PreliminaryEditPandoraSyndrome.docx
- 1. 1 of 7 An excerpt from Pandora Syndrome (an unpublished supernatural novel by April Wahlin; used with permission): ~Beginning of the End~ So there I was, encased in about ten feet of solid cement, and walled into the basement of an Ahab’s coffee shop. My skin ached. Not because of the cement, but because it was morning. So I hadn't made the best life choices. I just wasn't good at this being a vampire business. After the initial shock of being buried in cement finally wore off, I found myself in an uncomfortably reflective state. So I waxed and waned about every event that led up to my current plight. What else could I do? Every time I attempted to move, my muscles clenched and burned with the effort. It was just easier to try and stay still. Thinking back, I remember my friends telling me that I had the worst taste in men. I thought they were just making fun of my eating habits… get it? “Eating habits?” Vampire? Okay, lame joke. Seriously though, even when I was human I was a horrible judge of character. At this point I was only hoping to hear the huge “I told you so” from my vampiric Maker... if he's still alive, that is. Anyway, my name is Pandora Grey Blackheart. I know, with a name like that I’m not surprised I got turned into a vampire either. Being born in the sixties, my parents were model hippies. I think my mother, Mary, was rebelling against her own name when she dubbed me Pandora. Mary is the most common female name in history; I looked it up. If you think I got it bad, my brother’s name is Prometheus Jackson Blackheart. No one was shocked when he started going by Jack. My friends call me Dora; I’ll even respond to D on occasion, but no one calls me Pandora unless they want to piss me off. The only people that get away with it are my mother, because she gave birth to me, and my Maker because he refuses to call me anything else. As the vampire books say (and yes I’ve read them all - there isn’t exactly a “Vampirism for Dummies”), I was Created in the ‘80s, the height of the slacker era. It was an easy time: No wars to protest, no drafts, and there was a rapid influx in fashion and technology. My generation was the last to be raised by our parents, instead of colorful cartoon characters, but I digress. God, this cement was infuriating! I occasionally managed to distract myself long enough to forget where I was, but it never lasted long. I felt like Han Solo encased in carbonite. Every time I tried to move, I felt a little bit more of my flesh rip. It was painful and reminded me that it was just better to stay still. Thus, I sank back into my strangely reflective state. In my longish existence, it had been strange to watch technology change so drastically. I remember when only rich people had access to cell phones and the internet. Now if you didn’t have the internet on your cell phone, you were left in a technological wasteland. Toddlers have cell phones these days. What is the world coming to?
- 2. 2 of 7 Anywho, I’m curvy for a twenty-first century girl. I would have fit in better with Betty Page’s generation than the stick-thin super models of today. I’m a girl of medium height with black hair and eyes so dark brown they’re nearly black too. Booooring. I get hit on enough, though. Then again, I’ve seen guys hit on couches after enough drinks. All in all, I’m not the best vampire. Clearly. Not that I’d given much thought to joining the ranks of bloodthirsty night stalkers. I still like the taste of food, though it does nothing for me physically. I hunt to eat, but not for sport like many vamps do. Above all, I abhor politics. You think human politicians are bad? They haven’t had ten lifetimes to practice. Another win in the 'world’s least likely vampire' category, is that I'm a huge pop culture geek. This is weird for three reasons: one, I am a girl and should apparently have been more into Barbies than Star Wars action figures; two, I am not ten years old, society's usual age for collecting toys (though I'd never hand a display action figure or resin busts to a ten-year-old, as it would damage the value and integrity of the piece); three, the geek factor pretty much ruins the whole bloodthirsty night stalker image. I should be wearing a duster and leather pants, not jeans and a Voltron t-shirt. If my Maker hadn’t been in the right place at the wrong time, I’m sure I would have been his last choice for a Tyro--I’m just not vampire material. Heck, I’m not even vampire bait. I’m not Mina Harker; I’m not innocent or sweet, and I am not particularly virtuous. I’m a modern woman who lost her virtues in a haze of high school-aged smoking, drinking, and fooling around. I didn’t have a job… well, not a real job anyway. I was confined to working nights for obvious reasons, but I felt more contented than I did when I was alive. Mostly because I didn’t have to worry about what I’d do with my life; I had eternity to do something with myself. Suddenly, a wave of annoyance made me stop pontificating about my virtues, or lack thereof. As a distraction from my current situation, my musings were only doing the job so well. Man, the cement was getting on my nerves. You don’t realize how good it feels to move your neck around until you no longer have the luxury. I hoped I wouldn’t need the little girl’s room any time soon. Then again, since I could practically feel the cement leaching moisture from my body, I wasn’t in any danger of that. Of course, needing the bathroom was the least of my problems. How had I got myself into this mess? I never killed anyone; well, not permanently anyway. I never hurt anyone that didn’t deserve it. I didn’t manipulate people. I only took blood from willing donors– usually dumb guys who thought they were getting a hickey instead of giving blood. All I wanted to do was hang out with my friends, play video games (which are much easier to kick ass at when you have a vampire’s dexterity), and basically just not be encased in cement. Was that too much to ask? My captors had been smart. I had tried to use my connection with my brother to call for help but my handy vamp powers weren’t so handy on a supernatural high ground. The land here disrupted any magical current that came near it. Go figure that Ahab’s Coffee would be the supernatural ‘it’ place. Just further demonstrates how much I knew about this (new, weird) world. In fact, not long after I discovered that little fact, I was told that their rival, Tea Station, was run by Hunters--a bunch of overpowered watchdogs that worked for a supernatural enforcement group called The Order. Next they’d tell me that Bigfoot runs
- 3. 3 of 7 Tacoma’s Best. I imagined the agonizing ways I’d kill those who had done this to me–if I ever get out of here that is. It reminded me of how far I’d come and the events that led me up to my current predicament… ~My Human Life~ I have to admit, my human life was not so different from my vampire life. I would love to say that I had a fabulous existence before I turned vamp and that it just got better once I joined the supernatural world, but I can’t. Whoever said that all vampires are rich and have hordes of ghoulish servants never met Dora Blackheart. They were probably thinking of my Maker. As for me, I wasn't well- to-do, I wasn't influential, I wasn’t even an overachiever in high school. The only thing I ever won was a beautiful baby contest, and that was before I could even form memories. In my human life I lived in San Diego, which is beautiful, but when you grow up there, it’s just commonplace. I barely held down a job as a cashier at a supply store, which provided me with nothing but an irrational hatred for incentive plans and extended warranties. Yes, I was living in the fast lane with my super exciting sales job. On top of that, I was a full-time junior college student with no direction. I still lived with my mother and had just broken up with my stoner boyfriend who had been little more than a masturbatory aid. The only break from this monotony was the occasional keg party or movie night with my old high school friend and coworker, Rosetta. I hardly remember the breakdown I had just before I turned twenty-one, but I’m glad it happened, even though it inadvertently led to my early death. I had a bit of a temper then. Okay, maybe more than a bit. Normally, I was able to keep it under wraps, only vaguely threatening those that crossed me. However, every now and again, it got a tad violent. Working at a boring office supply job had been hard enough, but when my coworker Jerry slid up to me that fateful day, I knew something was going to go down. Honestly, I'd been feeling off all day. Trying to juggle school and work was trying at best, and my grades were suffering greatly. Not to mention, what I made at the sales job was barely enough for me to eat and keep up with the repairs on my beater of a car. At this rate I'd never be able to afford an apartment. How did people do this? I smelled Jerry before I heard him, as he was part of the smokers group that went outside for a break every five minutes. "Hi Pandora," his smoke laced breath breezed by my ear and I nearly choked. I nodded in return and focused on organizing my checkout stand. It was a slow day and I was hoping for a sudden rush of customers so I wouldn't have to talk to the man. Jerry was in his early thirties and already had a pretty good bald spot/pot belly
- 4. 4 of 7 combo going on. He also had the confidence of Patrick Swayze when trying to pick up girls, without any of the smoothness. I'd made my opinion on his advances known early on and reinforced them with the occasional 'fuck off' or 'I'd rather eat dirt,' but it never deterred him long. "So, a few of us are going out after work," he told me, still standing uncomfortably close. "You should come, I'll buy you a drink." I rolled my eyes. Despite the fact that I wasn't yet twenty-one, I had heard this line before. 'A few of us' was actually code for 'just him,' as I was told by my friend Rosetta who had felt bad for the guy and gone to meet him once. "Nope," I told him sharply. "But my shift will be over soon and I'm sure someone gullible will take my place." "Have it your way. You don't know what you’re missing," he chuckled darkly. I wanted to keep it that way. Unfortunately, that’s when I felt a sharp pinch to my right ass cheek. A rush of adrenalin ran up my spine and to my hand, which latched onto the nearest object. I swung, striking Jerry in the face with a standard issue office stapler. Blood poured from Jerry's face as he screeched obscenities and pawed at the thick staple now lodged in his forehead. I looked down at the stapler in my hand and then back up at him, stunned by my reaction. Everyone in the store had stopped to look. I couldn't help noticing that no one went to help Jerry. A few people even snickered, but all I could do was stand in shock. I stared at my bloodied hand as Jerry yelled at me, his words fading into the background as my heart pounded in my ears. My breath seized and I couldn't make sense of anything. I felt like I needed to go. Something was telling me to leave, something just on the edge of hearing. So I ran. The manager called after me as I ran out, wanting to talk, but I’d rather nail my tongue to the counter than sit through the “is something wrong?” speech. Yes, something was very wrong. I might as well have stapled my resignation to Jerry's head because I would never step foot in that store again. I was on the couch at my mother’s house, cuddling with my large husky, Sarge, before I could fully process what had happened. I didn't even remember driving home. I groaned into Sarge's fur as I contemplated my current situation. I was a complete and utter fuck up with a failing grade point average, a newly lost job, and a waning mental state. My brother, Jack, dropped onto the couch next to me, trying to get me to talk, but I ignored him. His presence only amplified my misery, as I was doomed to fill the failure role in the family. Jack, was the picture of perfection compared to me. He had just graduated from San Diego State University. The boy could sleep through calculus and get an A, whereas I studied my ass off and barely passed remedial algebra. I hated him for it, especially since he acted like such a meathead most of the time, what with his partying and near constant womanizing. I had never even tried to get into a university. I didn't see the point on spending all that money on tuition when I didn't even know what I wanted to do with my life. Since Mom wasn't rich, I decided to save her money. With a secretary's budget, she couldn't even afford to put one kid through SDSU. So Jack worked the graveyard shift at Lenny’s Diner to help put himself through school. I had tried to follow in his footsteps. Really, I had, but the fates had something else in store for me.
- 5. 5 of 7 Luckily, when Jack moved to L.A. and became a production assistant, he quickly realized he needed a roommate in order to pay his exorbitant rent. I didn't know what I would do to earn my keep, but just about anything was better than sticking around here. Unfortunately, before I could pack my Star Wars figurines and pose a Jerry-Maguire- like 'I quit!' scene, there came a death in the family. Smoking a pack a day and demolishing a gallon of Vodka every couple weeks, my Grandmother Millie—who lived with my mother and I—died of heart failure. Yes, after years of smoking and drinking, it was her heart that failed; not the lungs, not the liver. Take that, Surgeon General. My grandmother had been an ornery old woman, but I loved her and couldn’t believe that I was too busy having a breakdown to realize that Granny had been rushed to the hospital. She was dead by the time I got there. I should probably mention that my grandmother never liked me. I think it had something to do with me being born with dark eyes and hair. So unlike my Germanic, blue- eyed, blond-haired family. “Devil Girl, get out of the refrigerator!” she’d yell when I came home from school wanting a snack. It was her cute pet name for me. The way she shouted it across the house, she sounded more like some creole lady from the bayou, instead of a scrawny white woman from Minnesota. The name never really hurt my feelings; she’d been calling me that since infancy. However, Grandma’s nickname for Jack was, Angel Boy. You could tell who her favorite was. A few weeks later, we held the funeral at the local crematorium. Despite my groaning, it was open casket. Why go through the trouble of all that makeup and embalming fluid if they were just going to burn her afterwards? It didn’t make any sense to me. Guess the old witch just wanted to traumatize us all before going up like a traditional broom rider, in a blaze of glory. I had a strange feeling as I walked into the funeral home that afternoon. I never liked funerals. It all started with my grandpa’s. I had only been six, and forgot much of it, but I remembered the feeling. It was the same feeling I got when passing graveyards and museums, like I could sense the death on them. I couldn’t explain it. I wasn’t scared, I didn’t want to run away. If anything, the sense of death felt more like it was calling to me. The air in the parlor reeked of formaldehyde and lilac. It was like trying to aerosol over the smell of burnt food. You could mask it, but you could still tell there was something bad around. “You okay, sweetie?” Mom asked in concern as I stood in the doorway staring at my grandmother’s coffin. I hadn't even realized that my mother had been standing there. She was in a long black dress with a black blazer over it, making the brightness of her blond hair and blue eyes stand out. Though her eyes were a little watery and red from crying.
- 6. 6 of 7 “Yeah, I’ll be alright,” I lied to her. I sure didn't feel alright. I wanted to walk toward the box. It was weird. I hated open casket funerals, but somehow, I was longing to see my grandmother one last time. If not for Jack, who escorted my mother and I to our seats, I might never have moved. People were gathering around a blown up picture of my grandmother from the early BC’s. She looked a bit like my mom then. Guess I wouldn’t want the last picture everyone saw of me to be old and wrinkly either. The crowd was small, just my aunts, cousins, and a few family friends. My grandma hadn’t had too many buddies near the end, probably because she spent most of her time complaining about the neighbors and watching Wheel of Fortune. Just then, I turned to find my best friend, Rosetta, pacing in the doorway to the crematorium. I was truly surprised she had shown up. Anything having to do with death freaked her out. “Hey,” she called as I approached. I was so happy to see her. Rosetta would be a neutral haven for me, just sad enough to be respectful, but not full of tears like my mother and brother. She was in her work uniform for the supply store we worked at–. Well, where I use to work. The gross green color of the vest did nothing to compliment her dark Latin features. Why were work uniforms always so ugly? “Hey,” I greeted, joining her in the doorway. "Thanks for coming. I know you’re usually squeamish about this sort of thing.” Rosetta kept her eyes on me, avoiding the casket. “I wanted to pay my respects. It’s kinda what you do, right?” She muttered, nervously twisting her long brown braid around her finger. It was like she was afraid some creature might suddenly come to life and attack her. “Yeah, but you can’t even sit through The Fog, and that’s just movie smoke. Being in an actual crematorium with actual dead people must be hell for you.” Rosetta shivered. “Cut it out,” she scolded. “I’m here for you, not the body. I got to get back to work though." "I know, thanks for stopping by... sure you don't want to come see Grandma before you go?" I teased. "They did a reasonable job on her makeup," I lied; I hadn't actually seen her yet, but I didn't have high hopes. "No," she replied, narrowing her eyes. "But if you stop pushing your luck, I'll take you out for dinner when I get off work." "You’re on," I nodded and gave her a hug. Rosetta patted me on the back and then gave me one last reassuring smile before heading back to her car. Rejoining my mother and brother, we greeted the relations we hadn't seen since last Christmas and accepted condolences on the loss of my 90-year-old grandma. I have to say, they looked grimmer when they saw her alive than they did at her funeral. No one had expected her to live as long as she did. I was pretty sure she had stayed alive out of pure spite and stubbornness. When everyone was finally seated, Mom nodded to the preacher. Silence filled the room as he began Grandma’s eulogy. I couldn’t wait for this to be over.
- 7. 7 of 7