Free Gypsy Blood by Steve Vernon

entry.
      Fegh. Rhett Butler would kick it down. So would John Wayne.
    “They’re both dead, Poppa.”
    Carnival went to the bathroom, filled a glass of water half full and set it by his bedside in case he woke up thirsty. He lay down on the cot, wondering how the trapdoor had come to be. Maybe it was a transporter. Step down and arrived somewhere else.
    Ha! Beam me up, Bela.
    Carnival smiled. He imagined Maya, laying down in the darkness beneath him. He wanted to get up and tap dance. Maybe sing a little song of happy joy. All those damn fool things a man feels he has to do when he’s been bitten by the bug of love. Down there, just beneath his bed. Heh. It’s good to be on top.
    Ha. You’re not on top. Not by a long shot.
    “Shut up, Poppa.”
    Who holds the knife, boy?
    Carnival closed his eyes. He tried to sleep but nothing came. He tried fantasy, thinking about a vampire’s kiss. It didn’t help. Unfulfilled horniness is a crappy anesthetic. He lay awake staring at the ceiling. The itch on his neck nagged like a forgotten duty.
    Who holds the knife?
    It was a good question.
    Carnival wished in vain for an answer he could trust.

Chapter 11
     
    Lost Sleep
     
    Y ou can see a lot of truth on a bedroom ceiling, amidst the cracked plaster and the undusted cobwebs. Amidst the juiceless fly carcasses cluttered about the bottom bowl of a ceiling light shade, the shadows and half smoked memories, truth smeared like a lunatic’s finest finger painting, fractal images of vaguely conjured thought.
    Oh Gypsy poet, sing me your sweet agony. I will fetch my guitar and we will annihilate melody together.
    “Poppa, I’m trying to sleep.”
    You’re talking to a ghost about vampire love. How restful can that be?
    Carnival’s mind raced. What was he thinking? Kissing a vampire. Inviting her into his home. Holding her hand. Killing for her.
    You know what your problem is, boy?
    Carnival’s neck itched. He tried not to dig at it.
    You sleep too much.
    Carnival saw it again. The knife easing into Olaf’s throat like it belonged there. Like it was supposed to be. Was he dreaming? Had he fallen into sleep?
    Do you know what sleep is?
    He saw the shout of blood shooting out from Olaf’s throat like a wave born in a man’s neck.
    Sleep is just a rehearsal for death. You close your eyes, you breathe slowly, and you let the day fade away.
    Carnival saw the look in Olaf’s eyes, fading away. Like a photograph of nothing, developing in a strange slow motion.
    What does that sound like to you, boy? What does that sound like to you?
    Carnival heard the patient lapping of the waves, a black fathomless hound waiting to be gorge itself on Olaf’s emptied out body.
    Death, boy. Sleep is death. The night is death. The ocean is death.
    Like a lonely cup, waiting to be filled.
    Why do you think there are so many waves on the water? The ocean is always waving goodbye. The sailor is forever lonely, the sea is made of tears, not salt.
    Carnival sat up.
    “I killed him, Poppa. Goddamn your poetic mystical bullshit. There’s blood on my hands.”
    That’s why God made soap, my Val. Ask Pilate. He could tell you.
    “Not all the soap, Poppa. Not all the soap, nor all the sea water.”
    He flung his hand out, knocking the half full glass of water to the floor. It spilled and shattered.
    Now look. You’ve broken your cup. You’ve spilled your water.
    “He’s dead, Poppa. Dead and gone.”
    Not gone. No one goes anywhere, not really. Newton knew that. There are other worlds than these. He’s moved on. You’ll see him again. Sooner than you like.
    “What does that mean? Why do you keep saying that? I’ve never killed anyone before.”
    Never killed anyone? So how did I get here?
    Carnival fell into an uneasy sleep, wondering that very same question.
    He drifted into sleep around four am. A dream took him hard. He was in a car and the door handles were welded shut and the steering wheel turned itself. The dials and gauges were burning red