Lunchtime: Preface

I’D NEVER GIVEN MUCH THOUGHT as to how I would die- only what would happen afterwards. I would float toward the sky in a white dress with Fall Out Boy playing in the background and then I would appear before God and He’d look just like Charlton Heston in The Ten Commandments only less Jewish. He’d welcome me with open arms, provided I hadn’t had vaginal intercourse outside of marriage or voted for any Democrats, and all the pain and boredom and disappointment of life would fade away.
I stared blankly into the hollow eyes of my killer and he stared back at me, not into my eyes but past them. About two inches past them.
This seemed like a good way to die, providing the succulent nourishment that the love of my life so ravenously craved. It was noble. Like how a rabbit nobly gave his life to the wolf. Or how Chinese babies nobly gave their lives so I could afford plush toys and electronic equipment.
I knew that if I had never come to Vermillion, I would probably have lived my whole life without having my skull mercilessly crushed by a dreamy undead creature. But for once I wasn’t going to be a miserable little whiner. When life offers you a dream beyond all expectations, and a death that was a coroner’s nightmare, it’s not reasonable to say, “Hey, what the fuck did I do to deserve this? I’m a human being with rights and dignity, not some snack for a soulless monster!”
My lover drooled as he lurched forward, arms outstretched and hands twitching in anticipation, to eat my brain.