Paranormal/Futuristic
Bloodroot
By T
Aug 25, 2007, 22:43

The particular shoes I wore tonight were cheap heels, black with elastic across the toes and around the ankles. I slipped and slid, wobbly on my feet. The nervous tension didn’t help. Damn it, I was twitchy.

Being stuck in a terribly awkward social situation is just darned delightful.

“Want me to get you some bourbon?” the man persisted. I vaguely remembered his face from the advertising accounts department at The Melbourne Times. As a freelance journalist, I’m in and out of the building, depending on if Ange has an assignment for me. Occasionally I go in to pitch. But really, that isn’t my kind of thing. I can’t sell anything or myself, as a writer or otherwise. The fact I even get assignments is a wonder. But there are rumors of staff writers striking for extra pay, so maybe the head honchos at Primary Source Media realized it would be cheaper to pay freelancers like me instead...

“No thanks, I’m fine.” I held up my Sprite-filled wine glass filled as evidence.

“You sure, Fleisch? I can get some champagne to put in your drink.”

Trying to get me drunk, Mr. Accountant? I had no idea you thought I was so cheap and easy.

“Really, mate, I’m happy with what I’ve got,” I replied, relatively polite.

He nodded his light brown-topped head. He sipped his drink, possibly bourbon on the rocks, and adjusted his glasses. He cleared his throat. “You know, Fleisch...”

No, I didn’t want to know whatever he was about to say.

“You have the most terrific feet.”

Oh god. Bloody typical that the only fellow to take an interest in me tonight was a foot lover. I’m not usually one to be so judgmental, but really––he should be ashamed of himself. I just don’t understand how anyone can be a foot lover; feet are hideous. Mine are dry, crackly. My toes are wrinkled, ugly.

Foot lovers, hang your head in shame. Develop some standards, for Christ’s sake.

Think of an excuse, quick, now...

“Well, if you’ll excuse me,” I began, smiling tightly, my toes curling in horror, “I better drum up some material for an article.”

The look on his face told me that wasn’t what he wanted to hear. He should’ve been bloody grateful; I was being polite, damn it.

Before he could protest and embarrass himself––and me––any further, I hastily added, “See you around.”

If I wanted to make sure that he didn’t follow me, I really did have to keep to my word––find someone to talk to, and get an article out of our conversation. Primary Source Media was hosting a society benefit evening; to benefit what exactly, I couldn’t quite remember. But everything seems to be about sick kids nowadays. Can’t we do something for geriatric health, so my granddad can live a bit longer? Sure, he’s seventy-five years old, but he’s still a person. The fact that he’s even still alive is a wonder, especially considering his condition...

Meet a celebrity, get them talking and prod a bloody story out of them. That was my agenda. Only I wasn’t sure who here really counted as a celebrity. Being on a reality show just isn’t enough in my world...

Ah, that delightful chef, Gabriel Gaté! There he was; smiling away while chatting to The Melbourne Times’ head food critic...but that unfortunately meant that she’d get the article, and I wouldn’t. Bugger it. Why couldn’t I have a specialty?

Still, spotting the chef made me think of food, so I quickened my way to the buffet. Sure, there were waiters going around the room offering canapés, but I wanted a more substantial meal. And surely other people needed a decent feed, so I could strike up a conversation at the table. Killing two birds with one stone...okay, not the most PETA-friendly analogy, but still.

With a burst of enthusiasm––my first, and maybe only, of the evening––I loaded up a large plate. Slices of roast lamb with some fancy sauce I couldn’t identify. Fried rice, but looking far classier than I remembered. Various salads, dressings with French names on the side. The dessert buffet was on another table, so I’d have to remember to go there later. Tiramisu. A tiered chocolate cake, reminiscent of the ones at wedding receptions. Some other desserts with foreign names...

I wiped the corners of my mouth; I was literally drooling.

I found a spare seat at the end of a table––most people were walking around the room chatting, on the dance floor, or perhaps smoking outside––and dug in heartily. Stuff that tripe about eating delicately like a lady; I wanted to enjoy my food. Make the caterers feel that their hard work wasn’t in vain, like I wasn’t some bulimic depositing her dinner in the toilet. Feel the love.

“The food’s the best thing about this evening, hey.”

I stopped shoveling meat in my mouth, and saw a gloomy, young-looking gal eyeing my way. Was she supposed to be a member of the celebrity society?

“You got that right,” I agreed, licking my fork.

She latched on to the handle of a silver gravy boat, and passed it my way. Fingerless mesh gloves encased her hands, her fingernails glossy black.

“Pour this over your potatoes, it makes them better.”

“Thanks.” I took her advice, and poured the gravy over my whipped mound. I consumed a forkful, and hummed in agreement. I paused my swooning long enough to say, “Best idea mate. Thanks for sharing.”

“No worries. Did you get dragged here like I did?”

I stopped internally praising the Gravy God to get a proper look at her. Long black hair, tangled and a bit greasy, streaked generously with massive amounts of navy blue. Raccoon-style eye makeup, heavy on the black shadow...

A T-shirt promoting the band The Used.

That confirmed it. She was emo, and stereotyping that clan of people enormously.

A foot lover and an emo, both in one evening. What a niche I have.

“Kind of,” I replied hastily, remembering she’d asked a question. “And you?”

“Same. My mum.”

I nodded at her T-shirt. She understood what I meant.

“I know, not the kind of thing to wear to a society do,” she admitted, tugging the hem.

I heard something akin to a horse stamping its hoof, and looked down to see a long black cheesecloth skirt, her right foot shod in exactly the same style shoe I wore. I put my left foot next to hers to show.

She turned back to her plate, covering one of her salads with the gravy, though I didn’t think that was the chefs’ serving suggestion. “But my mum’s a fashion designer, so she understands about the mismatch of styles, thinks it’s funky.”

“Who is your mum?” I couldn’t help but ask; I had a job to do.

“Lorena Thyme,” she replied.

“Is that her real name?” The question escaped my lips before I could stop it.

“She changed it to that by deed poll,” she explained. “Her real name is Lorraine Roberts.”

Uh oh. “Does this mean she gave you a weird name?”

Damn, I wasn’t supposed to say it like that. I was meant to be more tactful, in case she liked whatever name she had.

She swallowed her bite of gravy-dressed salad, and nodded. “Lara Sage Roberts. At least she let me keep the proper surname,” she credited. “But please call me Lars.”

“Scarlet Fleischer,” I declared in response. I could use this chat as an article, so I was forthcoming with my profile. “But you can call me Scar.”

“Do you hate your name too?”

“Only when people spell it wrong,” I admitted. “My name’s like the color, not like Johansson.” I held up my linen napkin. “I’d shake your hand, but I’ve been swiping gravy from my plate.”

“Are you emo too?” she asked unexpectedly. Seriously, I had no idea that emos actually admitted to being emo. I thought they just called their style “alternative” in that cocky way.

I was horrified, but tried to stifle that as much as possible. “Uh, no,” I replied truthfully. “What made you think so?”

“Your hair. Your dress. Your boredom with this whole society thing.”

I had to explain. “My hair is naturally black, and dying it a lighter color would take a long time and a lot of money.” I counted the next point off on my finger. “This black dress was the only thing I could find that wasn’t covered in cat fur; it was at the back of my wardrobe. As for the boredom...” I gestured around us. “Well, I can’t help being bored; this isn’t my thing.”

All truthful things. For Christ’s sake, I’m not emo; it’s offensive to call someone that against their will.

“Oh, okay.” Lara Sage Roberts, a.k.a. Lars, polished off the rest of her salad. “So I’m emo, but you know what I’ve always wanted to be?”

Who was I, someone to confess things to? Did I look like a bloody priest?

“A vampire,” she continued.

I swallowed my bite of lamb rapidly, and it went down the wrong tube. I coughed and spluttered until it found its way safely to my esophagus. I swallowed properly, and sipped my Sprite.

“I love the whole culture,” Lars went on. “Staying out of the sun, living large at night. The erotic bites to drain blood or turn someone into a vamp. Living for eternity...”

Crikey, this was ridiculous; I could barely stand to listen to it. Do people really believe this rubbish? Are they that far out of their minds?

“Wait, let me clarify some things for you,” I spoke up. I pushed my now-empty dinner plate aside, and wiped my mouth and fingers with the napkin.

“First of all, we’re not called vampires. We’re Sanguinarius,” I explained. “That’s Latin for ‘bloodthirsty’, try to remember that.”

I counted off the next point. “As for staying out of the sun...my mother and her family are English. This means sickly white skin that gets sunburned very easily; tanning does not exist for us.”

I tapped my next finger. “Living large at night? No. If I’m busy during the day, I want to relax at night. So I stay home.”

I checked the next. “Erotic bites? Sure, it may seem erotic at the time, but it’s transmitting a disease. There’s nothing erotic about that, it ruins people’s lives.

“As for living for eternity? Absolutely not. In fact, the so-called ‘vampiric’ life is generally much shorter than a regular human’s. Sanguinarians need more blood in order to survive––if we don’t get that blood we need, then we die, simple as that.”

I thought I’d gone through all her points and squashed them. So I only then noticed Lars was staring at me, eyes wide, jaw dropped. She might’ve looked a bit paler, but that could’ve been due to gravy overload.

“So what are you saying, you’re some kind of contemporary vampire who doesn’t fit the myth?” she finally managed to utter.

“No, you didn’t listen properly. I’m Sanguinarius,” I emphasized.

“What? No, really?”

“Really. Why is that so hard to believe? It’s just another blood disease.” Seriously, what was the big fuss?

“You mean...you got bit?”

“No, not in my case. You can become Sanguinarius via either inheriting the gene, or mixing your blood with a Sanguinarian’s––a.k.a. transmitting the disease.”

“Holy mackerel. And you’re a journalist?”

“What, you expect me to work in a morgue or something? Nah, once something’s dead, I can’t really get at the blood inside.”

Lars was stunned into silence.

I was nonchalant. “Funny I’m a writer, isn’t it? A folkloric idea is that so-called ‘vampires’ are fascinated with counting, and here I am using words for a living.” I smiled at a memory. “But my favorite Muppet is Count von Count from Sesame Street. I just think he’s great.”

“Primary Source hired you? Do they know you’re bloody insane?” she inquired with a shocked yet disbelieving look on her face.

“This is a real blood disease.”

“No, really. You’re absolutely nuts. And you’re not even aware of it. You’re delusional...”

I had to keep in mind that Lars is a teenager, and therefore isn’t expected to know about medical issues unless she has them herself. She didn’t have the disease, and that could explain why she just didn’t understand what I was saying, even though I’d explained it so simply. And yes, I’d destroyed her dream of the vampire myth.

“And don’t call us ‘vamps’,” I remembered to add. “A vamp is the upper front part of a shoe. Do I look like a shoe?”

“You look like you belong in an institution.”

“I don’t look like I do; you just think I do.”

“Oh, for ... Mum!” Lars suddenly called out. “I’m done eating, I’ve made my appearance; can I go meet my mates now?”

The henna-haired lady in a tie-dyed dress who magically appeared behind her sighed, but nodded. “All right. Thanks for staying this long, Lara.” She must’ve been Lorena Thyme, fashion designer and mother of Lara Sage Roberts.

Lars quickly stood up, and rushed for the nearest exit.

How rude. She has no idea what it’s like to be discriminated against in this society. She just assumed I’m crazy without even taking the time to get to know me.

I headed for the dessert buffet, loading up a tray with bowls and cutlery. Maybe comfort food would take the edge off.

                              ***

I was into my second slice of cake when I was disturbed from my eating. My editor, Angela Newman, approached with a gal about my age in tow, whose raucous black hair seemed to be her natural color, like mine. My hair was straight, the ends touching my non-existent cleavage, while hers bounced merrily atop her shoulders. Unlike mine, her dress was a knee-length strapless white number, contrasting brilliantly with her dark hair and gorgeous olive complexion.

Goddamn sickly white English skin of mine. Never mind the fact I’ve lived in the sunburned country, Australia, all my life. My mum’s family has doomed me. What a genetic gift. Couldn’t I have been darker-toned, like my dad’s German ancestors?

“Scarlet, I have someone for you to meet,” my editor announced. Angela Newman’s red-grey hair was twisted up; her spectacles made her look like a schoolmarm. Her pale eyes matched the jewel hanging from a gold chain around her neck. Her impressive natural cleavage peeked out delicately.

This fifty-five-year-old editor of mine was still more attractive than twenty-five-year-old me. Would I ever have my day?

I politely stood up while Angela introduced us. “This is Scarlet Fleischer, a freelancer for the Times. How’ve you gone tonight, Scar?” Ange addressed me.

“I got an interview with the daughter of a fashion designer,” I answered truthfully.

“Which one?”

“Lorena Thyme’s girl.”

Ange’s nose wrinkled. Not a fan of the girl, or her mother, perhaps.

“I couldn’t get a story out of her,” I admitted. “Except Lorena Thyme’s real name is Lorraine Roberts.”

“But our readers already know that.”

Hey, I only write for the paper; I don’t read it. “Yeah,” I nodded, even though I hadn’t known before meeting Lars.

“This is Debbie Corelli. She’s just starting out, and now your protégée.”

She was? Since when?

But I said, “I’d shake your hand, but mine’s got cake on it.” I held up my fingers as proof.

To her credit, Debbie Corelli didn’t look fazed. Instead, she nodded at my cake bowl. “Can I have some of that?”

“You can get some for yourself from the buffet.” No way was I going to share my food. Food is sacred. I need it to ward off the tension. Damn it, right then I needed sugar for my blood.

“Scarlet’s been with us for a while now, though she occasionally does other pieces for magazines.”

Debbie nodded politely. “Think I’ll get some cake now.”

“Excellent idea,” I approved. I was a mentor to this girl? I might as well encourage her suggestions. And it was a fabulous one.

Once Debbie was out of earshot, Ange murmured to me, “Be nice to her. Her dad recently died.”

“Oh.” Well, what was I supposed to say?

“You can be her friend as well as her mentor.”

“Mm.” I can count the friends I have on one finger. And that doesn’t even include me (I’m kind of at odds with myself).

“Hang on, why am I a mentor?” I suddenly thought aloud. “Why don’t you get one of the staff writers, not a freelancer like me?”

Ange had the decency to be honest. She looked nervous. “Do you know about the strike?”

I nodded.

“Besides, you’re about the same age,” she added. “You might have stuff in common.”

Like I had stuff in common with Lars? Hey, maybe Debbie would be rude, and discriminate against me too. Nothing like a little insult in your diet.

Ange pushed a business card into my hand. I looked down to read Debbie’s contact details. I shoved it in my ten-dollar handbag, giving myself a paper cut as I did. I closed my eyes and sucked on my flesh. There was only a teeny, tiny bit of blood, but...

It wasn’t enough to properly relax me. I was too aware of my surroundings.

I was still standing. “Can I finish my dessert now?”

“Yes, you may finish your dessert now, please.”

Hey, just because I write for a living, that doesn’t mean I speak proper. Err, properly.

                             ***

Ange, Debbie and everyone else in the room let me eat my dessert in peace. I knew I couldn’t get a story out of the evening. And despite all the delicious food, I still felt terrible. The tension remained, and my limbs didn’t feel altogether in working order. My blood probably wasn’t circulating properly due to lack thereof. I’m only twenty-five; too young to die.

I was contemplating my own mortality when my mobile phone vibrated with an incoming call. Thank crikey I’d remembered to switch it to silent, so no one could hear a polyphonic version of Wham!’s Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go.

I read the phone’s screen, and answered with unbridled glee. “Ka, you’ve saved me big-time!” I declared. “I’ve eaten all I can fit, and I really want to go home but I still haven’t got a story.”

“You need to come home, Scar,” Katia Belarova told me. “Screw the story; I need your help.”

That was odd. I’m not very helpful by nature, simply because I don’t have any advice to offer.

“What do you need my help with?” I asked cautiously.

“A bloody Geist is pestering me; he just won’t go on to Jenseits like he should.”

When it comes to matters of ghosts, the German language is used; that’s where the word Geist comes from. Jenseits translates to “beyond”, casually referring to what is known as the afterlife.

Why does a Sanguinarian know about this kind of stuff? My best mate, Katia Belarova, is a Sprecherin––someone who communicates with Geister (the plural form of Geist).

“Wait, Ka,” I piped up. “I hate to ruin the party, but in case you’ve forgot––I’m Sanguinarius. I’m not a Sprecherin, therefore I can’t help you.”

“Yes you can,” Katia debated. “You have the human touch.”

I kind of understood what she meant. Sanguinarians do not have any paranormal abilities. We are simply human, with a rare blood disease. However, Sprecherinnen (the plural form of Sprecherin) have the ability of conversing with Geister, which means they do have a paranormal ability. In that way, the two of us come from very different worlds, so to speak.

“I can’t communicate with Geister,” I reminded Katia.

She sighed heavily. “Maybe I’m not explaining myself properly.”

“Not just maybe,” I confirmed.

“See, there’s this guy, and he won’t go on to Jenseits until he’s sure his daughter is gonna be okay.”

I still didn’t get it. “Go on,” I invited.

“He’s worried that she won’t have a steady job to keep her in the clear financially.”

I furrowed my eyebrows. “Hey, I’m not doing so well for myself, either. If I didn’t have Granddad––”

“She’s into journalism or something like that.”

Oh. I got the link. “So am I.”

“That’s right. He wants you to get her a job.”

I wrinkled my face. If I don’t understand the paranormal, then sometimes Katia just doesn’t get the normal.

“I’m a freelancer,” I explained. “I have no influence. It’s hard enough for me to even get work.”

“Look, just come over and meet the Geist, all right?”

I could hear the frustration in her voice. For someone who’s usually so calm, this Geist must’ve really been bugging her.

“Okay, okay.”

“I’ll transfer some temporary power, so he can sort things out with you. Then he’ll go on to Jenseits, and we’ll all be better off.”

“Fine, I’ll walk to Flinders Street right now.” I agreed to the situation, even though I wasn’t sure what Katia “transferring” her power to me would include.

“I’ll call you when I get Karlsson,” I continued. “You pick me up there, drive me over to your place, we get this done and then you take me to my place. You cool with that, Ka?”

“Sure thing. Thanks, Scar, you’re an absolute gem.”