My Dark Beloved - onc 2023 Ambassadors Pick-Longlisted

.2

The wind outside tries to crawl past me as I open the door of the Stardust. Snow clings to my clothes and hair. I shake like a dog before I head to the bar while attempting to shed my jacket like a snake's skin.

The Stardust Bar used to be a tiny disco called Lost Souls in the late seventies. The then club catered to the dark souls of the city who preferred Joy Division and The Cure over Beatlemania. Twenty years later and it's now a shit-hole catering to those who want some privacy and a damn good whiskey at the price of beer.

I come here because I like that it's always nearly empty and there are booths you can slink into and hide from the rest of the world. I stopped wanting to be around large crowds when I began seeing little blue spiders crawling in people's eyes and began hearing their heartbeats telling me to pluck my own guts out a few months ago.

At the start, I pretended that a few speckles of Lux' agoraphobia had brushed off on me and that's why I became Mr. Anti-Social, but that's not the real reason I can only stand places like the Stardust. I'm losing my mind because of the tainted vampire blood inside me.

Thanks, daddy dearest for being a psychopath vampire who bed an innocent mortal when he knew he was rotting from the inside. You win the Father of the Year award – a trip to Hell and a nice set of cutlery.

It's taken a while, but the madness is creeping to the surface. I'd say, God help me if I believed in a God. But I don't. I believe in nothing other than we all die sometimes, even a half-leech like me.

This bar makes me feel sort of sane. Sometimes. The music here is good. It wisps through an ancient jukebox in the corner, one the owner brags originally belonged to Hedy Lamarr – the actress he's got plastered all over the walls in black and white posters. Though the 70s post-punk and goth tunes are gone, there's a wicked selection of rock and roll and hair metal bands: starting from Roy Orbison and going all the way to Def Leppard.

I don't care if I was born in the 1800s, give me a good 1980s song and I'll be happy. OK, not happy but I won't be miserable.

The bartender, Jeremiah, is also the owner. He's an ill-natured sort who likes exactly three of his patrons. Thankfully, I'm included in this little elite club he's got going on in his head. He's by the far wall with his back to me and is sticking up a new poster of Miss Lamarr. I'm about to go and greet him when I notice her...

...him...

God damn, I can't tell but I don't care.

They are beautiful. Perfect. Androgynous and dressed in white from top to toe. The opposite of my eternal choice of wearing nothing but black, black, and more black.

When they move, a crop of ashen hair shimmers like silver under the dim light. Their cheekbones and pale skin make me want to run to them and see if they are human or made of marble. They suck on their lip momentarily and I am drawn towards them like a moth to its cliched flaming death.

They don't see me until I am standing right next to them. I am on the verge of blurting out that they are exactly what I would have dreamed of if someone had asked me to imagine my perfect lover but they speak first.

"Hello?" They raise a brow and watch me with mild amusement.

Taking a step back, I falter. "I'm sorry," I blurt out.

"Because you're invading my personal space or staring?"

I swallow. Around me, the bar laughs. "Both. I'm sorry."

They reach for their drink. Their fingers are long and I wonder what they would feel like were they to –.

"You already said that." They toss me out of my thoughts.

The snow on my jacket melts and creates a small puddle at my feet. "Shit," I say. Looking down, they follow my gaze.

"Here." The stranger takes the damp garment and tosses it over an empty bar stool. "It'll dry quicker this way."

I'm impressed at how forward they are. "Thanks."

"It's my good deed for the day."

"Is that what you do? One good deed per day?"

They shake their head. Silver hair brushes against their shoulders. "No. I'm usually an asshole. I destroy things rather than do good."

"You don't look like the monstrous sort," I say slipping into the stool next to them after they gesture for me to join.

With a wink, they reply, "We've only just met. Give me a few days to corrupt you."

They set down their drink and without warning reach for my hair. "You're wet."

I flinch at the touch but they ignore my sudden shyness. "It's snowing like crazy outside," I stupidly say as if it's impossible to know that despite the fact that there are two large windows that make the Stardust look like you're in a snow globe.

"No shit?" They chuckle and run their palm over my long, dark strands.

When they stop, I want to tell them to keep doing it. But I don't.

From the corner of my eye, I spot Jeremiah furrowing his brows in curiosity. I ignore him because I suddenly feel stupid. I've told him a few hundred times that I come to the Dust because I like that I don't have to talk to anyone but him. And now, here I am, chatting with a stranger. Going against everything I've ever said.

"Do you usually try to pick up random people at bars?"

"I wasn't trying to pick you up."

When they snort, I add, "Honest. I came here for a drink. This is pretty much the only place I like."

"Because of the decor?" They tease and we both look around the pitiful interior.

"It looks like Little House on the Prairie threw up in a circus, doesn't it?"

They don't answer my question, but rather lean close and whisper, "You wanted to pick me up when you saw me though, didn't you?"

"It wasn't my intention to invade your privacy."

"But you did."

"I did."

"Why?"

"I don't know," I lie.

"Tell me." When I falter, they lean closer, "Tell me."

"You're beautiful," I say in all honesty. "Like something out of a dream."

They tap their finger against their glass. The liquid inside is transparent, like their nails. "Flattery will get you in trouble."

"Then, should I go?"

They shake their head. Their hair is glitter. "No. I think I want you to stay."  

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