Forever Young

Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Robbie awakened with a throbbing headache. He must’ve bumped his noggin when he fell. He forced himself to look down and examine his finger. The wound had stopped bleeding, but the dried blood was all over his hand and arm. He sat there a moment, trying to gather his bearings. All his strength had been zapped, and he still felt shaky. Being only a few feet from the bathroom, he crawled down the hallway, then through the doorway. The tile was cold against his legs, which provided the needed incentive to push himself. He pressed his palms against the flat surface of the toilet lid, using it to help himself up. When he at last was on his feet, he turned around to face his reflection in the vanity mirror. The scrape on his forehead was immediately noticeable, and as he reached up to touch it, he winced from the pain.

“You’re pathetic.” He snarled at his reflection, feeling nothing but utter contempt toward the weakling he saw standing there.

He turned on the water and began washing the dried blood from his hand. For some reason, the sight of dried blood did not affect him the way bleeding did. The cut was not too bad--a minor injury. Most people would barely react to such a trivial wound. They’d apply a bandage, perhaps, and maybe curse a couple times. It wouldn’t render them unconscious, though.

Robbie finished cleaning himself up, then found a box of bandages in the medicine cabinet. When he got back to his bedroom, he noticed the time on his digital clock. He’d apparently been out for only a few minutes. He still had plenty of time to get some lawns mowed, but he felt exhausted and weak. He slipped on a T-shirt and a pair of jeans. After he was dressed, he went back to the kitchen to assess the damage. He grabbed the broom and dustpan and began sweeping up the broken glass.

An hour later, after a couple glasses of juice and a sandwich, he at last ventured out of the house. He grumbled to himself, complaining about wasting half the morning.

Those early hours, before the sun was at its peak, were the best for working outdoors.

Once he got started, though, his energy level resurged, and he worked harder than ever, determined to make up for lost time. He continued working non-stop, for the remainder of the afternoon and was famished by the time he returned home after six o’clock.

“Oh my God, what’d you do?” his mom asked as he stepped into the kitchen.

“What do ya mean?”

“Your head. You have a scrape or something, and it’s swollen. Did you bump it?”

“Oh.” He stepped over to the refrigerator and removed a glass pitcher of iced tea.

“Nah, I fell this morning.” He held up his index finger, indicating the bandage.

“You cut yourself?”

Robbie nodded. “Yeah. Then like an i***t, I passed out. Sorry, but I broke one of the glasses.”

“I don’t care about the stupid glass. Let me see.” She grabbed hold of his wrist.

He pulled back. “It’s nothing. You know how I am about blood. I just got lightheaded, and then I must’ve hit my head when I blacked out.”

“Robbie, why didn’t you call me?”

“Why? It was no big deal.”

“I don’t want you going out tonight.”

“Seriously?” He set the pitcher on the counter, slamming it down harder than he needed to. “Mom, that’s crazy. I’m fine!”

“What if you have a concussion or something?”

“I don’t have a concussion. I have a tiny scrape on my finger.”

“Did you at least eat something?”

He nodded. “But I’m starving now.”

“I’ve got dinner in the oven. Go sit down.” She reached overhead to retrieve a glass and filled it with ice, then poured him a glass of iced tea. “I can take you to urgent care.

They’re open twenty-four hours.”

“No! I’m fine. Can we please just forget it?”

His mom sighed. “For now. But if I see any signs of a problem, you’re going. No argument.”

“Fine.” He went over to the kitchen table and emptied his pockets before he sat down.

His mom looked over at him, raising her eyebrows. “Wow, that’s quite a wad of cash.”

“I know,” he said excitedly. “And Mr. Hoover gave me a twenty dollar tip. I think I made close to three hundred.”

“Robbie, that’s wonderful!”

He counted out the bills. Three hundred forty-five. Separating it into two piles, he slid a stack of twenties away from him toward his mom. “Here,” he said.

“No, Robbie. You earned that money.”

“Take it. I’ve still got two hundred to save for my car, and I’m not gonna keep living here for free.”

“Honey.” She turned to look at him, her eyes filling with tears. “You’re such a good boy. What did I do to deserve a son like you?”

“Stop it, Mom. What’s for dinner?”

“Meatloaf.” She carried his plate over to the table and set it down in front of him.

“Baby, go wash up before you eat.”

Robbie looked down at his hands. “Good idea.” He smiled at her. “I’ve gotta take a shower before Colt gets here, too.”

* * * * *

Colt had paid cash for the brand new 1971 Ford Mustang convertible forty years ago. It looked exactly the same as the day he got it and was one of only forty-two that had been manufactured that year. Colt smiled as he recalled Richard’s reaction.

“Are you crazy? We’re trying to blend in—to not be noticed. Then you buy a neon-colored vehicle?”

“It’s lime green, Richard, and one day it’ll be a collector’s item.”

“I know you’re stuck in an adolescent body, but must you always act like one?”

“Authenticity, Richard. Authenticity.” If there was any word that better summarized Colt’s survival strategy, he couldn’t name it. Colt had learned over a century ago that the key to assimilation was adaptability. He had to keep up with the changing times by learning current trends, fashions, fads, and lingo.

With each generation, he’d embraced specific aspects of the culture and woven them into his character. The person—or creature—he was today, now reflected an eclectic combination of retro tastes. The Schott bomber jacket that had been popular during the 1950s and forever immortalized by James Dean was his signature wardrobe piece. From the sixties, he’d embraced the shoes, his favorite being a vintage pair of patent leather Brogue Oxfords. At the time, they were marketed as a dress shoe, but nowadays they just looked cool. The modern price tag, though, was nothing to sneeze at, a whopping one-hundred eighty-seven bucks plus shipping.

But money wasn’t a concern for him or his un-dead fathers. They all were multi-millionaires. Over the years they’d made various investments, had operated numerous businesses, and had pursued a range of interests. With limitless time and a ceaseless cycle of opportunities, they weren’t afraid to take risks. Some of these investments had paid handsomely, while others not so much. It didn’t matter. If they didn’t fare well in a particular venue, there’d always be ample chances of redemption.

The worst aspect of modern vampire existence, though, was being awake while the rest of the world slept. A hundred years ago, this was practical. Existence was about little more than feeding, and this basic need necessitated the cover of darkness. But things were changing; Colt and his fathers were evolving.

When Colt was first introduced to the dark side, nighttime was dark—pitch black—

and the entire world slept. In the modern era, where twenty-four hour businesses were commonplace and cities and towns were brightly lit with streetlamps and signs, feeding became increasingly more challenging.

And it seemed to Colt, at least as far as Richard was concerned, the desire to feast on human blood diminished. In fact, Colt became certain that his maker no longer even craved it. Certainly he didn’t need it, not the way Colt and presumably Brendan did.

Richard appeared to be defying his very nature, becoming more human. Perhaps it was normal and something Colt eventually would experience himself. He had no basis of comparison because Richard was the oldest vampire he knew.

Over the course of the past fifteen decades, Colt had only encountered a handful of creatures like himself. Richard had taught both him and Brendan to avoid them at all costs. Most blood drinkers, he’d explained, were solitary beings. They avoided human contact, other than to feed, and were fiercely competitive.

“But this is so contrary to the vampire mythology,” Colt had questioned him.

Richard sighed then rolled his eyes. “Lies. Bram Stoker was a stark raving lunatic with a very over-active imagination.”

But much of what Stoker had written was true, at least as far as Colt’s experience had taught him thus far. Vampires thrived on blood, preferably from humans, and were strictly nocturnal creatures. There had been periods of his vampiric existence where he’d slept in coffins, or at least crates that were air tight. He had no need to breathe, and sunlight was extremely painful. A coffin was practical.

In recent years, he slept in a bed. It was Richard’s doing. He’d insisted they have normal-looking domiciles—that is, bedrooms. Of course, they had to make some modifications, at least when there happened to be a window in the room. Richard had installed special blackout blinds that completely deflected light in addition to heavy, double-layered drapes. Even with these precautionary measures, Colt still zipped himself up in a sleeping bag, and then pulled a thick quilt over his body and head.

Their new house in Boyne had a full basement, where his bedroom was.

Richard seemed more determined than ever to perpetuate this façade, this false image of their lives. Colt had witnessed the evolution, which had noticeably escalated in recent years. Although he knew only pieces of Richard’s history, he suspected the elder vampire was either becoming bored with his never-ending, monotonous existence, or he simply wanted to be normal.

Both of these motives were considerations to which Colt could relate, and it hadn’t taken him centuries to arrive at the same level of restlessness as Richard. Yet this ennui was different for the young vampire, mainly because his vampiric nature was not yet as tempered. Richard could tolerate daylight far more than could Colt or Brendan. He could go for much longer periods without consuming blood, and as far as Colt could tell, he’d completely sworn off human blood. Richard also seemed to require less sleep.

On the days when he remained awake, he didn’t seem any less energetic in the night.

Back in Seattle, Richard and Brendan had several human friends. They entertained guests in their home, hosting elaborate dinner parties. They went to the theater and even to dance clubs or other social events. They were admired and respected in the gay community and had a circle of middle-aged friends.

This didn’t help Colt much. He learned to make himself scarce. When he awakened in the evening, he left the house and avoided interaction with his fathers’ human guests.

It was easier that way. He didn’t have to explain himself, why he wasn’t in school. He didn’t have to pretend to be a kid.

After feeding, he would come home and remain alone in his room, watching television shows and movies until dawn. This was how he kept up on current trends, music, and fashion. Or he’d go to the garage and work on his car.

He also loved to read and could quickly consume novels at a speed that would astound most humans. He didn’t regard this as a supernatural gift, though, just something he’d picked up due to lots of practice. Human beings, in their short lifetimes, became faster readers as they aged. He’d already lived the equivalent of two full human life spans.

And music was another of his passions. He loved nearly all styles from jazz to modern pop. He had a deep appreciation for classical music, particularly the Russian composers. It was in his early existence that many of them had been alive, and Colt could identify by ear almost every noteworthy concerto or sonata.

The one thing about modern culture that was particularly interesting to Colt was the growing obsession with supernatural beings. He found most of the fictional stories amusing and was especially amused by the Stephanie Meyers’ Twilight series. He’d read all the books several times and owned the movies. Sadly, they were far from representative of real-life vampires. If werewolves existed, he’d never seen evidence.

Nor did he know of any governing body of vampires who controlled the un-dead population. And the idea of vampires procreating was absurd to him.

One aspect of the fictional stories that did resemble reality was the depiction of the transformation process from human to vampire. His own transformation had been so horrendous, he wouldn’t wish it upon his worst enemy. Even Richard had counseled him that in most cases death was preferable to conversion.

“But then why’d you convert Brendan?” Colt asked Richard.

Richard’s smile said more than the words he spoke. “It was love at first sight. I just knew, from the moment I laid eyes on him, that we would be together forever.

However, it was not a decision I made lightly, and Brendan chose his own eternal destiny, sacrificing his human life to be with me forever.”

“You never gave me that choice,” Colt pointed out. To this, Richard had no answer.

At seventeen, Colton had yet to even begin life, and it was stolen for him, exchanged for a sub-standard form of existence, albeit eternal. For a hundred fifty years he’d remained trapped in his youthful state, condemned to solitary immortality. His body would never fully mature. He’d never experience the life events that most humans took for granted. He’d never again witness a sunrise or sunset, spend a day at the beach, grow weary from exercise, or even enjoy a home-cooked meal.

Worse than all these things, though, was the fact that he knew he’d never find love, not the type Richard and Brendan shared. Even if he were fortunate enough to encounter someone capable of loving him as he was, the experience itself would be fleeting, for if he truly loved this person, he’d never consider condemning him to the eternal torment of vampirism.

In spite of his inner turmoil, he couldn’t stop himself from thinking about the boy.

Colt had already memorized his scent. He craved Robbie the way a junkie yearned for h****n. And he’d only seen him the one time. They’d shared one conversation, one casual, evening stroll. They’d stared into each other’s eyes just the one time.

Was this what Richard had been talking about when he said love at first sight? If so, it didn’t matter. Regardless of how badly Colt craved the boy, he’d never do to him what Richard had done to him. He’d sooner murder Robbie and drain him completely of his lifeblood than to steal his soul and condemn him to an eternal, meaningless existence.

If Colt still had a beating heart, it would have been pounding in his chest as he turned into the trailer park. The feeling was both exciting and uncomfortable. On a primal level, he felt both hunger and s****l arousal. His vampire nature cried out to be fed and sated, yet on an emotional level, Colt felt like a human teenager all over again.

He’d heard it said that when a person lost a limb, they continued to experience ghost sensations—pain, itchiness, warmth, or cold—in their absent appendage. In a way, this was how he felt. He was no longer human and far from a teenager, yet he remembered. His mind and body told him one thing but his emotions were unconvinced. He felt as if his palms were sweating and his heart was beating rapidly, while neither of these things was even possible.

When he pulled into the driveway, he expected that Robbie might be outside waiting for him. When he discovered this not to be the case, he became concerned.

Maybe Robbie had changed his mind. Perhaps he was just being polite the previous evening. Just because Colt had spent the majority of his waking hours obsessing over him didn’t mean the feelings were reciprocal. He sat there for a moment, his window down, and waited.

That’s when he heard it—the most beautiful sound. Rachmaninoff!

He opened the door and stepped out of the car. He stood there for a moment listening to a perfect execution of the composer’s second sonata. The sound was coming from the trailer. A recording? He quietly closed the car door and stepped away from the vehicle. As he slowly made his way to the porch, he allowed himself to bask in the rich, magnificently interpreted romantic strains. The experience took his breath away.

As Colt stepped up to the door and peered inside, he saw a middle aged woman, perhaps Robbie’s mother, sitting peacefully in a recliner. Her eyes were closed as she absorbed the music which was coming from a piano a few feet away. And there he was.

Robbie swayed slightly back and forth as his fingers glided across the keys. Colt couldn’t see the boy’s face but immediately noticed he was playing from memory, no sheet music before him.

Colt was very familiar with the piece. The neo-romantic piano sonata had been written much later than the works of Rachmaninoff’s contemporaries who’d composed similar romantic pieces. This piece was subtler, less articulated, as if for orchestra. Yet Robbie’s interpretation was unique. He was playing it more like Beethoven. And he was playing it on a small, upright piano inside a mobile home.

Oh to hear him on the grand stage! Colt closed his eyes and envisioned it. For the better part of a quarter hour he remained there in the shadows, soaking in the music until the very last note. As the sound ebbed away, he opened his eyes and approached the door. There was just a screen. Colt began to applaud.

Startled, the woman opened her eyes and looked over to him.

Robbie spun around on the bench and leapt to his feet. “Colt! I’m sorry. I hope you haven’t been waiting…”

As the door opened, Colt smiled “My pleasure.”

Colt was rewarded again with a beautiful, heartwarming smile. As he stared into Robbie’s face, he immediately noticed the gash on his forehead. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself as he inhaled, immediately attracted to the scent. Robbie had been bleeding.

“Oh, sorry about that,” Robbie said, apparently noticing Colt’s reaction. “I know it looks hideous, but I took a fall today. I hope—”

“No problem,” Colt interrupted him. “You look perfect.”

Robbie looked anything but hideous. As he flinched self-consciously, his golden bangs cascaded over his forehead, concealing the wound and partially veiling the gaze of his mocha-colored eyes. “Can you come in? My mom wants to meet you.” He stepped aside to usher his guest into his home. “Colt, meet my mom.”

Robbie’s mom stood up and approached him. “It’s so nice to meet you, Colt. I’m Deborah.”

As he took hold of her extended hand, Colt looked into her eyes. So much like Robbie’s. Though she was still relatively young, the lines on her face told the story of a life that hadn’t necessarily been easy. But her smile seemed genuine and conveyed warmth and kindness. “Nice to meet you.”

“I understand you just moved to Boyne?” Her voice was pleasant and sincere.

“Yes ma’am, from Seattle.”

“With your parents?” She shook her head slightly and waved a hand across her brow to clear away a stray lock of hair.

Colt could see where Robbie got his mannerisms. He nodded. “My dads.”

Her smile broadened. “Oh, how nice. And they’re married?” Her eyes seemed to light up as if she was excited.

“Mom!” Apparently Robbie was embarrassed by his mother’s directness.

“They got hitched last year, right after it became legal,” Colt answered.

“Oh, I want to meet them.”

“Mom, you wanna meet everyone,” Robbie said, rolling his eyes. “I haven’t even met them yet.”

Colt grinned at him. “I’m sure they’d love to meet you, too. They said after we get settled they might throw a party.”

“Where do you live?” Robbie’s mom asked.

“On Leroy Street.”

She stared for a moment, a glazed look in her eyes, as if thinking. “Leroy Street? I didn’t know there were any vacant houses there.”

“At the very end of the street. It’s the older house kind off back off in the woods.

Our closest neighbors are about a half mile from us.”

“Ah.” She nodded knowingly. “That old house. That’s been there forever, and when I was a kid, we all thought it was haunted.”

Colt laughed. “I guess it’s haunted now by me and my dads. I’m not sure what it looked like before we got here, but my dad said they had to do a lot of work to it.”

“Oh, I’d love to see the renovations.”

“I’ll be sure to tell him to invite you over.”

“That’d be lovely.”

“Speaking of lovely,” he turned to face Robbie, “I didn’t know you were a pianist.”

The smaller boy’s cheeks flushed as he immediately looked down. “Um, well…I didn’t plan on you hearing. I hurt my finger earlier today, and I’m afraid it affected the allegro…er…the faster sections of the piece.”

“Well, I thought it was…” He paused a second, realizing he had to sound like a seventeen year old, “cool.”

“I’m glad you liked it.” Robbie then quickly changed the subject. “Well, let’s get going.”

Colt assured Robbie’s mom he wouldn’t have him out too late and said they’d just be hanging out or maybe go to a movie, and then they were off. After hopping into the passenger seat, Robbie turned to him. “You didn’t tell me you had such an awesome car. This is so cool.”

“You like?”

“It’s badass. I’m saving for a car, but I’ll never be able to afford one like this.”

Robbie looked down as he folded his hands together in his lap. Colt wondered what was going on in his head. He’d gotten excited about the car and expressed his feelings, but then immediately grew quiet.

“Yeah, it’s only ever had one owner… before my dad, I mean.”

Robbie nodded, then turned to him and smiled before quickly looking away.

“Well, what do you wanna do? You know this area better than I do.”

Robbie just shrugged. “Whatever you want.”

“Tell me what you like. Wanna go see a movie? Go for a ride? Go hang out at my house?” Colt started the car while awaiting a response.

“I know a place where you can see all of Lake Charlevoix,” Robbie said finally. “It’s really pretty, but it’s like this big open field, and we’d have to walk part of the way.”

“That sounds perfect.”

“Or we could just do whatever you want.”

“No, that is what I want.” He put the car in gear and backed out of the drive. “Just tell me when to turn.”