Bela Lugosi's Dead and I Feel Fine
Edward picked up the note he’d written in his best calligraphy, a drop of blood in the ink, and placed it on the counter where it would remain dry and undamaged for whoever found his mortal remains. He’d written Adam’s cell phone number on the back - no use doing this unless the right person was going to feel very, very guilty.
Fuck Adam. Stringing him along, playing with his heart. Using him to get his stupid straight-boy Steven-Segal-looking buddy’s attention.
Fuck that stupid straight bar anyway. He should’ve known anybody he met there was going to be a poser.
Fuck Adam. Fuck that Steven-Segal-looking guy. Fuck Suzi making him go to that stupid bar with her in the first place. Fuck Marci, cutting his hours at Hot Topic, making him pay full price for that pentagram. Fuck his stepfather, too. Fuck the whole bunch of them. Wait til they found out - they’d feel bad then, they’d wish they’d treated him better.
He took a last look into the mirror, making sure his eyes were perfectly ringed in black. Cruel irony: his skin was finally looking really good.
He dropped a few rose petals into the clawfooted bathtub, the one beautiful thing in his tiny apartment, and imagined his hair floating, pre-raphaelite, on the scented water. He pressed Play on his boom box, and his beloved Bauhaus filled the air. The water was so soothing, so welcoming as he climbed in, so warm against his skin that he barely felt the blade.
***
Edward woke up, shivering, in a cold, sticky mess. An ugly red-brown stain ringed the half-drained bathtub. He climbed out, hugging himself, feeling his hair chilled and slimy against his bare skin, grabbing for a towel.
Shortly afterward, he realized that was an awful lot of blood congealing in the bathtub.
That meant he was dead.
And he was breathing, moving, thinking, even.
That meant he was… undead.
He’d always hoped - dreamed - he knew it wasn’t just old movies and songs and Anne Rice. He knew.
As he rinsed off, he felt a kind of ironic gratitude towards that stupid Adam. Because there was no way anybody else - he’d known there was something special about Adam. And Adam had bitten him, that time. Bitten his neck. And the Dark Trick had worked, just the way it was supposed to.
Edward whooped as he danced gleefully through his little apartment, earrings jingling, swishing his long hair.
Fuck ‘em all, he thought, pushing Play on his boom box again.
He was a new-made vampire, and the glorious Seacouver night belonged to him.