Read Online Leonardo di Caprio is a Vampire by Julie Lynn Hayes - Free Book Online
Authors: Julie Lynn Hayes
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Beatrice. Why did you have to change? Why?"
Fisher's mother said nothing, maintaining a stony silence.
"Can I please just say good-bye to him, please, Beatrice?" Fisher held his breath, waiting for the answer, even though he knew what it must be. Must have been.
"No. Just go." When his father looked as if he were going to make a move toward the rest of the house, she narrowed her eyes. "Don't make me call the police."
Without another word, he left the house. Fisher stared after him, even after the anticlimactic closing of the front door kept him from view. Even after he heard the engine start up, and then die away. His father seemed to care about him, he really did. Stories? What stories? Those silly things he wrote when he was just a child? He barely recalled those. She'd taken them away from him. And he hadn't written anything else fiction-wise unless you counted his novel. And see how that had turned out. She'd been right, of course. Journalism was real; fiction was just a lot of pipe dreams and hallucinations. And yet he couldn't help but remember that Hunter had always liked his writing.
Fisher's mother passed right through them, moving into the house. When he started to follow, Arthur caught his sleeve and yanked him back.
"No, we don't have time," he answered Fisher's unspoken question. "Gotta go. I told you before, we don't have all night." He tightened his hold on Fisher, dragging him through the front door and out of the house once more. "Don't you know that life is the farce which everyone has to perform? This one has to go on without us, we have other places to be."
Fisher opened his mouth to protest but hadn't gotten even one syllable out when they were suddenly in another place completely. His head reeled in the same way as when he was a child, and he had spun himself about in circles until he had fallen to the floor laughing. He and Hunter, actually. They'd laughed themselves silly over nothing in particular other than the giddiness brought on by their spinning antics. Deep hard belly laughs which multiplied as laughter often does when shared. He'd forgotten all about that until now. Those days were such a very long time ago. Those immature days of youthful follies. Carelessness and irresponsibility. But in the back of his mind, he seemed to remember that they'd had fun.
Once his eyes stopped bouncing around in his skull, Fisher took stock of his new surroundings. The first things he noticed were rows and rows of bookshelves, stretching from floor to ceiling. Books of all colors and sizes, as far as the eye could see. They were arranged in rows, traversed by aisles. Arthur pulled him down first one aisle, then another, zigzagging him about as Fisher came to the slow realization where he was—his high school library. There was a good reason that it should be familiar to him—he'd spent a lot of time here during the four years he had attended the school. It had been a source of great pleasure to him, as well as a refuge.
So why was he here and what exactly was going on? He had stopped questioning the how, as no sensible answers seemed to be forthcoming from this Arthur fellow. He was just trying to make some sort of sense of this, figure out why they seemed to be re-visiting scenes from his past. And why was this guy who looked just like Leonardo di Caprio quoting Rimbaud? Nothing made any sense to Fisher.
They'd arrived at a table set apart from the others. It was big enough for four, but only two figures sat there. It was on the tip of Fisher's tongue to apologize to them, but the first thing he realized was that it would do him no good, as he was invisible to them. Secondly, he recognized them for who they were—himself and Hunter. Young men, teenagers obviously. Back in their high school days, hanging out together at the library.
Fisher sat on one side of the table. He wore black jeans and a Grateful Dead t-shirt—one Hunter had gotten for him. He would put it on at school and take it off before
Fisher's mother said nothing, maintaining a stony silence.
"Can I please just say good-bye to him, please, Beatrice?" Fisher held his breath, waiting for the answer, even though he knew what it must be. Must have been.
"No. Just go." When his father looked as if he were going to make a move toward the rest of the house, she narrowed her eyes. "Don't make me call the police."
Without another word, he left the house. Fisher stared after him, even after the anticlimactic closing of the front door kept him from view. Even after he heard the engine start up, and then die away. His father seemed to care about him, he really did. Stories? What stories? Those silly things he wrote when he was just a child? He barely recalled those. She'd taken them away from him. And he hadn't written anything else fiction-wise unless you counted his novel. And see how that had turned out. She'd been right, of course. Journalism was real; fiction was just a lot of pipe dreams and hallucinations. And yet he couldn't help but remember that Hunter had always liked his writing.
Fisher's mother passed right through them, moving into the house. When he started to follow, Arthur caught his sleeve and yanked him back.
"No, we don't have time," he answered Fisher's unspoken question. "Gotta go. I told you before, we don't have all night." He tightened his hold on Fisher, dragging him through the front door and out of the house once more. "Don't you know that life is the farce which everyone has to perform? This one has to go on without us, we have other places to be."
Fisher opened his mouth to protest but hadn't gotten even one syllable out when they were suddenly in another place completely. His head reeled in the same way as when he was a child, and he had spun himself about in circles until he had fallen to the floor laughing. He and Hunter, actually. They'd laughed themselves silly over nothing in particular other than the giddiness brought on by their spinning antics. Deep hard belly laughs which multiplied as laughter often does when shared. He'd forgotten all about that until now. Those days were such a very long time ago. Those immature days of youthful follies. Carelessness and irresponsibility. But in the back of his mind, he seemed to remember that they'd had fun.
Once his eyes stopped bouncing around in his skull, Fisher took stock of his new surroundings. The first things he noticed were rows and rows of bookshelves, stretching from floor to ceiling. Books of all colors and sizes, as far as the eye could see. They were arranged in rows, traversed by aisles. Arthur pulled him down first one aisle, then another, zigzagging him about as Fisher came to the slow realization where he was—his high school library. There was a good reason that it should be familiar to him—he'd spent a lot of time here during the four years he had attended the school. It had been a source of great pleasure to him, as well as a refuge.
So why was he here and what exactly was going on? He had stopped questioning the how, as no sensible answers seemed to be forthcoming from this Arthur fellow. He was just trying to make some sort of sense of this, figure out why they seemed to be re-visiting scenes from his past. And why was this guy who looked just like Leonardo di Caprio quoting Rimbaud? Nothing made any sense to Fisher.
They'd arrived at a table set apart from the others. It was big enough for four, but only two figures sat there. It was on the tip of Fisher's tongue to apologize to them, but the first thing he realized was that it would do him no good, as he was invisible to them. Secondly, he recognized them for who they were—himself and Hunter. Young men, teenagers obviously. Back in their high school days, hanging out together at the library.
Fisher sat on one side of the table. He wore black jeans and a Grateful Dead t-shirt—one Hunter had gotten for him. He would put it on at school and take it off before
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