. Just fucking tell me!”
Armand is moving towards him now. Like a cat. “The book.”
“The book?”
Armand rolls his eyes, “Yes, have you gone deaf? The book. Stop writing it.”
It’s his book. Besides, he’s always written what some people would rather he not. “Tell you what, why don't you kill me instead.”
Armand tuts now, very expressive today for a statue, “Always so stubborn. So defensive. Why? Do you know what this will accomplish Daniel? Absolutely nothing.” He’s an arm length away, now. Why is he wearing that stupid cap?
“Actually, maybe I’ll kill myself. Deny you the pleasure.” Maybe he will. Maybe he will. He’s dying anyway. Armand's still walking.
“Now see, that would be a favor.” He’s close. Too close. Daniel can hear him breathe. Is that for his benefit? He doubts Armand is doing anything for his benefit. His right hand is cold when it comes up and cradles Daniel’s face. Really cold. It’s a light but firm touch, his long slender fingers are smooth against his skin and sends shivers down his spine. Armand covers most of the right side of his face as he moves a bit closer and Daniel forgets how to breathe.
His voice is syrupy sweet when he says, almost whispering, “My story is not yours to tell, Daniel. You will not paint your pages with my history and display it in windows for all to see, I will not let you.”
Oh. He hadn't completely included Armand's stint at the Louver, anyway. Does Armand know that? Did he not read?
Armand brings his other hand up to mirror the first. Their noses are inches away now, when did he move- all it would take is a sway. Daniel feels stuck in his grasp.
He continues, “What I am going to do is dispatch you. Rid you of us. Let you go with the dignity you so want. Spare you the pain, maybe. Given the nature of your relations, you'll rot here for weeks before they find you. Your back and knees won’t ache, your hands won’t tremble, your eyes won’t water every thirty minutes. You can rest, do you see? Rest. You can rest.” Armand’s eyes are strangely pained, his eyebrows disagreeable. Is he letting Daniel see? His voice is the softest he’s ever heard it. Do you really think I’m falling for this again? No.
Daniel clears his throat, tries to breathe even breaths to calm his racing heart. His voice is shaky, “Who’s the guy?”
“The guy?” Armand’s eyebrows pinch further, in the puzzled direction this time.
“The guy you just murdered in cold blood.”
“Oh. A vampire who wandered in. Who too wanted you to stop writing.” Oh. Um. Alright.
Last Daniel will remember for a while is Armand lunging for him and everything going black.