Luma likes to smoke dreamy herbs when he is lonely. I visit him once a week, taking my violin and playing it as we stare with unemotional faces. If we were ghosts, we wouldn’t scare anybody. Neither of us talk, laugh or show interest in life.
The first time I saw him he was examining the texture of a knife outside of a CD store. He looked up at me as I paused opening the door to observe him. Telepathically, we spoke. “I killed a beautiful black haired woman.” he said. “Where’s the body?” I asked. “Inside every album.” I bought a classical music CD and found her hair within the case.
I’m not afraid of Luma. I think he is just sad and doesn’t know right from wrong. One night he fell asleep in my lap after crying for 9 hours. I confessed my admiration for him through dreams.
Last night when I came over, I found him prostrated against the floor, his dark golden mane hiding his face and making a rug in front of him. “Are you praying?” I whispered. “Sure I am. I want to kill you and I’m afraid I will if I do not beg for power.” I bowed behind him. He was shaking like a child at a funeral. “Put my DNA inside of records.” I said. “Go ahead. Abuse me to death and become a serial killer.” In an instant, maroon fluid was spilling from my neck. His eyes, sorrowful and hateful at once, fluttered as I squeezed the wound and laughed at my pity. Blood dripped from his finger nails, the weapon he used to split my arteries and deliver my spirit. I remember how beautiful he looked as a tear drizzled down his jaw and outlined his face in silver.
Ashlie Allen writes fiction and poetry. She is also a photographer. Her work has appeared in The Potluck Magazine, Gone Lawn, Spelk and others. Her favorite book is “The Vampire Lestat” by Anne Rice.