Devil's Night (a short story)

I was in my apartment, seated comfortably in my armchair, feet up, with a fleece blanket draped over me, and a steaming cup of Earl Grey on the end table. My cat, Charlie, was asleep on the floor in front of me. I was doing a crossword puzzle, struggling with Twelve Across, when I felt a sudden chill. Charlie seemed to feel it too, because the black fur on his spine stood on end. He meowed groggily, and suddenly his ears tensed and he rose from his comfortable resting spot on the grey carpet. He was looking towards the window. I turned and saw nothing. I shrugged and went back to my crossword, but Charlie remained fixated on the window.

“What is it, boy?” I asked, reaching down to rub him behind the ears.

He jumped, all four paws off the floor, and turned his head around to bite my hand. I pulled away from him, and he looked at me as though he was surprised to have just done that. Charlie was usually a very affectionate cat. In seven years, he hadn’t bitten or scratched me once.

I felt the same mysterious sensation again, and Charlie darted across the room and under the sofa. Not one for panic, I shook my head and took a sip of my tea. The hot liquid soothed me. I leaned back in my chair and stretched my arms over my head. I took a casual survey of my living room and saw nothing out of the ordinary.

I thought that perhaps if I took a break from pondering over Twelve Across, the answer would come to me, so I grabbed the remote control resting next to my cup of tea and turned on the television. One of the twenty-four hour news stations came on. A man had attacked and dismembered two women in a park. I mumbled something to myself about detesting this planet, shut off the television, and picked up the crossword once again.

A voice whispered, “Mayhem.”

It was the answer that had been eluding me. The voice had come from inside my head, but it wasn’t my voice. Still, it felt like a part of myself had spoken. This didn’t startle me, but I was thoroughly confused.

I got to Fourteen Across and before I could even think of the answer, the same voice gave it to me: “Undead.”

Arms stiff, I dropped the paper on the floor. I got out of my chair and slowly turned around. Nothing. I was alone, and yet, I felt a presence. Where had that voice come from? It was soothing and ghastly all at once. There was something familiar about it. I slowly sat back in my chair, looking from left to right.

Just as I relaxed, I felt something like a cold hand on my shoulder. When I turned my head to look, there was nothing there. Was my mind playing tricks on me? I figured I was just tired, so I decided to go to bed.

In the bathroom, I was bent over the sink washing my face, as I always did before bed, when I felt that same chill—more intensely this time. My torso shot upright, the face scrub burning my eyes. In the mirror, I could see a figure behind me. Frantically, I grabbed the hand towel, removed the excess cleanser from my face, and looked in the mirror again. There was nothing there except my own reflection, but I could still feel something.

“Charlie!” I called out. “I’m going to bed. Come, keep me company.” He didn’t appear.

Apprehensive, I kept my head down, eyes darting from side to side, as I made my way to the bedroom. I turned on the light and froze. There was a man—but not really a man—standing next to my window. He had pale skin, black hair, and bright green eyes that glowed like nothing I’d ever seen. He smiled and I distinctly noted fangs.

My heart stopped for a second, and when I caught my breath, I asked tentatively, “Who are you?”

His smile turned to a playful smirk, and he said, “No one. Shouldn’t you be asking what I am?” The voice was the same one I had heard earlier in my ear.

“It’s not possible,” I said. “Vampires don’t exist, at least not the ones you read about in novels.”

His stare pierced through me. It felt as though he could see everything within me. Suddenly, he was standing behind me.

“But we do,” he whispered softly in my left ear, causing my whole body to tremble.

“Isn’t there some rule about vampires not being allowed to enter a place unless they’re invited?” I asked as he circled around me.

Leaning close to my face and staring into my eyes, he replied, “But you did invite me in. You wanted help with your vocabulary. I read your thoughts. You weren’t going to finish what you started. We can’t have that, now, can we?”

Then he let out a chuckle unlike any human laughter I’d ever heard. It was demonic, but not unpleasant to the ear.

“I always finish what I start,” I replied, affronted.

He just stared at me with that same smirk on his thin face. I was starting to wish that I had the power to read his thoughts.

“You can,” he said.

I was so foolish; it hadn’t occurred to me that he was still tapping into my mind. I guess I just didn’t know vampires. What could I say to him? He was terrifying and intriguing me at the same time. If only he would speak to me, instead of boring into me with those beautiful yet menacing eyes.

He placed a cold, graceful hand on my shoulder and guided me to my bed. “Sit,” he said, “I’ll tell you a story, but you must be comfortable when I tell it.” I obliged. “I won’t tell you that same boring story that all vampires tell, about how I was born in some godforsaken European village and my family perished in some tragic event… No. I’m not centuries old; I’ve been undead for exactly two years. As for my relatives, they live nearby, but they think I’m dead, so we don’t keep in touch. The human version of myself was born in 1979, so, you might say that I’m twenty-six years old. In vampire terms, I’m still a baby stumbling and fumbling through life.

“When I met my maker, I was at a Halloween party. Quite appropriately and disgustingly, I’d gone dressed as Dracula. Pathetic, right? Perhaps that’s why he chose me? He wasn’t very creative. Anyway, my girlfriend was with me, dressed as a devil. I thought we were having a good time together, but at some point in the night, she disappeared. I asked everyone if they’d seen her. They all said no and gave me sympathetic looks. Naturally, I wondered what was going on. I felt like I was out of the loop.

“I looked upstairs for her, but couldn’t find her, so I decided to try the basement. As I descended those creaky stairs, I knew I was making a mistake. Instinctively, I knew nothing good would come out of going down there. It was dark, and I couldn’t hear anything, but something in my heart told me that I was going to find something. I flipped the light switch in the laundry room, and there she was with my best friend. How appropriate that she was dressed as a devil! Something died inside me at that moment. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t do anything. I just turned and walked back up the stairs. Everyone asked me what happened. I ignored all of them and walked straight out the front door of the house.

“I must have walked for hours. It’s hard to remember. The sun hadn’t come up yet; that much I know. I reached a poorly lit park and sat down on a bench. I couldn’t block out the image of them together in my mind. I was consumed with pain and anger. Then I felt a sharp pain in my neck and I blacked out. When I came to, this fiend in a long, black coat was standing over me, wiping his chin with a white handkerchief. He had a completely indifferent look on his face that irritated me. I was the serious sort; pensive, intense… I guess I still am. But you see, I have the luxury of being able to refer to my mortal self in the past tense. Anyway, he didn’t look remotely interested in me or in what he’d done. The pain in my neck was excruciating.

“‘Who are you?’ I gasped.

“That got his attention. He looked at me, but he didn’t answer me.

“I tried to get up and face him man to—er—vampire. At that moment, I didn’t really understand that he was a vampire. The pain and the loss of blood were messing with my mind. After he finished wiping his chin clean of my blood, he began to inspect his slightly overgrown nails.

“I repeated myself more urgently, ‘Who the hell are you?’

“He glared at me and said, ‘The most important being you will ever encounter.’

“I was appalled. ‘You think highly of yourself, don’t you?’

“He chuckled. ‘I knew you were the perfect specimen—proud and sanctimonious. You were begging for a reality check.’

“‘What the hell are you talking about?’ I snarled.

“‘Yes!’ he hissed. ‘I can’t wait to watch you in action after you’ve been indoctrinated.’ He looked very pleased with himself.

“Then he used his sharp thumbnail to slit open a vein. I was disgusted. Very quickly, though—immediately––the open wound was pressed against my mouth. I wanted to resist, but that first taste of his blood was so intoxicating, I was powerless to stop this transmission. At first, it just flowed into my mouth, but after a moment, I realized that I was intently sucking it out of his vein. I felt a strange mixture of pleasure and abhorrence; the simultaneous guilt and delight were intense. And the hunger… There is no equivalent human experience that I can relate it to.

“Suddenly, looking weakened, he pushed me away. I felt such separation anxiety, but it was quickly replaced with a sensation I can only express as implosion. Every part of my body began convulsing. There was a ringing in my ears, and my vision blurred. I think I blacked out again, but I had no concept of time, so it’s hard to say. Then I heard his impassive voice saying, ‘Welcome, my son.’ I opened my eyes expecting that same fuzzy vision; much to my surprise, my eyesight was sharper than it had ever been. Everything around me had come into sharp focus. It was as if I was seeing the world for the first time.

“He held out his hand and I helped me up. ‘Hungry, my child?’ he asked me. I was. I wanted that succulent taste again. He pointed to a couple on one of the other park benches. They were gazing into each other’s eyes, seemingly unaware of their surroundings. I couldn’t believe how fast I moved; it was as if I just apparated behind them. With one swift movement, I drained the young man. I chose him first because he looked fit; the girl was somewhat plump, and I guessed that she would have a harder time running away from me than he would. I was right. She shrieked at the sight of her boyfriend’s limp body and rose from the bench to run away. I gave her a moment; there was a devilish excitement about giving a headstart to someone who didn’t stand a chance of getting away. I could hear her heart pounding. It gave me an unfamiliar rush. I knew in that instant that I was no longer human; my compassion had disappeared. I descended on her, sending her crashing to the ground. This kill was even more delicious because I could taste the exquisite fear in her blood.

“When it was over, I didn’t know whether to bask in the immense pleasure or hate myself for abandoning my morals. In any case, I had no choice. I was what I was, and any trace of human feelings of guilt lurking inside my soulless body were doomed to vanish.”

I gaped at him, fascinated by his story. What an intriguing life he leads, I thought. He heard me, of course. The disapproval in his eyes was clear. “You want more intrigue?” he sneered at me.

“Yes,” I replied matter-of-factly.

 “Why are humans so predictable?!” he grumbled.

No, Rachel Dolezal, You're Not "Transracial"

At the core of the bizarre Rachel Dolezal story appears to be a troubled woman who wants attention. For that reason, I think we should soon stop giving it to her. However, her 15 minutes aren’t over yet.

I watched her interview with Matt Lauer and was appalled too many times to count. First and foremost, as regards her position that she is “human” racially, I would like to retort, isn’t that a lovely thought! Tell that to the black person who was just called the n-word or pulled over for driving while black. While we are all, indeed, members of the same human race, the idea that Dolezal can be “racially human,” given that she has been masquerading as a black woman, is incredibly insensitive to actual black people—you know, those people Dolezal supposedly identifies with and advocates for—who, unlike her, will never have the option of shedding their skin and identifying as another race.

In addition, I found her choice of words in answering Lauer’s questions fascinating. She took responsibility for nothing. Instead, she chose to paint herself as a passive agent. Others identified her as biracial or black, and in all instances, she just didn’t correct them; she met an older black man with whom she connected, so he just became her father; she “[doesn’t] avoid the sun” and therefore her skin is darker than it used to be… If Dolezal really cared about her work with the NAACP, she would have owned up to misrepresenting herself and apologized to the people she might have hurt.

Interestingly, Dolezal claimed that she has “identified with the black experience” since she was about five years old, when she would allegedly draw herself with brown skin and black curly hair, as opposed to her pale skin and blonde hair. That explanation sounded contrived to me. What awareness does a five-year-old—especially a white five-year-old—have of the “black experience”? Maybe she was creative; maybe family members told her she was ugly, so she envisioned herself as someone else; or maybe she just made this up.

If, indeed, Rachel Dolezal has self-identified as black since the age of five, why did she assert her whiteness to accuse Howard University of discrimination in her 2002 lawsuit?

Furthermore, if this story is simply about a woman who loves her black family members and is passionate about equality and aligns herself with the African American community, why try so hard to pass as black? The number of hate crimes that Dolezal alleged, with no corresponding evidence presented to police, might suggest that she wanted so much for people to see her as black that she invented a struggle that was not her own, but that is very real to black people.

It seems that Rachel Dolezal was trying to construct her own victimhood. But why? Is this a sign of mental illness? Desperation to validate her invented blackness? A need for attention? Whatever the reason, the reality is that by making false accusations about being the victim of crime, she was trivializing the real experiences of people who have been harassed and threatened due to their skin colour.

But this is the crux of this insane story. Dolezal’s dishonesty is insulting and dismissive. Rather than asserting her position as an ally and trying to fight injustice and inequality, basically, she got a tan, got her hair done, and spoke on behalf of black people.

Being white, black, aboriginal, Asian, etc. is not a choice that an individual makes. Yes, race is a construct, but that doesn’t mean that people construct it for themselves. I heard Dolezal use the word “transracial” in her interview moments after I said to someone, “I wouldn’t be surprised if she tries to start some sort of ‘transracial’ movement.” Am I right? Many people on social media have likened this story to Caitlyn Jenner’s and asked if someone can be transgender, why can’t another person be transracial? Kat Blaque replies brilliantly to this question. Transgender people are being true to themselves and taking a tremendous risk in doing so, whereas Rachel Dolezal was deceiving people and benefited from it.

While she would have the world believe that she represents either blackness or the fluidity of race, in fact, what Rachel Dolezal represents is white privilege. Dolezal has proven that she has the luxury of either claiming or abandoning blackness whenever it feels right to her. How many people of colour have the same option?

It is bad enough that this woman took it upon herself to hijack someone else’s narrative. She did the right thing by resigning. We cannot allow her to resume what she did with the NAACP by writing some new narrative of transracialism that dismisses the reality of living in black skin.

Female Viagra?

Good news, ladies, the “Female Viagra” has been approved! Okay, so it has been rejected twice by the U.S. FDA since 2010, it has side effects, and you can’t take it simultaneously with birth control pills. But so what!

How can there be a female Viagra, you ask, when Viagra stimulates blood flow, and women’s readiness for sex is about so much more than blood flow? Well, this drug is not about promoting blood flow but altering the female brain. If that prospect scares you, you’re not alone.

Let’s digress a bit and talk about sexuality, shall we?

I’ve written about sex in this blog before. Many people have a rather rigid definition of sex, and as a result, the experience can be somewhat blah for women. This is one reason why women might not be raring to go. Fear of untimely or unwanted pregnancy can also cause a problem. A third possible reason is fatigue and/or distraction, especially if you have a family and a career. Fourth, many women are insecure about their appearance and therefore aren’t comfortable naked, even if they really love their partner. Similarly, some women have been conditioned to think that their vagina smells odd or is unattractive, and this can hinder their eagerness for sexual expression. Fifth, the experience of trauma in the past may continue to affect a woman’s emotional and/or physical comfort with sex. Sixth, some women have medical conditions that affect their ability to have sex. And the list goes on and on…

If only it were just about blood flow! It is, in part—and if that’s news to you, then there are a lot of things you should learn about and try before opting for that pill.

Since women’s sexuality is so complex, Flibanserin (a.k.a. Female Viagra) targets the brain chemistry to stimulate sexual desire. In fact, the drug was first studied as an antidepressant. Antidepressants themselves still spark debate, so using a variation of one to correct sexual dysfunction should be controversial.

We live a world where the answer to problems is often to try a drug. Pharmaceuticals are big business. So, is it any wonder that they would be desperate to get this drug on the market?

According to an NPR article, a woman almost lost her husband due to her lack of libido, even though they were growing closer as they got older. This anecdote gave me pause. In this hemisphere, we’ve been led to believe that sex is the barometer of a relationship, and that if it’s not meeting your expectations, you should seek it elsewhere. Few people talk about the fact that like all other aspects of a relationship, sex is a learning process, and it requires effort—worthwhile effort if you find someone with whom you share love and respect.

I’m an advocate of examining root causes, whatever the issue may be. I think a libido enhancing/mind altering drug should be the last resort.

Viagra appeared 15 years ago, blessing aging males with erections they hadn't seen in years, while this pill for women has only just been given the green light. So, one should reasonably expect it to be revolutionary, but it doesn’t seem to be. Apparently, the researchers determined that the subjects’ desire increased by 53%, decreased their distress by 29%, and doubled their number of “satisfying sexual events.” I don’t know how these things were measured or what exactly constitutes a “satisfying sexual event.”

It appears that the jury is still out on whether Flibanserin is really beneficial, and which women will derive its benefits. Maybe we should shift the focus from the lab to the self, and then determine what makes our relationships meaningful, and work on that.

Are Canadians Nice?

For various reasons, the topic of identity has always interested me. One of those reasons, I have always believed, is the fact that I am Canadian. Canadians struggle with the question of who we are. In general, the answers to that question come in the form of comparisons and contrasts with our neighbours to the south. This in itself is problematic. After all, our basis of comparison is arguably the proudest, most confident nation in the world. It’s hard not to be cast as the little sibling who can never measure up.

So, the easiest thing may be to just forget about it, and let each individual focus on him- or herself—bring out the maple leaf on July 1, cheer for the Canadian Olympians every two years, and forget about it in between.

But, then, one periodically hears comments from people who only just seem to have noticed that Canada is a country of immigrants. Personally, I knew that when I was a child, but apparently some people are still catching on. They complain that [fill in the blank with whichever group they believe they can recognize] are taking over!

Maybe the Canadian education system failed these people, and they never learned that our country adopted multiculturalism as an official government policy in 1971. Or maybe they were always surrounded by people who looked like them and spoke English as a first language—or didn’t, but they never noticed because they didn’t talk to them, but they had familiar faces nevertheless—and now their neighbourhood is becoming more visibly diverse, so they are forced to be in close proximity to different people.

Canadians pride themselves on their politeness. Undeniably, politeness is essential for interacting with others. Politeness, however, is not always accompanied by kindness. And this is where some people get confused.

There was a Tim Horton’s ad in 2013 that I saw as total propaganda: “Canadians are so nice... But we don’t let anyone push us around!” And there were geese honking a chorus of sorries. That was the only part I liked. I find our geese rather endearing, even if their distinctive honk is being made to sound like “sorry.”

So, we say “sorry” a lot—really a lot—even when someone else bumps into us. Perhaps we’re polite, even excessively so. But are we nice?

Kindness involves being pleasant and compassionate toward others. I know what I think about how “nice” Canadians are in general, but instead of ranting about that, I’m going to end by stating that kindness is something we should all strive for within ourselves, rather than worrying about how others are behaving. I try to show empathy and compassion toward everyone, including those with whom I disagree or who have hurt me.

You can only fight negativity with positivity. Love and kindness are the tools that I have learned I must use to get through life.

So, are Canadians nice? Maybe. Maybe not. But this Canadian tries to be.