CHAPTER 5: TORMENTED BY MEMORIES OF LIZBETH
“Remember how you made me crazy? Remember how I made you scream?
I do not understand what happened to our Love. I want to get you back,
want to show you what I am made of.”
Boys of Summer
From the week I arrived, Peyton tormented me with her memories of Elizabeth and her longing to see her again. She told me story after story of their fated romance. Lizbeth, she called her. She said her name with such reverence. That dark haired, long legged beauty she had acquired in the early eighties. Lizbeth, whom I later found out hunted and drank with her unto complete and utter intoxication, who embraced her dark existence with the same passion with which she had danced through her life as a mortal. Peyton and Lizbeth indulged in bloodlust with the same need and mindlessness that their human compatriots immersed themselves in drugs. But there was no drug that could compare to blood. To that life force.
I heard about Lizbeth week after week. The stories began the month I arrived in Texas. I never stopped hearing about Lizbeth, who disappeared off the face of the earth never to be heard from again the night of the Grande Fete Noir, one of the most celebrated feasts of western vampires held at the old Golden Marquis Theatre in downtown Dallas.
Peyton told me she remained in Dallas a month after the feast: searching, inquiring, mourning. A month later, a year later, each year thereafter she returned -- mournful, hopeful -- always there the week of that dreaded anniversary -- trying to find her beloved Lizbeth. She even haunted the house Lizbeth grew up in. During her stay in Dallas, she would drive past the house repeatedly. Park outside. And watch. First from a distance. Then creeping closer. Until finally she parked in front of the modest home. Finally, she confronted Lizbeth’s mother, a shrewd woman with a thriving antiques business in the Marquis Mall just west of the city. Charlotte Claremont could almost see Peyton for what she was. She did not so much as fear Peyton, although she approached her with caution: She despised her.
“How dare you come here!,” she said with her strong voice through the screen of the front door.
“She is gone,” she spat. “She is dead. She killed herself. You killed her! Now go away. I do not ever want to see your face again.”
With that, the heavy front door was slammed shut and bolted. That one avenue of communication was closed off to Peyton. But she had other methods, other resources. And by the devil, if Lizbeth was still on this earth, Peyton would find her.
Peyton left and began searching the cemeteries for a trace of proof. The bitch was lying, she said. And Peyton would be back again for a different kind of visit.
I do not understand what happened to our Love. I want to get you back,
want to show you what I am made of.”
Boys of Summer
From the week I arrived, Peyton tormented me with her memories of Elizabeth and her longing to see her again. She told me story after story of their fated romance. Lizbeth, she called her. She said her name with such reverence. That dark haired, long legged beauty she had acquired in the early eighties. Lizbeth, whom I later found out hunted and drank with her unto complete and utter intoxication, who embraced her dark existence with the same passion with which she had danced through her life as a mortal. Peyton and Lizbeth indulged in bloodlust with the same need and mindlessness that their human compatriots immersed themselves in drugs. But there was no drug that could compare to blood. To that life force.
I heard about Lizbeth week after week. The stories began the month I arrived in Texas. I never stopped hearing about Lizbeth, who disappeared off the face of the earth never to be heard from again the night of the Grande Fete Noir, one of the most celebrated feasts of western vampires held at the old Golden Marquis Theatre in downtown Dallas.
Peyton told me she remained in Dallas a month after the feast: searching, inquiring, mourning. A month later, a year later, each year thereafter she returned -- mournful, hopeful -- always there the week of that dreaded anniversary -- trying to find her beloved Lizbeth. She even haunted the house Lizbeth grew up in. During her stay in Dallas, she would drive past the house repeatedly. Park outside. And watch. First from a distance. Then creeping closer. Until finally she parked in front of the modest home. Finally, she confronted Lizbeth’s mother, a shrewd woman with a thriving antiques business in the Marquis Mall just west of the city. Charlotte Claremont could almost see Peyton for what she was. She did not so much as fear Peyton, although she approached her with caution: She despised her.
“How dare you come here!,” she said with her strong voice through the screen of the front door.
“She is gone,” she spat. “She is dead. She killed herself. You killed her! Now go away. I do not ever want to see your face again.”
With that, the heavy front door was slammed shut and bolted. That one avenue of communication was closed off to Peyton. But she had other methods, other resources. And by the devil, if Lizbeth was still on this earth, Peyton would find her.
Peyton left and began searching the cemeteries for a trace of proof. The bitch was lying, she said. And Peyton would be back again for a different kind of visit.
posted by Divine Synchrondipity | 8:58 PM
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