Memento Mori

By Aileen E

He stood on the front steps of the house, his new leather coat flapping in the cold wind. His knuckles rapped impatiently against the dark polished wood of the door. Demons were not naturally patient creatures, and he less than most. The mixture of anticipation and uncertainty tugged at his gut. Each minute felt like an eternity as he waited for someone to answer the door, and at the same time he wished that he could indefinitely delay the anticipated moment. He knew that once the door opened, the unwanted memory of what he saw would remain forever etched in his mind. Sixty years was not a long time when measured against eternity, but he had witnessed firsthand the ravages that such a minimal amount of time could visit upon a human body.

An almost imperceptible creak sounded and he saw the door open slowly, hesitantly, as if the one on the other side was as reluctant to face him as he was to face her. He dismissed the thought as ridiculous, there was no way for the witch to know that it was him knocking at her door after more than half a century. It was probably just the customary caution of someone who was feeble and vulnerable.

The door opened a crack and he saw half a face peer out at him. It was thin and pale, the skin crinkled like rice paper. A shock of pure-white hair framed a heavy lidded eye, it’s opaque green iris barely visible under the droopy fold of skin.

"Yes, may I help you?"

Her voice, once soft and melodious, was weak and raspy. The last word caught in her throat, ending in a high pitched squeal that grated against his sensitive ears.

"Invite me in, Red," he whispered.

The old woman startled and a spark shined in her eye, teasing him with a glimpse of the girl he once knew before it was quickly extinguished by the milky film that covered the sightless eyes. She hesitated only for an instant before opening the door wider and stepping back.

"Come in, Spike."

He winced at the unfamiliar, cackling sound of his name on her lips. Stepping around her, he walked into the dimly lit livingroom. The place smelled of decay lightly perfumed with old memories. Insignificant mementos were haphazardly stacked in every corner; leaning monuments that attested to a life lived too long and none too well.

"Took you long enough," she said as she closed the door behind him. She sounded bitter, almost angry, and he felt obligated to apologize.

"Sorry, I didn’t know when."

As she walked past him, he noticed the hunched shoulders, the impossible arch of her spine that pushed her head forward until her chin rested against her flattened chest. Each one of her steps was accompanied by a laborious breath and he figured he had waited about a decade too long.

"Ten years, you know. Since the last one left. Dear Xander -- was always such a comfort to me."

Yeah, a decade was about right. He wordlessly followed her up the stairs, growing restless, suddenly anxious to escape her presence, to once again smell the crisp, clean air outside. She laid on the bed and he knelt next to her.

Her voice was suddenly childlike, and yet surprisingly strong. "Will it hurt?"

"No," he lied.

He closed his eyes and sank his fangs into her frail neck, reluctantly swallowing the rancid blood that poured into his mouth. While he drank, he thought about wild-fire red hair and eyes the color of spring leaves, and about a promise made to him long ago by a girl he loved but knew, even then, he could never have.

"When the time comes ..." she had said.

And his time had come, only half a century too late.

~Fin~

*Note About the Title: 'Memento Mori' are objects kept as reminders that death is inevitable. It means, literally, 'remember (that you have) to die.'