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Cry for a Shadow Pt. Two [Buffy the Vampire Slayer/The Beatles (crossover) | Spike/John Lennon (friendship)]
Early June, 1962. Liverpool, England.
Dru and I moved back to London at the end of 1961, after the wall went up in Berlin. Got too political for my tastes. Too much violence that wasn't bein' caused by me and mine. Wasn't my cuppa, so we came back. John rang me up in June, after they got back from their third time around to Hamburg. Said he needed a chat, so I told Dru to mind her dolls as I was goin' out for a stroll. Insinuated that they'd been actin' up and she should sit them all down for a nice talking to. That was that. Knew she wouldn't be causin' too much trouble while I was out. Just hoped I'd have a flat to return to later on.
So drove the bloody three-hundred miles, arrivin' just after midnight. We meet up at his place in Woolton. He was sittin' out front. Looked like he'd been out there for a bit; seemed cold and ill. Sickly-like. I shrugged it off. Seen him look like that plenty of times in Hamburg. Figured it was just aftermath. He was wearin' his glasses. That struck me as odd. He never wore the things. Hated 'em. 'Eh, no need to dwell.
"What's the good word, Lennon?" I asked, offering him a ciggie, lightin' one up meself. He light the cigarette, shakin' his head, lookin' off.
"Not here."
He took off down the block, so I followed. We walked a bit in silence, just smokin'. Not much to look at in Liverpool, unless you're keen on fog and desolation, so I kept my eyes on John. Not blatently, you know.. sideways glances and the like. Figured he'd speak up in his good time. If I'd learned one thing in the past two years, you give John his space. We walked for about thirty minutes until we found ourselves at Sefton park. John stopped, so I leaned up against a tree, puffin' away on another ciggie. Lost count by then. I huffed, gettin' tired of this waitin' about shite, but just when I was about to voice my boredom, he spoke up, sayin' about the last thing I'd ever expect to hear comin' from his lips.
"Stu's dead."
I paused, starin' at him for a moment. Then I smirked, takin' a long drag off my ciggie, exhaling the smoke in a huge cloud. I laughed a bit, figurin' it for a joke. A sick joke, but that's just John.
"Bollocks. Pull the other one."
He didn't smile. His face hardened and he tossed his fag out into the street, watching as the cherry sparked and faded in the damp night air. When he spoke, his voice was tight with barely contained emotion.
"I'm not fuckin' joking, Will. Do you think I'd fuckin' joke about somethin' like this?"
I frowned, contemplating this news in silence before tossing the butt of my ciggie out to join his. I stuffed my hands into the pockets of my coat and walked slowly around him, circling him as I always do those I'm sizing up. He just stood here, arms crossed at his chest, one leg bet at the knee, jaw workin' furiously at a piece of gum he'd probably been chewin' on for days, eyes starin' hard at absolutely nothin'; typical brassed-off John. I leaned in a bit closer, tilting my head as the light from a streetlamp caught his face just right, and I could make out the very faint ghost of tear tracks down the side of his cheek. He'd been crying. For fuck's sake, John never cried. I pulled back, taking a respectful step back, my voice soft.
"Damn."
He nodded, face never changing.
"Indeed. In-fucking-deed."
I was silent for a moment, trying to think of something proper to say, you know, out of respect and all that. Searchin' for the right words. Unfortunately, I found the wrong ones.
"How did it happen?"
John scoffed.
"They said he died of a fuckin' brain hemmorrage. You know how those come about? A bloody blow to the head. Hard blow. I was there when he got it." John shook his head, sighing, "It was me an' him against the four or five other blokes. They beat the shite out of us. Really tore into us, you know? Knocked Stu's head against a wall and the ground real good a couple times. He blacked out and all, but he flat out refused to go to a doctor. I didn't want to nag on him like his fuckin' mum or something, so I let it drop. He wouldn't even go when his mum found him, sittin' up in his room, bleedin' from the head. She cried and carried on, but he assured her he'd be alright. And he was, until he died."
John reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a pack of smokes, taking one out for himself and offering me one. I nodded my head in thanks, and also in encouragment for him to continue the story. He lit the cigarette and took a drag, and then did just that.
"I didn't really know much of what was goin' on, as I was too busy worryin' about meself, you know? He'd get these headaches every once in awhile, but that's wasn't fuckin' uncommon or anything. We worked eight fuckin' days a week with no food or sleep, all fucked on drugs and drink, every minute of every day.. so I didn't give a shite about his headaches. I had 'em somethin' terrible meself. He kept naggin' and naggin' -- put me in a right chord, I'll tell you that. So I told him to fuck off with his headaches, so he finally shut his gob about it. So, when we left Hamburg again and Stu stayed behind to be with Astrid, somethin' happened. He had this terrible spell and finally went to a doc. Doc told him something was wrong, but it nothing serious and he should just take it easy. Doc gave him some pills and sent him off. Fuckin' quack."
John sneered at the memory, keeping silent for a bit, taking angry drags off of his cigarette.
"He died on April the tenth, the day before we arrived in Hamburg. Astrid met us at the airport with the news."
He looked off, towards the moon.
"I don't think I've ever cried so hard in me whole goddamned life. Not even when Julia was killed. Stu was the closest thing to family I'd ever really had."
I frowned, hopin' he wouldn't start in on the waterworks right here in front of me. Hell, I couldn't even appease Dru when she really got into it. What the hell would I do with John? But, on the contrary.. He threw down his cigarette and spun around, punching the tree I was leaning against. Hard. Hard enogh to break the skin, but no bones. He was angry, but not stupid. A guitarist needs the use of both hands and all. I winced, rememberin' that right hook.
"Bloody stupid fuck! I told him to go see a fuckin' doctor after that fight. I bloody told him! But the bastard wouldn't listen. Wouldn't listen to me, wouldn't listen to his mum. And now he's fuckin' dead."
Then he laughed. It's was desperate soundin'. Sounded like a man hangin' from his last string. But I knew John. He'd bounce back. He always did. Had to. He spoke again, his voice soft.
"It really makes you think about your own fuckin' mortality."
Then he paused, shaking his head, laughing again. Then he touched the blood seeping from the torn skin of his right knuckle, rubbing the fluid between forefinger and thumb. The scent wafted to me in the still night air, and it took me back to that hazy night in Hamburg, but I knew well enough to keep my mouth shut about that.
"But then, I guess you don't have to worry about that, do ya, mate?"
He looked at me then, and I could see the desperation in his eyes, but it was overshadowed by a keen determination. He wouldn't take it if I offered. He didn't before, and he wouldn't now. But it couldn't hurt to try.
"I've offered before, mate. The invitation is still open--"
But he held up his hand to silence me, as I figured he would.
"No. No, not today."
As he said everytime we spoke of it.
"Would you change it if you could, Lennon?"
I knew he'd understand what I meant.
"Can't change fate, Will. We've got to accept and move on, because if we don't we go mad."
I nodded. Then we simply stood there, listening to the night move on around us.
1963 - 1980. Anywhere and everywhere.
I didn't see John or any of the lads much those seventeen years. They were busy bein' Beatles. Quite understandable, mind you. It was certianly a full-time gig. In the early 60's, I'd see them often enough, poppin' in on them every once in awhile; showin' up in a hotel room while they were on one tour or another, laughin' it up at the sorry state they were all in, all pissed and high, birds all over the place.
It was Hamburg all over again, only with more money, better booze and drugs, and nice suits.
I'd take any available seat and John would shoo away whatever birds happened to be clutchin' to his limbs at the time. He'd hand me a beer and we'd have a chat, just like we'd seen eachother every day since, when we usually haden't laid eyes on one another in a year or so. The banter was always the same.
"So, how'd you manage past security, mate? They're tighter than George's arse out there."
That would always earn us a plastic cup thrown our way, filled with something alcoholic. Hell, a couple times those plastic cups turned glass and shattered on the wall. But George's shout was always the same.
"Bollocks to you two."
Because he'd never have time for anything more. The bird he was snoggin' never gave him enough time.
John and I'd just have a chuckle, and I'd tell him.
"No tricks, mate. I'm stealthy and sneaky, you know."
That always earned a laugh.
"Aye, you're about as stealthy and sneaky as my infidelity, mate."
And we'd have a roll, I'd get pissed, and it was all fun.
They also didn't seem to mind too terribly much at me neckin' on the girls. Then again, I never even found out if anyone noticed. 'Eh, for the best, I guess.
Later on in years, around 1968, after they'd stopped tourin' and were holed up in the studio in London at all hours, I rarely saw John at all anymore. He'd met this new bird called Yoko Ono, a Japanese girl who fancied herself an artist. I caught one of her shows once, just to see what all the fuss was about. Now, I was never much of an artist myself, but I knew shite when I saw it, and believe me, this was it. I suppose it could be called 'conceptual' or 'before it's time', but I haven't seen anything like it since that wasn't laughed out of the bloody gallery, so I suppose I'm still waitin' for it's time to come, 'eh?
I was fortunate enough to catch John alone at home one evening. He and Cynthia had seperated after she'd caught Yoko and John in their bathrobes one mornin', lookin' all the world like two innocent babes caught red-handed on Christmas mornin' with wrappin' paper strewn all about.
I walked straight in, without knockin', just like always. He was sittin' down in his music room, guitar in hand, a couple of pieces of paper on the table before him, a pencil behind his ear. It was scene I'd seen enough times to know what it meant. He was bullshittin' himself into thinkin' he was writin' a song, and so long as he had those pieces of paper in front of him and the pencil behind his ear, he wouldn't feel like he was completely wastin' time. John didn't write music like that. He was spontaneous, usually doin' his best writin' right there in the studio. I knew he was just bored. So I took it upon myself to entertain him the best way I knew how --
By instigatin' a row.
"So, what's all this peace and love rubbish you and the rest of your crew have been spoutin' on about lately? It's all bollocks, that. It's not you, mate, nor the rest of that lot. What're you all playin' at, son?"
He sighed and looked up at me, peerin' from behind those granny glasses he'd taken to wearin' two years back.
"Oh, sod off. I don't recall invitin' you over."
I smirked and took a seat on the couch across from him, foldin' my arms across my stomach, sprawlin' my legs out, teritorial-like.
"Nah, but you invited me once, and once is all I need, mate." I said cheerfully, knowin' it'd get his wick.
He rolled his eyes, settin' his guitar on the couch beside him, leanin' back in the couch and lookin' at me.
"What do ya want, Will?"
I shrugged, spreadin' my hands, but my voice had a cocky lilt to it. He knew what I was up to, and he wasn't havin' any of it.
"Nothin' in particular, mate. Haven't seen ya in awhile. Just wonderin' what you've been up to. Catchin' up on old times with a friend, you know. Why the hostility, Lennon? It's just me -- your old mate, Will."
He sighed again, shakin' his head.
"Things are tense, mate. In the band. Shite with Cyn and all that. The lads think I'm a bastard for doin' what I'm doin' to her, but they don't seem to understand -- I was never in love with Cyn. Not really. I was kid, you know? She got pregnant. I thought I was in love with her because of those elements, but I wasn't. Don't get me wrong -- I did love her; I do, but I can't keep it up. It's just makin' me too unhappy. When I met Yoko, then I knew what love was. I needed to be around that. It finally made me whole. Do ya understand me, mate? That's the reason for all the peace and love 'bollocks'. It's all real for me, now. Like it never was. I always had this hole when I was a lad. You know that. You were there through my worst spot. But Yoko's filled that hole, mate. She's me better half. So, aye, I'm gonna sing about love, because that's what I'm feelin' now."
And with that, he reached up, settling his glasses back on the bridge of his nose, his eyes darin' me to say somethin' to the contrary. But his words didn't anger me. If anything, they stung. We both knew that I'd wanted to be the one to fill that hole for him, but we both knew it would never happen. Now that he had Yoko, I knew it likely never would. So, for me, this was it. My last chance. His last chance. If I walked out that door without him today, I wasn't comin' back. There was no place for me in his life anymore.
I stood up, walking around the table to his side, motioning for him to stand as well. He did, and I walked up close. We were pretty much the same height, so there was never any feeling of dominance one way or another with us, so that had always made things easier. But today, I felt ten times taller, and I knew he knew what was comin', as he wouldn't quite meet my gaze. I decided to just shove on, not beat around the bush.
"If that's the case then, mate.. I'm gonna offer one last time. You can be just like you are right now for the rest of forever; young, talented, sharp, .. beautiful."
I hesitated with that last word. There was an unspoken attraction between us, there always had been. It wasn't an issue anymore. Hadn't been for years. But, it was still hard voicin' it out loud.
"It'll be you and me, mate. No one to fuck things up. No birds around to just drop you like a rag at the end of the day when they're done with you, 'cause that's what's gonna happen, you know. That's what always happens. It's the mortal way, Lennon." I sighed, recallin' certian memories from my past that had aided in my choosin' immortality. Then I continued, "Or, you can live out the rest of your days with that Yoko bird, squabblin' about your petty shite with Paul, George, and Ringo until your ears fuckin' fall off. You can have screamin' babies runnin' around underfoot, smellin' up the place, takin' your time away, stallin' your life until you grow to resent and hate them. It's a lifetime of pain, mate. I can offer you so much more.."
My voice intensified and I leaned in closer.
"I can hand you the world. You know that. It's what you always wanted. You always used to tell me. You wanted the world. I can give it to you. No one would be able to touch us, mate. No one."
He raised his eyes to mine, and I heard him swallow. For a second, a brief second, I thought I'd had him. I saw that lust for power surge in his eyes. For a moment, I was starin' at the old John. My old mate. My partner in crime. But then, he was gone. He lowered his gaze again, takin' a step back, shakin' his head.
"No. No, not today, mate."
I hated those fuckin' words.
"I've got what I need now. I don't need the world anymore. I realize now, that all I was ever lookin' for was someone to love me the way I needed to be loved."
I opened my mouth to yell at him; to scream to him how much I loved him. But he held up a hand and silenced me.
"I know, Will. You know I love you too, mate. But, it wasn't the kind of love I needed. Your's was a possessive love. You know that. It was the last thing I needed. I found what I needed in Yoko, and I want to spend the rest of my days with her. I know they're numbered, but to me, if I can spend only one lifetime with a love that's as strong as mine and Yoko's, that far outweighs several lifetimes without it. Please understand that, Will."
I fought with my emotions for a good long time, my gaze steady on his face before I accepted what he said.
I was free to go. He didn't need me anymore.
Abandoned once again.
So I nodded, relaxing my stance. Relenting.
"Aye. I understand, mate. I do."
But then, I was in his arms and he was huggin' me somethin' fierce. I reached around him, huggin' him back, breathin' deep the scene that was so utterly John. Cor, I was goin' to miss him. I felt his breath, warm and thick on my ear.
"Take care, mate. Don't stay away too long."
Then he released me, and we both knew that this was the last time we'd ever see one another.
I nodded, unable to actually speak. I held out my hand and he slid his into mine. I squeezed it briefly and dropped it, then I was out the door and into the night. Back where I belonged.
I saw him every once in awhile after that. Glances here and there. It was nearly impossible not to -- he was a bloody huge celebrity, and all that. Akin to a god to these people. He was right with what he said back in 1966 -- The Beatles certianly were bigger than Jesus.
Dru and I moved to New York City in the middle of the 70's. In 1977 I killed my second Slayer. I owe her to John. I'd had so much anger built up inside of me, at loosin' him and such, that she was just too easy. I just unleashed it all on her.
I heard, later on, that John and Yoko had also moved to New York City around that time, but I never made a move to contact him. I knew if we were ever to get together for a chat again, it would all happen in it's own good time.
That was just how fate worked.
8 December, 1980. New York City, New York.
It suddenly dawned on me that I'd been standing there for well over thirty minutes, just starin' at the album cover. Bloke at the counter must think I'm a bloody ponce or something; hot after Lennon. Sod it. So I sauntered up to the counter and tossed the album down, noting the little pisser's smirk as he reached for the album to ring it up. He tapped a few keys on the register and bagged up the album, his whiny voice penetrating the silence.
"You into Lennon? He lives around here, you know. I can tell you where."
His smile turned slightly malicious, and I leaned on the counter, waiting for him to say what I knew was comin'.
"I hear he used to fuck his manager back when he was in The Beatles. He's a fuckin' faggot, you know. They both were. That's why his first wife left him. You seem to dig starin' at him. You got it for the old guy or somethin'?"
Before the last words left his lips, I had him by the shirt collar and dragged him across the counter, taking great delight in the terror that flashed in his eyes. A slow and evil smile slid across my face as I pulled him up close, noses almost touching.
"Maybe I do. But it doesn't matter, 'cause you're not going to live long enough to hear the tale, you little fuck."
I tilted my head, tightening my grip noticeably, letting out a soft chuckle at his garbled shout for help, his weak fingers scrambling to dislodge mine. I ignored it and continued, my tone casual and conversational.
"This is a shite life you're living, ain't it, mate? Let me guess. You dropped out of school to become a musician, but you cocked it up. Can't play a chord. Your bandmates abandoned you faster than you'd drop your trousers to shag anything that threw a shadow. You figured, 'Hey, maybe I'll get myself a job as a record jockey. Maybe bein' around music'll improve me a bit.' But you've been here for years, haven't you? Accomplished anything with your life? Doubtful. You're a waste of fuckin' space. You're a bloody parasite. The world doesn't need rubbish like you litterin' it's surface. So, I'm thinkin' to myself.. maybe I'll help the world out a bit, for once in my life."
His eyes widened, showing white all around. He swallowed visibly, paling as I licked my lips, the demon laughing inside as it slid forth. The kid let out a scream, which only made it better.
"Do I fancy Lennon? Aye. I have for twenty years. If you have something to say about that, you can tell it to God, 'cause he's the next bloke you'll be chattin' up."
And with that, I tore into the little bugger's throat, taking care to make it hurt more than usual. He tasted like shite, but sometimes we have to make sacrifices for the greater good, and all that bollocks. I drained him dry and tossed him back over the counter, laughing as his limp hand smacked the register and the till sprung open with it's trademark twang. I picked up my bag, wiped a drop or two of blood from it, then reached in the till and grabbed all the cash, stuffin' it in the bag as well. No sense in wastin' good luck. I swiped the back of my hand across my mouth as the demon withdrew back inside. I raised my hand in a salute to the broken boy and turned, walkin' out of the store.
"Pleasure doin' business with you, mate."
I pushed open the door, the ringing bell hung above sounding out. Pausing in the doorway, I reached up and ripped the damn thing off the wall and threw it across the store, watching it bounce off the back wall and land on the boy's corpse, sounding out a last desperate ring before it was silent. Letting out another chuckle, I walked out into the chill winter night.
I wandered around the city for a bit. It wasn't even midnight yet. A bit early for my midnight snack, I suppose, but such things happen, right? Maybe I'll stop by a toy store and pick up another doll for Dru. A nice innocent little rag doll. Something that won't talk back or rebel. Yeah, not bloody likely. They always misbehaved, didn't they? Better start investing in fireproof dolls. Or maybe a tea set. Tea sets didn't burn. Oh, but they shattered somethin' awful when they hit the fireplace. Or the back of your skull. I winced at that memory. I know, a puppy. An annoying little puppy to run around, bite at my ankles, and hump my leg. Dru would love it, and I would rejoice at the animal's impending destruction.
So I set myself in the direction of a pet store. Yeah, it was closed, but when you're a scary vampire like me, you can get away with little things like breaking and entering and theft. Such is unlife, with all of it's perks.
But something distracted me. Someone had their car radio cranked up a bit too loud. A voice floated to my ears, faint, but loud enough that my sensitive hearing could pick it up.
"..shots rang out at the Dakota Building not even an hour ago. Former Beatle, John Lennon, was fatally wounded, struck by four of the five shots fired by an, as of yet, unnamed assailant. Once again, John Lennon, former Beatle, was murdered outside of his home at approximately eleven-thirty this evening."
All thoughts of puppies, dolls, tea sets, and Dru fled my mind as I heard those words. John Lennon is dead. John is dead. It can't be true.
"Bloody hell."
The words were no more than a whisper.
"Bloody fuckin' hell."
It was unbelievable. Completely unbelievable. Sod the fucking dog. I turned on my heel quickly and made my way towards the Dakota which was on the other side of town, just across from Central Park.
I made it in five minutes flat.
I saw the red and blue flashing lights. I heard the commotion, yelling and crying and carrying on. I saw the yellow police tape. It was true. It was bloody true. Gritting my teeth, I turned and walked slowly from the scene. I couldn't undo it, so why watch and wallow? Besides, if I didn't get away from there, I'd soon rip through that mob, teeth gnashin' and eyes flashin'. Hurt, anger, and desperation make people do crazy shit.
So I went home. No reason not to. Dru was asleep. Blessedly asleep. I couldn't deal with her right now. Not now. I'd rip her head off. I went to my room and sat in my shabby green armchair in the dark. I smoked half a pack of cigarettes and just thought.
He was special. Fuckin' special. I should have turned him when I had the fuckin' chance. Just like that bastard, to go and get himself bloody murdered before we ever had the chance to chat again. What a waste of fucking brilliance. I guess he was right -- instant karma's gonna get you. You rid the world of a piece of rubbish like that record store wank, the world kills off someone like John to even the score.
Fuck all.
I reached for the bag I'd tossed carelessly on the bed and pulled out the album. I shook my head in disgust, running my fingers hastily across John's photo-face, my voice a whispered murmur.
"Look what you did, Lennon. Got the world all riled up again. Never were one for bein' discreet, were ya, mate? Always had to leave an impression. Always had to go out with a bang."
I snorted at my pun and pulled the glossy black LP from it's sleeve, slipping it onto the turntable next to the chair. I turned on the machine and lifted the needle, hearing the crackle of the player as it came to life in the oppressive silence of the room. I placed the needle down somewhere in the middle of the record. I didn't care what song it was, I just wanted to hear his voice.
Close your eyes
Have no fear
The monster's gone
He's on the run and your daddy's here
Not anymore.
I snarled softly at the player, standing up quickly and unplugging the thing. Fuckin' machine.
"Bollocks to this."
I grabbed my smokes and shot out the door, hearing Dru's soft sleep-filled voice at my back as the door slammed shut.
"Spike.. The candle's burned out.. the light is gone.."
And for one in her unlife, Dru was dead on.
Early January. 1981. New York City, New York.
I waited weeks for the crowds to clear. For all the fans keepin' day and night vigils outside of the Dakota to finally go home. Back to their lives and jobs. To leave John's spirit to rest. I waited until they were all gone to pay my respects.
I waited until I could finally accept the loss on a personal basis. It was hard. Bloody hard.
The sun was just setting as I came up to the building. They'd doubled the security around it because of fanatics who kept tryin' to bust in and steal up to John and Yoko's apartment to try and nick some souvenir or something. Bloody disrespectful, if you ask me. They weren't true fans. I wanted to rip out the intestines of each and every one of those sort.
I'd barely gotten off the pavement across the street when an overweight git of a security guard came down on me.
"And just where do you think you're headed, young man?"
I rolled my eyes, groaning inwardly. The last thing I wanted was to have to kill someone tonight. Not now. But, sometimes it couldn't be avoided, and no one -- especially not this chubby wanker -- was going to stop me from saying good-bye to my mate.
"Just goin' to pay my respects to Lennon and be on my way, mate. Surely you can understand that. Not here to cause any trouble."
He smirked and placed a hand on his nightstick in warning.
"Not here. You can head across the street to Central Park with the rest of the kids if you want, but no one is allowed over here. Direct orders."
I sighed and shook my head. If this is the way it has to be, so be it. I took a step closer, raising my hands in a helpless gesture, speakin' softly into his ear.
"Look, I don't want to have to rip out your soddin' heart and shove it down your fuckin' throat, but I'll do it if you don't get the fuck out of my way, lard-ass."
His eyes widened a little and he frowned, sliding the nightstick out of it's holder, raising it up a bit to strike me.
"Why you little piece of --"
I grabbed his wrist and snapped it, placing my other hand over his mouth to muffle the scream. Then I dropped his wrist and grabbed the back of his neck, the demon surgin' forth as I plunged my fangs into his throat. I drained him dry in record time. I didn't have the patience for this, nor did I want to enjoy it. It wasn't for pleasure. It was an obstacle. After he was dead, I slung his heavy body across my shoulder and tossed it into a nearby rubbish bin, one of those big ones that are kept in alleys.
With that out of the way, I continued on.
Although I didn't know exactly where John had died, I could sense his presence still, and a vampire can always tell where large amounts of blood have been spilled. Even though the stain had been scrubbed at and cleaned away, I could still see the faint traces.
Cor, there'd been so much blood. Too fuckin' much.
I swallowed thickly, a lump in my throat. Even though I'd fantasized about rippin' into John too many times to count, it shouldn't have been this way. The idea of his blood spilling unnecessarily, and with all that hatred and pain.. it made me ill. It should have been me. I should have been the one to kill him. Then I would have had him with me forever. Just like it should have been. I knew the moment I saw him that I wanted him, and now he was gone. Ripped from the world by a madman's bullet.
Fuck all.
"Can't change fate, Will. We've got to accept and move on, because if we don't we go mad."
I repeated those words to myself, remembering the way they sounded coming from his mouth. It seemed now as if he'd signed his own death certificate by uttering them.
I stepped forward, my feet on the edge of the faint trace of blood. The thought of touching it was too overpowering, and I knew if I did I'd start crying, so I didn't. I reached into the inner pocket of my duster, pulling out a single yellow rose. Yellow, for friendship. I stared at it for a long while, silently sending my well-wishes to John, wherever he was now, then I shook the sleeve of my duster up and ran a sharp thumbnail across my wrist, letting the blood pool for a second before turning my wrist and watching it fall in red-black droplets onto the yellow of the rose petals. I allowed it to fall until the wound closed, the rose now a garish sight.
The rose of friendship, tarnished with the evil of the blood that always stood in it's way.
I slowly lowered myself down, placing the rose in the center of the nonexistent trace of blood on the ground, then I stood, taking a cigarette from my pocket and lighting it. I raised the cigarette in salute.
"To John Lennon. Here's to you and your fucking mortality, mate."
Then I turned silently and walked away
I haven't looked back since.
Early June, 1962. Liverpool, England.
Dru and I moved back to London at the end of 1961, after the wall went up in Berlin. Got too political for my tastes. Too much violence that wasn't bein' caused by me and mine. Wasn't my cuppa, so we came back. John rang me up in June, after they got back from their third time around to Hamburg. Said he needed a chat, so I told Dru to mind her dolls as I was goin' out for a stroll. Insinuated that they'd been actin' up and she should sit them all down for a nice talking to. That was that. Knew she wouldn't be causin' too much trouble while I was out. Just hoped I'd have a flat to return to later on.
So drove the bloody three-hundred miles, arrivin' just after midnight. We meet up at his place in Woolton. He was sittin' out front. Looked like he'd been out there for a bit; seemed cold and ill. Sickly-like. I shrugged it off. Seen him look like that plenty of times in Hamburg. Figured it was just aftermath. He was wearin' his glasses. That struck me as odd. He never wore the things. Hated 'em. 'Eh, no need to dwell.
"What's the good word, Lennon?" I asked, offering him a ciggie, lightin' one up meself. He light the cigarette, shakin' his head, lookin' off.
"Not here."
He took off down the block, so I followed. We walked a bit in silence, just smokin'. Not much to look at in Liverpool, unless you're keen on fog and desolation, so I kept my eyes on John. Not blatently, you know.. sideways glances and the like. Figured he'd speak up in his good time. If I'd learned one thing in the past two years, you give John his space. We walked for about thirty minutes until we found ourselves at Sefton park. John stopped, so I leaned up against a tree, puffin' away on another ciggie. Lost count by then. I huffed, gettin' tired of this waitin' about shite, but just when I was about to voice my boredom, he spoke up, sayin' about the last thing I'd ever expect to hear comin' from his lips.
"Stu's dead."
I paused, starin' at him for a moment. Then I smirked, takin' a long drag off my ciggie, exhaling the smoke in a huge cloud. I laughed a bit, figurin' it for a joke. A sick joke, but that's just John.
"Bollocks. Pull the other one."
He didn't smile. His face hardened and he tossed his fag out into the street, watching as the cherry sparked and faded in the damp night air. When he spoke, his voice was tight with barely contained emotion.
"I'm not fuckin' joking, Will. Do you think I'd fuckin' joke about somethin' like this?"
I frowned, contemplating this news in silence before tossing the butt of my ciggie out to join his. I stuffed my hands into the pockets of my coat and walked slowly around him, circling him as I always do those I'm sizing up. He just stood here, arms crossed at his chest, one leg bet at the knee, jaw workin' furiously at a piece of gum he'd probably been chewin' on for days, eyes starin' hard at absolutely nothin'; typical brassed-off John. I leaned in a bit closer, tilting my head as the light from a streetlamp caught his face just right, and I could make out the very faint ghost of tear tracks down the side of his cheek. He'd been crying. For fuck's sake, John never cried. I pulled back, taking a respectful step back, my voice soft.
"Damn."
He nodded, face never changing.
"Indeed. In-fucking-deed."
I was silent for a moment, trying to think of something proper to say, you know, out of respect and all that. Searchin' for the right words. Unfortunately, I found the wrong ones.
"How did it happen?"
John scoffed.
"They said he died of a fuckin' brain hemmorrage. You know how those come about? A bloody blow to the head. Hard blow. I was there when he got it." John shook his head, sighing, "It was me an' him against the four or five other blokes. They beat the shite out of us. Really tore into us, you know? Knocked Stu's head against a wall and the ground real good a couple times. He blacked out and all, but he flat out refused to go to a doctor. I didn't want to nag on him like his fuckin' mum or something, so I let it drop. He wouldn't even go when his mum found him, sittin' up in his room, bleedin' from the head. She cried and carried on, but he assured her he'd be alright. And he was, until he died."
John reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a pack of smokes, taking one out for himself and offering me one. I nodded my head in thanks, and also in encouragment for him to continue the story. He lit the cigarette and took a drag, and then did just that.
"I didn't really know much of what was goin' on, as I was too busy worryin' about meself, you know? He'd get these headaches every once in awhile, but that's wasn't fuckin' uncommon or anything. We worked eight fuckin' days a week with no food or sleep, all fucked on drugs and drink, every minute of every day.. so I didn't give a shite about his headaches. I had 'em somethin' terrible meself. He kept naggin' and naggin' -- put me in a right chord, I'll tell you that. So I told him to fuck off with his headaches, so he finally shut his gob about it. So, when we left Hamburg again and Stu stayed behind to be with Astrid, somethin' happened. He had this terrible spell and finally went to a doc. Doc told him something was wrong, but it nothing serious and he should just take it easy. Doc gave him some pills and sent him off. Fuckin' quack."
John sneered at the memory, keeping silent for a bit, taking angry drags off of his cigarette.
"He died on April the tenth, the day before we arrived in Hamburg. Astrid met us at the airport with the news."
He looked off, towards the moon.
"I don't think I've ever cried so hard in me whole goddamned life. Not even when Julia was killed. Stu was the closest thing to family I'd ever really had."
I frowned, hopin' he wouldn't start in on the waterworks right here in front of me. Hell, I couldn't even appease Dru when she really got into it. What the hell would I do with John? But, on the contrary.. He threw down his cigarette and spun around, punching the tree I was leaning against. Hard. Hard enogh to break the skin, but no bones. He was angry, but not stupid. A guitarist needs the use of both hands and all. I winced, rememberin' that right hook.
"Bloody stupid fuck! I told him to go see a fuckin' doctor after that fight. I bloody told him! But the bastard wouldn't listen. Wouldn't listen to me, wouldn't listen to his mum. And now he's fuckin' dead."
Then he laughed. It's was desperate soundin'. Sounded like a man hangin' from his last string. But I knew John. He'd bounce back. He always did. Had to. He spoke again, his voice soft.
"It really makes you think about your own fuckin' mortality."
Then he paused, shaking his head, laughing again. Then he touched the blood seeping from the torn skin of his right knuckle, rubbing the fluid between forefinger and thumb. The scent wafted to me in the still night air, and it took me back to that hazy night in Hamburg, but I knew well enough to keep my mouth shut about that.
"But then, I guess you don't have to worry about that, do ya, mate?"
He looked at me then, and I could see the desperation in his eyes, but it was overshadowed by a keen determination. He wouldn't take it if I offered. He didn't before, and he wouldn't now. But it couldn't hurt to try.
"I've offered before, mate. The invitation is still open--"
But he held up his hand to silence me, as I figured he would.
"No. No, not today."
As he said everytime we spoke of it.
"Would you change it if you could, Lennon?"
I knew he'd understand what I meant.
"Can't change fate, Will. We've got to accept and move on, because if we don't we go mad."
I nodded. Then we simply stood there, listening to the night move on around us.
1963 - 1980. Anywhere and everywhere.
I didn't see John or any of the lads much those seventeen years. They were busy bein' Beatles. Quite understandable, mind you. It was certianly a full-time gig. In the early 60's, I'd see them often enough, poppin' in on them every once in awhile; showin' up in a hotel room while they were on one tour or another, laughin' it up at the sorry state they were all in, all pissed and high, birds all over the place.
It was Hamburg all over again, only with more money, better booze and drugs, and nice suits.
I'd take any available seat and John would shoo away whatever birds happened to be clutchin' to his limbs at the time. He'd hand me a beer and we'd have a chat, just like we'd seen eachother every day since, when we usually haden't laid eyes on one another in a year or so. The banter was always the same.
"So, how'd you manage past security, mate? They're tighter than George's arse out there."
That would always earn us a plastic cup thrown our way, filled with something alcoholic. Hell, a couple times those plastic cups turned glass and shattered on the wall. But George's shout was always the same.
"Bollocks to you two."
Because he'd never have time for anything more. The bird he was snoggin' never gave him enough time.
John and I'd just have a chuckle, and I'd tell him.
"No tricks, mate. I'm stealthy and sneaky, you know."
That always earned a laugh.
"Aye, you're about as stealthy and sneaky as my infidelity, mate."
And we'd have a roll, I'd get pissed, and it was all fun.
They also didn't seem to mind too terribly much at me neckin' on the girls. Then again, I never even found out if anyone noticed. 'Eh, for the best, I guess.
Later on in years, around 1968, after they'd stopped tourin' and were holed up in the studio in London at all hours, I rarely saw John at all anymore. He'd met this new bird called Yoko Ono, a Japanese girl who fancied herself an artist. I caught one of her shows once, just to see what all the fuss was about. Now, I was never much of an artist myself, but I knew shite when I saw it, and believe me, this was it. I suppose it could be called 'conceptual' or 'before it's time', but I haven't seen anything like it since that wasn't laughed out of the bloody gallery, so I suppose I'm still waitin' for it's time to come, 'eh?
I was fortunate enough to catch John alone at home one evening. He and Cynthia had seperated after she'd caught Yoko and John in their bathrobes one mornin', lookin' all the world like two innocent babes caught red-handed on Christmas mornin' with wrappin' paper strewn all about.
I walked straight in, without knockin', just like always. He was sittin' down in his music room, guitar in hand, a couple of pieces of paper on the table before him, a pencil behind his ear. It was scene I'd seen enough times to know what it meant. He was bullshittin' himself into thinkin' he was writin' a song, and so long as he had those pieces of paper in front of him and the pencil behind his ear, he wouldn't feel like he was completely wastin' time. John didn't write music like that. He was spontaneous, usually doin' his best writin' right there in the studio. I knew he was just bored. So I took it upon myself to entertain him the best way I knew how --
By instigatin' a row.
"So, what's all this peace and love rubbish you and the rest of your crew have been spoutin' on about lately? It's all bollocks, that. It's not you, mate, nor the rest of that lot. What're you all playin' at, son?"
He sighed and looked up at me, peerin' from behind those granny glasses he'd taken to wearin' two years back.
"Oh, sod off. I don't recall invitin' you over."
I smirked and took a seat on the couch across from him, foldin' my arms across my stomach, sprawlin' my legs out, teritorial-like.
"Nah, but you invited me once, and once is all I need, mate." I said cheerfully, knowin' it'd get his wick.
He rolled his eyes, settin' his guitar on the couch beside him, leanin' back in the couch and lookin' at me.
"What do ya want, Will?"
I shrugged, spreadin' my hands, but my voice had a cocky lilt to it. He knew what I was up to, and he wasn't havin' any of it.
"Nothin' in particular, mate. Haven't seen ya in awhile. Just wonderin' what you've been up to. Catchin' up on old times with a friend, you know. Why the hostility, Lennon? It's just me -- your old mate, Will."
He sighed again, shakin' his head.
"Things are tense, mate. In the band. Shite with Cyn and all that. The lads think I'm a bastard for doin' what I'm doin' to her, but they don't seem to understand -- I was never in love with Cyn. Not really. I was kid, you know? She got pregnant. I thought I was in love with her because of those elements, but I wasn't. Don't get me wrong -- I did love her; I do, but I can't keep it up. It's just makin' me too unhappy. When I met Yoko, then I knew what love was. I needed to be around that. It finally made me whole. Do ya understand me, mate? That's the reason for all the peace and love 'bollocks'. It's all real for me, now. Like it never was. I always had this hole when I was a lad. You know that. You were there through my worst spot. But Yoko's filled that hole, mate. She's me better half. So, aye, I'm gonna sing about love, because that's what I'm feelin' now."
And with that, he reached up, settling his glasses back on the bridge of his nose, his eyes darin' me to say somethin' to the contrary. But his words didn't anger me. If anything, they stung. We both knew that I'd wanted to be the one to fill that hole for him, but we both knew it would never happen. Now that he had Yoko, I knew it likely never would. So, for me, this was it. My last chance. His last chance. If I walked out that door without him today, I wasn't comin' back. There was no place for me in his life anymore.
I stood up, walking around the table to his side, motioning for him to stand as well. He did, and I walked up close. We were pretty much the same height, so there was never any feeling of dominance one way or another with us, so that had always made things easier. But today, I felt ten times taller, and I knew he knew what was comin', as he wouldn't quite meet my gaze. I decided to just shove on, not beat around the bush.
"If that's the case then, mate.. I'm gonna offer one last time. You can be just like you are right now for the rest of forever; young, talented, sharp, .. beautiful."
I hesitated with that last word. There was an unspoken attraction between us, there always had been. It wasn't an issue anymore. Hadn't been for years. But, it was still hard voicin' it out loud.
"It'll be you and me, mate. No one to fuck things up. No birds around to just drop you like a rag at the end of the day when they're done with you, 'cause that's what's gonna happen, you know. That's what always happens. It's the mortal way, Lennon." I sighed, recallin' certian memories from my past that had aided in my choosin' immortality. Then I continued, "Or, you can live out the rest of your days with that Yoko bird, squabblin' about your petty shite with Paul, George, and Ringo until your ears fuckin' fall off. You can have screamin' babies runnin' around underfoot, smellin' up the place, takin' your time away, stallin' your life until you grow to resent and hate them. It's a lifetime of pain, mate. I can offer you so much more.."
My voice intensified and I leaned in closer.
"I can hand you the world. You know that. It's what you always wanted. You always used to tell me. You wanted the world. I can give it to you. No one would be able to touch us, mate. No one."
He raised his eyes to mine, and I heard him swallow. For a second, a brief second, I thought I'd had him. I saw that lust for power surge in his eyes. For a moment, I was starin' at the old John. My old mate. My partner in crime. But then, he was gone. He lowered his gaze again, takin' a step back, shakin' his head.
"No. No, not today, mate."
I hated those fuckin' words.
"I've got what I need now. I don't need the world anymore. I realize now, that all I was ever lookin' for was someone to love me the way I needed to be loved."
I opened my mouth to yell at him; to scream to him how much I loved him. But he held up a hand and silenced me.
"I know, Will. You know I love you too, mate. But, it wasn't the kind of love I needed. Your's was a possessive love. You know that. It was the last thing I needed. I found what I needed in Yoko, and I want to spend the rest of my days with her. I know they're numbered, but to me, if I can spend only one lifetime with a love that's as strong as mine and Yoko's, that far outweighs several lifetimes without it. Please understand that, Will."
I fought with my emotions for a good long time, my gaze steady on his face before I accepted what he said.
I was free to go. He didn't need me anymore.
Abandoned once again.
So I nodded, relaxing my stance. Relenting.
"Aye. I understand, mate. I do."
But then, I was in his arms and he was huggin' me somethin' fierce. I reached around him, huggin' him back, breathin' deep the scene that was so utterly John. Cor, I was goin' to miss him. I felt his breath, warm and thick on my ear.
"Take care, mate. Don't stay away too long."
Then he released me, and we both knew that this was the last time we'd ever see one another.
I nodded, unable to actually speak. I held out my hand and he slid his into mine. I squeezed it briefly and dropped it, then I was out the door and into the night. Back where I belonged.
I saw him every once in awhile after that. Glances here and there. It was nearly impossible not to -- he was a bloody huge celebrity, and all that. Akin to a god to these people. He was right with what he said back in 1966 -- The Beatles certianly were bigger than Jesus.
Dru and I moved to New York City in the middle of the 70's. In 1977 I killed my second Slayer. I owe her to John. I'd had so much anger built up inside of me, at loosin' him and such, that she was just too easy. I just unleashed it all on her.
I heard, later on, that John and Yoko had also moved to New York City around that time, but I never made a move to contact him. I knew if we were ever to get together for a chat again, it would all happen in it's own good time.
That was just how fate worked.
8 December, 1980. New York City, New York.
It suddenly dawned on me that I'd been standing there for well over thirty minutes, just starin' at the album cover. Bloke at the counter must think I'm a bloody ponce or something; hot after Lennon. Sod it. So I sauntered up to the counter and tossed the album down, noting the little pisser's smirk as he reached for the album to ring it up. He tapped a few keys on the register and bagged up the album, his whiny voice penetrating the silence.
"You into Lennon? He lives around here, you know. I can tell you where."
His smile turned slightly malicious, and I leaned on the counter, waiting for him to say what I knew was comin'.
"I hear he used to fuck his manager back when he was in The Beatles. He's a fuckin' faggot, you know. They both were. That's why his first wife left him. You seem to dig starin' at him. You got it for the old guy or somethin'?"
Before the last words left his lips, I had him by the shirt collar and dragged him across the counter, taking great delight in the terror that flashed in his eyes. A slow and evil smile slid across my face as I pulled him up close, noses almost touching.
"Maybe I do. But it doesn't matter, 'cause you're not going to live long enough to hear the tale, you little fuck."
I tilted my head, tightening my grip noticeably, letting out a soft chuckle at his garbled shout for help, his weak fingers scrambling to dislodge mine. I ignored it and continued, my tone casual and conversational.
"This is a shite life you're living, ain't it, mate? Let me guess. You dropped out of school to become a musician, but you cocked it up. Can't play a chord. Your bandmates abandoned you faster than you'd drop your trousers to shag anything that threw a shadow. You figured, 'Hey, maybe I'll get myself a job as a record jockey. Maybe bein' around music'll improve me a bit.' But you've been here for years, haven't you? Accomplished anything with your life? Doubtful. You're a waste of fuckin' space. You're a bloody parasite. The world doesn't need rubbish like you litterin' it's surface. So, I'm thinkin' to myself.. maybe I'll help the world out a bit, for once in my life."
His eyes widened, showing white all around. He swallowed visibly, paling as I licked my lips, the demon laughing inside as it slid forth. The kid let out a scream, which only made it better.
"Do I fancy Lennon? Aye. I have for twenty years. If you have something to say about that, you can tell it to God, 'cause he's the next bloke you'll be chattin' up."
And with that, I tore into the little bugger's throat, taking care to make it hurt more than usual. He tasted like shite, but sometimes we have to make sacrifices for the greater good, and all that bollocks. I drained him dry and tossed him back over the counter, laughing as his limp hand smacked the register and the till sprung open with it's trademark twang. I picked up my bag, wiped a drop or two of blood from it, then reached in the till and grabbed all the cash, stuffin' it in the bag as well. No sense in wastin' good luck. I swiped the back of my hand across my mouth as the demon withdrew back inside. I raised my hand in a salute to the broken boy and turned, walkin' out of the store.
"Pleasure doin' business with you, mate."
I pushed open the door, the ringing bell hung above sounding out. Pausing in the doorway, I reached up and ripped the damn thing off the wall and threw it across the store, watching it bounce off the back wall and land on the boy's corpse, sounding out a last desperate ring before it was silent. Letting out another chuckle, I walked out into the chill winter night.
I wandered around the city for a bit. It wasn't even midnight yet. A bit early for my midnight snack, I suppose, but such things happen, right? Maybe I'll stop by a toy store and pick up another doll for Dru. A nice innocent little rag doll. Something that won't talk back or rebel. Yeah, not bloody likely. They always misbehaved, didn't they? Better start investing in fireproof dolls. Or maybe a tea set. Tea sets didn't burn. Oh, but they shattered somethin' awful when they hit the fireplace. Or the back of your skull. I winced at that memory. I know, a puppy. An annoying little puppy to run around, bite at my ankles, and hump my leg. Dru would love it, and I would rejoice at the animal's impending destruction.
So I set myself in the direction of a pet store. Yeah, it was closed, but when you're a scary vampire like me, you can get away with little things like breaking and entering and theft. Such is unlife, with all of it's perks.
But something distracted me. Someone had their car radio cranked up a bit too loud. A voice floated to my ears, faint, but loud enough that my sensitive hearing could pick it up.
"..shots rang out at the Dakota Building not even an hour ago. Former Beatle, John Lennon, was fatally wounded, struck by four of the five shots fired by an, as of yet, unnamed assailant. Once again, John Lennon, former Beatle, was murdered outside of his home at approximately eleven-thirty this evening."
All thoughts of puppies, dolls, tea sets, and Dru fled my mind as I heard those words. John Lennon is dead. John is dead. It can't be true.
"Bloody hell."
The words were no more than a whisper.
"Bloody fuckin' hell."
It was unbelievable. Completely unbelievable. Sod the fucking dog. I turned on my heel quickly and made my way towards the Dakota which was on the other side of town, just across from Central Park.
I made it in five minutes flat.
I saw the red and blue flashing lights. I heard the commotion, yelling and crying and carrying on. I saw the yellow police tape. It was true. It was bloody true. Gritting my teeth, I turned and walked slowly from the scene. I couldn't undo it, so why watch and wallow? Besides, if I didn't get away from there, I'd soon rip through that mob, teeth gnashin' and eyes flashin'. Hurt, anger, and desperation make people do crazy shit.
So I went home. No reason not to. Dru was asleep. Blessedly asleep. I couldn't deal with her right now. Not now. I'd rip her head off. I went to my room and sat in my shabby green armchair in the dark. I smoked half a pack of cigarettes and just thought.
He was special. Fuckin' special. I should have turned him when I had the fuckin' chance. Just like that bastard, to go and get himself bloody murdered before we ever had the chance to chat again. What a waste of fucking brilliance. I guess he was right -- instant karma's gonna get you. You rid the world of a piece of rubbish like that record store wank, the world kills off someone like John to even the score.
Fuck all.
I reached for the bag I'd tossed carelessly on the bed and pulled out the album. I shook my head in disgust, running my fingers hastily across John's photo-face, my voice a whispered murmur.
"Look what you did, Lennon. Got the world all riled up again. Never were one for bein' discreet, were ya, mate? Always had to leave an impression. Always had to go out with a bang."
I snorted at my pun and pulled the glossy black LP from it's sleeve, slipping it onto the turntable next to the chair. I turned on the machine and lifted the needle, hearing the crackle of the player as it came to life in the oppressive silence of the room. I placed the needle down somewhere in the middle of the record. I didn't care what song it was, I just wanted to hear his voice.
Close your eyes
Have no fear
The monster's gone
He's on the run and your daddy's here
Not anymore.
I snarled softly at the player, standing up quickly and unplugging the thing. Fuckin' machine.
"Bollocks to this."
I grabbed my smokes and shot out the door, hearing Dru's soft sleep-filled voice at my back as the door slammed shut.
"Spike.. The candle's burned out.. the light is gone.."
And for one in her unlife, Dru was dead on.
Early January. 1981. New York City, New York.
I waited weeks for the crowds to clear. For all the fans keepin' day and night vigils outside of the Dakota to finally go home. Back to their lives and jobs. To leave John's spirit to rest. I waited until they were all gone to pay my respects.
I waited until I could finally accept the loss on a personal basis. It was hard. Bloody hard.
The sun was just setting as I came up to the building. They'd doubled the security around it because of fanatics who kept tryin' to bust in and steal up to John and Yoko's apartment to try and nick some souvenir or something. Bloody disrespectful, if you ask me. They weren't true fans. I wanted to rip out the intestines of each and every one of those sort.
I'd barely gotten off the pavement across the street when an overweight git of a security guard came down on me.
"And just where do you think you're headed, young man?"
I rolled my eyes, groaning inwardly. The last thing I wanted was to have to kill someone tonight. Not now. But, sometimes it couldn't be avoided, and no one -- especially not this chubby wanker -- was going to stop me from saying good-bye to my mate.
"Just goin' to pay my respects to Lennon and be on my way, mate. Surely you can understand that. Not here to cause any trouble."
He smirked and placed a hand on his nightstick in warning.
"Not here. You can head across the street to Central Park with the rest of the kids if you want, but no one is allowed over here. Direct orders."
I sighed and shook my head. If this is the way it has to be, so be it. I took a step closer, raising my hands in a helpless gesture, speakin' softly into his ear.
"Look, I don't want to have to rip out your soddin' heart and shove it down your fuckin' throat, but I'll do it if you don't get the fuck out of my way, lard-ass."
His eyes widened a little and he frowned, sliding the nightstick out of it's holder, raising it up a bit to strike me.
"Why you little piece of --"
I grabbed his wrist and snapped it, placing my other hand over his mouth to muffle the scream. Then I dropped his wrist and grabbed the back of his neck, the demon surgin' forth as I plunged my fangs into his throat. I drained him dry in record time. I didn't have the patience for this, nor did I want to enjoy it. It wasn't for pleasure. It was an obstacle. After he was dead, I slung his heavy body across my shoulder and tossed it into a nearby rubbish bin, one of those big ones that are kept in alleys.
With that out of the way, I continued on.
Although I didn't know exactly where John had died, I could sense his presence still, and a vampire can always tell where large amounts of blood have been spilled. Even though the stain had been scrubbed at and cleaned away, I could still see the faint traces.
Cor, there'd been so much blood. Too fuckin' much.
I swallowed thickly, a lump in my throat. Even though I'd fantasized about rippin' into John too many times to count, it shouldn't have been this way. The idea of his blood spilling unnecessarily, and with all that hatred and pain.. it made me ill. It should have been me. I should have been the one to kill him. Then I would have had him with me forever. Just like it should have been. I knew the moment I saw him that I wanted him, and now he was gone. Ripped from the world by a madman's bullet.
Fuck all.
"Can't change fate, Will. We've got to accept and move on, because if we don't we go mad."
I repeated those words to myself, remembering the way they sounded coming from his mouth. It seemed now as if he'd signed his own death certificate by uttering them.
I stepped forward, my feet on the edge of the faint trace of blood. The thought of touching it was too overpowering, and I knew if I did I'd start crying, so I didn't. I reached into the inner pocket of my duster, pulling out a single yellow rose. Yellow, for friendship. I stared at it for a long while, silently sending my well-wishes to John, wherever he was now, then I shook the sleeve of my duster up and ran a sharp thumbnail across my wrist, letting the blood pool for a second before turning my wrist and watching it fall in red-black droplets onto the yellow of the rose petals. I allowed it to fall until the wound closed, the rose now a garish sight.
The rose of friendship, tarnished with the evil of the blood that always stood in it's way.
I slowly lowered myself down, placing the rose in the center of the nonexistent trace of blood on the ground, then I stood, taking a cigarette from my pocket and lighting it. I raised the cigarette in salute.
"To John Lennon. Here's to you and your fucking mortality, mate."
Then I turned silently and walked away
I haven't looked back since.