The next morning I awoke with a freshness in my heart. I descended the grand staircase, which was narrow at the top and widened out at the bottom along most of the length of what would be my dining room. I thought some vagrants must have taken up residence here for awhile. These clothes were not at all like the ones upstairs. Grimy tee shirts, old socks with holes in them, dirty ripped up jeans, a torn skirt here, another at the head of the mattress. I resolved to get rid of this junk immediately. I gathered up all the old clothes and threw them in a dumpster I had spied down the street the evening before. I did not think I could lift the mattress, its springs and foam bursting forth from various tears in its’ fabric. But my strength amazed me as I lifted it easily and dragged it along to its’ resting place in wait of Waste Management.
Back at the house I tried the faucet in the kitchen. I was not surprised when it wouldn’t budge. There was no running water in the upstairs bathroom either. I looked into the backyard and saw what I quite expected, a well. I had to pump for a full twenty minutes before anything came up. The water had a yellowish tinge to its coloring and smelled of sulfur. I wasn’t drinking it, thank goodness, but filled a rubber bucket so I could wash myself. A long scrub with a kitchen cloth left my skin gleaming shiny and new. The burn on my arm was mostly healed, pink baby skin lay beneath the last rough edges of dead flesh. I did have to spend a bit of time on my nails. The encrusted dirt was determined to stay put. I scrubbed and washed until the whites of my nails were finally visible. I had left my jeans and frayed flannel shirt in the old sink. I went up to my bedroom and looked into the closet. I selected a tea length black cotton dress, high collared and long sleeved. I found shoes lined up along the floor. Only one pair looked as if they would fit, black leather lace up granny boots with an old fashioned clunky heel. They would have to do.
I planned to go downtown and check the city records to see who owned this house on Emily Street. I thought the boots would be uncomfortable for walking, but my feet adjusted to them well and I was in front of the courthouse within an hour. I went to the city records office. The receptionist at the desk ignored my request to see a listing of housing documents. I thought her quite rude and decided I didn’t want or need her help anyway. I proceeded behind her to the library records and started to research my address. I easily located the deed to my house on 513 Emily Street. I swallowed hard on a big gulp of saliva when I saw that it had been sold to Dave McKay in 1936 and willed to his granddaughter, Miranda Verlaine, upon his death in 1966, the year I was born. Well, this was fucking unbelievable. Had he known then what was now taking place almost six decades later?
During this time, I had tried to displace all thoughts of Dave. He who said nothing was meant to be. So why was he convincing me of his ascension trick? How had he bought and willed the house I’d found to take root in, to me, before I’d been born? It was in my name. I’d say that was pretty well meant to be. How could he have even known then? Ah, yes, I was forgetting the small part about him being a vampire. I suppose he had powers of precognition. I suppose he’d amassed stores of wealth and perhaps willed houses to various unborn children as a pastime. I suppose he could have even dreamt me into existence and based the whole formulation of my mental state with his will.
Wait. Thinking like this was ludicrous. I had to get control of myself before I went on a tangent of impossible possibilities. First off, I governed my own mind, right? I mean since he’d left me I’d hardly thought of him at all. I did not yet admit the concentrated effort involved in this mental blocking. No doubt about it though, Dave McKay was on my mind.
I left the downtown library and walked over to the Tampa Museum of Art. On exhibit was a collection of ancient Egyptian ruins. I looked into the glass at chipped bowls, vases, statues. There were carved utensils for food, handcrafted weapons, beaded clothing, and royal jewelry. What caught my eye at the end of the room was a glass casket displaying the remains of a mummified female. Her uncovered face was black, like burnt paper, her mouth agape, but still holding rotten teeth. The tattered layers that embalmed her were frayed and open at the hands and feet, revealing bone and more charred black skin threatening to break into bits at any moment. The body looked to be still in full form, though, the cloth covering its’ shell had served its time. I was surprised by the luxuriant length and fullness to the woman’s thousands of years old hair. Could it honestly have survived this long or was the mummy a tad touched up. No matter, I found her presence here fascinating. I was drawn to her dead body that had withstood so many years and today was looked upon with reverence by myself. I thought of my body several thousand years down the line of time. I thought of death. I thought of ascension. I thought of Dave. I thought of blood and vampires. I thought of myths and legends. I thought of love. I thought of Dave. Blood. Life. Love. Ascension. I left the museum.
***