Darrell Schweitzer - Full MoonCity

“Love means never having to say you’re sorry,” she said, a bit hopelessly.

“I don’t love you, Mel.”

“And I don’t love you, either,” she snapped. “As you helpfully pointed out, I hardly know you. I could say the same about your lost love. You don’t even know her name or what she looks like. We’re both in love with fantasy figures.”

“Mine is real.”

“So is mine; I just haven’t met him yet.” She tried a gentler approach, softening her tone. “But look-we could still have fun together.”

“Like last night? I’m sorry, Mel, but even if it doesn’t creep you out, the idea-”

“So change me,” she said quickly. “I mean it! Make me like you. It’s what I want. Next month, you could bite me…”

He recoiled. “No!”

“Why not? If I ask you to-and then we could be together-”

“It doesn’t work like that! We’re not vampires, you know.”

“How does it work?”

But it was clear, from the hard look on his face, that he was not going to share any more secrets with her. “Forget it,” he said. “I’m not trying to make you feel worse, but there’s no future for us. It’s not your fault. Even if I could do it-even if you managed to change some other way-it wouldn’t change the way I feel. I’m sorry.”

There was no point in arguing about it; it was never possible to argue someone into love with you-she knew that all too well from being on the other side of these miserable, final conversations.

So she took her leave of him. He probably thought her heart was broken, and maybe it should have been after such a disappointing end. But in fact she felt quite ridiculously cheerful as she rode away from his house. She knew this was not the end, but only the beginning. She’d finally learned the truth about werewolves, and now the hunt was on.

You promise not to throw that stuff on me again, Father? Really promise?

Okay. It burns, but if you promise, you can come on in. What I wanted to tell you last time was that I didn’t do anything they say. None of it is true. One of the cops said I was the kind who hangs around school yards, so that part’s true. I did. Sit down on the other bunk and I’ll explain.

It isn’t that I want to make love with little girls like they say. I never, ever wanted that. I will tell you the truth, and if you want me to swear on that prayer book I’ll do it. I have never wanted sex with anybody I’ve ever seen. Not little girls, or boys either. And not women, or not very much. Not with men. Just thinking about it makes me sick.

I was sick a lot when I was a kid. I had a delicate stomach is what the doctor and everybody said. Everything I ate made me sick. It tasted awful, too. There was this nice girl next door. Her name was Nancy. She felt sorry for me, so she gave me a little piece of her chocolate bar one time. She said how good it was and how much I’d like it.

Well, I wanted to make her happy, so I made myself eat it. It smelled horrible and tasted the same way, and you know what chocolate looks like. But I got it down just the same and told her how good it was. I was still puking that night a long time after Bradley went to bed.

Him? Oh, he was my foster father back then. I grew up in foster homes. There were three or four, maybe five, because nobody really wanted me ever, and I guess I ought to have told you.

No, I never knew my real mom, or my dad either. Some garbage man found me in a trash can-

Sorry my laugh bothers you, Father, but I can’t help laughing every time I think about it. It is just so funny. I’ve seen the old TV news. The library helped me look them up. They are nice like that.

No, not even that old. I was premature, and my mother just threw me away, whoever she was. They never did find her, only a policeman-this was another policeman, an old guy-told me one time that they thought it was this one girl who’d hung herself a couple days before they found me. That’s what they thought because her body looked like she’d just had a kid, only the doctors said I couldn’t have lived that long without being fed and kept warm.

Only I’m never cold. Are you, Father? How does it feel?

I’ve picked up pieces of ice and even put them in my shirt in the winter. It doesn’t bother me. You know what does, Father? Wearing a shirt. Wearing anything. Can I take mine off?

Thanks. Yes, I’m hairy, and I suppose that helps.

Oh, yes. I hate hot weather. You know what I really like? I like winter nights, those cold, clear nights when the stars shine and shine, and there’s frost everywhere.

Or snow. Snow is good. That’s when I pray.

Sure I believe in God, Father. For me, God is the moon.

Wait!

I know all that. He’s not really the moon, and it’s just a sort of island up in the sky. People have been up there. You know that crucifix you’re holding up is just wood and metal, but it means God to you. That’s how the moon is to me. God hung the moon, and since I can’t see Him I pray to Him there.

Sure. Ask me anything you want. What do you want to ask me about?

Here? In jail? Well, to tell you the truth, I don’t eat anything much, which I guess is why they told you I was on a hunger strike.

No way! I am not. Give me something that won’t make me sick and just watch me eat! Only the food in here is like what they had in the cafeteria at school. It’s just garbage. Some of it might have been good meat when they got it, but they ruin it on purpose.

So what I would do back then was go to a little café I knew about where they’d bring me what I asked for. It was pretty bad, sure, but I could eat it and not puke it up. That way I did not starve. When I was older and had more money, I would just buy meat at the butcher’s and eat it. Sometimes I was so hungry I would open the package there in the store. He didn’t like it, but I was a good customer. Later I used to snack on the job. You get a nibble here and a nibble there, and if you keep it up all day it’s enough.

Do you want to hear about this, Father? About what I really like?

Okay, let me tell you how I found out. I was down at this one dump with this guy Paul. We were climbing over the junk looking for something we might like and looking for rats, too. We looked for the rats because they would bite you if you didn’t see them first. We had sticks, and we would whack rats with them any time we could. Mostly we missed. You probably know how that is. They run fast, and they’re always getting under something.

Paul got a rat, a big one. He knocked it over toward me, knocked it off its feet, you know, and I whacked it with my stick, too. After that, Paul killed it, or thought he had. He whacked it two or three times and it lay there like it was dead. Then he picked it up, and it bit him…

I should not be telling you all this, Father. Bending your ear like this is what I mean. I know you don’t care about all this. The thing is, I’m just so lonesome. Hungry and lonesome, like a lost dog. I know it seems pretty funny for me to be lonesome in a place as noisy as this, with doors slamming and people yelling all the time, but I’ve got nobody to talk to. No visitors, either.

No, I’m not in solitary, Father. Or I’m not supposed to be. Who told you that?

Well, I’m not. It’s all a big lie. They would have told me, wouldn’t they? Besides, I haven’t done anything, really. I mean since I have been in here. If you get put in solitary, it is just about always because you hit one of the screws. I have never done that, or bit one either.

You want to know the worst thing I’ve ever done in here? They won’t let me go out to where the others eat, they just pass my tray in with their stinking garbage on it. So a couple of times I have thrown all their garbage on the floor and walked on it.