I Have a Sickness
by
Steve Zinger
by
Steve Zinger
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I have a sickness. This wickedness inside me festers with the waning of the light. I thirst in
my head as much as in my body, and I thirst for souls as much as for blood. When I kill, it is
for keeps.
“Just a couple dollars, man?” The guy apologizes but his shoulder makes a gesture like he’s
shrugging me off; though I didn’t even touch him. “Just a couple fucking dollars. We all need
to eat.” He walks away, walks faster than he did before, nearly tripping on the haphazard
cobblestones. He isn’t nearly as far from me as he wants to be.
I get a hand on him, briefly touching him.
“Why don’t you just go crawl into a little hole and die?” he says.
“Um, I already did.”
He isn’t looking where he’s going and he trips and his foot splashes in a puddle, muddying up
his fine leather shoe. I rattled him. I tend to do that to people. I can get inside their skull. The
guy stops for a second and looks back. I can’t see his eyes because he’s wearing dark
glasses. No need. I already got my fingers into his soul. I wink at him and he stiffens up,
trying to put on that he’s affronted. I put two fingers to my lips and kiss him off. He ain’t
from here.
Welcome to Pirate’s Alley. This is my turf.
I knew I was sick a couple years ago, but I don’t know how I got this way. One day I woke
up and I had no strength in my body. The heat had me sapped like a dog, but the water I
needed was blood. My veins were drained. I searched my body for wounds but found none,
save for a throbbing up under my chin. I searched my mind for memories but the last three
days were blank. Yeah, I tried to get help but that didn’t work.
So people think I’m crazy, so what?
You gotta be nuts to work nine to five. Hell, I only went over the edge because I was already
teetering on it. That guy with the dark glasses, he was all Hollywood. I could tell. I get
glimpses into people’s psyches. He’ll be back. I’ll reel him in and show him how hollow his
Hollywood fantasies really are.
The St. Louis Cathedral looms like a ghost. Behind it there is a courtyard with a statue of the
Saint offering benediction. It watches us and weeps.
I hold the moon in my left hand; in my right is the neck of Hollywood, poised for breaking.
My thumb juts up under his chin, painful.
“Something happens to me at night,” I say.
“You want your two bucks?” he says, raspy voiced, holding ragged bills in his hand. He is
unable to swallow and he gurgles, saliva welling in a pool in the back of his throat.
“Don’t you know anything about karma? It’s too late for you. Much too late.” I push harder
on his neck. Bones grind and he stifles a scream. “My name is Janssen. You won’t remember
that when you wake up.”
My thumb pierces up under his chin and into his mouth. Hollywood smiles a rictus grin; the
face I see is my own.
Cicadas sing. A cat meows. The Saint sheds tears, but they mean nothing.
* * *
I have a sickness. I wake daily, starving mildly, the subtle feeling driving me absolutely nuts.
It’s been years of this mild taunt chipping away at my psyche. It’s like water torture dripping
at my soul. The blood moon hangs in the air tonight and I drool maliciously.
There’s a guy who sits down in Jackson Square in front of the big church. He’s homeless,
patches of his hair shaved off and he’s covered in wickedly bad tattoos that look like they
were scratched into his skin. This is the kind of person that my suave self tends to target. It’s
not like the movies where I get all the pretty girls and wear faggoty lace and eternity is
something so decadent and ripe for squander.
So I walk over to the steps where Homeless is sitting. I don’t have my hooks out yet. I try to
be unobtrusive. The moment of my appearance must gratify like a breeze.
“You don’t have a few coins on you, do you?” He grins at me like I just made a joke. Most of
his teeth are partially white, and the rot makes the gaps look that much more unsightly. I look
at the tracks on his arms. They are as insistent for their liquor as I and I can relate to their
concupiscence. I want this man’s toxic blood. He shakes. He twitches. His soul writhes
inside his body, tormented like a caged animal.
I entice Homeless into Pirate’s Alley with offers of needles and liquid succor. Next thing I
know my thumb is up under his chin and he’s halfway to death and not even resisting it and I’
m taking in everything about this piece of slime into myself.
The last thing I see is a vampire standing over me, enjoying a private joke belied by the smirk
on his face, before everything goes black.
* * *
I have a sickness. There is no cure. Relief is only temporary. My memories are fleeting. But I
do enjoy a good joke once in a while, especially ones that are of cosmic value.
Today I wake up but nothing is recognizable. My mind races to catch up with the moment. I
am walking-I am seeing things that aren’t there-I feel as though I am trapped.
“Janssen!” A voice I don’t know calls my name. Suddenly I am being chased and I hurry
away from the crowds and go to the gardens behind the Big Church. I just want quiet. I just
want peace. Damn, I would love a sandwich right about now too.
The gardens are closed and I don’t know how I got through the gate. I feel the pressure of
the ghosts surrounding me. The vampire is pursuing me.
Suddenly he has me by the throat. I feel a thumb jut up under my chin, and a hand reaches
into my pocket and pulls out some money.
“Don’t look,” it says. I can’t place whether the voice is male or female. “Don’t you dare look
at my face!” The pressure of the thumb increases and my nerve endings are livewires of pain.
Before I know it everything is black and I have this…floating sensation. It almost fooled me
into thinking I am better.
I am not.
I am restless. I am ill.
(1,119 words)
my head as much as in my body, and I thirst for souls as much as for blood. When I kill, it is
for keeps.
“Just a couple dollars, man?” The guy apologizes but his shoulder makes a gesture like he’s
shrugging me off; though I didn’t even touch him. “Just a couple fucking dollars. We all need
to eat.” He walks away, walks faster than he did before, nearly tripping on the haphazard
cobblestones. He isn’t nearly as far from me as he wants to be.
I get a hand on him, briefly touching him.
“Why don’t you just go crawl into a little hole and die?” he says.
“Um, I already did.”
He isn’t looking where he’s going and he trips and his foot splashes in a puddle, muddying up
his fine leather shoe. I rattled him. I tend to do that to people. I can get inside their skull. The
guy stops for a second and looks back. I can’t see his eyes because he’s wearing dark
glasses. No need. I already got my fingers into his soul. I wink at him and he stiffens up,
trying to put on that he’s affronted. I put two fingers to my lips and kiss him off. He ain’t
from here.
Welcome to Pirate’s Alley. This is my turf.
I knew I was sick a couple years ago, but I don’t know how I got this way. One day I woke
up and I had no strength in my body. The heat had me sapped like a dog, but the water I
needed was blood. My veins were drained. I searched my body for wounds but found none,
save for a throbbing up under my chin. I searched my mind for memories but the last three
days were blank. Yeah, I tried to get help but that didn’t work.
So people think I’m crazy, so what?
You gotta be nuts to work nine to five. Hell, I only went over the edge because I was already
teetering on it. That guy with the dark glasses, he was all Hollywood. I could tell. I get
glimpses into people’s psyches. He’ll be back. I’ll reel him in and show him how hollow his
Hollywood fantasies really are.
The St. Louis Cathedral looms like a ghost. Behind it there is a courtyard with a statue of the
Saint offering benediction. It watches us and weeps.
I hold the moon in my left hand; in my right is the neck of Hollywood, poised for breaking.
My thumb juts up under his chin, painful.
“Something happens to me at night,” I say.
“You want your two bucks?” he says, raspy voiced, holding ragged bills in his hand. He is
unable to swallow and he gurgles, saliva welling in a pool in the back of his throat.
“Don’t you know anything about karma? It’s too late for you. Much too late.” I push harder
on his neck. Bones grind and he stifles a scream. “My name is Janssen. You won’t remember
that when you wake up.”
My thumb pierces up under his chin and into his mouth. Hollywood smiles a rictus grin; the
face I see is my own.
Cicadas sing. A cat meows. The Saint sheds tears, but they mean nothing.
* * *
I have a sickness. I wake daily, starving mildly, the subtle feeling driving me absolutely nuts.
It’s been years of this mild taunt chipping away at my psyche. It’s like water torture dripping
at my soul. The blood moon hangs in the air tonight and I drool maliciously.
There’s a guy who sits down in Jackson Square in front of the big church. He’s homeless,
patches of his hair shaved off and he’s covered in wickedly bad tattoos that look like they
were scratched into his skin. This is the kind of person that my suave self tends to target. It’s
not like the movies where I get all the pretty girls and wear faggoty lace and eternity is
something so decadent and ripe for squander.
So I walk over to the steps where Homeless is sitting. I don’t have my hooks out yet. I try to
be unobtrusive. The moment of my appearance must gratify like a breeze.
“You don’t have a few coins on you, do you?” He grins at me like I just made a joke. Most of
his teeth are partially white, and the rot makes the gaps look that much more unsightly. I look
at the tracks on his arms. They are as insistent for their liquor as I and I can relate to their
concupiscence. I want this man’s toxic blood. He shakes. He twitches. His soul writhes
inside his body, tormented like a caged animal.
I entice Homeless into Pirate’s Alley with offers of needles and liquid succor. Next thing I
know my thumb is up under his chin and he’s halfway to death and not even resisting it and I’
m taking in everything about this piece of slime into myself.
The last thing I see is a vampire standing over me, enjoying a private joke belied by the smirk
on his face, before everything goes black.
* * *
I have a sickness. There is no cure. Relief is only temporary. My memories are fleeting. But I
do enjoy a good joke once in a while, especially ones that are of cosmic value.
Today I wake up but nothing is recognizable. My mind races to catch up with the moment. I
am walking-I am seeing things that aren’t there-I feel as though I am trapped.
“Janssen!” A voice I don’t know calls my name. Suddenly I am being chased and I hurry
away from the crowds and go to the gardens behind the Big Church. I just want quiet. I just
want peace. Damn, I would love a sandwich right about now too.
The gardens are closed and I don’t know how I got through the gate. I feel the pressure of
the ghosts surrounding me. The vampire is pursuing me.
Suddenly he has me by the throat. I feel a thumb jut up under my chin, and a hand reaches
into my pocket and pulls out some money.
“Don’t look,” it says. I can’t place whether the voice is male or female. “Don’t you dare look
at my face!” The pressure of the thumb increases and my nerve endings are livewires of pain.
Before I know it everything is black and I have this…floating sensation. It almost fooled me
into thinking I am better.
I am not.
I am restless. I am ill.
(1,119 words)